Trial by Fire Parenting

Episode 164: A case of mistaken identity and the Old Spot stalker

2012-01-25T09:40:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I think that shit like this only happens to me.

Thursday nights are usually my early night at work. Sometimes I'll end up leaving around 10-10:30. When this happens, more often than not, I make my way around the corner and up the street to my favorite bar, the Old Spot. I like this bar for a lot of reasons. I have been going there for years, it is small, usually relaxed, not a lot happening. Couple TV's, some good beers on tap, solid food and I know the bartender. Most of all, almost no one I know goes there. That is the biggest challenge. Working in a restaurant, I am not one of those people who wants to go see 12 people I work with or used to work with or just served drinks to at another bar. I want to go out, have a few pops and keep to myself.

Occasionally, when drinking alone after work, you can end up with what we call the 'unlucky bar seat.' That is to say you are sitting at a bar with an empty seat next to you and someone terrible sits down. This is usually someone who talks a lot and who you do not know. This happened to me over the summer.

I was sitting at the bar minding my own business. The kid next to me makes a comment about something to me and it sparks a small, unimportant conversation. This is always how it starts. Next thing you know you are hearing stories about God knows what and he is asking you what you do and where you're from. On this particular night I was in an especially bad mood and probably a little bit more drunk than I would typically be in a regular post-work circumstance. This led to me engaging this individual, a 30-something male with one really, really wide nostril, in conversation. Eventually he left and I went on with my night, stumbled home and forgot he existed.

About two months later it is the same scene. I am at Old Spot after work, eating a burger, waiting for another friend to get out of work and meet me at the bar. I'm talking to the bartender when someone slaps me on the back. "Hey, Dan, how's it going?"

Now, it takes me a minute, but I am able to eventually identify this gentleman, mainly because of his nostril, as the dude who I talked to over the summer. I am not nearly as grouchy or drunk this time, so I am in no mood to talk to him. I'm eating. Leave me alone. He starts asking me questions. "Is this person still pissing you off at work?" "Is your daughter still doing whatever random thing your daughter was doing the last time I talked to you two months ago?" I had not only forgotten everything we talked about the first time we met, but I had forgotten who this dude even was and here he was reciting every bullshit drunk story I told him. It was so bad that once my friend arrived, I immediately asked for my tab and said, "Let's go do some karaoke." We got outside and my friend says "Ummm, are we really gonna do karaoke, because I am NOT drunk enough for that." "No way," I said. "I just needed to say we were going somewhere that I knew that dude wouldn't follow us to."

To fully understand this man, you first need a physical description. The Old Spot Stalker has Coke-bottle glasses, is cross eyed behind them, is balding in the back of his head, has a receding hairline and deplorable skin for a 30-year-old. His right nostril is the size of a large jelly bean. Not a Jelly Belly, not even a standard jelly bean, like, one of those dime-sized Easter jelly beans from when you were a kid that were like chewing gum because they had so much mystery confection in the middle. I am pretty sure that if you had a small miner's helmet light you could see all they way in to his brain. 99.9 percent of the time I can actually bring myself to look at his awful, awful face (which isn't often) this is what I am focused on. This is only his second worst physical trait. The worst is his teeth. As my friend, Pat, put it "His favorite snack as a kid was rocks." They are broken, crooked, rotted and pointing in all different directions. His breath is the closest thing to dog shit I have ever smelled that wasn't actually dog shit. He knows it, too, he keeps a pocket full of mints. It doesn't help.

The Old Spot stalker is a classic nudge. A loaner. Lives with his parents in to his 30's, minus a few awkward years going to college in New York City. Single and falling in love with crazy girls online, he is broke as a joke and, for some reason, can't seem to land a real job doing anything. Every time I see him his 'temp job' has just ended and he is in search of another one. I get that the job market sucks, but when all you do is look for temp work it is your own fault if you fail.

He has two common discussion themes, other than his pathetic job search. First and foremost, he talks about some girl he is 'seeing' that lives 'up north.' Second, he likes to take every opportunity to remind you that he supposedly worked on movie sets when he was in New York.

"Oh, Adam Sandler, I met him on the set of such and such. He's OK" or (and this is a real comment) " I met Will Farrel on the set once, he was in the bathroom, he had a really small wiener." Yeah. Will Farrell was taking a piss and saw your ugly, misshapen nostril face and had a small wiener. Cool.

The stories about the girl are the worst. From my sporadic listening, here is what I can conclude is going on. Dude meets girl online, they meet up, go on a few dates, have sex. Dude gets a little crazy and thinks they are dating. Girl realizes his stalker like tendencies and backs off, only letting him in when she is drunk or she really, really needs to get laid. This unhealthy relationship goes on for a few months until she finally realizes how overbearing he is and calls it off. He gets confused because he is an idiot.

As of now, here is where we stand. Around Christmas he texted her constantly to see if she wanted to hang out/ spend the holidays with his family. She did not. After that, she avoided him pretty much constantly until one day last week he called her in desperation as his car had broken down and he needed to get to a job interview. Girl, against her better judgement, agrees to come pick him up, let him drop her off at work and go to his job interview. Dude proceeds to crash girl's car. Girl gets pissed, makes him pay insurance deductible, tells him he is crazy, she never really liked him and not to text her anymore. She sends him text messages because she needs his money for the car. He mistakes this as her messing with him.

Actual quote: "She keeps telling me not to text her, she doesn't want to talk to me, she hates me, leaver her alone. Then I get a message today about her car. Like, which one is it?"

