Stress

Do you ever feel like your skin is too tight?

Like your skeleton grew two inches overnight but your skin didn't catch up?

And for some strange reason, the only thing that makes you feel better is water? You yearn to take long showers. You'd lick your hands like a cat if it was socially acceptable and not downright disgusting.

And let's not forget the herd of elephants that have decided to make your chest their personal stomping grounds!

And your head feels like someone is playing this song on a loop.

But the weather has changed.

No Text

What's Grosser Than Gross? This.

Zed and I went to the local children's museum/petting zoo on Friday morning.

Petting zoos are not my bag. I know every single one of those animals carries E. coli, mad cow disease, malaria, herpes, and a host of other maladies. But they're also kiddie crack, so I take the kids every once in awhile to view the animals. Sometimes, I'll let down my guard and let them pet one of the filthy beasts. I can be quite the masochist.

I was not planning on Friday becoming one of those special days. Zed was standing at the fence, watching all the lucky kids (whose parents weren't germaphobes) cavorting with the animals. A little girl noticed us at the gate and yelled at me, "I think he wants to come in here and pet the animals."

"I think you're right," I replied. Leave me alone, kid.

But she wasn't done. "Are you afraid of the animals, mister? Because he can come with me if you're too scared."

I was being called out by a first grader. Not one to let a first grader question my manhood, I scooped Zed up in my arms, opened the gate, and strutted confidently into the petting zoo.

This is what my life has become: proving my manliness to six-year olds. Admit it, you're jealous.

I put Zed down near the goats, hoping and praying he would be satisfied watching them from the closer vantage point. Within seconds, he was standing beside a goat, touching its hair. I cringed.

He moved on to a sheep. He touched its wool and became excited. He started doing his "Happy Dance," which basically consists of him running in place.

Guess what I found out? Farm animals do not find Zed's Happy Dance as endearing as I do.

The animals started to scatter. Fearing a full-on stampede, I tried to pick up Zed but he slipped from my grasp. He knew I was planning on leaving the petting zoo, so he called on his only line of defense: he dropped to the ground, lied on his back, and went into full-blown tantrum mode.

Do I need to remind everyone what can be found among the straw in a petting zoo? The same straw my son was flailing around in?

My mind started racing. Oh God. There's nowhere near enough soap, water, Purell, and Clorox in the world. Maybe I should just…

And then everything went black.

Apparently, I died of disgust.

But I'm able to blog from the afterworld! It's pretty cool here, but it's a lot hotter than I was expecting. And even though everything seems to be on fire, I've yet to see a fire truck.

But there is one really cool thing about the afterlife: I get to peep in on everyone on Earth.

And I've seen what some of you ladies do when you're alone in the shower, you saucy little minxes.

GHS: 10

Song of the day: Jesus Christ Pose by Soundgarden

Another Reason Why You Shouldn't Take Your Daughter Into The Men's Room

We were driving home from visiting my Mom when Zoey announced, "I HAVE TO PEE RIGHT NOW!" So I pulled into a gas station and because I have the bladder of a pregnant woman with a fifty-pound baby inside her, I went in with her.

Zoey was sitting on the toilet when she asked me, "What's that behind you?"

I turned around and saw the condom machine. Oh Christ.

"Don't worry about that. Just finish up," I told her, hoping to kill the conversation.

"Are there cards in there?" she asked. I had no idea what the hell she was talking about, but it didn't stop me from lying to her saying, "Yeah. Something like that."

It's 2008. Now that we have 24-hour drugstores, Wal-Marts, and other places, do we really need condom machines in gas station restrooms? I could use a changing table instead. Better yet, they should install the changing tables next to the condom machines. I'm sure they'd sell a lot more condoms that way.

And to anyone who has ever purchased or has been with someone who purchased cologne from a gas station men's room, I have but one question: Why?

GHS: 3

P.S. There's still time to enter the Parent Bloggers NCAA Bracket Challenge. We've got twelve people in the pool so far.

