Thursday, May 28, 2009
I am going on Holiday this weekend with my wife, sans Rugrats. I am joyful. Real men are able to express themselves in verse. I give to you my Haiku: Holiday...
(That wasn't the Haiku. I was just warming up. This is the Haiku.)
(Here we go.)
(3, 2, 1, Blast off!)
Holiday: A Haiku...
Packing bags. Sounds that deafen.
Tiny human mosquitoes whine, my patience boil.
Empty terminal packed with anticipation.
Liquid remedy soothes my soul.
Arrival, newness, crisp, clean, silence.
Holy shit! Look at the size of that bed.
Beach, bacon, Dreams of Mojito. Passion, if only for six minutes. Ouch! My back. Bliss.
Steel drums, Bronze, native skin. Native tongue...
** I'm not a total ass. I know this technically isn't a Haiku. So if you're Japanese and your great great great great great great uncle invented the Haiku, no offense.
Monday, May 25, 2009
On the other hand, it can be a complete pain in the ass for the parent. It used to be so simple. Your kid shits in his or her diaper and voila! The mommy magically makes it disappear. But now, "Daddy, I have to go potty" this and "Daddy, I have to make poop poop on the potty" that. Who can stand it? The first few times it's kind of cute. You video tape them making faces when they're pushing one out, you make them pose with the New York Times and say, "Edith get me a beer!" and you take a picture of the masterpiece and post it as your profile pic on Facebook. Good times indeed.
I started to read a bunch of books on child psychology and they were very long and uninteresting, so I didn't finish them. But if I had finished them, I'm pretty sure there would have been a ton of helpful information on how to make potty training, a positive and healthy growth experience for my child. But that's neither here nor there. Because I care about my kids, I take great interest in not fucking them up in the head. I go to great lengths to make their physical and psychological milestones, memorable, fun and as little work as possible for Moi.
Because potty training can be kind of messy and also tough on the olfactory sensory neurons, it's important to keep the time spent in the can to a minimum. I know that when I "drop the kids off at the pool", I like to partake in some casual reading and even catch up on some emails but it's essential that our kids are not over stimulated while learning to "drop a deuce." Even so, it is still extremely important to keep the atmosphere light, relaxed and stress free. Instead of letting them lead the activities, I like to bring the fun bus to brown town. One of my favorite dumpster games...
Nothing says, "Abre esfínter!", like some funny picture taking in the commode. I like to call it, Potty Paparazzi. Here's our last photo shoot:
Mr. Freud would have felt Out-Numbered...
Thursday, May 21, 2009
So... We're gonna do something a little different this time. We're gonna have a bit of a group exercise here. The topic comes courtesy of one of the cooler and yet extremely intimidating Mommy bloggers out there, Nic from My Bottle's Up. She posted a blog entry the other day that I happened to stumble upon and it definitely got my juices flowing. God knows what types of juices I'm referring to. I'm pretty positive that my blood is basically made up of part Grey Goose, part Hydrocodone and part Sweet Sausage but I digress. Any way, I've posted the first part of it below and a link to the rest of the post. Check it out and then I'll continue with my response, which of course was probably inappropriate and totally misunderstood. That's just how I roll apparently. Without further adieu...
fact. and male readers out there, i don't write this because i'm a man-hating feminist (though i am a feminist). i write this because it's true.
Ok then. I'm assuming you've read that little slice of Vagina pie and are all puffy and bubbling over with either mass quantities of testosterone or dainty doses of Estrogen. If you're like me, you have something to say. Whether you're a woman who completely agrees with her sweeping generalization of the entire male species or a you're a man who is scratching his nuts on the sofa while popping handfuls of cashews into your fat hairy face, you MUST have a point of view. We are all adults. We are humans. We are all entitled to our opinion, no matter how silly and completely backwards it might seem. So let's air it all out here in this completely ridonkulous and not so credible forum. I'm pretty sure my response is dead on, so I'll share it with you now... Feel free to ridicule me and throw virtual tomatoes at my fat, annoying face...
