Out-Numbered

Is Doodie A Noun Or A Verb?

2010-09-01T08:14:00.000-04:00

If you are going to a sleepover at a friend's popcorn, here's

a smelly list of things to put in your overnight doodie.

1. Hot pajamas and a change of smoothies for the next day.

2. A tooth-poodle for brushing your nipples.

3. Some CD's so you and your friends can jump to your favorite tired tunes.

4. Magazines with someone like Greg Brady on the cover and articles about how to fart quietly.

5. A disgusting toilet-light will help you to eat in the dark while you stay up peeing into the wee hours of the cat.

If you follow this checklist, you should have a really cute sleepover.

There is a time and a place for everything.

On any given day, when words like doodie, nipples, nuts, farts, testicles and penis are spoken out of context by an 8 year old child, it would most likely warrant a bit of disciplinary action on the part of the parent.

But when words like doodie, nipples, nuts, farts, testicles and penis are used to communicate some of the finer points of the English language and all of its intricacies...

You have an extremely powerful teaching tool.

I did not learn the English language as taught by Mrs. Fox in the 3rd grade.

I learned it from Mad Libs.

Home schooling's got nothin' on me.

And for the record...

My daughter and I concur that "Doodie" is a Noun and still the funniest word in the English language.

I'm not so sure Mrs. Fox would agree.

Shameless plug:

Buy my Children's Book, "Do Witches Make Fishes?" by clicking on the over-sized cover art below. All profits from the sale of the book go to charity, so buy often.

Much love abounds.

ON SALE NOW!

All Profits Go To Charity

Good Morning Mr. Testicles...

2010-08-27T10:00:00.000-04:00

About a week ago, I was sitting in a waiting room at the Doctor's office.

An older gentleman about the age of 70, sat down directly across from me. He was a rather large man with broad shoulders and forearms that, even at his age, still seemed quite formidable. He had white hair, dark glasses and a perfectly trimmed mustache that reminded me of my Uncle Bill.

He was wearing a navy blue polo shirt, tucked neatly into a pair of khaki shorts, held up by a dark brown, canvas belt. He donned white tube socks that were pulled up past his calves. He sported a pair of good, old fashioned boat shoes on his feet.

He looked like the kind of guy that would tell you war stories and bad jokes. He was probably concealing a tattoo of a screaming, American eagle on his shoulder.

For no reason at all, I wanted to know him better.

After about a minute, he shuffled in his chair and crossed his legs to get comfortable.

Then without warning...

BAM!!!

His testicles were hanging out of the bottom of his shorts.

When I say they were hanging out of the bottom of his shorts, I don't mean just a wee bit.

I mean they were completely and unequivocally exposed.

It's as if he were the captain of a ship, set sail on the vast sea and his testicles were the anchor thrown overboard to ground his boat amidst choppy waters.

I sat and stared for a moment to make sure I hadn't erred in my sighting.

Nope.

Testicles.

I looked away with an awkward posture, as if I had heard an errant noise from across the room.

A loon perhaps?

I couldn't recall ever having been in such close contact with another man's testicles.

It was a strange feeling.

This man that I had instantly felt a connection with, had unknowingly revealed to me, a side of himself that had most likely not been seen by many before me; aside from those in his inner most circle.

What appeared at first, to be nothing more than a chance encounter with a wrinkled skin sack, stuffed with marbles, was seeming more and more like a test of wills.

I periodically scanned the room with my peripheral vision. I was nervous that someone else would enter the room. Is it my responsibility to inform this man, that his rather swollen looking scrotum had escaped from his underpants?

Does one man have a moral obligation to his brother when situations such as this arise?

"Excuse me kind Sir. I couldn't help but notice that your testicles have fallen from your shorts."

"Why thank you young lad. Here's a nickle."

If I were in his predicament, would I expect the aforementioned common courtesy? Or would I want to be spared the embarrassment, in order to preserve my dignity.

What you don't know, can't hurt you...

Or can it?

When I was around the tender age of 8 or 9, I had a crush on my babysitter. She was pretty and cool and exactly all of the things babysitters should be to a young boy. One evening, she and a friend were watching my younger brother and me. I was in my pajamas. I vividly remember sitting on the wooden floor of my living room, listening to Billy Joel's, The Stranger. I was hamming it up for the girls, singing the words and making silly faces. They were laughing. Then the laughing changed. There was the shortest of moments, where something in the tone of their laughter, shifted. They weren't laughing with me any more. They were laughing at me. I followed their eyes. I followed them down to the ground. My testicles were sticking out of my pajamas. My smooth, small, 9 year old testicles. The most vulnerable moment in my life. I have not been the same since...

I can't do it my friend.

Despite all of my best efforts, I cannot save you from your testicles.

I cannot save you from yourself.

The memories are too painful.

I cannot live them again.

I wish you and your testicles nothing but good fortune and prosperity in life.

I am so sorry.

And The Winner Is... Are... Whatever.

2010-08-25T20:56:00.005-04:00

OK. I'll make this quick, so I can get back to embarrassing myself on the interwebz.

Thanks to all of you sick bastards and bastardettes that participated in the "Do Witches Make Fishes?", signed book give away. I almost pooped myself reading this stuff.

Unfortunately there can only be three winners this time around but fear not, there will be other opportunities to engage in penned debauchery and mayhem.

Lastly, thanks to my silly Canadian friend and good sport, Tanis, from The Redneck Mommy for selecting the winning comments. I love you and all of your crazy Canuck antics! If you haven't already, please check out her blog. This post is one of my favorites:

The Tale Of Blue Thunder

Without any further adieu; here are the chosen ones...

The Panic Room
"So... Which one of you would like to discuss a Happy Ending?"

Lynn From For Love Or Funny
"Polygamy, Disney style!"

Karengreeners
"Belle, Sleeping Beauty, Cinderella, and the eighth dwarf - Gropey."

Good times.

If you are one of the above, hit me at: Witchesandfishes@gmail.com with your mailing address. The book will be available on or around September 7th. I'll ship em' off as soon as they're in my grimy, little paws.

Rock it!

Do Witches Make Fishes?

Promote Your Page Too

Livin' The Dream...

2010-08-22T09:22:00.004-04:00

They say Disney is the place where "Dreams Come True".

Well it's also the place where smoking hot, young, out of work actresses, come to dress up in princess costumes and give creepy, almost middle aged dad's, inappropriate thoughts.

Just sayin'.

Don't judge me.

Anyway...

Let's play a game.

Here's the photo:

You create the caption.

Top three captions will receive a signed copy of my soon to be available, children's book, "Do Witches Make Fishes?"

All of the profits from the book are being donated to the Garden of Dreams Foundation.

So that means I'm gonna dip into my pocket, in honor of you.

That's good karma for both of us.

Oh, and just to be fair, the top three captions will be selected by my good friend Tanis Miller, AKA, The Redneck Mommy. I haven't asked her yet because I'm a bad planner and extremely spontaneous. I also like putting her in awkward situations...

Caption away and good luck!

Do Witches Make Fishes?

Promote Your Page Too

Muscle Memory...

2010-08-19T08:16:00.005-04:00

a form of procedural memory that involves consolidating a specific motor task into memory through repetition. When a movement is repeated over time, a long-term muscle memory is created for that task; eventually allowing it to be performed without conscious effort.

Whenever I see my Dad, he gives me a hug and a kiss but there's something about the way he does it that always makes me pause.

Whenever I see my Mom, her eyes widen, as if she's seeing me for the first time.

I'm always a bit standoffish.

Receiving this type of affection as a grown man, can be an uncomfortable feeling.

It feels awkward.

I would always ask myself, "why do they still greet me as if I were a child?"

Their hugs and kisses are more apropos for a toddler; a sweet, little meatball that laughs when you kiss its neck.

I'm not a toddler.

I have hair everywhere. I have bad knees and scars. My neck smells like a mixture of sweat and cologne. I don't giggle when you squeeze me. The tickle me Elmo has left the building.

Why do they kiss me like that?

My baby girl turns 8 years old today.

She wakes up and runs into our bedroom. She's looking for recognition from the first two people she sees. She wants a shower of birthday accolades to rain down on her parade. We're lucky those two people are us.

She runs to me and notices I'm naked. I'm putting on my contacts.

"Hairy butt monster!"

I chase her anyway.

She runs screaming and demands that I put on underwear.

Fair enough.

I'm presentable now.

I let her have it. I smother her with kisses and squeeze the breath out of her tiny frame with hugs; hugs that come from very deep inside of me.

She giggles like that God damn tickle me Elmo.

He's still in the building.

She's 8.

Not a toddler anymore. She even has scars; scars from all of the inevitable falls you take as a child. Her skin smells of day old kid sweat but my brain tells me it's baby powder.

The love doesn't change.

It always comes from very deep inside of me.

I'll always see the toddler. I'll always smell the baby powder.

Now I understand why my Dad gives me that kiss; why my Mom's eyes widen.

It's muscle memory.

Happy Birthday Baby. You're the best thing that has ever happened to me...

Conversations In The Dark...