Song of the day: Welcome To The Boomtown by David & David

The Monster Hunter

I have always wanted to be a cryptozoologist.

If money were no object, I would scour the terrain of the Pacific Northwest for Bigfoot, travel to Scotland in search of the Loch Ness Monster, and, in my spare time, track down the Chupacabra, Ogopogo, the Jersey Devil, the Mothman, and everything else you've got. I would spend my days chasing monsters while those around me claimed I was crazy (which isn't too different from my current job description).

But since I don't have an unlimited supply of money and Skybus doesn't service Loch Ness, this fantasy lifestyle wasn't really an option.

Until now.

This weekend, CNN ran a report on the Lizard Man of Bishopville, South Carolina, a 7-foot-tall bipedal lizard that likes to wreck property. According to a recent report, the beast clawed and bit through a car and may have eaten a pet or two in the process.

Despite the fact that the Lizard Man of Scape Ore Swamp lives in my backyard, I had never heard of it until this weekend. But I'm rectifying this oversight. I've been researching the creature, charting his sightings and compiling his turn-ons and turn-offs.

This summer, when we make our yearly trek to Myrtle Beach, I'm going to make a stop in Bishopville and capture the Lizard Man.

Alive, of course.

Song of the day: Monster by The Automatic

Just So You People Don't Think I'm Totally Insane

I will readily admit that I'm more than just a little "off."

But I'm not usually a paranoid person.

I admire people who put it all out there on the web, those that post pictures, real names, etc. It's nice to see the faces behind the words, you know?

But I'm not one of them (unless I lose a stupid bet).

For those of you who are new around here, I've received death threats in the past due to things I wrote online. Now I realize most everything I write on this site is fairly harmless and won't result in death threats. But that could change tomorrow. If I learned anything from my short time at Strollerderby, it's that any post about formula, breastfeeding, or co-sleeping brings out the crazies.

So yeah, that's why I'm paranoid about my anonymity on the web. Just wanted to clear the air on that.

As you were.

Song of the day

SciFi Dad is back today with another selection, where he admits he's never listened to the Happy Mondays. You're twisting my melon, man.

"Here, listen to this," she said

"What?" I asked

"Don't worry, it's with the guy from the Happy Mondays," she replied

"Who the fuck are the Happy Mondays?"

"You're kidding."

"No, I'm not."

It didn't matter; I was hooked. (And I still haven't heard the Happy Mondays.)

Song of the day: Reverend Black Grape by Black Grape

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

Why I Could Never Run Away, Join The Circus, And Become A Contortionist

Zoey had her five-year checkup yesterday afternoon. We went through the normal drill: weight, height, eye exam, and all that jazz. Then the nurse threw us a curve ball: she needed a urine sample from Zoey. She told me to have Zoey sit on the toilet backwards while I held the cup beneath her.

Want to know how it played out? I stood Zed next to the toilet and pinned him against the wall with my knee. I used one hand to support Zoey and held the cup with the other hand. We were in and out in sixty seconds.

Ok. That's how it happened in my head. Want to know how it really played out?

I freaked out because I have a tendency to freak out in situations such as these. Zoey freaked out because her legs were too short to straddle the toilet backwards. She started squirming around and developed a case of "stage fright," probably feeding off of my stress.

The cup ended up in the toilet.

And where was Zed during all of this?

Playing in the urinal.

Fun day!

GHS: 6

Song of the day: Can't Take My Eyes Off You by Frankie Valli

The End Of The Line

When I told them of my decision, the neighborhood Moms laughed in my face. One particularly jaded mother said, "I give you a week." Hell, two of you warned me about it when I wrote about the topic earlier. I'm beginning to believe everyone else was right.

Hell is not other people.

Hell is the Car Pickup Line at Zoey's elementary school.

I thought it might die down after a week or two. I figured people would eventually get tired of spending a good chunk of their afternoon waiting in the queue. I was wrong. True, some people have sucked it up and let their children take the bus, ride their bikes, or hitchhike, but most of the original car riders are still there.

