Sunday, August 30, 2009
Seven Year Old - "Hey Mom. How about, first I pick the cutest boys in the picture and then you pick who you think are the cutest boys in the picture?
Wife - "OK. That sounds like a lot of fun."
Seven Year Old - "But you have to pick your 3 favorite boys."
Wife - "OK. That's gonna be tough. They're all adorable."
Seven Year Old - "But you have to say who's the first most cutest, the second most cutest and the third most cutest."
Wife - "I got it. You go first."
Seven Year Old - "No. You go first."
Wife - "OK. Let me see. I say..."
Seven Year Old - "NO! Don't say it out loud. First you pick, then I pick and then we'll see if they are the same."
Wife - "Oh, OK. Hmmm, Let me see. OK, I got my three."
Seven Year Old - "OK, now I go."
Out-Numbered - "Can I play?"
Seven Year Old - "No Daddy, you're a boy."
Out-Numbered - "Whatever."
Seven Year Old - "OK Mom. I'm done."
Wife - "You go first."
Seven Year Old - "No, you go first."
Wife - "OK. My Third favorite is Chace Crawford, because I looooovvvvve Gossip Girls."
Seven Year Old - "Oooh he's cute."
Out-Numbered - "Seriously?"
Seven Year Old - "Daddy be quiet."
Wife - "My Second favorite is Nick Jonas."
Seven Year Old - "Yuck. He creeps me out. Kevin is sooooo much cuter."
Wife - "I disagree."
Seven Year Old - "Whatever."
Wife - "And my First cutest boy is Zac Efron!"
Seven Year Old - "I KNEW IT!"
Out-Numbered - "Zac Efron? What's up with that? He's got a fake tan and he sings like a girl."
Wife - "Jealous much?"
Out-Numbered - "Of who? Wildcats? Please."
Seven Year Old - "Daddy?"
Out-Numbered - "What?"
Seven Year Old - "I think you are more adorable than any of these boys."
Out-Numbered - "Really? That's so sweet baby."
Seven Year Old - "Totally. You're so much cuter."
Shooting my wife my sexiest glance...
Out-Numbered - "That's right baby... Number One Cutest Boy. In your face."
These pretty boys are Out-Numbered by my Hotness...
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
I can only remember being kicked in the Nuts once, when I was a kid. It happened on my front lawn when I was about 10 years old. It took me completely by surprise. It always does. The kicker was named Marky Selden. He was the younger son of my parent’s best friends. He was about 4 years my junior and wasn’t very intimidating considering the age difference but he was a wild kid. In hindsight, I should have seen it coming. We were wrestling on the front lawn with my brother and his brother. I was kind of throwing him around, having some fun. I must have taken one too many liberties and he decided he’d had enough. It was simple Nut kicking fare. Approach, Lock in, And Kick.
If you’ve ever been kicked square in the Oysters, then there’s no need to read this next paragraph. For all the ladies reading, I would imagine that a solid punch to the Tits or a hearty kick in the Ovaries are by no means a walk in the park but there’s something special about the Ball Kick.
The pain is like an image in a Plasma Screen TV. When you turn off your set, you can still see the remnants of that image burned into the screen. That’s what happens when you take a good shot to the Marbles. You kind of get that first wave of pain. The kind of pain that makes you wonder if you’re ever gonna get up again. Then the pain kind of settles. It hangs out for a while and lingers, like the chatty Aunt with bad breath and the hot pink lipstick, that won’t stop kissing you on the cheek. It’s the kind of pain that makes all of the neurons in your brain, want to run to the toilet and puke and then hold on to the bowl cause the room won’t stop spinning. It’s the kind of pain that puts a blindfold on your Testicles, spins them around a few times and then pushes them toward your stomach, leaving them lost and crying like an infant, hyper-ventilating and drenched in their own tears and snot. Not good at all. No sir.
Oddly enough, for all my rough housing, growing up, I was able to avoid most of these Nut-frontations. These days, it’s a very different story. I now have two daughters and a wife. For one reason or another, my Nuts now seem to be a magnet for every errant knee and every wild elbow in sight.
Every time we’re on the couch watching TV, BAM! Knee in the Gnads.
Every time they wake me up in the morning, POW! Foot in the Faschnookle.
Every time one of them climbs over me in the car, DOH! Elbow in the Nuggets.
