When You're Writing About Your Kids, One Can Never Have Too Many Poop Stories

We all went out for dinner the other evening. As we were getting up to leave, I noticed a piece of chocolate cake smeared across the seat of my chair. I looked at the back of my khaki shorts and found that they were smeared with chocolate cake as well.

I didn't even have chocolate cake.

So I picked up a napkin and attempted to clean my shorts. I stupidly said, "Look, Zoey! It looks like I pooped myself."

Zoey yelled, "YOU POOPED YOURSELF?"

I could feel the stares of the occupants of the surrounding tables as they tried to catch a glimpse of my ass (which admittedly, happens a lot). I sat back down and tried to figure out an escape plan.

So I poured my drink on my lap. I figured a wet crotch would be more noticeable and society wouldn't frown on piss-stained clothes as much as shit-stained garments.

See how my mind works?

But it didn't actually come to that. After picking up the glass, I noticed Zed's diaper bag on the floor. I picked it up, slung it over my shoulder, and covered the stain on my pants. I held my head high as we walked out of the restaurant.

For one night, I was ecstatic that my son is still in diapers.

GHS: 6

Song of the day: Everything She Wants by Wham!

I Will No Longer Be Ignored

For the past few months, I have been trying to get politicians interested in a few of my pet projects. It's not like I'm trying to get them to erect a statue of me in front of the capitol building or anything like that (I have no doubt that will happen one day, probably after I'm dead); my special interests will benefit a lot of people.

In short, I've become a lobbyist.

In my brief adventures with the political machine, I've learned that politicians aren't the easiest people to get ahold of. A State Senator has what? 100,000 to 200,000 constituents or something? What percentage of these constituents tries to contact the Senator on a daily basis? I would imagine very few voters write or email their representatives. So by my logic, given the low volume, I would assume that representatives would routinely answer their constituents' missives. WRONG!

Some don't answer emails or letters or return phone calls or come to luncheons you help arrange. I am so sick of being ignored.

Because of this, I am seriously considering running for State Senator next year.

Seriously. I want change. I'm tired of sitting on the sidelines and having my screams fall on deaf ears. If you can't join 'em, beat 'em.

Besides, every race has to have some crackpot on the ballot. Consider me the Token Perot or the Token Nader.

Unfortunately, I'm not a former lawyer, educator, or banker (I think 95% of all politicians had one of these occupations in their private lives). I'm also not well-connected and do not have much money for a campaign. So how will I generate some buzz for my campaign?

First of all, I'm going to need to create an extremely stupid and viral YouTube video. I'm thinking something with monkeys and puppets. We'll all sing The Rainbow Connection or maybe some Neil Diamond. I'll light my hair on fire at the end if necessary. I'm still ironing out the details on my video.

People will see me around town and say, "Hey! You're that YouTube guy with the monkeys, right? Singing the Kermit the Frog song?" And I'll reply, "Yes. That's me. I'm running for State Senator and I would appreciate your vote."

But only so many people watch YouTube, so I'll need other inexpensive ways to get my face out there (because you can't really call press conferences when you're a nobody, can you?). I will attend poetry slams and open mic nights and recite/sing my platform to the people. Eventually, the local alternative weekly rag will embrace me. Soon after that, the local conservative weekly rag will denounce me. And then victory will be mine.

In the meantime, I need to find a place to put all these damn skeletons. I also need to work on my people skills and develop a personality. Can you get that on eBay?

Song of the day: Come Sail Away by Styx

The Broken Engagement, Part III: The Broken Life

This is the third installment in the saga about my broken engagement with my high school sweetheart, Kate. If you missed the first or second part, please read them first.

***

A normal person would have just moved on with his life.

But that's not my style.

I could've keyed her car. I could've called her apartment at all hours. I could've slept with her best friend and her sister. These are all acceptable forms of retaliation for jilted lovers according to the Cynical Dad Manual Of Love And War™.

But I've always been someone who takes things to extremes. I decided if I couldn't have her, no one could have her.

Yeah, I could've handled things much better. But I was young, dumb, and full of rage. Sometimes the heart overpowers the head.

I decided to make it look like Lisa offed the TA and then did herself in. I typed a note (and it took every ounce of willpower I had not to write that she was offing them both because she regretted screwing me over (because really, wouldn't that have pointed the cops in my direction?)), ready to plant at the scene of the crime to make it look like she was the one responsible for the carnage.

And yeah, I totally stole the idea from Heathers. I had seen the movie a month earlier and had fallen in love with it. [Note to any future homicidal maniacs in the audience: when you decide to knock off someone, have some originality. You don't want to be known as The Heathers Hitman.]

So on April 29, 1989, I parked my car down a road near her apartment complex.

I walked to the edge of the parking lot. I looked for the route to her door with the least amount of light. It was then that I realized I hadn't planned things out as well as I had thought. But I couldn't turn back.

I made it to the back of the complex, peeked through her sliding glass doors, and saw that the living room was dark, so I knew they were in bed. I walked to the front door and put my key in the doorknob. "Dumbass," I said as I turned the doorknob. To this day, I can't believe she didn't change the locks.

I still wish she would have changed the locks. Things would've turned out much differently.

I walked into the living room. I could hear the television coming from the bedroom.

Our bedroom.

I crept slowly down the hall.

I paused. What the hell are you doing? There's no way you're going to get away with this.

But I continued down the hall.

I got to the bedroom door and took a deep breath.

I threw open the door, flipped on the light, and shouted,

"APRIL FOOL!"