And we're right there with them.

On most days, we pull up in the line about twenty minutes before school is over and don't leave the premises until twenty minutes after school is over. But I don't really mind the wait. Zed hops into the front seat with me and we read books, listen to music, and other stuff. Yeah, he would probably rather do all this in the comfort of our home, but he's a pretty good sport about it. Plus, he gets to pretend to drive the car!

But it's the stress that gets to me. The Car Pickup Line starts out as a nice, peaceful place. Parents stand outside their vehicles and talk to one another. Smaller children play while waiting for big brother or sister to come outside.

And then the school bell rings.

Game On!

The thunder from hundreds of revving minivans fills the air. I watch moms apply lipstick and eye black in their rearview mirrors. People who were the best of friends moments earlier are now sworn enemies, eager to flip you off, run you over, or pass your car at the slightest sign of hesitation. There is no such thing as friendship in the Car Pickup Line. There is only one law: Move Your Car Or Die.

Last week, the guy in the car in front of me fell asleep in his car. I tried honking my horn, but he didn't wake up. I quickly jumped out of the car and banged on his window, saving him from the angry mob that was planning to push his car into the ditch and set it on fire.

Yeah, it's that bad.

Sadly, that's not the most stressful part. It's the teachers that make the line stressful. In their perfect world, you would just slow the car down and your child would jump in while the car's still moving, but there are laws in place to prevent that from happening. So from the time they open your door, you have approximately 2.7 seconds before you're expected to be moving again.

Want to say hello to your child? Too bad. Move along!

Want to kiss your child? Too bad. Move along!

Want to make sure your child is buckled up? Too bad. Move along!

Yeah, I bitch. But I'll be there tomorrow.

With my game face on.

Song of the day: Move Along by The All-American Rejects

Like Ice Cube Said, "It Was A Good Day."

Today I didn't even have to use my AK.

Plus!

Today was Zed's third day of preschool. It was also the first day that he didn't cry when I dropped him off.

Preschool has been tearing me apart. I wonder if he knows what's going on when I drop him off. I feel guilty for leaving him with strangers. Even though they say kids learn a lot from other kids, I still beat myself up and question if this is truly what's best for him. On his first day of preschool, after his teacher kicked me out of the room as she picked him and tried to comfort him, I sat in the car for about fifteen minutes, wishing someone would pick me up and comfort me. Wanting to go back in and take him home with me.

But I didn't. I composed myself, drove home, and paced all morning. When I picked him up that day, he was crying. Not still crying; he was upset because they had just come in from playing outside and apparently he wasn't down with that plan. But seeing him crying once again killed me. I thought about taking him out of preschool.

But we pressed on.

When we went inside today, the kids were playing with blocks at a table. I took him over to the table, sat him in a chair, kissed him, and walked away. He watched me as I unpacked his backpack. Then he turned back to the table and started building a tower.

I was the one who almost started crying.

I snuck out of the room and watched him through the window for a few seconds. He looks happy, I told myself. So I left. I still went home and paced, but with a little less guilt than usual.

When I went to pick him up today, he was playing near another boy. They weren't playing with each other, but they were sitting on the floor right next to each other, playing with dinosaurs. When I picked him up to leave, he started crying. He didn't want to leave. Which made me feel much better about preschool, but it also made me feel like crap at the same time.

I know preschool will be good for him. He's sitting during circle time. He's participating in art projects. Last week, his teacher told me he told another kid, "Give that back" when the kid took a ball from Zed. We've never heard him string three words together. So something's rubbing off on him there. Plus, he's learning to stick up for himself. But it still bothers me. I just can't stop wondering if he truly understands what's going on.

I know preschool will be good for him. Eventually, it will be good for me, too.

Song Of The Day

Ok. Enough with my dramatics. Motherbumper is back with another musical selection, kids. While she's not stripping for you today, she is hanging out with rockstars.