My daughters don’t have Stones; therefore they have no concept of why it would be important to tread lightly around mine. I’ve taught my daughters many a life lesson over the years. For some reason, this one doesn’t seem to be sinking in…
On the couch with my two girls watching TV, a few days ago…
7 Year Old – “Daddy, I’m thirsty.”
2 ½ Year Old – “Yeah Daddy, I’m firsty too.”
Out-Numbered – “Ok, you guys are old enough to get your own drinks. Go ahead and help yourself.”
7 Year Old – “No. You get it.”
2 ½ Year Old – “Yeah, you get it.”
Out-Numbered – “Guys, I’m tired. Get off your butts and get your own drinks.”
7 Year Old – “Fine. C’mon sis, let’s go.”
2 ½ Year Old – “Yeah. C’mon let’s go.”
Older kid gets off the couch. Younger kid tries to step over me to get down but plants her little brick foot right on my Franks & Beans in the process.
Out-Numbered – “Ahhhhh! My Nuts! Jeez!”
2 ½ Year Old – “What?”
Out-Numbered – “Baby, you stepped right on my Nuts. You have to be careful.”
7 Year Old – “Hahaha. You said Nuts.”
Out-Numbered – “It’s not funny. That hurts.”
2 ½ Year Old – “What are your Nuts?”
Out-Numbered – “They’re my private parts. It hurts when you step on them.”
2 ½ Year Old – “I have nipples!”
7 Year Old – “Hahahahaha!”
Out-Numbered – “Stop laughing. I’m serious.”
2 ½ Year Old starts looking through my pockets, trying to find something. She doesn’t even consider that I’m still in pain.
Out-Numbered – “What the heck are you doing? Get off of me.”
2 ½ Year Old – “I’m looking for the Peanuts.”
7 Year Old – “HAHAHAHAHA!”
Out-Numbered – “Really?”
The Nuts are definitely Out-Numbered…
Saturday, August 22, 2009
"Dude, you're also a huge Brady Bunch fan. Why didn't you get a tattoo of Anne B. Davis on your ass?"
Good question, A-Hole friend. My reasoning is as follows;
Ann B. Davis is a lovely woman and a fine actress but she doesn't necessarily embody the true essence of what made The Brady Bunch, so special to me. What made the Brady Bunch so endearing to me, was how those darn kids were able to get past the truly horrific and untimely passing of their respective parents. They coped in such a selfless way. They never once complained or felt sorry for themselves. Each little, remarkable, angel, braver than the next. They did this in order to rally around their surviving parents, Mike and Carol. They did this because they wanted them to be happy. They were also smart enough to know that if Mike and Carol were happy (IE: getting laid), then they would stand a better chance of resuming a normal life. They were right. It is my humble opinion, that Anne B. Davis (AKA: Alice) was only important to the boys and Mr. Brady himself, during this transitional period. I believe that if she were hit by a Mr. Softee truck in episode 2, they would have been more than capable of moving on with no problem.
So, A-Hole friend of mine... Perhaps if you had phrased your question like this;
"Dude, you're also a huge Brady Bunch fan. Why didn't you get a tattoo of all the Brady kid's faces; surrounding Mike and Carol in the shape of a heart. A symbolic gesture of their unconditional love and unbreakable commitment, on your ass?".
This would have been an entirely different discussion and a valid point.
A-Hole friend, it looks as if you are Out-Numbered...
Until next time.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
My oldest munchkin turned 7 this past weekend. Hard to believe. It seems like just yesterday, we bought her an ipod. I get all teary-eyed just thinking about it. As my wife and I sift through the rubble of the Party aftermath, I found myself doing what any nut less Father would do after being sucked dry of $500 in less than a two hour period; I started to reflect.
When you become a parent, it’s hard not to compare your childhood experiences with those of your kids. For better or for worse, it’s simply natural to draw comparisons. Sometimes looking back on my childhood gets me angry and sometimes it makes me smile but either way, it gives me pause.
Growing up wasn’t always a walk in the park for me. My parents were divorced and my Mom was always trying to do her best to keep us up with the Joneses; or in our neighborhood, the Schwartz’s. She did what she could to make us feel like we had everything our friends had but it wasn’t always possible. Looking back on it now, I can’t imagine how tough it must have been on her when my brother and I would give her shit for not having cable TV, the latest Commodore 64 or the Boom Box with the double tape deck. Only now do I understand what an asshole I must have sounded like.
When I think about those days, I now realize two things:
1) Because of my modest upbringing, in a fairly affluent neighborhood, I learned hard lessons of humility at an early age.
