Monday, January 26, 2009

Just Shoot Me…

Shhhhhh. Please be very quiet. Be very still. Keep the lights low. I am actually wearing gloves as I type this to minimize the noise. I sit in complete darkness so they think I am asleep. I’m fearful they will wake up. The very thought of it terrifies me. I’m begging you. I can’t take another minute. I’ve been waiting for this moment all day. This is the moment in which I can be still. This is the moment in which my frazzled mind can catch up to my weary body. In this moment I can now find peace, inner sanctum, Fahrvergn├╝gen. But I must not take this time for granted. I have to keep moving. Oh my God. Did you hear that noise? What was that? Is my tired mind playing tricks on me? No! There it is again. It sounds like it’s coming from INSIDE THE HOUSE! Dear Lord in heaven please don’t let them take me. I don’t think I can… “DADDY!!!!” “DADDY, I NEED YOU!”

Shit. Don’t these kids ever freakin’ sleep? I feel like they should have developed more of a lazy ass trait by now. I mean I’m a lazy ass. My Father is a lazy ass. My Father’s Father was a lazy ass. Their Mother is a lazy ass. It’s in their blood. We come from a proud heritage of lazy asses. Our lazy ass lineage can be traced back to Eastern Europe over 200 years ago. I just don’t get it. It’s going to drive me to drink. Oh wait. I’m already drinking. As a matter of fact, I just opened up a brand new bottle of Choya Japanese Plumb Wine (with plumbs added). Why am I drinking Choya Japanese Plumb Wine (with plumbs added)? I am assuming you are asking me this because you think that if someone was actually “driven to drink”; they would drink something a bit more potent to numb the pain. Perhaps some Yukon Jack or Southern Comfort. Maybe a good old-fashioned Ripple or a home made Grain Alcohol. Well, I finished all of that yesterday and I’m too lazy to leave the house, so now I have to hit the Choya Japanese Plumb Wine (with plumbs added). I am hopeful that this treasure in the apple green bottle will suffice. It promises satisfaction on the label. I will believe anything at this point. I am looking for a sign. I’m calling all angels. This is what the bottle reads… “The added natural fruit is called UME in Japanese. The organic acid of UME balances the beautiful taste of CHOYA. CHOYA will satisfy your taste buds to the last drop.” Even more importantly, it was bottled at 14.6% alcohol. That’s good enough for me and if for some reason that doesn’t do the trick, there are five small plumbs at the bottom of the bottle. I’m pretty sure I can choke myself with them if it comes to that. Cheers!

The irony at this point is that the only thing that stands between my big huge pillow and me is this blog. You see I usually have my beautiful, amazing and patient wife to take care of the kids on Sunday evening. She feeds, she bathes, and she tucks them in. She’s like one of those Ron Popeil infomercials. "But wait, there's more! Now how much would you pay?" I just walk around picking shit up from the kid tornado that hits the house every weekend. Then I get my glass of milk and cookies and write my blog. It’s an amazing deal. It’s almost too good to be true. But this weekend was different. My baby left me. She took a big metal bird to a far away land. A land so far away and so beautiful that I dare not even speak its name. That’s right, she flew Jet Blue to Boca Raton, Florida. She went for the weekend. She pulled a John Denver. “So kiss me and smile for me. Tell me that you’ll wait for me. Hold me like you’ll never let me go. Cause I’m leavin’ on a jet plane. Don’t know when I’ll be back again. Oh babe, I hate to go.”

My wife asked me a few weeks ago if it was ok with me if she took a few days off with her friends and flew down south. Because listening is not one of my stronger assets, nor is it in my contract, I said “fine”. My wife deserves to get away. She works hard. She makes my pathetic life easier. Besides work, all I’m really responsible for is taking out the garbage and putting my underwear in the hamper. All I’d need to do is watch my kids for the weekend. How hard can that be? The expectations can’t be too high. If I can keep them alive for 48 hours, I’d be eligible for the Parenting Purple Heart. But what about me? Who is going to keep me alive? What I realize now is that my kids are like Cockroaches. They’d be the last creatures standing after the apocalypse. Crawling around looking for Goldfish crumbs and Fruit Punch. After this weekend I feel like Chris Farley, John Ritter and Curley combined, just walking around like an idiot bumping into things, hitting my head on everything and doing part-falls down stairs. Not to mention that all of those guys are dead. Coincidence? I think not.