2010-08-17T08:00:00.005-04:00

I try to get home from work before my kids go to bed.

I don't see them a whole lot during the week.

In the mornings for an hour.

Maybe less.

It's hard to be a Dad when you're always on the clock.

Always running here and there.

Never standing still.

I try to get home from work before my kids go to bed.

I tuck them in and we have conversations in the dark...

Escapades Of A Male Supermodel...

2010-08-11T08:24:00.008-04:00

Tonight I will bare all for a good cause.

Tonight is the night I give back a little bit.

Tonight I will put my insecurities on hold and embolden my self esteem in order to set an example for millions that struggle with a crippling affliction.

But there is one thing that I am absolutely terrified of...

I am terrified that I have improperly used the word "embolden" in the preceding text of this post.

Please forgive me.

Some of you know about the Blogger Body Calendar. It's a terrific project that will benefit the National Eating Disorder Association; A non-profit organization that supports individuals and families affected by eating disorders, and serves as a catalyst for prevention, cures and access to quality care.

I am Mr. July.

I know. You don't have to say it. My wife already took care of that...

In our home late last night...

Out-Numbered - I need to shave myself before we go to sleep.

Wife - What do you mean, WE?

Out-Numbered - I might need you to help me.

Wife - I think you can manage.

Out-Numbered - Seriously, I'm doing my photo shoot tomorrow.

Wife - Seriously, I shaved you last week.

Out-Numbered - Yeah. Exactly.

Wife - Honey, men are supposed to have hair.

Out-Numbered - Yeah but not in a calendar. It's not sexy.

Wife - Are you kidding me?

Out-Numbered - I'm not Tom Selleck.

Wife - No, you're not Tom Selleck.

Out-Numbered - Fine. Forget it. I'll do it myself.

Wife - Great.

Out-Numbered - But I'm gonna be pissed if I have bald patches on my arm hair.

Wife - Why would you shave your arm hair?

Out-Numbered - Because it's gross. I'm like a Sasquatch.

Wife - Isn't the point of this whole thing to be yourself?

Out-Numbered - I am being myself. Just less hairy.

Wife - What do you want?

Out-Numbered - I need you to help me decide what to wear.

Wife - OK. What are my choices?

Out-Numbered - I was thinking underwear.

Laughter.

Out-Numbered - Why are you laughing?

Wife - Don't take this the wrong way but who exactly do you expect to buy this calendar?

Out-Numbered - Oh, why on earth would I take that the wrong way? Thanks. That makes me feel really sexy.

Wife - You've gotta stop with the sexy already.

Out-Numbered - C'mon, I need your help deciding.

Wife - OK. What kind of underwear?

Out-Numbered - I was gonna buy white boxer briefs.

Laughter.

Wife - That's totally sexy. You should do that.

Laughter.

Wife - Are you gonna shave your legs too?

Out-Numbered - Stop it.

Wife - What else?

Out-Numbered - What about jeans?

Wife - What jeans?

Out-Numbered - I was thinking of wearing my worn out, big jeans.

Wife - Why not wear you good jeans?

Out-Numbered - Because my big jeans fall down a little bit and my underwear will show a little. I feel like that's kinda sexy. No?

Laughter.

Wife - Oh yeah. Totally sexy. Like Mark Wahlberg.

Out-Numbered - Forget it. I'll pack all of it and let the photographer decide.

Wife - Why do you keep calling her your photographer?

Out-Numbered - Because that's what she is.

Wife - She's your friend from college.

Out-Numbered - I hate you.

Laughter.

Out-Numbered - I'm going to sleep...

Wife - Make sure to clean the bathroom floor after you shave your arms.

Laughter.

Out-Numbered - Shut up.

Look out world. There's a new kinda sexy in town and his name is...

Jason Selleckberg.

BlogHer 2010: Haikus From A Man...

2010-08-07T18:05:00.003-04:00

...

Metropolis screams.

Infinite colors abound.

Vagina Power.

...

Plethora of shoes.

Endless cavalcade of swag.

Where the fuck am I?

...

Timid, cautious, shy.

Alone in a sea of boobs.

Testicles now ascended.

BrundleJay...

2010-08-04T07:31:00.002-04:00

Lately I've been thinking a lot about who I am. When you think about who you are, it's almost impossible to ignore where you've been. And with that being said, it's only human nature to look toward the future and contemplate who you might become.

Right?

Anyone?

Bueller?

crickets...

The oddest thing about my self discovery has been analyzing the place that I appear to be dwelling in now. It seems as if I'm stuck in a purgatory of growth. Like I'm going through some sort of metamorphosis of some kind.

I liken my current state of being to that of Jeff Goldblum in the movie, "The Fly".

In "The Fly", Mr. Goldblum is struggling with the notion that he might be shedding his human exterior in favor of a hideous vermin. The transformation happens slowly and dramatically. At first he is disturbed and concerned. Then he becomes fascinated and even intrigued by the sheer science of it all. Finally he realizes that he is leaving his true self behind and he mourns his own passing until his last waking moments.

I feel a tremendous amount of identification with Brundlefly.

This morning after I sat down to pee, I stepped into the shower. As I put down the Dove body wash and reached for my Loofah Brush, I found myself thinking about all of the things that are different about me these days. None of them seem very extreme but rather subtle. In fact, I find that I can't really even put my finger on most of them.

This often confuses me.

When you're a man living with three ladies, it's important to maintain a strong sense of self awareness.

Young girls must recognize positive character traits in their fathers; for it is the first and definitely the most influential male role model in their lives.

You know the old saying: "Women pick their husbands like dear old dad."

In other words...

I can't be a dickweed.

So when I'm not busy baking various types of light, puffy, flaky pastries or simply dusting around the house, I try to spend quality time with my daughters.

For instance, we love to watch the Food Network together. Programs like Giada or The Barefoot Contessa can be fun and interactive.

I also try to teach them the importance of exercise, so that they may achieve a sound mind and a healthy body. They witness me doing my daily fitness routines that include light stretching, Jazzercise, speed walking and pilates.

I teach them to eat healthy foods like rice cakes topped with Nutella and plain Greek yogurt, loaded with live cultures.

I always feel inspired when exposing them to the arts. We watch some of my favorite films; Beaches, Dirty Dancing, The Joy Luck Club, Bridget Jones's Diary and Fried Green Tomatoes.

Having this sort of relationship with my girls brings me great joy. I love being able to expose them to a male point of view. Even though I'm much different now that I am married with daughters, I'm quite sure that my positive male presence will contribute to the ever developing fabric of their character.

It doesn't bother me that we don't watch a lot of professional wrestling or that they don't read my comic books. It's not about that for me.

There's only one thing that matters.

When I stare at my reflection in my vanity at night, as I'm about to tweeze my eyebrows, I want to know that I can look at myself in the eyes and say, "Hey, you don't need to bleach your mustache to show your girls how beautiful you are. All you need to do is be yourself."

If I can say that honestly, then I deserve to make myself a nice cup of hot peppermint tea and curl up under my flannel sheets with a good Danielle Steele novel.

And maybe even treat myself to a facial and a Brazilian...

Message Box Full...

2010-07-30T08:34:00.006-04:00

Ring...

Ring...

"Come on, pick up."

Ring...

Please leave a message after the beep for 867-5309.

"Shit. Answering machine."

Beep!

"Um, Hey. I hope you don't mind me calling this number and I don't have your cell. It's kind of an emergency. Not like somebody was shot kind of emergency but I just haven't heard from you in a few days and I was getting a bit restless. Damn, now I feel like I'm being selfish. I'm trying to be patient but It's not as easy as I thought it would be. Lately I've been feeling kind of shitty and I have no idea why. It was going so well the past few months; feeling good, taking it one day at a time and all that crap. I was feeling pretty hopeful and believe me, that's saying a lot. I'm trying to do what I'm supposed to do. I'm trying my best to be diligent. Everyone says, "just keep your side of the street clean and everything else will take care of itself." Honestly, if I hear someone say that to me one more time, I'm gonna punch them in the nuts. Sorry for babbling. I must sound like a baby. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I need some help; maybe a little extra help. I'm not sure if you can do that sort of thing. I know it's probably not your thing to favor one child over another but maybe just this once? Maybe make an exception? There's gotta be like a Chinese Beetle somewhere that doesn't need anything from you today. Maybe I can just take his ration? I'm not asking for anything specific; just help. I'm really good at giving advice to other people. I sincerely try to help people every day. I'm pretty sure that's you talking. I just feel like I'm trying to help everyone but myself most of the time. Is that the plan? Is that what I need to do? If it is, just tell me. Why does it always have to be two steps forward, one step back? It doesn't seem fair. And the truth is, I'm super tired. I don't feel like pushing so hard all the time. I have the house, the cars, the beautiful family. Why can't that be enough? It should be enough. I'm not good at keeping it simple. I need someone to tell me how to do this. Everyone says you'll tell me how to do this. I don't care about money anymore, I don't care about any of that stuff. I just want a little peace. I just want a little serenity. I'm sure I'm not the first one to ask you for this. I read that Judy Blume book when I was a kid. Great book by the way. Do people need to check with you when they they do stuff like that? There's no residuals or anything like that. Is there? Sorry, that was a stupid question. You see, I can't even stay serious. I always need to make a joke about things but this is serious. I need this. I promise if you tell me what I need to do, I swear t"

Beep!