2) There wasn’t a day that went by that I didn’t need a haircut.
No matter what the season or occasion, when you see pictures of me as a kid, you can bet your bottom dollar, that I was wearing a flannel shirt and I had that stupid fucking cowlick in the front of my bowl haircut. It’s a wonder I wasn’t beat up more often.
One of the things that was particularly devastating to me growing up, were my Birthday parties. My poor Mother must have had panic attacks every year, when my Birthday rolled around. The kids in my hood had crazy ass parties. Whether it was a party at a Disco Tec or an impromptu romp around a makeshift arcade in someone’s furnished basement, it was always a production. The problem was, everyone else’s production was like a god damn Steven Spielberg Film and mine were basically the equivalent of a one camera Porn flick, shot in the back of a warehouse. It was brutal.
Most of their parties would consist of kids beating the snot out of a rented Wack-A-Mole machine, waving glow sticks (in the air, like they just don’t care) and Moshe the Clown walking around with a sketch pad, drawing impromptu caricatures of you in a fucking Director’s Chair or some shit like that. How is that same crowd supposed to get excited about coming to my house, to play Pin The Tail on the poor kid's Donkey in my living room? These kids were all jacked up on the Star Wars cake and now they have to wrap up the weekend with a slither of Fudgie the Whale? I had very little street cred back then.
I survived. I’m probably stronger because of it. I have character and a good work ethic. I am humble.
Fast forward almost thirty years later and here I am, stroking the huge schlong of the gluttonous beast that growled in my face all those years ago. I have allowed myself to cave in to the pressure. I have taken the valuable lessons taught to me in my youth and turned a blind eye on my past. I have become the Schwartz’s.
It’s hard to deny your kid the opportunity to have a memorable day on their Birthday. Everyone wants their children to have what they didn’t have. But is it really necessary to go to such great lengths to ensure a smile? Do we really need 15 Ft inflatable castles and standing jumpers larger than one-bedroom apartments? Is it prudent to chauffeur our little girls to miniature salons and dress them up like midget hookers? Does a Birthday cake taste any sweeter to a child when it’s $250 as opposed to $25?
I’m starting to think it’s all a load of crap. I’m starting to have a change of heart. I want to find the Joneses, ring their doorbell and leave a flaming bag of shit, on their doorstep. It’s time to teach my kids that you don’t find happiness in the panties of an American Girl Doll. It’s time to teach my kids that fun is what you make it. It’s time to thank my Mom for doing the right thing, even if it wasn’t the “IN” thing.
Maybe being Out-Numbered wasn't such a bad thing after all…
Friday, August 14, 2009
Two others are worn to the core, matted with hair, accumulated over a decade perhaps, maybe more. If you were to walk into our bathroom and spot them, you would wonder why she keeps the Dog's brushes mixed in with her own.
“That's so unsanitary” (You would think to yourself.)
We don’t have a dog.
She is saving them. For what? I honestly don't know. Maybe she feels badly for them or maybe she just can't let go.
"This was the brush I used on the night of my Junior Prom."
“My Mom bought this brush for me on the day I first noticed I had boobies.”
I can't even imagine the sentimental value. Girl stuff.
I can only speculate. She never talks about them and I don’t ask…
Maybe she's crazy.
One of the hairbrushes looks like it has been in a terrible fire. Its entire left side is melted, (Like the cover of that Peter Gabriel album from the early 80’s.) as if it were trapped in the glove compartment of a burning car, screaming for help; my wife must have rescued it just in time; Now they share an eternal bond.
One of the hairbrushes is very odd looking. It doesn't look like it belongs with the others. It's different. It's completely cylindrical; Like some sort of cannoli with teeth. I don't like the way it looks at me. One time when no one was around, I tried to run it through my own hair, to see if it would take care of my part. Nothing.
Last but not least, there sits one black comb. This puzzles me the most. Why would someone own six hairbrushes and one comb? You either use a brush or a comb, no?
I used a brush all throughout the 7th and 8th grades. I carried it around in the back pocket of my Jordache jeans, at all times. It was sort of a status symbol. It exuded teen sexuality. When I entered the 9th grade, I switched rather suddenly, to a Pick. They were in style. I never used it though.
Sometimes when I’m sitting on the toilet, I stare at the six hairbrushes and the one comb. I try and remember if they had always been there together. Have I ever seen her use the comb? What unique function does each of the tools perform? Is there some sort of obvious hairbrush protocol that I’m unaware of? Silly man.