I knew it was going to be a long weekend right from the start. My daughters and I drove my wife to the airport. As we were approaching the terminal, my oldest daughter said to my wife, “Mommy, did you know that an airplane crashed into the water last week?” Nervously laughing my wife said, “Yes.” My daughter continued, “Everyone was stuck inside and then they had to jump into the water.” I was thinking to myself that she was way too young to be messing with my wife but it sure seemed like it. I interrupted her to add a bit of levity to the conversation. “Hey honey, did you see that movie Alive?” My wife growled at me under her breath. I kept rambling, “You know, I think I’m going to try and catch up on LOST this weekend.” I could feel my wife staring at me. “Very funny asshole.” At least I distracted her. When she got out of the car, all I kept thinking was, I hope she comes back…

This weekend was a blur. I’m not going to even get into all the shit that went down. I’m not a Rat. What happens in Baby town stays in Baby town. My kids and I took a blood oath. What ever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I will tell you that I literally haven’t showered since Friday morning. All I ate today was a cheese cracker and an alcohol soaked plumb and I think I swallowed a tooth. I’m not even sure it was my tooth. But as of 10:04pm on Sunday night, both of my kids were alive. My wife comes home tomorrow and I will tell her the truth. I had the perfect weekend with my girls. Ain’t nothing but a thing. I’ll even offer to watch them again next weekend if she needs another break. She won’t call my bluff. I just have to remember to shower before she gets home. Hopefully tonight in my dreams I won’t be Out-Numbered…

Sunday, January 18, 2009

This post will self-destruct in 72 hours…

In my almost six and a half years of being a Dad, I have learned and observed many things. Some of these things I have been able to utilize in my daily life. Some of the many findings are completely and utterly useless. However, I have ultimately cataloged most, if not all of the significant information in a Parenting Dictionary of sorts. I have never shared this information with anyone. Not even my beloved wife. I feel that some of my observations might be useful to new parents as well as the seasoned guardian or caregiver. Today, for reasons far beyond your comprehension, I have decided to share a small portion of this informational goodness. Today is your lucky day. Take notes, print out this post and file it away with your grandmother’s secret sponge cake recipe. I will remove this blog post in exactly 72 hours. I will bury the Parenting Dictionary in a time capsule along with my Iron Maiden Records, my Smurf figurines and my Peter Gabriel, SO painted denim jacket. Here are a few essential definitions from the book…

Phantom Pellet or (Phantom Nugget)
Fan-tum Peh-lit – Noun

The small, round, hard, pea shaped piece of doodie that sometimes appears out of nowhere inside a baby’s diaper. It is the size of a small super ball. There is usually no mess and no warning signs from the baby.

“Honey, did you know that little Johnny pooped? I didn’t smell a thing. I went to change his diaper and I found a Phantom Pellet.”

Nut Magnet or (Ball attraction)
Nu-ht Mahg-nit – Noun

The constant recurrence of getting poked, hit, kicked or stepped on by a toddler or small child in or around the general Gonad region. It is usually unintentional but always winds up taking you by surprise.

“Holy shit. That kid’s hands and feet are like a Nut Magnet. I’m gonna puke if he gets me in the gnads one more time.”

Kid Breath
K-id Breh-th – Noun

The unpleasant odor that permeates the mouth of a small child. It usually has a tangy smell, often acidic in quality. Most often the stench is found in the mouths of children who have not yet reached the age of proper oral hygiene. It is most common before the morning bottle is administered.

“Little Suzy is so adorable when she wakes up. You just want to kiss her. But her Kid Breath makes me want to hurl. Yuck! Can you go get her a bottle?”

Pinch Malice or (Premeditated Pinch)
Pehn-ch Maal-ass - Verb

The premeditated action of one child pinching another child, usually between siblings. The act often occurs out of frustration, jealousy or anger and is usually administered when the parent or caregiver has temporarily left the immediate vicinity. Most of the time the incident is denied, even when the child is caught red handed.

Caregiver one – “Oh snap, did you just see that?”
Caregiver two – “Yeah. That was a totally premeditated pinch. We can’t let her get away with that.”

C.T.A. – (Coffee Table Anxiety)
See-Tee-Ay - Noun

The phobia that results in uncontrollable neurosis and anxiety when a first time parent of a toddler is visiting a friend or family member that has his or her home furnished with a sharp cornered coffee table. The condition can be intensified if the coffee table is also made out of glass.

Friend - “Jeez, Harriet doesn’t look so good. How many cups of coffee has she had today?”
Other Friend – “I’ve seen this before. It’s got to be C.T.A. She hasn’t moved from in front of that coffee table since she walked in.”