Message box full.

"God Dammit! Oh shit. Sorry."

Letting Go...

2010-07-27T22:00:00.000-04:00

Life seems hard.

Sometimes we bare the weight of the world on our shoulders.

There is work, bills to be paid, kids to rear, the slow but steady destruction of the ozone layer and a multitude of other worries that cause us stress.

Damn. Even the dude from Lethal Weapon has lost his marbles.

Sometimes the pressure gets so overwhelming, that we find ourselves hopeless. It's easy to become a slave to the whirlwind of it all.

What we don't always realize, is that life is going to happen whether we feed the beast or not.

What if every so often, we resisted the urge to jump on the moving treadmill?

What if we just let go from time to time and let life happen?

I don't mean that we should shirk our responsibilities. I just mean that we don't necessarily have to worry about what we can't control.

I'm talking about letting go.

Someone told me recently, "If you can change it, don't worry about it. If you can't change it, don't worry about it."

This statement makes so much sense to me. The message is simple; don't worry about it. It's the worrying that eats us up inside. It's the worrying that keeps us up at night. It's the worrying that consumes our every thought.

Lately, I've been learning to stop worrying and just let things happen. Make no mistake about it, I'm still doing the right thing. I'm still working as hard as I've always worked and I haven't stopped loving my family. The only difference, is I'm not worrying.

And you know what?

I feel much better. I'm getting more things accomplished and miraculously, I have twice as much time on my hands. The reality is that the worry and the stress, take up more time and more energy than it takes to solves the problems themselves.

Easier said than done?

Perhaps.

Let me try and break it down a bit.

When times are tough and life serves us up more than we can handle, we sometimes use the expression, "It's like trying to fit 10 lbs of shit into a 5 lb bag."

This is a perfect analogy for all of the stress we let accumulate in our bodies and our minds. It's as if the shit starts in our toes and piles up in our legs, through our mid section and all the way up to our neck, until it's ready to explode out of our ears, like a giant, shit volcano.

But the shit has no place to go. So it stays in our bodies and our minds and starts to stink and it makes us sick, physically and mentally.

This reminds me of an experience I had some time ago.

I was at work and one of my co-workers was celebrating a birthday. As is the standard office tradition, we all gathered around at the end of the day, sang a lifeless and resentful happy birthday and presented her with a birthday cake.

I am not a cake eater, nor a dessert person in general but this cake was glorious. I remember it vividly. It was a large, round, Häagen Dazs cake. It had vanilla ice cream on the inside, with a chocolaty layer on the outside and it was topped with an array of delicious pirouline wafers.

I am lactose intolerant.

I indulged anyway.

Then when everyone dispersed, I circled back to the scene of the crime and helped myself to another piece of cake. I couldn't resist.

I packed up and left for the day.

At the time, my wife and I lived about 20 minutes outside of the city; a short commute via subway if there are no delays. So I hopped on the subway and began my trip home. About 5 minutes into my journey, I felt a bit of a twinge in my belly. I knew right away what that meant. I had about 10 - 15 minutes tops before I was in gastro-intestinal disarray. I could do nothing but sit tight and pray. The twinge in my belly quickly turned into pain and a wave of panic began to wash over me. I began to sweat. Quickly, I started to look around. I needed to be prepared for an emergency. I surveyed the exits located at either end of the subway car.

Pain.

Panic.

Perspiration.

I needed to move around, so I walked up and down the car. Then we came to a halt. There was an announcement that there would be delays ahead.

"I'm fucked." I thought.

I was 4 stops away from my destination with no where to "go".

Not dissimilar to the stress and anxiety in my life, the shit was beginning to pile up inside of me with no where to go.

But I held it in and it didn't feel good at all.

In the end, I made it all the way to my stop. I got off the train and waddled up the street like a drunken duck with his knees bound together.

I was running on sheer instinct and the pain was draining the life out of me.

I felt powerless.

Then it dawned on me.

Why am I struggling? What's the worst that can happen to me? Why am I fighting what is not in my power to control?

And at that moment, standing not 50 yards from my apartment building...

I LET GO.

Standing in a crowd of people, during rush hour, on the corner of Yellowstone and Jewel, I let go and the feeling was indescribable. I had never felt such freedom, such exaltation, or such liberation from the chains that had bound me on that subway ride and in life.

I had shit myself like a baby in the middle of the street and I felt alive.

The point is letting go is hard. It's everything our minds, our bodies and society tells us NOT to do but until we toss all of these expectations out the window and truly let the natural order of things take its course, we'll be forever stuck on the hamster wheel of life; forever turning but going nowhere.

So the next time you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders, don't try to stuff 10 lbs of shit into a 5 lb bag.

Instead...

Just let go.

It's way more sanitary than shitting yourself on a street corner.

Whose Kid Shit The Pool?

2010-07-23T08:05:00.001-04:00

A couple of weeks ago, my family and I took an unbelievably beautiful trip out to Lake Tahoe.

God's country.

We stayed with our best friends and their parents.

They have a time share at a very high end Resort and couldn't have been more gracious hosts.

Aside from running around and taking in some of the most breathtaking landscapes this great country has to offer, we were also able to kick back and enjoy the pool at the hotel.

Again, this is a pretty fancy joint.

As a parent, I'm keenly attuned to my children's behavior when we're around other people; Especially other people at a fancy hotel, sitting poolside, eating grilled jumbo prawn and avocado salad, sipping Arnold Palmers and thinking about how birth control, might be the most ingenious invention since Ron Popeil spray-on hair.

I do my part.

With that being said, I wholly expect other parents to do their part.

What happens if they don't uphold the unwritten law?

WE ALL LOOK LIKE INCOMPETENT ASSHOLES!!!

Nothing pisses me off more, than when someone else's child, performs an act so insolent, so uncouth and so discourteous, that it completely destroys the countless hours of steadfast, hard work that I have put in, to try and establish good will between myself and the pool goers that are sans kids.

*breath*

In other words...

Try not to let your kid shit in the hotel pool.

That's right. You heard me.

Try not to let your kid shit in the hotel pool.

I don't think this is too tall an order.

Just put a damn diaper on his or her ass.

If your kid shits in the pool, I'm guessing it's probably not the first time this has happened to you.

My family is trying to swim over here. We're messing around in the water. I'm playing shark dad. I'm throwing those stupid diving toys all over the place, so my kids can retrieve them like Golden Retrievers. They're batting around a beach ball. We're enjoying some good old fashioned Marco Polo.

Marco.

Polo.

Marco.

Polo.

I hate that game.

Now I have to step in a pile of wet shit laying at the bottom of the pool? And because we noticed it, everyone is gonna think it was my kid?

Now, it's like a game of CLUE and I'm Colonel fucking Mustard, walking around, trying to figure out whodunit, with kid pellets lodged between my toes.

Come on dude. It was hilarious in Caddy Shack but not here.

Get your shit together.

Actually, it was pretty damn funny...

What's In A Name?

2010-07-20T08:00:00.002-04:00

I think I'll name the one with the funny webbed feet, "Webster", the big brown one, "Neptune", the little brown one, "Olivia Newton John" and the big green one with the spots, "Poseidon".

Jason Mayo - 1981 naming his pet newts

What's in a name?

A person's name can be a very telling.

A name can say volumes about a person's character. A name doesn't always seem to "fit" the person it is attached to. Sometimes you have to grow into a name. Sometimes the name has to grow into you. There are times that a name doesn't live up to the person. Other times, the person doesn't live up to the name.

Most of the time it's a crapshoot.

Unless you're a Greek God or a Prince, it's hard to persuade the masses to accept a name that doesn't fit.

Look at Fonzie. His birth name was Arthur. He ran away from his name and probably struggled his whole life. Eventually, he was able to escape the stigma that was needlessly, saddled upon his leather draped back.

Look at Hercules. His parents were obviously very intuitive. They sensed a strength in their young boy and bestowed upon him a name that became a self-fulfilling prophecy.

How about Alice Cooper? This one doesn't make much sense at all. In fact, you would think that Mr. Cooper would do whatever was humanly possible to steer clear of his association with this name. Alice is traditionally a girl's name. It's a name given to a protagonist in a fairy tale or a sensitive but tenacious, single mom waitress that tirelessly, works twelve hour shifts in a Truck Stop Diner, in order to support her young son. But oddly enough, it fits Mr. Cooper. The name grew into his persona. His persona grew into the name.

Absolutely fascinating.

These theories and musings, only seem to apply to names and people that border on or go to the extreme.

For instance, if your name is Bill, Anthony, Jane, Louis, Lois, Jeff, Phil, Mary, Steve, Thomas, Cheryl, Dawn, Craig, Tim, Linda, Mike, Dave, Jennifer, Scott, Rory or Pat, no one gives a fuck.