This morning I lifted the wicker basket in which they sit. I wanted to get a closer look at the family of hairy sparrow. When I lifted the basket, I noticed that there was a significant amount of hair, growing from the bottom of the basket. The hair had slithered through the open cracks of the wicker, over time… like a vine.
I once heard someone say that after you die, your hair continues to grow. Could the hair in the wicker basket be alive? There is always hair on our bathroom floor. Is it slowly migrating? It wouldn’t be the strangest thing to ponder. I’ve seen Invasion of the Body Snatchers.
I don’t want to be like Donald Sutherland. I’m smarter than that. I’m smarter than the six hairbrushes and the one comb.
I will not be strangled in the middle of the night, in my own bed, when I sleep, by alien hair.
I will not be Out-Numbered…
Monday, August 10, 2009
In a world... Where evil knows no boundaries. Where blood flows as freely as water in a stream. There stands a house, alone on a hill, hidden in the darkness. Behind the darkness, lurks an unsuspecting father... His world is about to change.
Father - "Oh my God! Where are the girls? HONEY! WHERE ARE THE GIRLS?"
Mother - "They were in the bathroom a minute ago."
Father - "Something's wrong. Something terrible has happened."
Mother - "What? OH MY GOD!"
Father - "GIRLS!"
Mother - "MY BABIES!"
Father - "It's gonna be OK. We're gonna be OK. Call 911! I'll check the basement."
Mother - "NOOOOOOOOOO!"
Running frantically through the house, searching every room. He finally finds the girls. Nothing could have prepared a father for a sight this hideous. No parent should ever have to see his baby like this...
Father - "What the?"
6 1/2 Year Old Daughter - "What?"
2 1/2 Year Old Daughter - "What?"
Father - "Baby, the next time you decide to paint your sister's fingers and toes, please let us know first. OK?"
6 1/2 Year Old Daughter - "OK."
2 1/2 Year Old Daughter - "Daddy, look at my pretty toes!"
Father - "I see baby. They're very pretty..."
Thursday, August 6, 2009
The spirit of the weekend was carefree and earthy. The smell of horseshit and Patchouli Oil rose high above the masses in a cloud of hippie dust. There were tambourines and Falafel as far as the eye could see.
I was born in 1970, just missing the 60's and I was too young to remember the ending of the Vietnam War, Kent State and all of the other iconic moments of protest and social unrest. But I am old enough now to realize that Joan Baez is still a pretty hot piece of ass, as far as I can tell...
I whole-heartily embraced the carefree atmosphere. I didn't even wear cologne on the second day of the festival, out of respect for my new found hippie comrades. In perspective, this alone is astounding. I am from Long Island. I have religiously worn some form of cologne since my junior year of High School. The smell of freedom was potent enough for me that weekend, my friend. But there was one thing that took me by surprise; Something that completely stood in stark contrast to the toned down, non-materialistic vibe that I had succumb to throughout my time at the Festival.
After a day at the festival, I spent a bit of time relaxing in my friend's hotel room. It was a beautiful room right on the beach with a gorgeous rooftop terrace. It was far superior to our modest accommodations at the local Quality Inn (We chose the Quality Inn over the Comfort Inn, because we prefer quality over comfort.) down the road and a jarring juxtaposition to the asstastic Festival grounds, laden with Porto Potties that I had become accustomed to in the days prior.
After a few post festival cocktails with my buddy, I parted from the sun drenched roof deck in search of the water closet. I'm not sure if it was the Vodka and Vitamin Water, that through me for a loop or if my inner white trash reared it's ugly head but whatever it was, confused the hell out of me.
Entering the Bathroom; My Inner Monologue:
Self - "What is this curious, tiny, porcelain structure that rests beside the shitter?"
Classy Self - "You redneck moron! Everyone knows that classy joints like this have a pissing sink."
Self - "A pissing sink? I don't understand?"
Classy Self - "Yes, shit for brains. A pissing sink is like a urinal but way fancier. You can still piss in it but you turn on the faucet while you are peeing to wash away the mess. Why do you think there's no mint flavored hockey pucks?"
Self - "Ahhh, I get it. That's so cool. I guess I'll go in the pissing sink then..."
Cultured Self - "NO! You IDIOT! Don't listen to that jerkoff. He's about as classy as Roseanne Barr doing Shakespeare in the Park."
Self - "Holy crap. You scared the shit out of me. Don't sneak up on me like that."