Nap Sex
Naap-Seh-Cks –Verb

The planned rendezvous of a married couple during the nap time of their baby. Most of the time this occurs in the mid to late afternoon and lasts anywhere from three to fourteen minutes. Very rarely is there complete disrobing.

Husband – “Did Zack finally fall asleep?”
Wife – “Yes. I’ll meet you in the bedroom for some Nap Sex. I just want to grab the Oreos and some Hot Chocolate.”
Husband – “Hurry up and make sure his door is closed.”

Disney On The Brain
Diz-Nee – on - thuh - Br-Ayne – Noun

The mental condition by which a parent can be found singing, humming or reciting various songs or even dialogue from any number of Disney films, songs or TV Shows. The Disney TV show Hannah Montana and movie, High School Musical are most commonly cited.

Dad – “I can’t take it anymore. I feel like I’m going insane.”
Friend of Dad – “What’s wrong dude?”
Dad – “I can’t stop thinking about that hot little number Vanessa Hudgens. I have God Damn Disney on the Brain.”

Spit Face
Speh-Tt – Fay-Sss - Noun

The smell of adult saliva that manifests itself on the face of a baby. Usually resides on the cheeks and upper neck region. This is the direct result of a full day of receiving wet kisses from family members, friends and sometimes strangers. The scent can sometimes be mistaken or reminiscent of an elderly person’s saliva.

Mother – “I HAVE to throw Emily in the bath. She smells like your grandmother."
Father – “What do you expect? She’s been with her all day. She probably has Spit Face.”

Hide and Go Seek Amnesia
Hy-duh – N – G-oh – See-eek – Am-Nee-Shah – Noun

The pathetic and hopeless scenario in which a toddler is unable to grasp the concept of the game, Hide and Go Seek. The child ultimately hides in the same spot repeatedly. He or she is almost always visible in plain sight.

Caregiver – “Ok ready or not, here I come.”
Toddler – (Standing directly in front of the caregiver for the tenth time in a row, covering his or her eyes.)
Caregiver – “Where’s Jordan? Come out, come out, where ever you are…”
Toddler – “Here I am!”
Observing Uncle – “Man that kid is either retarded or he has Hide and Go Seek Amnesia.”

This post will self-destruct in 72 hours…

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Out-Numbered

Monday, January 12, 2009

Say it ain’t so, O…

In my dream, it’s like I’m really there. It’s so real I can touch the grass. It’s so vivid I can taste the rain on my lips. It’s so lucid that I swear I can still smell her perfume when I wake up from my slumber. But when I awaken I realize much to my disappointment, that it is only a dream. If I could only sleep twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, I’d be able to spend more time with her… My sweet, sweet Oprah.

I had my first Oprah dream about a month ago. I dreamt that we met in a park. It must have been springtime because it was mild and there were hundreds of yellow and white tulips in bloom. She looked beautiful. She was dressed in a bright paisley printed sundress and she was twirling a pink-laced parasol. A formal polo races derby pink fashion couture hat covered her head. She was standing under the shade of a cherry tree, waving her white-gloved hand. Our eyes met and I realized she was signaling for me to join her. As I approached her, I noticed she had set up a most beautiful picnic lunch for the two of us to share. Spread out on the grass was a red and white-checkered tablecloth. Resting on the tablecloth was a hand woven, blonde willow basket lined with red and white gingham. She asked me if I would like to join her for lunch and I humbly accepted her invitation. I told her she looked absolutely stunning and she blushed, letting out a faint giggle. I sat down on the tablecloth across from her and she began to serve lunch. “Do you like liverwurst and cheese sandwiches?” she asked. “Are you shitting me?” I replied. “I freakin’ love liverwurst and cheese sandwiches.” I could hardly contain my excitement. Then she told me, “There’s nothing better than a liverwurst sandwich.” “With cool ranch Doritos CRUSHED ON TOP!” We both said in unison. “It’s one of my favorite things.” She said with a sly wink. We laughed uncontrollably and ate liverwurst for hours. We drank Diet Dr. Pepper out of the can and talked about Michelle Obama, our constant battles with weight gain and how Harper Lee's masterpiece, To Kill a Mockingbird, changed our lives. It was a delightful afternoon and I was smitten by her charm. All I could think about was how I wanted the afternoon to last forever. Then she looked at me and said, “I am a huge fan of your Out-Numbered blog.” I couldn’t believe she read Out-Numbered. It was inconceivable to me. “How did you ever hear about my blog?” I asked. “Dr. Phil turned me on to it. He found it on Facebook and told me that I would love it and guess what? I DO!” I sat there with my jaw wide open. Could this be my big break? She continued, “Listen to me Jason. Listen to me. It just so happens that Dr. Oz is taking maternity leave and I would love to have you stand in for him.” I couldn’t believe my ears. “What do I have to do?” I inquired. She continued, “I want Out-Numbered to be a weekly segment on the show and I want it to be featured in O, the Oprah Magazine.” “Really? Are you fucking with me Oprah?” I asked. “Would I play a player?” She offered a high five. Then she looked right at me and told me, “There’s one thing that you would have to do before I can make it official.” She looked me in the eye, “Would you mind a bit of constructive criticism?” “Anything.” I told her. She paused and put her hand on my knee. “Don’t ever wear feety pajamas to a lunch with Oprah, you stupid jackass!” Then I realized that I had been wearing a pair of blue fleece feety pajamas the entire time. I tried to speak but the words wouldn’t come out. It started to downpour. Then I looked up and noticed Dr. Phil, Suze Orman and Dr. Oz were all laughing at me and chanting, “Jason’s Out-Numbered, Jason’s Out-Numbered, Jason’s Out-Numbered.” I closed my eyes and started to sob uncontrollably. When I re-opened my eyes, Oprah was gone. I tried to run away but the ground had turned into a canvas of liverwurst and I kept slipping and sliding, unable to move an inch. Then I woke up.