So continuing with the quasi-theme of songs of Motherbumper's youth, I decided to cash one out from the happy memory bank. In the early 90s I attended a super fantastic week-long music fest that featured some kick ass bands: Sloan, Red Kross, and Doughboys were by far my favs. As luck would have it, and probably due to my new blond locks and single status, I sweet-talked my way into the after party at the end of the week-long celebration. I woke up 1200 kilometers away full of stories that are not fit to print since my Dad might read this. Even though I'm close to being forty, I'm still scared of getting grounded (or losing my inheritance).

Song of the day: Fix Me by The Doughboys

Don't Answer The Phone!

We were eating dinner tonight when the telephone rang. I got up, checked the Caller ID, and shouted, "Ella! It's Zoey's kindergarten teacher!"

***

Today was Zoey's first day of kindergarten. No tears were shed by either of us this morning as I left her classroom.

When I picked her up this afternoon, I asked her if she enjoyed her first day. Her reply? "It was fun! I didn't learn anything!" See why we have to trick her into learning things?

Like always, Zoey was not forthcoming with details. She told me they drew pictures, played outside, sang songs, read books, and ate lunch in the CAFETERIA (her emphasis). She said she made friends but could not remember anyone's names (she gets that honestly). But the Zoey Seal of Approval came when she stated "I like kindergarten more than preschool."

Cool.

***

"Oh God!" I continued. "The first day of school and she's already in trouble!"

"Answer the phone," Ella replied.

Me: Hello?
Becky: Mr. Holland?
Me: Yes.
Becky: This is Becky, Zoey's kindergarten teacher.
Me: Hi, Becky.
Becky: I'm calling all the parents and letting them know how their child's first day of school went. Zoey had a great day. She is an intelligent and very sweet girl. But…

There was no pause. It just seemed like time stood still when she said that awful word.

Becky: I just had to tell you what Zoey did today. One of the girls in her class started missing her daddy and started to cry. Zoey put her arm around her, made her laugh, and cheered her up.

It's moments like this that make me think I might be doing a halfway decent job at this parenting thing.

Song of the day: Three Strange Days by School Of Fish

The Headache Of Trepidation

For the past few days, I've been suffering from some massive headaches. While I can attribute a good bit of them to my sinuses, there's a damn good chance that a portion of them are psychosomatic. In the next two weeks, there are several big milestones occurring that I'm just not prepared to face.

Zoey turns five on Sunday. F-I-V-E! It seems like yesterday, blah, blah, blah. I don't want to get all sentimental here, but damn. She was just a baby a month ago, wasn't she? Damn, I feel old.

Damn, she is old.

And then there's the birthday party. I don't know how we're going to fit forty kids, a pony, a Laurie Berkner cover band, a merry-go-round, some poor college girl dressed like a mermaid, and a few inflatable pools in the backyard. Actually, that's the party she wanted. The one we're throwing her will be much more low-key. But I do know we'll be putting her gifts in three piles this year: Keepers, Returns, and Recalls.

And then she starts kindergarten on Tuesday. I've gone back and forth and back and forth and back again on whether or not we should've redshirted her, but we're locked and loaded and she'll be there if we can get our lazy butts out of bed in time (school starts at 7:45 AM). She's nervous, but not as nervous as I will be. I'll be the one crying in the parking lot.

Zed will start preschool after Labor Day. This scares me. I don't know how he's going to do. His preschool and his teachers have experience with autistic children, but he will be the only child with autism in his class. I'll probably hang out in the parking lot for the first few weeks, sneaking a peek in the window every once in awhile. The school will probably take out a restraining order against me.

Ugh. My head still hurts. Pour me a drink.

No wait, tell me a joke. Dirty, political, whatever. Just make it funny. I could use a laugh.