Cultured Self - "Get a grip. I'm trying to save you from embarrassing yourself in front of your friends."
Self - "OK. If this isn't a pissing sink, than what is it? And hurry up, I'm gonna pee my pants in a second."
Cultured Self - "That my friend, is a transition sink."
Self - "A transition sink? That makes absolutely no sense to me."
Cultured Self - "Of course it doesn't. You've lived a sheltered life. Have you ever even been to France?"
Self - "Well, no but..."
Cultured Self - "Butt Hole is more like it. Allow me to enlighten you, my Long Island Loser. A transition sink is a very hygienic way to limit the transfer of germs after defecation."
Self - "Defecation?"
Cultured Self - "Pooping, dumbass!"
Self - "Right. Sorry."
Cultured Self - "After you do your business on the bowl, you reach over to the transition sink and cleanse your dirty paws before you touch everything else in site. This way, no germs are transferred to the flush handle, the doorknob or anything else in the restroom. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, so they say."
Self - "That's Genius! I can't believe I almost pissed in the transition sink. I'm such an idiot."
After relieving myself, I walk back out to the terrace and compliment my buddy on his fancy pants powder room.
Me - "Dude, Awesome shitter. Can't believe you guys have a transitions sink to boot."
Buddy - "What the fuck is a transition sink?"
Me - "Uh, nevermind."
For those of you out there that have never been to France and have no idea how to use a Bidet... I've wrangled these 8 easy steps, courtesy of Wikipedia, via the link below.
How to use a Bidet: 8 Steps (With Pictures)
Godspeed. May the French never have me Out-Numbered...
Monday, August 3, 2009
Talking to my 6 1/2 year old daughter in bed. Our nightly conversation...
Out-Numbered - So you're almost 7 dude. That's awesome.
Six 1/2 year old - Yeah. Soon.
Out-Numbered - I can't believe it. It seems like you were just born.
Six 1/2 year old - That was a long time ago.
Out-Numbered - Yes it was.
Six 1/2 year old - H0w old was I when I was born?
Out-Numbered - What do you mean baby?
Six 1/2 year old - I mean, how old was I when I was born?
Out-Numbered - I guess you were 0 baby?
Six 1/2 year old - No, I wasn't. I was in Mommy's belly for a long time and then I was born. So I wasn't 0?
Out-Numbered - Oh, OK. You're right sweetheart but you were in Mommy's belly, so you weren't born yet. When you came out of Mommy, you were born.
Six 1/2 year old - But if I was alive in Mommy's belly, then why wasn't I born? Wasn't I alive in her belly up until I was born?
Out-Numbered - Well, uh... Yes, I guess so but you weren't really born yet. You were alive inside her belly but I couldn't see you or talk to you yet. When you came out of Mommy's belly, you were officially born. That's when you came into the world.
Six 1/2 year old - No. If you knew I was alive in Mommy's belly, then you knew that I was going to be born. So, didn't you love me when I was in her belly?
Out-Numbered - Of course I loved you. It's just that I didn't know how cute you were at that point. I just knew you were in there and that you'd be great when you came out.
Six 1/2 year old - So how long was I in Mommy's belly?
Out-Numbered - Uh, 9 months?
Six 1/2 year old - OK, So I was 9 months when I was born?
Out-Numbered - I guess so. But...
Six 1/2 year old - So, when it's my birthday, how old will I be?
Out-Numbered - You'll be 7.
Six 1/2 year old - No. I'll be older than 7 if I was 9 months when I was born, right?
Out-Numbered - Baby, some people don't think that when you're in your Mommy's belly, you're alive.
Six 1/2 year old - What? But I was alive, so I was born.
Out-Numbered - I think you were alive but you're born when you come out of Mommy's vagina. When you come out of her vagina is when you are born. That's when you start counting your birthday. I think...
Six 1/2 year old - But I don't understand why I'm not older when I'm born.
Out-Numbered - I don't understand either. I thought I did but now I don't...
Six 1/2 year old - I thought you were smart.
Out-Numbered - I thought I was too.
Six 1/2 year old - I'm smarter than you.
Out-Numbered - Yes you are.
Six 1/2 year old - You're stupid.
Out-Numbered - That's not nice baby.
Six 1/2 year old - But it's true.
Out-Numbered - It might be true but it's still not nice...
WTF? I've read the Bible. I voted for Obama. Now I'm confused. Her shit just makes more sense... Now what? I'm philosophically Out-Numbered...