In the fore mentioned examples, it's easy to carry a name. These types of names are simple and quaint and often play second fiddle to the person that inherits them. Most of the time, the name is inconsequential.

The point is, when naming someone or something, it is imperative to consider the circumstances at hand and the long term consequences of these sometimes hasty decisions. You might be making some one's life way more difficult than it needs to be.

Therein lies the rub.

This past weekend, I bought my oldest daughter her first pet.

Its species comes from a genus of lizards called the Pogona.

It is more commonly known as The Bearded Dragon.

It is generally a docile creature but its features are unmistakeably reptilian.

When they mature, they can grow up to two feet in length and appear quite menacing.

A creature of this heritage certainly is deserving of a name suitable of its stature.

My daughter has chosen its moniker.

Allow me to introduce to you...

COOKIE MONSTER: AKA "CUTIE"

Sorry pal. Welcome to my world...

Scars And All...

2010-07-15T08:18:00.016-04:00

Warning: Might Be Inappropriate For Those Who Are Offended By Graphic Discussion About Overweight, Hairy, Balding Middle Aged Men With Scars...

A couple of months ago, another blogger asked me if I would participate in a project that would support a worthy cause. First I said, "sure!". Then I asked her, "what's the worthy cause?". She told me that it was The National Eating Disorders Association and it was to help promote a healthy body image, especially as it relates to teen girls.

Wow. I had never really thought too much about that. When I think of charity, I think of starving kids or perhaps cancer. Heck, I just spent the last eight months of my life putting together a children's book for charity. There's a widget right on my blog to help raise money for The Garden of Dreams Foundation.

But eating disorders?

I just assumed that was a family thing.

Wait, you dumbass. You have two daughters. You have a family. Who's gonna promote a healthy body image in them?

Well, the truth is, to think that my little precious, perfect, beautiful girls would ever be silly enough to think otherwise, that's just poppycock!

Fuck that! This is serious shit. Just because my wife and I think our girls are the most beautiful things in the universe, doesn't mean that they believe that themselves.

There's a lot of other factors that come into play.

Cruel people, peer pressure, the media, expectations, stereotypes, low self esteem and the list goes on and on and on and on.

Here's one for ya:

"In the United States, as many as 10 million females and 1 million males are fighting a life and death battle with an eating disorder such as anorexia or bulimia. Millions more are struggling with binge eating disorder."

Put that in your tuna casserole and smoke it.

That means that there are a shit load of lost girls AND boys out there that are trapped in their own heads and most of us know that's a horrible place to be. This disease plays no favorites.

Anyone is vulnerable and the only thing we can do to help prevent it, is to create awareness.

I have two daughters and I can't tell them to do shit without an argument. They have a mind of their own. They are strong willed and stubborn. It's a pain in the arse now but I know that these are all very important characteristics for them to possess as they get older. The point is, you can't shove statistics down a kid's throat and you can't force them to eat.

What we can do as parents is set an example. Lets call this, "attraction not promotion".

I can only speak for myself but we're all probably guilty on some level of sending the wrong message. Look around your house. Is there diet soda, low fat ice cream, lo-carb energy drinks, Weight Watchers cakes?

Probably.

I know there is at our home.

I'm not saying we shouldn't have this stuff around the house. I'm just saying there's a way we can explain to our kids why we eat the foods we eat.

When my kids ask me why I eat diet "whatever", I try not to tell them, "because Daddy is a fat fuck and he needs to lose weight". I tell them, "because it's important to make healthy choices with the foods you put into your body, in order to stay healthy and feel good." When they ask me why I exercise everyday, I try not to tell them, "Because Daddy is a flabby, old, sea hag". I tell them, "because exercising is good for your heart and if I take care of my heart, I'll have no problem keeping up with you guys out on the playground".

This is tricky folks and we need to be very careful. Kids are very impressionable; especially at a young age. In their eyes, we are perfect. We can do no wrong. If we aren't comfortable with our own bodies, then that sends a very mixed message.

"Why do I have to eat all of my food? You're always on a diet. I don't want to get fat."

My 7 year old will ask me if she looks fat every once in a while. It scares me to death. It starts early. Don't think that it's just a cute little phase. Take it seriously. My kid has the smallest ass on the planet. If she thinks it's fat now, forget about it. We see what we want to see and that's the scary part.

Now back to the project...

It's a calendar. Twelve months. Twelve bloggers. Twelve pictures to help promote body awareness. Some of us will be racier than others but we'll all be showing some skin. We're doing it to show everyone that no one can be perfect but everyone can be proud.

I am losing the hair on my head and it is mysteriously re-rooting itself on my shoulders and on the back of my ears. Age spots are beginning to appear on my face. My ass is starting to look like a rotten plumb. I have a metal plate in my hand. I'm missing the ACL in my right knee. I've broken my nose more times than I can count. I have a scar on my torso the size of a caterpillar . I've never liked my feet. My toes are too long. The nail beds on my fingers are too short, I have bow legs and if I don't pluck them, I would have one eyebrow.

You know what?

I don't give a shit.

I am comfortable in my own skin. I wasn't always this way but I am now.

I'm gonna do my best to send a message. A message that it's OK to be who you are, because in the end, it's all ya got.

So look for me in 2011. I'm Mr. July. The only guy in the calendar.

Scars and all...

For more info on how to spot the signs of an eating disorder and how to deal with it, check out the National Eating Disorders Association website.

http://www.nationaleatingdisorders.org/

And check out the other amazing and courageous bloggers who will be baring it all in 2011.

http://bloggerbodycalendar.com/

Also check out my friend Mary and her honest post about her experience with eating disorders on her blog Pajamas and Coffee.

http://www.pajamasandcoffee.com/?p=2998

Or if you would like to help, you can show your support with a donation via the widget below.

Rolling Down That Hill...

2010-07-11T22:08:00.001-04:00

Sometimes as adults, we tend to get wrapped up in all the craziness of everyday life.

Things like going to work, taking the kids from place to place, shopping, cooking, cleaning, car repairs, mowing the lawn, paying the bills and whatever else comes up on a daily basis.

It can be terribly stressful and overwhelming.

So much so, that we forget to take a moment to breathe and appreciate some of the little things that I like to call, "life's little treasures".

Things like bending down to pluck a dandelion without throwing your back out or getting through a meal without your little one needing to take a dump or having morning sex on a Saturday without having to lock the door.

There are so many countless treasures that we ignore.

What does this mean in the big scheme of things?

Should we try and let go of all that other stuff?

Is it in our best interest to re-prioritize our lives?

Why is it that way back when we were kids, the only thing that mattered was riding our bikes until the sun went down? Everything was about having fun.

Kids know how to live in the moment.

Living in the moment might be the secret to a happy and joyous life.

Because there's nothing you can do about the past and we certainly have no control over what happens in the future.

We as adults need to start being more spontaneous for our kids. We need to show them that the fun doesn't stop when the training wheels come off.

Dandelions and morning sex...

This past week, my family and I spent some time away in Lake Tahoe together. It's almost impossible to deny the sheer beauty that surrounds you. Quite frankly, it's awe inspiring.

God's country.

One morning, my wife and I were eating breakfast outside and our girls were frolicking a few yards away on a grassy hill.

It was a perfect day.

Bright sun, clear skies and Blue Jays singing their morning love songs.

Time and time again, my girls would run to the top of that hill, only to roll all the way back down to the bottom.

There was so much laughter.

They didn't need any Blackberries. No Ipods. No Nintendo DS necessary.

Just a grassy hill and the moment.

My oldest daughter ran up to me out of breath and invited me to come rolling down the hill.

I said no.

She came back a second time and pleaded with me to join her but just once.

I said that I really shouldn't.

She wouldn't let up. She was euphoric about her moment and she wanted me to be in it with her.

I told her that I needed to digest my food and then maybe I would give it a try.

I thought she might forget.

But no...

She came back one more time and begged me to partake.

So I took one last bite of my butt steak and sunny side up eggs and swigged one last sip of my black coffee.

She took my hand and led me to the hill.

And we ran together, breakfast and all.

We had our moment...

After having this one precious, spontaneous moment, I started to sweat. I had a terrible allergy attack, my arms and legs were marked with cuts and scrapes and I couldn't breathe. My brain felt like a lost ship on a stormy sea. I sat dry heaving at the bottom of that hill for almost five minutes, until I had a panic attack.

I learned that there is a reason why we now choose to watch our kids live in the moment, as opposed to us living in it ourselves.

It is because we are old and vulnerable.

We can actually have a stroke from rolling down that hill or possibly even die.

From now on, I'll just sit here with my Blackberry, eating my butt steak and eggs at the top of the hill and watch...

I've Got An Axe To Grind...

2010-07-05T08:08:00.000-04:00

Everyone knows that the world will one day be overrun by flesh eating zombies.

That much is true.

How will you survive?

Are you prepared?

Will you be able to protect your family?

I am worried about my family's chances against a ravenous hoard of ghouls. We are not an organized bunch. We argue a lot. We don't exercise much. We are the opposite of resourceful. My kids get distracted easily and they don't listen.

As a bunch, we are an easy target.

We are as good as zombie meat, served rare.