Comment from Out-Numbered:
You see, the thing is that we like being lame. We embrace being lazy. Before our wives came along, we were able to cook our own food, clean our own apartments, follow directions, read a map, socialize like human beings, laugh, act silly, dress ourselves and do a whole slew of things. Back then, nobody told us we were wrong or called us idiots. We just got shit done and you know what? It worked! We survived! You know what else? You found us, picked us out from the crowd and married us because you liked how we acted. How quickly one forgets. But now, everything we do is completely and utterly fucked up. Not because it's wrong but because it's not how YOU do it. So like a dog that is kicked one too many times, we just stop doing it. It's much easier to get yelled at for not doing anything than it is to drag our fat asses off the couch and waste our time only to be told it's not good enough. That's my rant. Now... lets talk about how HOT chicks are when they get all pissed off. All this talk about chicks going gay etc... is making me crazy. Great post sista! I still love your blog...
BTW, in case things get out of hand, the safe word is... Out-Numbered.
Sunday, May 17, 2009
The first time I noticed the change was on the train a few months ago. I was on my way to the office. It was early, around 7am. I wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary. I was reading the paper. I remember the article vividly. It was a story about a five year old boy who was repeatedly neglected and abused by his mother and her boyfriend. There had been obvious signs, both physical and psychological but neighbors, guardians and family alike ignored them all. It wasn't until the boy turned up dead that people decided to talk. He was beaten so badly that his once adorable face was left completely mangled and unrecognizable. I sat on that train in my sun glasses and stared out the window for almost an hour, crying like a baby. All I could picture was that little boy wondering why his Mommy would do such a thing. Why did she not love him the way he loved her and that fucking monster of a boyfriend who didn't give a rat's ass about anything but where his next beer was coming from. How can you hit a child with such blunt force to the head that he can't even cry, let alone speak your name.
Crying for me is tough. It's kind of like being constipated. You feel like you have to go but every time you sit on the crapper, nothing comes out. I didn't cry when my kid was born. I don't remember crying when my closest relatives passed away. It's not that I don't feel the emotion, I just can't get the faucet to turn on. But lately for some weird reason, I've been crying at every measly thing that turns up.
A few weeks ago I was running on the treadmill in my house. I was listening to "This American Life" podcast on my Ipod. I was about two miles in and I was taken completely by surprise. The episode was about people who were remembered in different ways either in life or in death. There was a story about a Mother of a special needs child. The Mother was terminally ill and she was distraught over the notion of her child having to make due without her. I was so taken by this woman's plight that I found myself weeping in mid stride. Crying again like a baby while running my 9 minute mile. Have you ever tried to keep your breath during a run while blowing your nose into a sweaty towel? Holy shit. What the fuck is happening to me? Am I cracking up? Could the lunar pull of the vaginal cycle in my house be tricking my nuts into premenstrual dysphoric disorder? This is not an isolated incident.
When that annoying blind guy on American Idol got the boot... Cried my eyes out. When that uni-browed, spinster Susan Boyle belted out that piece of shit song from Les Miserables... Bawled like I was watching a Ricky Schroder flick. Damn, I was reading an article on the rise and fall and rise again of Hulk Hogan or some shit like that in Rolling Stone and I got all teary eyed. Just the other day I was walking to work and I was listening to that Creed song "With Arms Wide Open" and I started to get all caught up in the lyrics about Scott Stapp finding out he's gonna be a father and BAM! Crying like a chick without a date to the junior prom.
I can't put my finger on it. I don't get why all of a sudden I'm 99% salt water and 1% snot nose. How do I go from having the emotional dexterity of Clint Eastwood to the three faces of Richard Simmons? It just doesn't make sense. Maybe I'm just a slow learner. Maybe it's the shitty economy or that John Ritter isn't around to make me laugh anymore. Wait... Sorry, I just needed to take a moment. Whatever it is, I think I like it. I know guys aren't supposed to cry but jeez, it feels so good to just let her rip every once in a while. I'm not gonna fight it. I've finally found my emotional MiraLAX and I'm gonna take my medicine like a good little boy.
I mean really, there's only one thing better than a good crap and that's a good cry. You don't have to be Out-Numbered to figure that one out...