Song of the day: Poor Little Fool by Ricky Nelson

The Broken Engagement, Part II: The Broken Nose

This is the second installment in the saga about my broken engagement with my high school sweetheart, Kate. If you missed the first part, please read it first.

***

"We need to talk" is one of the worst phrases in the English language. "We need to talk" never leads to talking about anything fun.

And it didn't in my case, either.

Turns out she had been seeing the Teacher's Assistant of her Organic Chemistry class. It started out innocently enough with him helping her with some complex diagrams and then one thing leads to another and she's getting extra credit in the bedroom.

So I did what any normal jilted lover would do: I pouted.

I became the clichéd all-in-black, weepy, death-of-every-party, bitchy, parked-outside-her-apartment, listening-to-sad-songs-on-a-loop, whiny, runny-mascara mess. I was a male version of "Joe lies… when he cries," only ten times worse. It got so bad that all the guys on the floor of my dorm made a pact to keep someone with me at all times, just so I wouldn't do anything stupid.

I was heartbroken.

I was empty.

I was lost.

But gradually, I pulled myself up. I started hanging out with my friends more and more. After about a month, I started going to places other than class. I met some really cool people and though I hadn't forgotten about her and what she had done to me, I was moving on.

Until the night I saw them together.

I was out playing pool and drinking pitchers with friends. One of my friends came over to me and said, "Dude, let's get out of here. This place is dead."

"What are you talking about? I'm having a good time."

"Ok. But I've got to warn you: Lisa just walked in with her boyfriend."

I scanned the bar and saw them sitting at a table near the entrance. Every emotion my heart had experienced in the previous weeks rushed through me. I felt the urge to make one last stab at winning her back. So I walked over to their table.

"Chag!" she screamed, an equal mix of surprise and dread.

"Hi, Lisa. How are you doing?" I asked.

The TA got up. "So you're the ex?"

"Yes," I said. "You must be the asshole who ruined my life."

"Look, buddy," he explained. "It just sort of happened."

"Why don't you just shut the hell up for a few minutes so I can talk to Lisa?" I demanded.

"I think you need to leave," he said, puffing out his chest.

So I punched him.

And then I dove on top of him, taking him to the floor. I started pounding the hell out of him. It was a great release. Unfortunately, an off-duty cop was also at the bar. He pulled me off the TA, handcuffed me, and hauled me off to jail on a Drunk and Disorderly charge.

I spent the night in jail. Under normal circumstances, I would've been scared to spend a night in jail. But I was on a high. I was pacing the cell like a caged tiger. I was seething. I couldn't think straight.

But at least I left with a plan of revenge.

Onward to Part III!

***

I have disabled comments for this post. I want you to read the entire saga before taking sides, forming opinions, and all that jazz.

Song of the day: Nothing Better by The Postal Service

The Broken Engagement, Part I: The Broken Heart

Did you know that I was once engaged to someone other than Ella?

Did you know that I once spent a night in jail?

I have decided that now is the time to tell you about my broken engagement. It's a time in my life that I'm not proud of; love can make you do some truly stupid stuff. Despite the fact that you'll probably think much less of me after you read this, I really need to put it out there.

This period in my life has been weighing on my mind a lot lately and hopefully it'll give you a better understanding of who I am and what I'm capable of. But bear with me because this story will take several days to tell.

***

I was a high school junior when I finally got the nerve to ask Lisa, a senior cheerleader, out on a date. Even though we ran in vastly different circles and she was way out of my league, she accepted.

Somehow, it worked. We were star-crossed lovers like Romeo and Juliet. Or Randy and Julie from Valley Girl.

Like a lovesick puppy (and against my parents' wishes), I followed her to the college she attended. Despite the fact that I was only 18, I bought her a Cracker Jack ring and proposed to her during Christmas Break. We made plans to get married the following year.

During spring semester, she told me her classes were becoming tougher and she needed to start studying more. So while she spent most of her free time studying in her off-campus apartment, I started hanging out at the Penny Draft Night bar (Hallelujah, fake IDs!), playing intramural sports, hanging out with the guys in my dorm, singing in a band, and all that kind of stuff. In short, I was living like a college freshman, something I had not done during my first semester at college.

One night, a friend and I went to a bar that Lisa and I frequented. The bartender poured me a beer as I walked in and said, "Sorry to hear about you and Lisa."

"What are you talking about?"

"You and Lisa. You broke up, right?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Dude, she was in here the other night with another guy."

I couldn't believe it. I didn't believe it. So I went to the pay phone (it was 1989; only rock stars had phones that weren't attached to their cars or didn't need to be carried around in forty-pound bags) and called her apartment.

"Lisa?" I asked, my voice cracking. Don't start crying, I told myself.

"Yes?" she replied.

"Are you seeing someone else?" I stammered.

"We need to talk."

Onward to Part II!

***

I have disabled comments for this post. I want you to read the entire saga before taking sides, forming opinions, and all that jazz.

Song of the day: All My Little Words by The Magnetic Fields

Will You Lend A Helping Hand?

This morning, I was loading the dishwasher when I saw a little hand made of construction paper lying on the kitchen table. I picked it up and noticed it read, "A helping hand was here." I went and found Ella and asked her about it.

She told me, "It's for the Daisy Scouts. Zoey is supposed to help out around the house without being told to do so. When she does something helpful, she leaves one of these hands."

"Cool," I said. "Random acts of kindness."

"And we're supposed to set a good example," Ella continued. "We're supposed to leave these hands around the house when we lend a helping hand, too."

"Hmmm," I said. "Any chance you'll be leaving one of those here tonight?" I asked, nodding at my crotch.