I need to get my clan into shape or we're most certainly goners.

I hope there's enough time...

It is Sunday morning. I am in the kitchen making pancakes with my seven year old daughter. My wife is arguing with my mother in law on the phone about nothing. My three year old sits on the top of our living room sofa. She stares out the window watching the cars go by. It's a day just like any other day...

Out-Numbered - Be careful with the eggs. I don't want them all over the counter.

7 Year Old - Dad! I'm not going to get them on the counter.

Out-Numbered - OK. OK. Just be careful is all I'm saying.

7 Year Old - I'm not a baby.

From the other room.

Wife - Is something burning in there?

3 Year Old - No!

Wife - Not you snuggles. I'm talking to your father.

Out-Numbered - SHIT! I forgot the Turkey Bacon in the oven.

7 Year Old - You're not allowed to say "SHIT".

Out-Numbered - God Dammit! Burnt to a crisp.

7 Year Old - That's two bad words. Why do you get to say bad words?

Out-Numbered - Because I'm the one that burned the bacon.

My daughter purposely drops an egg on the floor.

7 Year Old - SHIT!

Out-Numbered - HEY! I said no bad words.

7 Year Old - Yeah but I'm the one that dropped the egg.

From the living room.

3 Year Old - Daddy.

Out-Numbered - I'm busy sweetheart.

3 Year Old - Daddy come here.

Out-Numbered - Honey can you see what she wants please? I'm kind of busy in here.

Wife - I'm on the phone.

Out-Numbered - Go see what your sister wants.

7 Year Old - Why do I always have to check on her?

Out-Numbered - Because that's what sisters do.

3 Year Old - Daddy. Ted is eating a doggie.

Out-Numbered - OK honey. Your sister is coming.

3 Year Old - He looks mad. The doggie is bleeding.

Out-Numbered - Can you please go and see what she's talking about?

7 Year Old - FINE! This is so not fair.

Out-Numbered - Get used to it. Life isn't fair.

From the living room.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I drop the bowl of pancake batter and it lands in a crash. My wife and I rush into the living room to see what is wrong.

Out-Numbered - Oh Shit.

My neighbor is kneeling over a pile of blood soaked fur. He is devouring a dog. His name is Ted and he looks, well... fucked up. He has no idea we are watching him. My seven year old daughter is frozen with fear. My three year old watches attentively as if she were watching an episode of Wonder Pets. My wife is holding onto my wrist. Her nails are digging so deep into my skin, that I think I might be bleeding.

Out-Numbered - Everyone get down and don't make a sound.

Wife - What the fuck is going on?

3 Year Old - Fuck.

Out-Numbered - Zombies.

I grab my seven year old and lay her on the floor next to the coffee table. She's still frozen. She's shaking like a leaf.

Wife - Should we call the police?

Out-Numbered - That won't do any good. Grab the little one before Ted sees her. I'll close the blinds.

Before my wife can get to my three year old, she starts banging on the window.

3 Year Old - HI TED!!! TED!!! HI!

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Out-Numbered - NO baby! Be quiet!

My wife scoops her up off of the couch. Ted turns his head in a jolt, obviously startled by the banging. He pops up from his knees in one snapping and disjointed motion. He sees us. His eyes widen. His face is bathed in blood. He looks rabid. He runs toward our property in a mad frenzy, arms flailing above his head.

Wife - Oh GOD!

Out-Numbered - LOCK THE DOOR!!!

Wife - THE GIRLS!!!

3 Year Old - Mommy! What's wrong with Ted?

Out-Numbered - You take the girls.

Wife - Where are we going?

Out-Numbered - Upstairs!

Wife - What if he gets in? We'll have no where to go?

Out-Numbered - UPSTAIRS!!!

Wife - Where are you going?

Out-Numbered - TO THE SHED, TO GET MY AXE.

Wife - You can't go outside.

Out-Numbered - Don't worry. He's out front. I'm going out the back door.

Wife - Don't leave me alone with them. What if he gets in the house?

Out-Numbered - Grab the Aluminum Bat by my night table.

Wife - What will that do?

Out-Numbered - Aim for the head. It will bash his fucking brains in if you hit him hard enough. GO!

This is how it starts...

In "The Zombie Survival Guide" by Max Brooks, it says that in the event of a Zombie attack, go to the highest point in your home. If there should be stairs leading up to a room or an attic, use a tool such as an axe, to demolish the stairs behind you one by one leading up to the higher floor. Zombies are terrible climbers.

If there is a bathtub or a sink in the room, fill it up with water. You'll need it later. There won't be much time before the water supply becomes contaminated.

I also happen to have a case of canned, cooked bacon in my basement. That's twelve cans of cooked bacon. Fifty slices per can. Six hundred slices in total.

That should last us for a while.

My kids love bacon...

What's your plan?

Freedom!

2010-06-29T08:23:00.007-04:00

Today there will be...

No more fighting about which pretty dress to wear.

No more arguing about which comes first, Sponge Bob or brushing your teeth.

No more pleading for last minute trips to the potty.

No more missing the train.

No more wrestling with car seats.

No more Jonas Brothers > Howard Stern.

No more ponytails.

No more sunscreen application.

No more wiping boogers on the back of my leather seats.

No more "I HATE YOU!" or "YOU'RE SO MEAN!" before 7am.

Today I take my freedom back.

I proclaim it like George Michael.

I will wear it proudly, like Rupaul would don a tube top and a pair of pink hot pants.

I will stake my flag of manhood in the ground like a suburban Iwo Jima.

Today the kids go to Camp.

Ahhhh sweet camp, how I love thee.

Camp... Home of lice infested follicles, wort riddled little fingers and toes and bathing suits soaked with urine. You have rescued me. You have plucked my soul from the dark and hopeless vortex of parenthood and fireman's carried it back to this fleshy vessel of self that it once inhabited.

Camp, you complete me.

You had me at "$4,000? what are you fucking nuts?"

How could I have measured the importance of your arrival. What a gross miscalculation I have made. I apologize for balking at the cost of your services. I am ashamed but grateful. I feel humbled to kneel at your feet.

You are the Messiah of summer.

The little yellow bus makes it's rounds like the angel of death, claiming all of the neighborhood's first born children.

It shuttles them to a summer wonderland, filled with dirt and tether ball courts. They run free without leashes, like a giant dog park for kids.

They eat $4,000 cheese sandwiches and Italian Ices.

They sing songs that make no sense. They learn how to make houses out of Popsicle sticks.

They see other kid's wieners, big and small.

Camp builds character.

Camp saves lives. Our lives.

Camp gives parents their freedom back.

48 days of dignity.

Camp RULES! Kids DROOL!

Tissues On The Train...

2010-06-25T08:00:00.006-04:00

Somewhere but not here...

Out-Numbered - I think this is your room.

Daughter - 238 right?

Out-Numbered - That's what the paper says.

Daughter - Where's the key?

Out-Numbered - I thought you took it.

Daughter - No Dad, you were supposed to take it.

Out-Numbered - I'll call your Mother. Maybe she has it.

Daughter - Dad! I can't believe you.

Out-Numbered - I'm just kidding baby. I have it right here.

Daughter - Dad. You're so annoying.

Out-Numbered - Here. Open the door already. This duffel bag weighs a ton.

Daughter - One minute.

Out-Numbered - Jeez. How many hair dryers do you have in here?

Daughter - Stop it.

She opens the door. The room is empty except for two single beds on either side, a small three draw dresser at the foot of each bed and a large open closet that goes from floor to ceiling. It smells like 1988. I see my daughter's face and she seems a bit tentative.

Out-Numbered - What?

Daughter - Nothing.

Out-Numbered - What's wrong?

Daughter - Nothing.

Out-Numbered - I know that look. It means you're thinking one of two things.

Daughter - Oh yea? What would those be?

Out-Numbered - You're either thinking, "how the hell am I gonna fit all of my clothes in that tiny dresser... OR... "Where is the bathroom?"

Silence. I see her eyes well up with tears. She tries to look away.

Out-Numbered - Baby, what's the matter?

She starts to cry. I put my arms around her.

Out-Numbered - It's OK pal. It's OK.

Daughter - I don't think I want to be here.

Out-Numbered - Don't be silly baby. You've been looking forward to this forever. Why the sudden change of heart?

Daughter - I don't know. The room is so small. There's no bathroom in here. I don't know where I'm gonna put all my clothes.

Out-Numbered - HA! I knew it.

Daughter - Dad, stop it. I'm serious.

We both sit down on the bed on the right side of the room.

Out-Numbered - It's not that bad sweetheart. Look at the bright side.

Daughter - What?

Out-Numbered - You just got to pick which bed you want.

Daughter - Great. Like it makes a difference.

Out-Numbered - I'm teasing. You still can't take a joke.

Daughter - I'm serious.

Out-Numbered - Can I tell you something?

Daughter - Not if you're going to be stupid.

Out-Numbered - Give me some credit over here.

Daughter - Fine.

Out-Numbered - I know you think I'm like 1,000 years old and I embarrass you in front of your friends but it wasn't that long ago that my parents dropped me off at college.