Since then I have had three more Oprah dreams, each one stranger than the last. I have never been a huge fan of the Oprah show. In fact, I have on more than one occasion ridiculed the phenomenon. But I am now on a quest. I consider my dreams a sign from above. I have had an Oprah-body experience. From now on, I will devote at least one tenth of my waking and or non-waking hours to pursuing my ultimate goal. I will be a guest on Oprah. I will do whatever it takes to appear on her show. I am a bona fide D list celebrity in the blogosphere god damn it. I deserve a shot. I will jump up and down on her leathery couch and confess my love for my wife and two beautiful daughters. I will cry in front of America when she asks me about baring my soul on the Internet week after week. I will kibitz with her about her favorite things and her book club. I will gush about her heart-wrenching role as Sophia in The Color Purple. I will thank her for Executive Producing the television movie version of Tuesdays with Morrie. It is in the cards. It is my destiny. Out-Numbered WILL be a weekly segment on the show and it WILL appear in O magazine.

I started my quest this past Friday when I registered as a member of the Oprah online community. I created my profile and noticed that once you were a member, you are able to post a personal blog to the community. This was my big chance. This was my first litmus test with the Oprah fans. Of course they would accept me. They will love Out-Numbered. Oprah can’t deny her fans for too long. As my first posting I chose, “New Year’s Resolutions are Stupid…” I thought this was a nice introduction to the blog and it was relevant to the moment. I posted it on Friday evening. On Saturday afternoon I signed in to Oprah.com and noticed that the moderator of the site had taken down my blog post. I checked my inbox and found the following email:

Hello,

A friendly reminder... We ask that members keep good manners in mind when using our online communities. We do not allow messages that contain vulgarity or masked vulgarity. To learn more about this and the other message board rules, please click the “House Rules” link, located on the main message board page. We appreciate your attention and cooperation.

Thank you,

Harpoboard1, Oprah.com Community Moderator

So much for destiny. My dream of meeting Oprah died in the ass faster than I could say, Dr. Phil. Oh well, at least I still have my D list celebrity status in the blogosphere and I’ll always have Out-Numbered…

Sunday, January 4, 2009

Do Football Players Fart?

Tonight was a huge night for me. I’m a San Diego Chargers fan. First round playoff game against the Indianapolis Colts. Great match up. I’m a huge sports fan and I take my football seriously. I do all the typical insane fan stuff. I wear my Bolts jersey. I don a Bolts cap. I slip into my Bolts sweatpants. I keep my most private of areas protected by Bolts boxer shorts. I am surrounded by a ton of Chargers memorabilia at all times. I even went as far as getting a Chargers lightening bolt tattooed on my shoulder this week. I know… It’s pathetic.