Her reply?

Silence.

And eye rolling.

Song of the day: Christmas Time (Don't Let The Bells End) by The Darkness

Why I Almost Pulled The Plug On This Site The Other Night

I like to think I'm blogging anonymously. I've given everyone in my family pseudonyms and don't post pictures that often (twice in two years). And I've always said that if someone I knew found about this site, I'd kill it.

Well, I thought that happened on Friday night.

I logged on to check the comments on my contest and found the following:

I would say one and six are false. I have seen you, you don't look like CC, your hair isn't blond.

It was signed Anonymous. The I have seen you part freaked me out. So I checked my referrer stats and found that the commenter lived in my state (yeah, it was kind of like, "The phone call is coming from inside the house!").

Even though it was from a town on the other side of the state, I lost it. It was a big ISP and IP addresses don't always resolve correctly. But it was coming from my state and that was all I needed to know.

So I panicked. I told Ella, "It's dead. I'm deleting everything. Now!"

Ella replied, "Chill out."

So I took a few deep breaths. I do know a fellow blogger in that town, but I knew she would never sign her comment anonymously, so I figured it couldn't be her. But since I was planning on doing something drastic, I emailed her.

And it was her.

So thanks, Arwen. It's bad enough your Sox won the Series, but did you have to go and give me a heart attack too?

Song of the day

You should know the drill by now. Take it away, SciFi Dad!

At my high school, pretty much everyone was into the grunge scene in the early 90s. The jocks had their Pearl Jam, the headbangers had their Soundgarden, and the imitators loved Nirvana. Sure, some fringe kids had Mudhoney or Mother Love Bone, but most were into one of "the big three". Me? Neither jock nor headbanger, and certainly no follower. I was a musician, so I listened for different things, subtle things. I gravitated to Screaming Trees, in part because his voice was lower (and thus closer to my range to sing along) and also because the feel of the music was appealing.

Song of the day: Witness by Screaming Trees

Hot For Teacher

Today, Zed was expelled from Little Gym.

Ok. Not really. I don't think you can get expelled from Little Gym as long as your fees are current. So think of it more as self-expulsion.

Regardless, we're not going back.

Zed loves Little Gym. He loves to climb on the equipment, do flips, and run around like a crazy fool the entire time. When we pull up to the strip mall where it's located, he starts smiling and is all but ready to jump out of the car before I put it in park.

And the instructors? He looooooves them. They're all cute little twentysomething girls.

Today, I ruined everything.

This week's skill was doing a flip on the balance beam. Since these kids are just normal two-year-olds and not freakish Romanian gymnasts, they needed both the instructor and the parent's help to accomplish the feat.

I was holding Zed's hips as his instructor placed Zed's hands on the balance beam. She then started him in the flipping motion. As she did this, I decided that I had better get in front of her so I could catch Zed in the followthrough.

As I hurried past the instructor, my hand moved right across her ass.

I don't know what the hell happened. I think I was like Ash in Evil Dead II and my hand just took on a life of its own.

Even though the ass-grabbing only lasted 0.8 seconds, it was enough time for me to turn red, vomit, faint, and wonder if she could file a sexual harassment suit against me.

So now we're looking for a new way to spend our Tuesday mornings.

Preferably something that doesn't excite my Evil Dead Hand.

Song Of The Day

One of the great things about opening up my DJ booth to others is that my guest will occasionally point me to a kickass song I was previously unfamiliar with. Today, SciFi Dad does just that. Thanks, man!

One night at a club, I was listening to this band when the guy standing in front of me decided it would be a good idea to mosh - by himself - while everyone else stood still and listened. He bounced around and started pissing people off. Never being one to deal with annoyances well, I tossed him away when he bumped into me for the fifth time.

Apparently, he wasn't expecting my help, because the next thing I know he's in my face screaming and yelling. He was quite a bit taller than me, but I was no small guy either, so as he continued to yell, I clenched my fists and took a breath, waiting for him to throw.

He shoved. Good enough, I thought to myself, and went to lift my arm, only to discover two buddies of mine holding my wrist. They were pleading with me not to do anything, but I broke free and shoved the guy, knocking him over. Then she pried my hand open, took it in hers, and held on.

"Let go."

"No. Come here and hold my hand."

"Damnit, how can I hit him if you're holding my hand?"

"Exactly."

When the song finished, the lead singer said, "Uh, that was a song about making friends."

Song of the day: Anna Is A Speed Freak by Pure

I Suck

I haven't been feeling well the past few days and I've been sleeping more than usual. I think my body just needs a recharge.

Today, after I got Zed down for his nap, I decided to sit down for a few minutes and watch some television. Next thing I knew, I was opening my eyes and staring at the clock, which read 2:55 PM.

2:55 PM!

Zoey's school lets out at 2:30 PM.

Damn it!

I jumped up, grabbed a startled Zed, and started running towards the door when the phone rang. It was the school.

"Mr. Holland? We have your daughter in the principal's office."

"Is she okay? I'm sorry! Is she scared? I overslept! Is she all right?"

"She's fine."

"I'll be there in a minute!"

I never drove so fast in my life.

But they were right. She was fine. She was drawing at a desk. I thanked the office person for taking care of her. The entire way to the car, I apologized profusely to Zoey. Finally, when we got to the car, she looked me dead in the eye, "It's okay, Daddy. It was an accident."

Which made me feel even more guilty. So she got dessert for dinner and extra television time.

And because I'm so neurotic and afraid of this happening again, I hereby vow never to sit down while she or Zed are at school. Anyone know the number of a good podiatrist?