Song of the day: Hotel Yorba by The White Stripes

Without Forty Ounces Of Social Skills, I'm Just An Ass In The Crack Of Humanity

We had another couple over for dinner tonight. I was cool with it; I like these people and ours kids all get along. No problems, eh?

About an hour before they were due to arrive, I started freaking out.

Me: Shouldn't we serve them wine?
Ella: We don't drink wine.
Me: I know. But everyone else in the world does. Especially during dinner dates.
Ella: You watch too much television.
Me: We should serve them wine.
Ella: What kind of wine would you like to serve them?
Me: I don't know. I don't know anything about wine. I just know we need to serve them wine.
Ella: We have Corona. That'll do.
Me: Ok. Did you buy limes?
Ella: No.
Me: Why not? People put limes in Coronas!
Ella: You don't.
Me: So? We're trying to make them think we're civilized.
Ella: Just keep your mouth shut and we'll be alright.
Me: Fine.

I started looking through the cabinets.

Me: Do we have anything that looks like a beer glass?
Ella: No.
Me: We need beer glasses! We can't make them drink out of bottles. They'll think we're savages.
Ella: We have plenty of sippy cups.
Me: I'm going to Target.
Ella: No you're not. They can drink out of bottles.

And on and on it went. I painstakingly went over every single item in our home, looking for skeletons.

Ten years ago, I wouldn't have given a damn. We would've invited them over and served them Miller High Life and burgers or pizza. Now? Spinach lasagna and Corona. What the hell happened?

I think it was about the time I had kids that everything changed. I started caring more what others thought. I worried about the community and all that crap. Ten years ago, I wouldn't have cared if you didn't like me. In fact, I would have embraced it.

Things were different when I only had myself to worry about. I could say what I wanted and do what I wanted. And did so. But now my family will suffer the repercussions of my actions and words. So I keep my mouth shut.

At least I try to.

Whenever I'm nervous, I either clam up or babble nonstop. I prefer the first option, but more often than not, I'm filling lulls in conversation with off-the-wall anecdotes that have nothing to do with anything. And then I'll realize I'm doing it, try to make up for it with more talk, and just end up adding more crazy bullshit to my mountain of manure. It's a vicious cycle that can only be broken with a well-placed glare from Ella.

Over the next few days, I'll be reading everyone's tales from BlogHer. I would've loved to have gone. But I couldn't. I can't even deal with being around two people, let alone several hundred.

Boom Goes The Dynamite

After my Another Boring Night In Suburbia post, some of you wanted to know the ending. That pretty much is the ending. The cops had nothing to go on because I was such a crappy witness. The neighbors have no enemies that they're aware of. Everyone just thought it was the work of some extremely bored teenagers.

See why I told the story in reverse?

And for the record, I had entirely too much fun telling the story that way.

Song of the day: Past The Mission by Tori Amos

America's Least Wanted

When we first moved into our house almost four years ago, we didn't really make an effort to get to know our neighbors. Because Zoey was just one and Ella was working late most evenings, we spent what little free time we had painting, unpacking, and making the house our home.

We had a dog at the time. Because I didn't want to be hassled taking her for a walk while pushing Zoey in the stroller, we were having a fence built. Only it didn't go as well as planned.

Our realtor had recommended a handyman. "He's a nice guy who's had troubles in the past, but he's really trying to get his life together." So I hired the guy.

He came out one day and dug the holes for the posts. He told me he'd come out the next day and put them in the ground. But he didn't come.

And he didn't come the next day. Or the next day. Or the next day. After two weeks of listening to the dude's excuses, I called my realtor. "Um, yeah," he said. "I've been meaning to call you. The guy stole one of my television sets today."

Nice!

Even though I am quite the cynic, there are times when I can be totally naïve and trusting (and when that backfires, it only reinforces my disbelief in my fellow man). When I bought all the items, the fence builder came along with me to tell me what I needed. I paid for the items and took all the posts with me and about a fifth of the two by fours. I put the Work Order/Pickup for the rest of the materials in his name. The next morning, he was supposed to pick up the remaining two by fours and all the hardware I had purchased.