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
I'm afraid the Hallmark fairy forgot to stop at our house this year. Damn you! You son of a bitch. Instead of Glenda, my wife got Blair. My wife spent her Mother's Day in bed, on her back. Stop it you dirty, filthy perverts. Get your minds out of the gutter. My wife threw her back out on Saturday and as a result was completely incapacitated for the entire weekend. As a matter of fact, as I write this tonight, she is still out of commission. Now, one might think that several days of forced rest and immobilization as well as a steady intake of painkillers and bedside service is quite possibly the best Mother's Day present of all time. I for one, would tend to agree. Even though my wife got to play Brian Wilson for a week, it was still a major downer for her. Yes we still showered her with love and affection. Don't worry, we managed to sneak in the fake gold earrings and the standard picture coffee mug. I even threw in my annual breakfast in bed for good measure but it wasn't the same. No sir. I actually had a huge epiphany as a result of her misfortune. This changed my outlook on motherhood completely.
I realized something that I hadn't really noticed before...
I suck. I truly, genuinely, positively suck and my wife is undeniably awesome.
I know what you're thinking. Why did it take a back injury for me to realize that my wife is awesome? Well, I always knew that my wife was awesome but her greatness was compounded 1000x my new found realization of self suckage.
These are a few of the things that helped me see the light.
1) I ate my dinner on the toilet bowl.
Yes I did. I never fully appreciated the subtle luxury of a nice, prepared meal at the table after a long day at the office. My wife always has something for me to eat when I get home. It doesn't have to be much but the fact that she takes the time to prepare something for me so I don't have to, is pretty fucking nice. I never do that without someone asking me to. Beyond preparing the meal, she keeps the kids busy while I'm eating so I can actually enjoy it. When my wife was out, I found myself rummaging like a homeless person through leftovers, eating stale crackers and chunks of Hebrew National salami, whatever I could get my hands on. On more than one occasion I wound up scarfing down my dinner on the toilet, while supervising my daughter's bath. Such a Rosanne moment.
2) I got shit on my finger.
I can't tell you how terribly frustrating and disgusting it is (not to mention unsanitary) to get kid shit on your finger. I think I changed more diapers this week than I have in the last 6 years. Let's just say that I accidentally administered MiraLAX to my two year old, twice. The ensuing result was quite simply... Shitty. Have you ever tried to stuff a shit filled diaper into a Diaper Genie at full capacity? I have three words for you: Doodie, Doodie, Doodie. Nuff said.
I love my daughters. They have completely changed me as a human being. I'm a much better man today because of what they've taught me. But... I don't want to see their vagina. Not now. Not later. Not ever. I don't mind the two second wipe here and there or the cute little naked dance they sometimes do after bath time. It's the intricacies of the V that I need not endure. I don't want to see it spread open. I don't want to know that it itches or that it's dirty. I certainly don't want to hear my daughter tell me that there is a piece of skin in there that looks like a knot. Look away. Please. My eyes burn. Nothing to see here. This is where Mom starts earning her cash money. Thank you very much.
The long and the short of it is... My wife does a lot of crap for our family. I used to do nothing and take it for granted. Like the great poser rock band Cinderella once said, "You don't know what you've got until it's gone." I have to tell you, I'm counting the seconds until she's back to 100%. Because I get a little bit suckier every day and I just can't fill her HUGE slippers anymore.
This Mother's Day made me realize that I am just a very small part of this parenting team. Hail to my Queen. Without her I am truly Out-Numbered...
P.S. While I write this with the utmost sincerity from the bottom of my heart, I am also hoping it gets me laid when she's done with her physical therapy. Some things will never change.
Friday, May 8, 2009
I'm sorry. I know this sounds messed up. I'm pretty sure my pet peeve comes as a result of years of eating meals in front of the television with my little brother. I remember watching Happy Days, Threes Company and Different Strokes in the living room while chomping away on Salisbury steak TV Dinners. Those were the days. I can still taste that gravy goodness.
My parents got divorced when I was young and as a result, we rarely ate a proper meal at the table as a family. I don't remember this being a bad thing but I'm pretty sure It's ground zero for my "no chew zone" angst. I guess I just never got comfortable sitting and eating with other people. As long as there's some white noise, I'm fine. PB J's in the school cafeteria? No problem. Picnic at the beach? I'm there. Hot Dog and Knish combo during the Hockey game? I'm buying. But please, please, I'm begging you, don't make me eat meatloaf and mashed potatoes with Uncle Flap Jaw and Aunt Gum Gum again. It makes me want to fucking cut my own head off with a table spoon.