Song of the day: Stigmata by Ministry

Another Boring Night In Suburbia

This is how I spent my Sunday evening (actually, it was early Monday morning). But just to liven things up a bit, I'm going to tell the story in reverse. Let's kick it Memento-style!

July 23, 2007 2:00 AM
I headed back to my house as the cop banged on my neighbor's front door. You did everything you were supposed to do, I reassured myself. It's in the cop's hands now. I walked inside, grabbed a drink, and turned on the television. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep without the knowledge that my neighbors were aware of the situation, so I went back out on the front porch. My neighbor and the cop were standing at the crime scene. Good. I can go to bed now.

July 23, 2007 1:45 AM
"It's about time they showed up," the tall firefighter told me as the police car came down our street. The firefighters walked over to the patrol car. I stood there, shuffling my feet, readying myself to tell my story for the fourth time that evening. The short fireman pointed at me. The cop started walking in my direction.

"You're the witness?" he asked.

"I'm the one who called the police. I saw a dark pickup truck. Other than that, I'm not much of a witness," I said nervously, probably acting like I was the one responsible for what had happened. I don't do well around police. Or any authority figure, for that matter.

I gave the cop my story along with my name, address, date of birth, and telephone number. I explained to him why I had taken so long to contact the police. I was beginning to think I was going to have to go down to the station to fill out an official report. But instead the cop said, "Ok. That's all I need. You can go home now."

"Are you going to wake them up? Because I'm worried they'll come out--"

"Yes. I'll wake them up and let them know what happened," the cop said.

July 23, 2007 1:00 AM
"They're not going have their sirens on, are they?" I asked. "It's pretty late and I think the whole neighborhood is asleep."

"Sir, they will follow whatever procedures are necessary in a situation like this," the police dispatcher told me. "Now I need to ask you some questions."

"Okay."

"Are you in any immediate danger?"

"No."

"Is anyone around you in any immediate danger?"

"No."

"Someone will be there shortly. Goodbye."

I hung up the phone and started cursing. "Damn it!" I screamed to Ella. "Why did I let you talk me into calling the police? What if they come down the street with their sirens a-blaring and it turns out to be nothing? What if I don't know what the hell I'm talking about!"

She said nothing.

"I'm going to bed. You deal with this." I said.

"Nuh-uh. You saw it. You deal with it. I'm going to bed."

A few minutes later, I heard the fire truck coming down our street. "Good," I said. "At least they don't have their sirens on."

I walked outside and met the firemen in front of my neighbor's home. They examined the scene, asked me what had happened, and wrote down my name, address, and phone number. "Is this what I think it is?" I asked, nervously.

"Yes," the short firefighter replied.

"What happens now?"

"We call the police. This isn't our problem," he replied.

"Are you going to wake them up? Are you going to tell them about it?" I asked, pointing at my neighbor's home.

"No. This is isn't our problem," he reiterated.

July 23, 2007 12:30 AM
"You really need to call the police," Ella told me. I ignored her; I was busy at the computer.

"Jackson?" I asked.

"Maybe," Ella replied. "But that doesn't sound right. I don't know."

"You know, one of us really needs to start paying attention when people introduce themselves to us," I said.

"I know," she replied.

After a few moments of silence, I asked, "Simpson?"

"No. Definitely not Simpson," Ella stated (Turns out I was right. Their last name is Simpson).

"You really need to call the police," Ella said once again.

"Just give me a few more minutes," I begged. I really didn't want to call the police. What if I was wrong?

But I had a plan. Our neighbors had just moved into the house a week ago. We knew their first names but not their last names. We knew the neighborhood where they used to live, but not the street. So I used my laptop to go through their old neighborhood, street by street, scouring the names of the people who lived on the streets. I was hoping to find a match with their first names and, ultimately, a phone number so I could just call them on the phone.

I always wanted to be a detective.

"You really need to call the police," Ella said firmly.

"FINE!"

July 22, 2007 12:15 AM
"Honey? Honey, wake up!"

No response.

"Honey! Wake up!" I try again.

"What do you want?" Ella said, sleepily.

"A bomb just went off in our neighbor's front yard!"

"WHAT!" Ella screamed as she sat up in bed.

"I think a bomb went off in our neighbor's mailbox."

"A bomb? A real bomb?"

"A homemade bomb. There's a huge jug in the street. There's foam inside the mailbox and some black residue inside the mailbox. It's on the ground, too."

"You went down there? What were you thinking?"

"I don't know. I heard a loud BOOM! and I thought it was a car backfiring, so I went outside. I saw a dark truck down by our neighbor's mailbox. There was lots of smoke. Tons of smoke. The truck sped away. I really thought it was a backfire. But the smoke didn't go away, so I walked down there to check things out."

Ella quickly threw on a shirt and sweats and we went outside. She stood on the porch as I started walking toward the smoke.

"Don't go down there!" she screamed.

"I've already been down there once. The bomb's already gone off. There's nothing to worry about."

"Don't!" she yelled as I continued to walk toward the smoke. I coaxed her down off the porch but she wouldn't go anywhere near our neighbor's yard.

"I can't believe no one else heard this," I said as I walked back into our yard. "What should we do? I don't want them to come out tomorrow morning and touch their mailbox. What if they get burned or something?"

"You really need to call the police," Ella said.

Song Of The Day

Marla from …For A Different Kind Of Girl is back for her second day as Guest DJ (btw, if anyone else would like to DJ for a week sometime down the road, drop me a line). Take it away, Marla!