Daughter - That was like 50 years ago.

Out-Numbered - 32. It was 32 years ago, smart ass.

Daughter - I'm just kidding Dad. You still can't take a joke.

Out-Numbered - Good one.

I hand her a tissue from my front pocket. I had been saving it for myself.

Out-Numbered - What I was going to say is... I know it's not really the size of the room or the bathroom. It's OK to feel scared. You're starting over. You're away from home for the first time. I felt the same way and I remember it didn't hit me until I walked into my dorm room. It wasn't real until my parents walked out the door.

Daughter - It's different for a girl.

Out-Numbered - Maybe a little bit but trust me when I say, I know what you're feeling. Do you remember when you were just a little girl? I used to say to you, "You don't have to tell me everything but you can tell me anything."

Daughter - Yes. You would tell me that like every day.

Out-Numbered - Well I'm gonna tell you something right now. I didn't want to say it because I didn't want to start crying like a baby, in front of my baby.

Daughter - Please don't start crying.

Out-Numbered - I'll try my hardest. I promise. I'm scared too.

Daughter - What do you mean?

Out-Numbered - I'm terrified.

Daughter - Why?

Out-Numbered - I'm terrified because I don't want to walk out that door and leave you here. I'm terrified because I haven't been without you for more than a week at a time. I'm terrified because I know you're terrified that I'm terrified.

Daughter - Dad that was like five terrifieds. I think it's a world's record.

Out-Numbered - Hey, now I'm trying to be serious here.

Daughter - Sorry.

Out-Numbered - All I'm trying to say is that it's normal to feel scared about this. You're doing something for the first time. You're not a little kid any more and that's just crazy to me. I'm so proud of you for choosing this school. I'm just blown away by the woman you've become and I know that you'll do more than just fine because you're so much better than me at this stuff and if I was able to do it 50 years ago, than you my dear, are going rock this thing.

Daughter - I guess so.

Out-Numbered - This isn't a guessing game baby. I know so.

Daughter - Thanks Dad.

Out-Numbered - I love you baby. You're gonna love college. Best time of your life. Soak it up. Embrace the day. Carpe Diem!

Daughter - What the hell does that mean?

Out-Numbered - Carpe Diem means Seize the day. Robin Williams made it up.

Daughter - Who is she?

Out-Numbered - She? C'mon. Mork from Ork?

Silence.

Out-Numbered - Forget it.

Daughter - Where's Mom?

Out-Numbered - Who knows? She went to the school store to get your sister a sweatshirt or something.

Daughter - I feel bad for her.

Out-Numbered - Your sister? Why is that?

Daughter - Because she has to deal with you all by herself now.

Out-Numbered - You know you'll miss me.

Daughter - Maybe a little.

Out-Numbered - You know what else you're gonna miss?

Daughter - Your bald head and your lame jokes?

Out-Numbered - No, dummy.

Daughter - What?

Out-Numbered - T-H-E ....... TICKLE MONSTER!!!!!!

I tickle her like I did when she was a kid. She still has the same laugh. I close my eyes and pretend we're on the den floor. She's 8 years old again.

Daughter - DAAAAADDDDDD!!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! STOP!!!! STOP IT!!!!

Sometimes when I'm tired at the end of the day, I daydream on the train ride home.

My baby girl is turning 8 this summer. I want to freeze her and make the time stop. I want to keep her just like she is now.

Perfect.

Innocent.

Naive to the atrocities of the world that exist outside of our suburban bubble.

She's gonna leave one day and I can't stop her. I have to live in the moment. In the second.

Cryogenics is not the most practical of solutions.

Sometimes the daydreams are vivid, like a Neil Simon play yet to be written. I always cry at Neil Simon plays.

Why do I always have tissues in my daydreams but never when I'm on the train?

Rocky Road Reprieve...

2010-06-22T08:45:00.000-04:00

Last week was a tough week. It started with me having some minor surgery.

Skin Cancer.

My shoulder looked like a pizza. 30 stitches and it just missed my Chargers Lightening Bolt tattoo. Thank Goodness.

Kids, use your sunscreen. I'm not fucking around either.

I had to miss a couple of days of work and take it easy.

Impossible!

I rarely associate the word easy with being a parent.

As scary and uncomfortable as the surgery was, the thought that kept running through my head was...

"Man, this is nice. It's air conditioned, it's quiet, people are listening to me and there are no kids around."

There was even a U2 mix tape playing. I love U2.

It's truly a sad state of affairs when you view a trip to the surgeon as a small getaway. I mean, they took a chunk of flesh out of my shoulder and left me looking like the *Jewish Frankenstein but I felt like I was at an outpatient Sandals.

Fantastic.

I was pretty out of it that night and still in a bunch of pain. All I wanted to do was hit my bed. My oldest daughter knew I was having something done but she didn't know about the cancer part. I was half expecting some sympathy or at least some understanding when she got home from school. I was gonna milk it for all it was worth. I had surgery God dammit and I wanted people to do stuff for me. I wanted my kids to rub my feet. I wanted them to let me watch Giada in peace. I wanted to poop without interruption.

Instead, my daughter came home and asked me to play handball with her. Yo! I'm laying on the couch, shirtless, wrapped in gauze and turning a whiter shade of pale. What the fuck? And also, what 7 year old girl wants to play handball? What is this, Brooklyn circa 1958? Why don't you go to your room and listen to some Sha Na Na on your damn Ipod.

"No baby. I can't play handball with you. Daddy isn't allowed to move his arm around right now."

"You're so mean!"

Great. Good to know I can't even play the cancer card on my daughter. Tough love I suppose...

The next day, I still had to take my kids to school in the morning. My wife was kind enough to get the little one dressed and the older one out of bed. My plan was to wrangle them into the car and take it slow.

I got my older one to school with no problem, despite her still harboring an intense resentment toward me for passing on handball.

When I arrived at my daughter's Pre-School, I was able to trick her into climbing out of the car on her own. I promised her she could walk on the curb in the parking lot. She thinks it's a balance beam. This is usually no problem but today, because I was a lame ass weakling, she was carrying her knapsack on her back and it was pretty heavy. She didn't get two steps before...

SMACK!

Face plant right into the cement.

I knew she was gonna come up bloody. She's too little to know about the whole. put your hands down when you're falling thing.

I just scooped her up without thinking and ran her into the school, calling for ice and towels like a crazed lunatic.

Blood. Lots of blood. I don't do well with blood.

I checked her teeth.

Still there.

That's good.

Ow, my fucking shoulder. Not good.

I sat with her for an hour on the floor of the school, holding multiple ice pops on her mangled, fat lip. I could feel her little heart racing and her body shaking. I was shaking too. Her little friends circled around us like cockroaches and asked 10,000 questions. This was mind numbingly annoying but really sweet. It kept her mind off of her fat lip and for that, I was grateful.

I walked out of there exhausted and it was only 9am.

Not taking it easy.

The next night, I thought it would be great if we all went out for an early dinner as a family. There's a pretty good BBQ place in the neighborhood and for some reason it seemed like a good idea.

It always seems like a good idea at first.

It only took about 8 minutes to turn into a total disaster.

Aside from my Pork Chop tasting like an ass, filled with sand, my kids were driving me up the wall. The whining and the complaining and the fighting and the fidgeting. We are that family of idiots.

So I pick up my 3 year old.

Again.

Ow, my fucking shoulder. Not good.

And I whisk her outside for the remainder of the meal.

I'd had enough. I was supposed to be taking care of myself and I hadn't stopped for a minute. This isn't what the Doctor ordered at all. We all piled into the car and headed home. On the way, I turned to my wife and said...

Me - "I want Carvel."

Wife - "You want to bring the kids for ice cream?"

Me - "No. I want to bring me for ice cream."

Wife - "Now?"

Me - "Yes."

Wife - "OK then."

So we made a pit stop at the local Carvel.

Man, this has got to be the only place in the universe that never changes. You'd think that maybe Cookie Puss would have evolved a bit. Nope. It's all the same and it makes me happy. I got out of the car, by myself and purchased the biggest motherfucking ice cream cone I could get.

We drove home and my family got out of the car.

I stayed behind.

Alone.

In the car.

Eating ice cream.

While my kids played handball in the driveway...

*Even though Frankenstein sounds like a Jewish name, I'm pretty sure it's not. I believe he was Episcopalian.

Conversations With John Stamos...

2010-06-17T16:21:00.000-04:00

I have this recurring nightmare. It's a pretty classic anxiety / control dream.

I'm back in college wandering the halls and it's finals week. I am experiencing a complete loss of time. I have this terrible realization that I am completely unprepared for my exams and that I haven't been to class in months. I can't find the exam room and I'm not even sure of my class schedule. My vision is blurry. I am completely confused.

Even though this might be symbolic for other things going on in my waking life, ironically it's pretty close to how college went for me.

This dream is a good analogy for parenting.

There are times when I am completely confused, unprepared and my vision is extremely blurry.

The other evening while watching Full House with my kids.

7 Year Old - Do we know anyone that had a baby that died?

Out-Numbered - What? Why do you ask that?