So after hearing what my realtor said about the dude, Ella, Zoey, and I hopped into our car and drove to the store where I purchased the items to see what could be done. I found out that all the items I didn't have in my possession had been returned a week before and exchanged for gift cards.

I was livid.

The manager took me back to his office and told me I would have to fill out a police report. A cop finally showed up forty-five minutes later. By this time, Zoey was getting cranky so the cop told me he could give me a ride home after we filled out the paperwork. Ella and Zoey left.

The cop and manager told me that because I was stupid enough to put the work order in the guy's name, there was nothing the store could do. "But I paid for it! Don't you need a receipt to return something?" I yelled.

"Yes," the manager assured me. "But the guy was given gift cards instead of cash, so it wasn't technically a return. Plus, the work order was in his name." He later went on to tell me he had noticed this kind of activity was becoming more and more frequent in his store (yet he had done nothing to stop it).

"So what options do I have?" I asked.

"Given the fact that all you can give me is the guy's name and his roommate's cell phone number, there's not much we can do," the cop said. "We'll file a report and 'look' for the guy, but it'll be very low priority. You could try taking him to Small Claims Court."

Basically, I was screwed.

So after I directed a few more expletives at the store manager and myself for being so stupid and trusting, I decided it was time to go. I got in the back of the cop car and we started driving home.

We pulled up in front of my house. When the officer came over to let me out of the backseat, I noticed twenty people standing at the bottom of the cul-de-sac. They were probably partying only moments before, but at that very instant, every single one of them was staring at me.

That's right! The entire neighborhood's first impression of me was getting out of the back of a police car. Rock!

As we were walking to my door, the cop said to me, "I'm not really sure what to do about this. It's a thin line, but I probably should confiscate the lumber you have in your possession because it's been involved in a fraudulent return."

"WHAT!" I screamed. "Not only am I out several hundred dollars worth of lumber and hardware, you're telling me you're going to take what little I do have? That doesn't make sense!"

The cop thought about it for a minute and then said, "Hold on a sec. Let me call another officer and ask him what I should do."

But instead of talking to my cop over the walkie-talkie thing, the other cop decided to drive his unmarked-yet-still-clearly-a-police car over to my house. Must've been a slow night (but not slow enough for someone to go out and try to find the bastard who stole all my stuff).

So to recap: there were now TWO police cars in front of my house while the entire neighborhood was standing two hundred yards away, gossiping and painting worst case scenarios in their minds.

After the cops shot the shit for a few minutes, they turned their attention back to me. "You can keep all the stuff you have," the second cop said. "But we'll have to take pictures of it for the report."

"If you want to take pictures of my lumber, that's fine with me," I replied. "Do you need a camera?"

"No. I'll have to call for one."

"No problem," I replied. So the cops went back to talking to each other while I sat on the curb wondering what my neighbors were saying about me. Lights had come on in the houses of people who weren't attending the block party. I waved sarcastically at the teenager staring at me from her window across the street (and if you're not sure how to wave sarcastically, email me and I'll give you step-by-step instructions).

And then what shows up at the front of my house?

A Crime Scene Van.

So I had a police car, an unmarked police car, and a crime scene van parked in front of my house while the entire neighborhood was watching. Tongues were wagging!

So I opened my garage and they took pictures. The cops had been aware that the neighborhood was watching, so we started talking about that. "They probably think I killed my wife," I said. "You're probably right," the crime scene photographer said.

Because I had finally reached a point of not caring anymore, I asked one of the cops if he would put me in handcuffs, put me in the back of the police car, and drop me off at the top of the street. At this point, I decided I really wanted to give the neighbors something to talk about.

But he wouldn't do it.

The next morning, Ella said, "You, me, and Zoey should probably go out in the front yard and play so that the neighborhood knows everything's ok. God only knows what they're saying about you." "Let them talk," I said.