I grew up in a small town with two radio stations and no cable television. Madness! I remember actually being excited the first time I heard Air Supply's Lost in Love on the radio. It was as if I was just discovering music for the first time! Then I shook the insanity out of my brain, turned the dial to the other radio station and waited. Eventually, I was rewarded with Duran Duran. As was the case with many of the bands I grew up enjoying, Simon LeBon became my pretend husband. John Taylor was my dalliance. We got along delightfully. A few years later, Nick Rhodes married a woman about 15 miles from where I lived, and I thought two things: "Wow! Nick Rhodes isn't gay or else this is some of the most clever marketing I've ever seen!" and "Well, there's obviously hope for me! Simon's bound to make a wrong turn on the way to the wedding and spot me browsing BOP magazine pinups of him when he stops at the convenience store and asks for directions. We'll live happily ever after!"

Interesting how that didn't seem to work out. Alas, I love him still. I own all the albums as a symbol of my love and fidelity to Simon LeBon.

I would, however, still consider a dalliance with John Taylor.

Song of the day: Careless Memories by Duran Duran

Double Oh Cheap Bastard

I love electronics. Shiny metal. Bells and whistles. Gadgets. However, I am also a cheap bastard so I refuse to buy most of these items. And that's why I'm the last person on the planet without an iPod (or any type of .mp3 player).

When she was pregnant with Zoey, Ella was on bedrest for several months and they told us at twenty-six weeks that Zoey could "come at any time". Because of this, we thought it would be a good idea to purchase cell phones. I had owned one in the early 90s, but it was the kind that was connected to your car. It also cost $30/month for thirty minutes. Needless to say, I didn't use it very often.

We signed up with Verizon. They had a new-every-two program where you got a new phone every two years. Little did I know how badly I would need such a program.

My first phone became a distraction for Zoey while she was on the changing table. Because of this, it was often dropped. So it should have came to no surprise that the phone didn't last the two years. About two months shy of the end of the contract, I could not make any outgoing calls on the phone and could only receive half of my incoming calls. But I was cheap, so I went two months without a phone.

I was paying my bill online the other day and noticed that my service agreement had expired. Since my phone had become both Zoey and Zed's plaything, it was in sad shape. Part of the faceplate was missing. When you opened the phone, most of the pixels were burned out due to Zoey dropping it one day last year. The burned-out pixels made dialing a number fun because I couldn't actually see the number I was dialing. It was like playing Russian Roulette; I fumbled around the keypad hoping I was dialing the correct number.

So I started looking at the phones they had available. And then I saw her: The G'zOne. She was big, bulky, and sexy. She was shock-resistant. She was dust-resistant. She could be submerged in three feet of water for thirty minutes. I could shower with her. I was in love.

And then I saw her price: FREE!

I was madly in love.

I got the phone today. It's H-U-G-E. I think it's bigger than a cordless phone. When Ella came home this evening, I was waiting by the door to show her my new toy phone. "Wow," she said. "That looks like something a spy would have."

"I know," I replied, arching my eyebrows ever so suggestively.

She threw her arms around me, kissing my neck while ripping off my shirt said, "You're such a dork."

Since she was unreceptive to the G'zOne's sexy ways, I decided to show her to someone who would truly appreciate her beauty: another male. I strapped on my ten-inch penis phone and went roaming the neighborhood. It didn't take long to run into a neighbor.

"Jesus! Is that a phone or a walkie-talkie?" my neighbor asked when he noticed it on my side.

"It's a phone."

"Who the hell are you going to call with that? Mars?"

I went home in tears. No one understands you like I do, G'zOne. Here's to the next two years, baby!

Song of the day: Across The Universe by Fiona Apple

The Art Of A Great First Impression

Today was Zed's first day of gymnastics.

He did great. He did flips, walked on the balance beam, climbed on the obstacles, and played on the mats.

The only problem? When it was time to do these things, he decided he'd rather do something else. While the class was working on their flips, he was busy climbing the obstacles. When the class was climbing the obstacles, he was playing on the mats. Structure is so overrated.

But he had a GREAT time. He was smiling the entire time and running around the place like a crazy person. He pitched a fit when it was time to leave (of course, he always pitches a fit when he has to put his shoes on).

I, however, did not have a great time because I was feeling quite paranoid. Ever feel like everyone's staring at you? It seemed like every time I looked up, one of the mothers was looking at me. It was probably due to one or more of the following:

1. I'm damn sexy.
2. They're not used to seeing a guy at the gymnastics center.
3. I may or may not have had my fly open the entire time. Unfortunately, I did not notice this faux pas until I was loading Zed into the car.
   

This is why I try to limit my contact with the outside world.

Song of the day: Son Of A Preacher Man by Dusty Springfield

Youthful Idiocy: Christian Rock (Before There Was Such A Thing)

Part 5 of a 14,389,003-part series that serves as a reminder that every time one of my kids does something dumb, I've done something dumber.

I cannot be sure what you are about to read is entirely true since I was five when it happened. Since it's one of those stories my mom likes to drag out to embarrass me, it feels like I remember it.

We were in church on a snowy, pre-Christmas Sunday morning. Attendance was poor that day, but since we only lived a block away from church, we had no excuse not to be there.

At one point, the choir director stood at the pulpit and announced, "We're going to sing Joy To The World. Please turn to page 120 in your hymnals."

My mom said I jumped to my feet and started beaming. As soon as the organ started, I belted out, "JEREMIAH WAS A BULLFROG!!!"

Yup. I started singing Three Dog Night instead of the Christmas hymn. Does this mean I'm going to Hell eventually?