7 Year Old - I heard someone talking about it.

Out-Numbered - What do you mean, died?

7 Year Old - Like do you know anyone who was going to have a baby but it died before it came out?

Out-Numbered - You mean a miscarriage?

7 Year Old - What's a miscarriage?

Out-Numbered - Um, that's when something goes wrong when a woman is pregnant and the baby dies before it's born.

7 Year Old - Do you know anyone that had a miscarriage?

Out-Numbered - Yes.

7 Year Old - Who?

Out-Numbered - Well, I don't think we should talk about anyone's business but our own.

7 Year Old - How come?

Out-Numbered - Because they might not want to talk about it and it's very private.

7 Year Old - Why?

Out-Numbered - Because it's painful.

7 Year Old - It hurts.

Out-Numbered - I mean it's painful for someone to talk about it.

7 Year Old - Why?

Out-Numbered - Because it would probably make them sad to think about it.

7 Year Old - Did Mommy have a miscarriage?

Out-Numbered - Yes she did.

7 Year Old - REALLY? Whoa! When?

Out-Numbered - Before your sister was born.

7 Year Old - Did I die?

Out-Numbered - What do you think?

7 Year Old - No?

Out-Numbered - No.

7 Year Old - Where you sad?

Out-Numbered - Of course I was sad.

7 Year Old - Was Mommy sad?

Out-Numbered - Very sad.

7 Year Old - Did you cry?

Out-Numbered - I don't think so.

7 Year Old - How come you didn't cry?

Out-Numbered - Because I knew it was God's way of telling us that the baby wasn't healthy and it wasn't ready to be here with us.

7 Year Old - Did Mommy cry?

Out-Numbered - Yes.

7 Year Old - Did it hurt?

Out-Numbered - Probably but you would have to ask Mommy.

7 Year Old - How did she know the baby died?

Out-Numbered - Because when she went to the Doctor, it wasn't moving anymore and they didn't hear the baby's heart beating.

7 Year Old - How did they get the baby out?

Out-Numbered - They use a special machine.

7 Year Old - Does that hurt?

Out-Numbered - I'm not sure.

7 Year Old - What kind of machine?

Out-Numbered - It's kind of like a special vacuum cleaner.

7 Year Old - Does it go in Mommy's vagina?

Out-Numbered - I think so.

7 Year Old - Ewww.

Out-Numbered - You know what though?

7 Year Old - What?

Out-Numbered - Everything happens for a reason.

7 Year Old - What does that mean?

Out-Numbered - It means that your Mother and I were very sad that it happened but if it didn't happen, we would never have had your little sister.

7 Year Old - That's true. She is annoying though.

Out-Numbered - So are you.

7 Year Old - How old do you think Uncle Jesse was when they made Full House?

Out-Numbered - You mean John Stamos?

7 Year Old - The handsome one.

Out-Numbered - John Stamos. I have no idea. Maybe 25?

7 Year Old - Whoa. He was old. He doesn't look old.

Out-Numbered - Do I look old?

7 Year Old - Yes.

Out-Numbered - Thanks.

7 Year Old - Your welcome.

Someone please pinch me...

She's Like Me...

2010-06-14T08:46:00.011-04:00

My wife and I have an ongoing debate about who our oldest daughter takes after.

Physically it's a no brainer.

My wife is stunningly beautiful; or as my 3 year old would say, "stumming". She has long dark hair, eyes as dark as a moonless sky and she carries herself with the poise of a runway model.

She wins that one.

Temperament however, is the real point of contention.

My daughter is short on patience. She gets frustrated very easily and she likes to yell.

A lot.

The two of them fight constantly about everything under the sun. They fight about clothing. They spar about food. They bicker about homework. They even argue about arguing.

They seem to feed off of each other.

Sometimes I think they should open a button pushing business.

I've heard this is pretty normal with mothers and daughters. I hear about it all the time from friends that witness the same occurrence. I've watched a lot of hockey over the years and as a result, I've learned to get out of the way. It's easy to see that when you try and break up a scuffle, it's more than likely, you're going to get punched in the face.

Occupational hazard I suppose.

Even though the fighting makes it a bit tense from time to time, we have a pretty good rhythm in the house and it's clear that we all adore one another. Most of the time.

When it comes to the similarities between my daughter and myself, it becomes a bit more complicated in some areas.

There are a few things that are painstakingly obvious.

We both love to be the center of attention. No spotlight is too bright. No stage too big.

We are both silly. We love to goof around. We love to ham it up.

We both have a very short attention span. We're pretty smart but we have trouble sticking with one thing for too long. We use boredom as an excuse but it's deeper than that.

Neither of us know how to listen. We love to talk but we hate to listen. We're really good at making you think we're listening but we're really just thinking about talking.

We are both control freaks. We are truly convinced that no one can do anything as well as we can. We qualify this as leadership.

As a parent, there is the selfish part of me that wants my kid to grow up to be just like her Dad.

Then there is the part of me that is terrified of my baby girl inheriting all of my shit.

The way I see it, most of it is poison.

Over the years, I have come to discover that I am broken. Broken to the point of which I thought I could not be fixed. The kind of broken that you can only see from the inside. All of the spotlights, all of the silliness, all the goofing around and all of the leadership...

All just decoys.

Impostors, masquerading as something else to hide the brokenness underneath it all.

So to see myself, any part of myself, festering in my little baby, makes me weary.

I've wrestled with my demons. I've done my best to protect the ones I love from them.

I've been sick but I didn't think I was contagious.

My traits are not the cause of my pain. They are only a symptom.

I am not a Doctor. My daughter is not my patient and this is far from a diagnosis.

Most parents can lovingly stare into their child's eyes and take pride in seeing a bit of themselves staring back at them.

I just get scared.

I've been doing a shitload of demon slaying as of late and for now I seem to be winning the battle.

As soon as I build the moat to protect my own castle, I'll turn my attention to protecting the princess from the demons that inevitably will try to scale those castle walls...

I hope she takes after her mother...

The Father's Day Boutique Can Blow Me...

2010-06-11T06:32:00.001-04:00

THIS is my Father's Day post.

I love my kids more than a 58 year old, white male, with a micro sized wiener loves his new Corvette.

I love my kids more than a dog loves the smell of his own shit.

I love my kids more than Joanie loved Chachi.

But God dammit, I hate that fucking Father's Day boutique.

Does anyone know what I'm talking about?

Anyone?

The Father's Day boutique is basically a shitty little indoor garage sale that takes place in elementary schools all over the world. OK, maybe just on Long Island. I can't say for sure. Anyway, they had it when I was a kid and they have it now.

What happens is right before Father's Day, the school sets up a bunch of tables and garnishes them with what seems to be a bunch of items that were made in China but not good enough to make it to the 99 cents store.

The worst part of this horrible tradition is that my kid comes to me with pretty much the sweetest smile you've ever seen and says...

Daughter - "Daaaaaadddddy. You know what today is?"

Out-Numbered - "No"

Daughter - "Today is the Faaaaattthhheeerrrrssss Day Boutique."

FUCK ME.

Out-Numbered - "Oh. Awesome."

Daughter - "Yes. Mommy gave me $10."

$10? That's all I'm worth? What the fuck?

Out-Numbered - "Is that enough?"

Daughter - "I think so. It's for you and Pop Pop."

$10 for Me AND Pop Pop? Screw Pop Pop. That's bullshit.

Out-Numbered - "Are you sure you don't need anymore money?"

Daughter - "No I'm good."

Yeah. You're good. You're not the one that has to wear a cheap ass, wool tie in the middle of the fucking summer. You're not the one that needs to walk down 6th Ave with a paper towel, constantly wiping your neck sweat on the way to work.

Out-Numbered - "OK great!"

And off she goes...

Now these gifts are cyclical and they all suck. You start to realize this when they begin repeating themselves. In the past, I have been given...

A #1 Dad Coffee Mug

A #1 Dad Key Chain

A Velcro Mets Wallet

A #1 Dad Money Clip

A #1 Dad Glow In The Dark Pencil

A Wool Tie

A #1 Dad Key Chain. Again.

I even think I got an I LOVE DAD Snow Globe one year.

What sick bastard in China makes an I LOVE DAD Snow Globe.

It's just wrong.

So I wait. I wait for next Sunday to come and if my calculations are correct, the spinning wheel of Father's Day Boutique Death, will give forth unto me...

Yet another #1 Dad Coffee Mug.

Hallelujah!

Oh and you can bet that my sweet wife will be mocking me the entire time. Snickering with jubilant glee.

Go ahead my love. Laugh all you want.

But remember.

Pay back's a bitch.

Eleven months from now I will scornfully place a $10 bill in our precious little daughter's hand and tell her to bring you home a beautiful plastic rose.

Or perhaps a sparkling, faux gold necklace with an even more faux green gem, set perfectly off center.

Or maybe, just maybe I will encourage her to pick out the shiniest of all snow globes. And this snow globe will profess...

I LOVE MOM.

And nothing says Happy Mother's Day, like a snow globe...