Twenty minutes later, a neighbor came to our door, wanting to know what had happened the night before.

***
This is just one item in a long list of reasons why I tell Ella if she ever wants to move, she'll have to kill me first. We had one bad experience after another during the time we sold our old home and bought this one. Some day I'll get around to telling you guys the rest.

Song of the day: Uninvited by Alanis Morissette

Because You Should Only Buy A Plastic Swimming Pool If You're Planning On Filling It With Beer And Ice

Despite the fact our backyard resembles a white trash version of Michael Jackson's Neverland Ranch, there is one thing I refuse to purchase: a wading pool. Here's why:

1. Unlike the rich people's pools, you have to toss the water out when you're done swimming because of germs, bacteria, and other creepy crawlies.
2. Because one of the Unwritten Laws of Suburbia states you cannot toss things over your neighbor's fence, you must dispose of the used swimming pool water in your own yard, which creates a big, sloppy, muddy mess. And we know there's no bigger kid magnet than a mud pit.
3. By the time I would complete the pre-swimming ritual (putting Swimmers on Zed, putting swimsuits on both kids, lathering them in sunscreen, disinfecting the pool, and filling the pool), both kids would hate me and would lose all desire to swim. And it would probably be suppertime.
4. I could go on, but I think I've adequately explained my position on the matter.
   

I have just laid claim to the title of World's Worst Father.

But I haven't totally abolished all water-related activities. Because I am way too cheap to join the neighborhood pool or the Y, the kids and I often drive downtown and play in the fountains.

In our downtown, they recently tore down one whole city block and replaced it with a park of sorts. There's grass, benches, and lots of fountains. The fountains dance, shoot water high into the sky, and, most importantly, get the kids wet. While it doesn't come close to the Bellagio, it serves our purposes. The kids' favorite part is the fountain arch, a small place where you can run through while the fountains shoot over your head. If you run through it ten times, you'll be soaked.

Now I know what you're thinking: "I thought one of the reasons why you don't have a wading pool is because of the germs." Yes, I said that. Thanks for paying attention. But in my tiny little mind, the fact that the water is constantly moving and cycling through the system reduces the risk of bacteria. I totally block out the fact that 5,000 filthy bodies have been wading in it all day.

Denial ain't just a river in Egypt, it's also a fountain downtown.

Not only do the kids have a great time splashing around and getting wet, but they also see sights they normally don't get a chance to see: buildings taller than three stories, men with jobs, men wearing suits, and homeless people.

It's fun and educational!

Song of the day: Hot In The City by Billy Idol

Judging A Book By Its Author

While Zed and I were home watching Carolina complete their sweep of Duke, Zoey and Ella went shopping for a book. Every month, two students from Zoey's preschool class are chosen to purchase a book and donate it to the class. The class keeps the books for a month and then donates them to charity. March is Zoey's month.

Right when Billy Packer started bitching about Gerald Henderson getting ejected for bloodying Tyler Hansbrough's nose (Packer claimed Henderson was "going for the ball" despite the fact the ball was nowhere near Hansbrough, much less up his nose), the phone rang.

Me: Hello?
Ella: We're on our way back. You need anything?
Me: I'm fine. What book did you get? A princess book?
Ella: No. Some book by Jamie Lee Curtis.
Me: WHAT?
Ella: Some book by Jamie--
Me: I heard you. Why did you buy her that book?
Ella: Because we both liked it. It's a book about self-esteem. It's got some really great illustrations.
Me: She was TOPLESS in Trading Places. What were you thinking?
Ella: I wasn't thinking about her boobs when I bought it.
Me: It's a Baptist preschool. What are they going to think?
Ella: That it's a great book about self-esteem.
Me: She was in horror movies!
Ella: I'm hanging up now.

My superhero power is the ability to overanalyze even the most mundane situation and find/create the negative in it. Unfortunately, this skill doesn't come in too handy for my fellow man. Which is why I don't get to wear a cape in public.