Addendum: My mother really should not have been surprised or embarrassed when this event took place. We lived in a sleepy little mill town and there wasn't much to do. So every Saturday night, they took me with them to the local VFW while they had a few beers. I passed the time by standing on the stage, singing into a rubber snake to the tunes coming out of the jukebox. Customers would regularly give me quarters and sodas (which I'm sure I thought was cool as hell). I was the VFW's house band. Kind of sad, no?

And before you pass judgment on my parents for taking me to a bar when I was a small child and allowing me to drink sodas all night, remember this: it was the 70s. People didn't know any better. It's a wonder they didn't let me smoke.

So folks, teach your children well. And don't expose them to Three Dog Night.

More Youthful Idiocy:
The Haunted Forest
Fish In A Barrel
The Fifth Grade Flea Market In A Bag
The Great Playboy Heist

I Need A Life

Today, Zed and I went to the grocery store while Ella and Zoey stayed home to do the things they do when we're not around (mostly, art projects). Apparently the manager at the grocery store has been reading my site, because they've totally replaced all their shopping carts! Which means, at least for a week or so, all the child restraints are still operational. Woo-hoo!

The shopping carts were so new, the restraints were still buckled. I giddily pushed Zed around in a cart had not been defiled by toddler ass (a wet dream for a germaphobe like me). We wandered around the store, looking for more new and exciting things.

We came to the new-and-improved Free Sugar Cookies For Kids display. They still had the sugar cookies for the children, but beside them were reduced-fat sugar cookies for the adults.

Between the new carts and the reduced-fat sugar cookies, I was so excited I had to call Ella. She did not share my enthusiasm. After we hung up, it hit me what I had just done: I had called my wife to tell her about the new shopping carts and reduced-fat sugar cookies at our grocery store. Like it was Christmas or something.

WHAT HAVE I BECOME?

Further Proof My Children Would Be Better Off If They Were Raised By Wolves

Winter came to our neck of the woods last week. And while it only hung around for thirty-six hours, it was long enough to cause major drama in our household.

I loaded the kids into the car to take Zoey to preschool. As usual, we were running late. As I was filling the car with gas, I thought to myself, Damn! It's cold today! I looked at Zoey. She should probably be wearing a hat.

And gloves.

And a heavier jacket.

I suck (Admission: The Weather Channel, weather forecasts, and the like do not exist in my world. I hardly ever check the weather forecast. As a result, I am often dressed improperly for the weather. And so are my kids.).

Since we were about seven miles from home and school started in five minutes, I began rummaging through the car looking for warm clothing for my daughter. I found one pink mitten, but unless she was going to pull a Michael Jackson, it wouldn't have been much use. I found a pair of Ella's gloves and tried to talk Zoey into wearing them, but they were way too big. Damn!

I got back into the car, arguing with myself the whole way to preschool.

She'll be ok. It's not that cold.

Are you insane? It's thirty degrees outside!

She'll never wear a hat anyway. It'll mess up her hair.

But she needs a hat!

And so on and so forth. You don't need friends when you've got several voices inside your head to keep you company.

Anyway...

I pulled into the parking lot at Zoey's preschool. I started looking through the trunk once again (Admission: My automobile looks like someone lives in it, so it wasn't outside the realm of possibility to find a hat in there. Or a pair of gloves. Or human remains.). Finally, I found a hat!

Unfortunately, it was Zed's hat. It was blue (a big turnoff to Ms. Pink) with blue spikes coming out of the top (another turnoff). And of course, it was too small. Did this stop me from trying to force it on her head? HELL NO!

Amidst the tears, the screaming, and the struggling, I tried to make it fit her head. Despite the fact that it didn't even come down to her ears, a very small part of me thought that it would suffice, if just for that day. But I knew deep down she needed a hat that fit. So we went shopping!

I stopped at a drugstore (Yeah, I know. Shut up! Desperate times, people!). "Do you have hats for big people?" Because in a crisis, I lose the ability to communicate with others.

"Um, no." the clerk replied.

"How about hats for little people?"

"Kids?"

"Yes!"

"No."

"Do you know anywhere that might?"

"Family Dollar."

"Cool!"

I loaded the kids back in the car. Zed was screaming at this point because he's not too fond of the whole in-out-in-out car shuffle without having a chance to walk around somewhere. Tires screeching, we pulled into Family Dollar.

When Zoey came out of the car, she hit her head on the door and began crying. Zed started crying again because I wouldn't let him walk into the store. We went up to the register. "Do you have hats for kids?" See, I can learn from my mistakes!

"Sure."

"Um, where are they?"

"All over the store. You just have to look."

"Thanks. Is there one location that I might find more hats than in other locations?" Twenty seconds into the conversation and I was already tired of dealing with this bitch.

"No. You just have to look."

So I aimlessly wandered the store until I found the clothing section (where we found many, many, MANY hats!). I found a perfect little pink toboggan (for my Canadian readers: a toboggan is a knit cap) for Zoey. Since she needed to try it on, I put Zed on the floor. Of course, he took off like a bat out of hell. I chased him down, brought him back, and tried putting the toboggan on Zoey's head with one hand.

Guess what? Can't be done. Try it yourself.

So I had to put Zed back on the floor and he proceeded to run away once again. My children had stopped crying but I was ready to do enough crying for the three of us.

I brought Zed back to the hat display. I held him with my legs and put the toboggan on Zoey's head. Perfect fit! We walked back to the register.

"Will this be all?"

"Yes."

"You know, your boy really needs a hat too."