But…

It’s football baby! It’s the one time during the week that is sacred. It’s the one time Dad gets a free pass. No questions asked. Why am I compelled to talk about football in this installment of Out-Numbered? I felt the need to share because tonight, for the first time, my oldest daughter decided to watch the game with me. She even wore a Chargers hat to show her support. My youngest daughter invited herself as well. It was a very special gesture on their part but I almost strangled myself. It’s nice when your kids show interest in something that’s important to you. It’s just not so nice when it’s playoff football. This is how it went down…

8:15pm Eastern Time - Kick off

Out-Numbered – “Thanks for watching the game with me sweetie.”

Six year old – “Can you get me some apple juice?”

Out-Numbered – “The game just started. You’ll have to wait until a break sweetie.”

Six year old – “But I’m thirsty now. When will they take a break?”

Out-Numbered – “In a few minutes. Just hang on.”

Two year old – “I want appy juice.”

Out-Numbered – “Hold on pumpkin. In a minute, I promise.”

Six year old and Two year old (in unison) – “WE WANT APPLE JUICE! WE WANT APPLE JUICE! WE WANT APPLE JUICE!”

Out-Numbered – “Holy crap! OK! HONEY! CAN YOU GET THEM APPLE JUICE PLEASE?”

Wife – (calling from upstairs at the computer on Facebook) “Ok. In a minute.”

8:18pm Eastern Time

Six year old – “Daddy, do football players fart while they are running?”

Out-Numbered – “Huh?”

Six year old – “I said do they sometimes fart when they are running?”

Out-Numbered – “I suppose so. Why would you ask that?”

Two year old – “I make a farty!”

Six year old – “What if they have to go to the bathroom during the game?”

Out-Numbered – “They hold it in until they get a break.”

Six year old – “What if a break doesn’t come for a long time? Do they ever stop playing to go to the bathroom?”

Out-Numbered – “I’m sure that if it’s an emergency, they can go to the bathroom.”

Two year old – “I want to go potty!”

Six year old – “Daddy she has to go potty.”

Out-Numbered – “Wait for a break sweetheart.”

Two year old – “POTTY!”

Six year old and Two year old (in unison) – “POTTY! POTTY! POTTY!”

Out-Numbered – “Holy crap! OK! HONEY! CAN YOU TAKE HER? SHE HAS TO GO POTTY!”

Wife - (calling from upstairs at the computer still on Facebook) “Ok. In a minute.”

8:23pm Eastern Time

Six year old – “Why do you like watching football anyway?”

Out-Numbered – “Because it’s fun for me.”

Six year old – “Why?”

Out-Numbered – “What do you mean, why?”

Six year old – “I mean it’s just a bunch of boys throwing balls around all the time. It doesn’t look very fun at all.”

Out-Numbered – “Well it is fun for me. Don’t I look like I’m having fun?”

Six year old – “No. You look angry.”

Out-Numbered – “Well, I’m not angry. I’m having fun.”

8:32pm Eastern Time - Colts 36 yard gain

Out-Numbered – “SHIT!”

Two year old – “Shit.”

Out-Numbered – “No baby. Don’t say that. That’s a bad word.”

Six year old – “What does Shit mean?”

Two year old – “Shit.”

Out-Numbered – “It’s a bad word. It’s another word for Doodie.”

Two year old – “Doodie!”

Six year old – “If it’s a bad word, why did you say it?”

Out-Numbered – “I was angry. I shouldn’t have said it.”

Six year old – “I thought you said you were having fun.”

Out-Numbered – “I was. But I’m not having fun right now.”

Six year old – “I told you football wasn’t fun…”

Two year old – “DOODIE!”

Six year old and Two year old (in unison) – “DOODIE! DOODIE! DOODIE!”

Out-Numbered – “HOLY SHIT HONEY! CAN YOU PLEASE COME DOWN HERE?”

Six year old and Two year old (in unison) – “SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!”

Wife - (calling from upstairs at the computer probably still on Facebook) “Ok. In a minute.”

8:35pm Eastern Time – Colts Touchdown

Out-Numbered – “NO! NOW PLEASE!!!!

11:25pm Eastern Time Kids are asleep and Wife is folding laundry and watching the game with me. Chargers are losing 17-14.

Wife – “Why do you like watching football anyway?”

Out-Numbered – “Huh?”

Wife – “I said, why do you like watching football? You’re not even having fun?”

Out-Numbered – “I am having fun.”

Wife – “You don’t look like you’re having fun.”

Out-Numbered – (Sigh)

11:40pm Eastern Time – Chargers Win in OT

I feel much better now and for the record… I had fun even though I was Out-Numbered.

GO BOLTS!