But the book is pretty cool. And it does have some great illustrations.

Hopefully Zoey's teachers agree.

Sorry I've been away so long. I've been quite sick the past week. It started on Tuesday and I finally went to the doctor on Thursday. The doctor was convinced I had the flu, so she ran a flu test on me. Which, in case you've never had a flu test, means they stick a long cotton swab inside your nostril and use it to scrape the top of your skull. When that test came back negative, she did a blood test to see if it was something bacterial. When that came back negative, she shrugged her shoulders and said, "It's viral. It'll pass eventually." I've had a fever (twice reaching above 103) for the past five days along with a nasty cough and cold and just a general achy feeling. I've been quite a joy to be around.

Song of the day: The Emperor's New Clothes by Sinead O'Connor

Just Your Average Friday Morning Freak Out

As the kids and I were cleaning up after breakfast, I could hear Zoey muttering from the other room, "Where is it? Where is it?"

"Where is what?" I asked her as I walked into the living room.

"My bracelet. I put it in my shoe and it's not there anymore."

I freaked out and began lecturing her. I told her if Zed swallowed it, he would choke (he still puts EVERYTHING into his mouth (of course, so does his sister)). So Zoey and I ransacked the house looking for the stupid bracelet. Finally, I called Ella.

Me: Do you know anything about a red bracelet?
Ella: Yeah. She brought it down this morning and put it in her shoe. I put it on the counter when she wasn't looking.
Me: Why didn't you tell me about it?
Ella: I figured she would forget about the bracelet.

So I brought Zoey over and told her that I knew where the bracelet was and explained to her that she couldn't leave items that small within Zed's reach.

Zoey: Oh, I knew he didn't swallow it.
Me: How?
Zoey: I rubbed his tummy and I couldn't feel it. Then I looked in his mouth.

Now why didn't I think of that?

Song of the day: We Are All Made Of Stars by Moby

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

There's No I In Team (Or Anything Else In Our Home)

Like I needed something else in my life to stress out about.

Zoey is in her final year of preschool (Note to self: Resist the urge to get all sentimental and blather on and on about how your baby's all grown up and will be starting kindergarten next year) and is actually learning things this year. Every week, the class focuses on a different letter of the alphabet.

All the crafts they make start with this letter.

All the books they read start with this letter.

And once a week, they have Show And Tell. If they bring in an item that starts with the featured letter, they get a stamp on their hand. If not, no stamp.

And every parent knows just how important stamps are at this age.

They started us off easy. First week was R. Second week was T. We had plenty of items that started with those letters.

This week's letter was I.

Ten minutes before we were due to leave the house, I remembered that today was Show And Tell. I started thinking of words that started with the letter I. Plenty of words came to mind. Unfortunately, no correlating toys came to mind. So I decided to freak out.

I started frantically searching the playroom, tossing toys around, and mumbling to myself like those silhouetted heads from The Electric Company:

I... guana. Iguana.

We don't have an iguana.

I... gloo. Igloo.

Do they even make toy igloos?

I came t-h-i-s close to stuffing myself in her backpack and letting her take me for Show And Tell.

Teacher: Zoey? What did you bring for Show And Tell today?
Zoey: My Daddy. He's an idiot.

Finally, I found a plastic ice cream cone. I showed it to Zoey and she approved. We were only five minutes late for school.

But all of this got me to thinking. If I had this much trouble finding something that started with the letter I, what the hell am I going to do when we get to the really tough letters?

Q? Let her take one of my Queen CDs?

X? No idea. We don't own a xylophone.

Z? We don't have a toy zebra. Or a real zebra. She could always point to her crotch and show everyone her zipper.

And I'm sure there are other letters that might seem easy but aren't (like the damned I). Which is why this weekend I'm going to make a chart and plan out her Show And Tell items for the rest of the year.

Suggestions?

Other than to chill the hell out? Because that's not an option.

The stamps, man. The stamps. The child must receive her stamps.