"Sorry, we can only afford one hat this week. Hopefully next time." If people are going to say bitchy, finger-wagging things to you, the least you can do is make up a lie and make them feel like crap.

I paid for the hat, put the kids in the car, and pulled into the school just as they were closing the gate (you're allowed to drop your kid off fifteen minutes after school begins). Success! Zed and I went home and had a beer, both of us severely stressed out from that morning's events.

When I picked Zoey up from school that afternoon, I learned that Zoey's teachers didn't even make her wear the damn hat when she went outside for recess. Figures.

GHS: 6

Chump

I like to think of myself as fairly intelligent (thought it might not always come off that way on this site) and somewhat street-smart. But despite this, sometimes people can take advantage of me.

Case in point:

This afternoon, I took Zoey and Zed over to the home of one of Zoey's preschool chums for a playdate. Zoey and Becky are inseparable through the week at school. Plus, Becky has a little sister a few months older than Zed.

When we arrived, Alice, Becky's mother, stayed with us in the playroom for a few minutes. She then asked if it was ok if she made a phone call for work (she runs some Avon-ish business out of her home). I told her, "No problem."

Thirty minutes later, she came back into the room. "Sorry about that," she said. She played with the children for about ten minutes before excusing herself to answer the telephone.

Twenty minutes later, she came back into the room. "Sorry about that," she said. She played with the children for about fifteen minutes before asking if it was ok if she put a pot roast in the oven. I told her, "No problem."

Forty minutes later, I decided that it was time to head home. I looked through the house and finally found her outside, sweeping her front porch. The hell? I thanked her for letting us come over (had to be polite (despite wanting to scream at her with every ounce of my being); I'll be seeing these people at the pickup/dropoff lines four days a week for the next six months). "We should do this again sometime," she exclaimed as I was putting the kids in the car. "Sure," I replied. But next time, you're paying me $25 an hour. I may be stupid and can be easily taken advantage of, but I don't come cheap.

So in conclusion:

• Alice got some time to herself to catch up on her work, do a little housekeeping, and prepare dinner. With free babysitting.
• Alice's husband came home to a nice meal.
• And I got ganked. Although I did find out I'm perfectly capable of single-handedly taking care of four children.
  

Youthful Idiocy: The Haunted Forest

Part 4 of a 14,389,003-part series that serves as a reminder that every time one of my kids does something dumb, I've done something dumber.

When I was young, we had a great set of woods in our neighborhood. A maze of trails. Abandoned treehouses and clubhouses built by children before us. A creek. Several bridges. Tire swings. A separate section of dirt trails perfect for bicycle jumping. A crazy man who lived in a shack, armed with a shotgun, a hatred of children, and lots of Styrofoam cups.

And the whole thing backed up to a prison camp. Suburbia rocks!

One year, the four of us decided to turn our beloved woods into a Haunted Forest for Halloween. Since there were only four of us, it was a rather daunting task. We worked every day after school and all day on the weekends for a solid month.

Here was the basic setup:

One of us was the trail guide while the other three of us would scare you through the subtle art of rubber masks and yelling. The trail guide led you by flashlight through the woods to our three major scary places. At Point A, you would touch eyeballs (peeled grapes; we were savvy veterans of the whole elementary school haunted house scene) and the three of us would jump out and scare you. At Point B, you would hear scary noises (the four of us moaning) played over a cassette player and the three of us would jump out and scare you. At Point C, the guide would pull a rope that would cause leaves to fall on your head (ooh! scary!) and the three of us would jump out and scare you. We even had secret trails that would allow the three of us to move quickly from Point A to Point B to Point C. We were quite clever.

Yeah, I know. It was actually very lame. But we were kids. And we were only charging two bucks.

On Halloween Eve, we practiced for several hours. Come Halloween night, we were ready. Except for one little thing.

You know that whole "if you build it, he will come" line of thought?

Total bullshit.

No one showed up. Not even our parents.

The one thing we forgot? Advertising.

We had not told anyone we were doing this.

We had not erected any signs to let people know our Haunted Forest existed.

We were idiots.

We sat in the woods all Halloween evening, freezing our asses off like sad little Linuses awaiting The Great Pumpkin.

Only Lucy never came to put us to bed.

Related:
Youthful Idiocy: Fish In A Barrel
Youthful Idiocy: The Fifth Grade Flea Market In A Bag
Youthful Idiocy: The Great Playboy Heist

Youthful Idiocy: Fish In A Barrel

Part 3 of a 14,389,003-part series that serves as a reminder that every time one of my kids does something dumb, I've done something dumber.

When I was a kid, there was a creek that ran through our neighborhood. It wasn't much of a creek, only about ten feet wide at its broadest point. But if it merely sprinkled, the thing flooded like crazy. During these floods, we would watch from our windows as a single Styrofoam cup would float down the creek every five minutes. The cups were rumored to be the work of the crazy man that lived in the shack deep in the woods, but that was never confirmed. But every flood, a cup would float down the creek every five minutes. Creepy.

The creek was also home to Injury Rock. Injury Rock was a huge ramp-like rock that jutted out over the creek. When we were bored, we would take turns attempting to jump the creek on our bikes off Injury Rock. I'm sure you can figure out how it got its name.

The creek was also home to crawdads, tadpoles, frogs, snakes, turtles, and lots of other things that little boys hold near and dear to their hearts.

And fish. Lots and lots of tiny fish.