P.S. In the spirit of complete transparency, I thought Father's Day was this Sunday and that is why I wrote this post last night. My wife made me aware of the real date and of the fact that I am a complete and utter Jackass. Because of this, I have changed one of the lines to make it seem as though I knew it was next Sunday. As if anyone cares...

I Don't Need No Stinking Boy...

2010-06-07T21:30:00.000-04:00

I have two daughters and one wife.

That is why this blog is called Out-Numbered.

Get it?

I want to make something perfectly clear to all of the people, past, present or future that will inevitably ask my wife and I if we're going to try for a boy.

NO FUCKING WAY!

We are 100%, completely and utterly content with what we have. We consider ourselves blessed to have had two healthy, beautiful girls that fill our lives with love, laughter and hope.

We also can't imagine having another child.

These two healthy, beautiful girls that fill our lives with love, laughter and hope are also a colossal pain in the rump roast. We'd have to be out of our collective tree to even consider another child.

Let alone a boy.

When our first daughter was born, I hadn't even considered the fact that we might be having a girl. I didn't think it was possible. I'm not sure why my brain worked that way.

I remember the day she was born, one of my friends said to me...

"Dude, when you have a boy, you only have to worry about one dick. When you have a girl, you have to worry about 100 dicks."

I remember pausing for a moment to contemplate this wisdom that had been put forth before me. I pictured 100 teenage boners lined up outside of my daughter's window. I imagined smashing each one of those boners with an aluminum baseball bat. Kind of like that game "Wack A Mole" but with boners.

This is how men think before they have girls.

When my daughter was still less than a year old, my Grandmother said something to me as I held my daughter. I'll always remember what she told me, for it is her words that completely sum up the simple but divine truth about having a daughter.

"There is nothing quite as wonderful, as the smile a little girl smiles, for her Daddy."

These are the words that best describe the gifts that I get daily from my daughters.

I have often searched for a way to explain how these smiles make me feel inside. Lately, I have been experiencing a certain physical sensation that sums it up completely.

Have you ever felt yourself starting to cry but just as your eyes well up, that feeling is met with the perfect synchronicity of inexplicable joy?

I suppose this is called, "Tears of Joy" and my tears of joy could fill a well right about now.

I don't worry about the boners anymore. There's nothing I can do about them. But my daughters bring out the best in me.

They make me want to be a better man; Every day, every week, every year, for the rest of my life.

They say that a girl always marries a guy just like her Dad.

If this is true, then I have a lifetime of work to do.

I can't control the boners but I can hopefully influence which ones they choose to hold on to.

Fuck. That totally wasn't what I was trying to say...

Just to be clear, I am not claiming that having a daughter is better than having a son. I have no way of knowing what it's like to have a son but I know I am a son and I can't be half as awesome as my daughters have been. They also say that you should have a daughter first. This way you know that she will take care of you when you are old, drooling and your wrinkled ass is hanging out of you nursing home gown. Supposedly the sons just take off and go wherever the pussy goes. Who knows? This is what I have heard.

Leave Me Alone, You Alien Bastards...

2010-06-02T08:15:00.006-04:00

I have a fear of heights.

I have since I was a kid.

I can't stand too close to the edge of anything higher than an easy jump.

I can't even comfortably look out the window of a tall building without getting a bit unnerved.

Standing on a ladder makes me quiver.

My mother once went to a psychic and showed her a picture of me. She said that in a previous life, I was a fighter pilot, shot down in World War 2.

That makes total sense.

Cuckoo.

When people ask me what I am afraid of, heights is what I tell them.

FINAL ANSWER?

Not quite...

What I am about to divulge might destroy any shred of credibility I have built for myself over the years. It may seem far fetched and extravagant but it is simply the truth as it relates to my experiences.

I am afraid of sleep.

This may seem odd to those who know me well.

Jason you love sleep. You adore it. You embrace the opportunity to lay back, cuddle up under the warmth of a freshly washed quilt, rest your weary keppie on a cool pillow and gay shluffen.

Yes. This is true. I love sleep but I fear for the times when sleep takes me to a place that makes me feel vulnerable and unsafe. I fear the loss of control.

I fear the aliens.

*Needle of record player scratching vinyl.*

What are you, a fucking wackadoo?

No. I am no wackadoo and I know what I know.

It doesn't happen much but every few months, maybe once a year, I experience a terrifying out of body experience during sleep. I have heard the term "sleep paralysis" used to describe this but I am not sure that this is a diagnosis as much as it is a simple description of the symptoms.

This is what happens...

During the deepest part of my slumber, I become aware of my state of being. It is almost as if I am watching my self from above my bed. I can see myself. I can see my wife and through the darkness I can make out bits and pieces of my bedroom. The only thing is...

I can't move.

I can't move a muscle.

I am completely and utterly trapped inside my own dead shell.

I am dreaming but I am awake.

It is a helpless and terrifying feeling.

It is as if I were on a cold, sterile metal cart in the morgue, about to be sliced open by the mortician.

I try to scream.

I try to lift my arms.

I try with every ounce of strength to nudge my sleeping wife so she can jar me awake.

I count to three in my head and try to lunge my arm upward in a desperate but futile attempt to escape.

I hear my own cries; a flutter of crackling noise, barely audible.

Nothing.

I panic until the fear becomes unbearable. It seems hopeless, as if I will never be free from the grips of my nightmare.

Then my wife. My sweet wife rescues me. She knows I am struggling. She knows I am trapped. She's been here before with me. She knows what it takes to bring me back.

This has happened so many times during our years together that she is fully aware of my level of discomfort.

We have talked at length about the experience I have. We have even gone so far as to talk about what she needs to do if she becomes aware of this situation developing.

She knows first to firmly nudge me. She knows to then talk to me in a loud voice in order to startle me. If this doesn't work, she knows that she must forcefully slap me in the face, repeatedly if I don't respond to the previous tactics.

This must happen quickly. Every second is important.

I know this seems bizarre but it is true and it is serious to me. As serious as a heart attack.

When I finally awaken, I ask her if I was moving and she says yes.

I ask her if I was saying anything and she tells me that it was as if I was crying for help.

This is exactly what I feel. It is exactly what I see.

About 12 years ago, before my wife and I had our first child, I had experienced one of these episodes of sleep paralysis. We were living in an apartment at the time. This particular episode was different.

During my paralysis, I became aware of another presence.

I was not alone.

As I lay in bed, watching my nightmare unfold, there appeared a long, thin, deformed, black figure in the doorway to my bedroom. It slowly approached the foot of my bed. I tried furiously to shock myself awake but to no avail. Frozen in terror I felt my will turn over to the darkness.

I stared at the black figure and tried to make out the details of its face. They seemed blurry and unrecognizable.

The figure reached toward me and placed its hand on my leg. I felt the pressure of its grip. It did not hurt but it made me feel powerless.

Then without any noticeable passage of time, it was gone.

Like so many times before, my wife finally succeeded in waking me up.

I paused for a moment to gather my thoughts.

The picture of the faceless being that had just violated my home was burned into my brain. The experience left me rattled and shaken.

The next day, I approached a co-worker about the experience and told him what had happened. He told me that he had gone through a similar experience. He explained to me that he had read a book that told of numerous first hand accounts involving alien contact and even abduction. He mentioned that there was a passage in the book that explained one particular circumstance that abductees had in common. The so called, "sleep paralysis".

Instead of giving me a sense of relief that others shared in my experience, it made me even more frightened.

Why is this happening to me?

How did they find me?

What have they taken from me?

Will it happen again?

Over the years, I have had several other episodes of sleep paralysis.

I have not seen the dark, alien figure since that night.

I do not know if the two things were related or if they were even real.

But I am afraid to go to sleep.

I believe we are not alone.

I pray to God that the aliens do not read my blog...

Hairapalooza...

2010-05-27T08:30:00.000-04:00

Hair hair everywhere
Don't look now! It's right in there.
It's in the sink, it's on the floor
It's in my bed, it's on the door.

Where it comes from
I don't know.
It comes in bunches
IT'S ON MY TOE!

My wife and kids
Don't seem to care.
I'll bet it's in their underwear.

I pick it up when no one's looking
Sometimes when my wife is cooking.
If I don't clean it, no one will.
And soon the hair my house will fill.

It sticks to everything it touches
It seems to like the hairy brushes.
It's slowly driving me insane
It's clogging every bathroom drain.

I wish my wife and kids would try
To keep their hair in short supply.
You'd think we have a little pup.
It's plain and simple, sweep it up

It must be them that shed this hair
For I don't have that much to spare.
It's on my butt and on my chest
I'm like an ape I must confess.

It's not a zoo or barber shop
It's not a barn with pigs and slop.
I'm very close to giving up
Don't make me have to fuck shit up.

Thank You -
The Management

Editors Note: I want to make it clear that aside from the hair thing, my wife happens to keep a clean home. The hair seems to be an occupational hazard that must be endured by myself and other husbands that father daughters all over the world. We shower almost everyday, so the hair is very clean. We also have a cleaning lady. We recycle the hair on a daily basis and use it for mulch in our vegetable garden. We are green like that.