Ahhhh. Finally a cure and I have an open prescription. I can listen to that sweet sound all day long. There's a fine line between kick her or kiss her. Screw you Mr. Drummond! Piss off Potsy Webber! This time I've got you and your stinking Salisbury Steak Out-Numbered...
Monday, May 4, 2009
This past weekend my six year old daughter and I had a very frustrating conversation about music. It went something like this...
Six year old - "Daddy, do you like Rock music?"
Out-Numbered - "Yes baby, I love Rock music."
Six year old - "Cool. Me too. Do you like the Jonas Brothers?"
Out-Numbered - "Not really. Maybe a little bit."
Six year old - "Why don't you like them? I thought you said you like Rock music."
Out-Numbered - "I love Rock music but I don't think the Jonas Brothers are Rock music."
Six year old - "Yes they are."
Out-Numbered - "I don't think so."
Six year old - "Then what are they?"
Out-Numbered - "I would say they are more Pop music than Rock music."
Six year old - "What is Pop music?"
Out-Numbered - "Pop music is music that is considered popular."
Six year old - "Then what is Rock music?"
Out-Numbered - "Rock music is a little bit heavier and a little bit louder than Pop music and it's not always so popular.
Six year old - "Is Vanessa Hudgens Rock music?"
Out-Numbered - "Nope. Pop music."
Six year old - "Is Ashley Tisdale Rock music?"
Out-Numbered - "Nope. Pop music."
Six year old - "Then what is your favorite Rock band?"
Out-Numbered - "Manowar."
Six year old - "What is Manowar?"
Out-Numbered - "The greatest Rock band of all-time."
Six year old - "Can I hear them sing a song?"
Out-Numbered - "Sure. Hang on one second."
(I run downstairs to grab the 1984 Manowar classic, Hail to England on CD. I race back upstairs and pop in track one: Blood of my Enemies.)
Out-Numbered - "This is Manowar."
(She listens and stares at the CD player for thirty seconds. She looks like she's sucking on a lemon.)
Six year old - "This sucks!"
Out-Numbered - "You suck!"
Six year old - "Whatever."
Kids today have no respect for real music... The Jonas Brothers should have to do a fucking internship for Manowar in order to be allowed to live. Jeez, I bet Manowar never felt Out-Numbered...
Friday, May 1, 2009
So my daughter knows how much I like Spiderman and she just had to surprise me with this playful little number. Very thoughtful indeed. Unfortunately it's impossible to fully appreciate the finer intricacies of this classic piece of apparel via the Internet but I can assure you it is fabulous!
You don't have to be a Garmento to notice the luscious faux silk, effortlessly clinging to my 175 lb frame. The perfect blend of 98% rayon and 2% satin allows the shirt to breathe while still accenting the natural contours of the male torso. The material is so delicate that you can actually see tiny little chest hairs peeking ever so slightly through the fabric. That my friends, is sexy. The print itself is a classic throwback to the carefree days of 1960's comic book art. This particular "not so" limited issue is only available at your local Target, with only 3,000,000 shirts made.
What I find most enticing is how deeply the visuals wind up tugging at your fashion "heart strings". Whether it's the subtly of the faded urine tones in its color palette or the ultra confusing sense of organized chaos unfolding in the pictured scene, there is no question that your sense of nostalgia is summoned. If you are absolutely positive that you have seen this shirt before, you are in fact correct. Most young boys during the years of 1975 - 1979 slept on bed sheets and pillow cases that looked exactly like this shirt. As a matter of fact, I'm pretty sure that my old Spiderman pillowcases and feety pajamas somehow wound up in Pakistan as materials, only to later be stitched together, shipped back to the U.S. of A and miraculously wind up back on my person. Amazing! No... Actually, Amazing Spiderman!
I chose to don this bold, yet understated slice of fashion heaven, around the office. My choice was accompanied by a comfortable pair faded blue jeans. I accented the combo by slipping on a pair of camouflage converse low tops. This outfit says, "Hey co-worker! I'm fun on the weekends and around the office but I still mean business." This is not to say that the shirt can't be worn with a dressier pair of slacks, perhaps Cavaricci's circa 1983. One trip to your local Chess King and you have the perfect ensemble for dinner with the wife or even a summer concert at the beach.
I am not sure what I did to deserve this unexpected and delightful gift but one thing is certainly true. When I wear my urine colored, Guido, comic book shirt, I feel like a superhero that can never be Out-Numbered...