Most of the fish were smaller than our ten-year-old hands. But that didn't stop us from catching them. Armed with bread and tiny hooks, we would cast our line near the rocks at the bottom of the creek. If you waited long enough, a fish would swim out from underneath a rock. Since these fish had very small mouths, you had to act fast. You had to hook them just as they touched the bait or you would never catch a fish. It was hard work, but we always managed to catch plenty of fish.

One day, after fishing for several hours with someone who couldn't quite get the hang of it, I had a great idea: catch a lot of fish, put them in a big barrel, and charge other kids to fish in the barrel. I had been to a stocked pond before and knew there was Big Money to be had in such a venture.

So the four of us headed down to the creek one day and spent the entire afternoon fishing. When we finished, we carried our buckets of fish to Chuckie's house and filled a large plastic garbage can with water from the garden hose. We dumped all our fish in the garbage can and went home for the evening.

We didn't realize what happens when you put fish in tap water.

The next morning, we woke up and found all of the fish floating at the top of the garbage can.

Damn it! Another foolproof plan undone by fools!

So we lugged the garbage can to the woods and dumped the fish. We did learn another lesson from this experience: Forty tiny fish, after stewing in the hot summer sun for several days, can smell like you have a dead whale in your backyard.

Related:
Youthful Idiocy: The Fifth Grade Flea Market In A Bag
Youthful Idiocy: The Great Playboy Heist

Not Knowing When To Quit

Sometimes I do things to purposely piss of my wife. It's fun.

But when she brings it on herself? That's even more fun.

Tonight, the four of us went out to dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant. We had been sitting in our booth for 3.6 seconds when Ella hissed at me, "Don't say a word."

I had no idea what she was talking about. I looked at her like she was crazy, wondering what I had done wrong. Then I looked around. I noticed an elderly gentleman sitting at the table right next to us. Dude looked exactly like Santa Claus.

I grinned. "Zoey," I whispered.

I looked at Ella. She was sending me one of her patented shut-the-hell-up-if-you-know-what's-good-for-you glares.

Unfazed, I continued to try to get Zoey to notice Santa. "Zoey," I whispered again. "Look at the booth next to us." My daughter, always the brightest bulb in the bunch, looked up.

I received a sharp kick to the shin. There was no turning back at this point. "Zoey! Look over there," I said as I nodded my head in the direction the man was sitting.

Zoey followed my head and saw the man. "SANTA!" she joyfully screamed. The man smiled at her and waved.

"HONEY!" Ella yelled. "What is your deal?"

A few minutes after the man left, I explained to Ella that he wanted the attention. He was making a concentrated effort to look like Santa Claus. Zoey probably made his day.

Didn't matter.

Now if you'll excuse me, the couch is calling.

Youthful Idiocy: The Fifth Grade Flea Market In A Bag

Part 2 of a 14,389,003-part series that serves as a reminder that every time one of my kids does something dumb, I've done something dumber.

When I was young, there was a Quickie Mart about a mile away from where we lived. But it wasn't just a Quickie Mart. It was The Promised Land. Candy, gum, sodas, snacks, pinball machines (and later, video games), and wrestling magazines were all available.

If you had the money.

And most of the time, my friends and I didn't.

So we were constantly dreaming and scheming, trying to figure out ways to make money. And like all ten-year-old entrepreneurs, things never went as planned.

One day at recess, I pulled from my pocket a little rubber ball that was painted like the Earth and started bouncing it on the basketball court. A crowd of boys gathered around me.

"Wow!" What's that?" Boy1 asked.

"My Earth ball."

"I'll give you a quarter for it," Boy2 said. He had my attention. I immediately stopped bouncing the ball.

"I'll give you this rubber spider and a marble for it," Boy3 offered.

"I'll give you a quarter for the spider," Boy4 said to Boy3.

"And I'll give you a dime for the marble," Boy5 said to Boy3.

I quickly exchanged the Earth ball for the rubber spider and the marble. I then turned around and sold the spider and the marble to the two interested buyers for thirty-five cents.

I was dizzy with delight from the transaction. I had just sold a ten-cent rubber ball for thirty-five cents. Suck it, Donald Trump.

Unable to contain my money lust, I ran over to Chuckie, my partner in crime. "Did you just see what happened?" I asked him. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

The next day, we hit the basketball court armed and ready to deal. My backpack was filled with gum, candy, yo-yos, and other little trinkets we didn't want anymore. We would sell items to the highest bidder. We would trade for other items (but only if we were getting the better end of the deal). After a few days, the kids were actually waiting for us on the playground, eager to see what treasures we had for sale each day.

We had a steady stream of buyers and suppliers. We were pulling in ten to fifteen large a week (hey, ten to fifteen bucks are large when you're ten). Life was great.

Until...

There's always an until. If this were a movie, this would be the point where one of us got hooked on drugs or incurred huge gambling debts or some girl came between us and destroyed the operation.

But we were ten-year-old whitebread wusses. Drugs and gambling hadn't entered the picture yet. And despite the fact that both of us had "girlfriends" (in name only), neither of us knew what do with one.

No. We were undone by a snitch.

I prided myself on selling quality merchandise. If something was damaged, I would not sell it or trade for it. One day, some kid (we'll call him Snitchy McSnitchalot) bought one of those paddles with a ball on a string attached to it. It was perfectly fine when we sold it to him but the string broke after he played with it for a few minutes. He demanded a refund. I explained to him that the item was in working order when we sold it to him, so no dice.

So what did he do? That's right. Snitchy told the teacher about our operation.

And after a very heated parent-teacher conference, the Fifth Grade Flea Market In A Bag was no more.

Related:
Youthful Idiocy: The Great Playboy Heist