Which one is it? WHICH ONE IS IT???!?!?!?!!?!?!?! SHE FUCKING HATES YOU DUDE!!! But you OWE HER MONEY! She isn't messing with you. She isn't "playing games." You crashed her car and she needs to get it fixed. Bottom Line. WHAT an IDIOT.

The mere fact that I can share this story with you should prove that I have been dragged in to way to many conversations with this kid, but this situation reached a head this week.

Let's rewind a few weeks. It is two weekends ago, on a Saturday, the night of the Patriots- Broncos playoff game. I am walking in to work and I get a text from a mysterious number.

"Hey, Dan, will you be working tonight?"

"Sure will, all night. Who are you?"

"This is Sean."

"Oh, Hey, Sean. I didn't have your number, sorry."

"It is ok, I am thinking of coming in for a beer tonight, I might see you later."

"Cool."

Sean. Hmmm. Sean? I don't know many Seans, and the ones I do know I am not exactly close friends with. Not close enough to have shared my phone number. I thought for a little bit and decided that it must be this guy Sean that I used to work for at the newspaper. He lives fairly close to the bar and he is in there every now and then. He was the only person I could think of. Maybe he wanted to make sure he could get a seat for the game. Who knows.

The night goes by, no Sean. I did see the Old Spot Stalker that night, though, and I was super mean to him. Told him I was way too busy to listen to his depressing stories. I forget this text message exists, but I do store the number in my phone under the name of the Sean that I think it is.

Fast forward to last Thursday. Walking in to work again I get a text from Sean.

"Hey, Dan, are you working tonight? Any plans on going out after?"

"Depends on if I am here late, if not I was going to go meet my buddy at Old Spot."

"Ok, great. I wanted to see if we could have a beer tonight. I wanted to talk to you about something."

Now, keep in mind, I have saved this number in my phone under the name of someone I used to work for. I am a little surprised, but enthusiastic about this meeting. I like work Sean, he is a good guy. Maybe he has a job opportunity for me. It is strange that he would want to get a beer, what could it be?

About an hour later I am still thinking about this meeting. My mind is racing. This is so weird. What could Sean want out of the blue? Are they really hurting that much at the newspaper? Is he going to try and get me back? Then, like a wrecking ball on the end of a crane, it hits me. Old Spot stalker is probably named Sean. I have never asked him my name, but I know he must have said it. It is probably Sean. You know what? It is Sean. Fuuuuuucccccccccckkkkkkk. How on Earth did he get my number? Now it hits me again. One night, while I was trying to avoid him, he tried to give me his number. Instead of writing it down, he told me to put it in my phone and call him so he had mine. Unable to avoid the situation, I did, and immediately deleted it, thinking I would never need it. Well, bad move. Old Spot Stalker had texted me. This was not a job opportunity, I would not be meeting up with an old work friend. I had just been so nice, so welcoming, so open to having a beer with this nostril, rock-tooth freak and I didn't even realize. Talk about a shitty feeling.

Now, I have already made plans with my friend Pat to go to Old Spot. This is literally the only bar we go to. The Celtics are on, I'm hungry, my friend John is bartending. We are going. Screw the stalker. I purposely choose a two-top table off to the side in front of a TV. Even if the stalker comes in, I know that there will be nowhere for him to sit and I will be enthralled by some regular season basketball. Besides, back when I thought he was work Sean, I told him I'd text him when I was getting out of work. I never sent that text, so he won't show up, right? Ha.

Pat and I are in the middle of eating our food and watching basketball when I heard the door open behind me. I felt the draft on my back and, without turning around, I just knew who it was. I closed my eyes, looked at Pat and said "Please tell me there isn't an ugly man walking towards us."

Too late. There he was. In all his hideous glory, the Old Spot Stalker. He introduced himself to Pat. We continued to look at the TV. We did not offer to move to a bigger table. We did not engage him in conversation. He. Just. Talked. The whole time. About the girl. And the car. And the insurance. And his no job. And his shitty life. And Will Farrel's penis. Again. Then, he walked around the corner to go talk to the manager of the bar, this girl Kelly. "Yeah. I am here with my friend, Dan," we heard him say. I look over at John the bartender, he is laughing at me. He catches my eye, shakes his head, turns around and grabs a beer out of the cooler and brings it over. "Sorry, dude," he says. "Just keep drinking these. It can't hurt."

At one point, the stalker went to the bathroom. I stopped Kelly as she walked by and said " I just want you to know that weirdo is NOT my friend."

"Oh, I know," she said. " But I have to say, it is nice to know he is going to leave me alone as long as you're here."

Now, normally, this would be enough for me to ditch the Old Spot and find another bar. I have done the same to other bars for much less. But no. Not this time. This is my friggin bar. I go there. I go there on Thursday. I like it, and no rock-tooth dweeb is going to ruin it for me. I will win. I only wish this kid understood social cues so he could realize that I don't give two shits about his awful life, his breath smells and he should either get a job stocking shelves at Wal Mart or drive off a bridge, because he isn't getting my ear anymore.

...

FINALLY a live version of this song hits Youtube. I don't care if it sounds a little bit like Stairway to Heaven. Screw Led Zeppelin. This song is a triumph.

Episode 163: This is why we have riots

2012-01-12T10:37:00.000-08:00

I am going to try and keep this calm. I even waited a day to let some of my anger settle before I wrote this, but it hasn't exactly worked. I am also going to try and not make this a crucifixion of police officers, but it might happen. I know many police officers personally, some are relatives, I like them very much. I understand why police exist and I appreciate that. Unfortunately, almost every single traffic cop I have come across in my life happens to be a massive piece of shit. And that is where this story will center.

Let's begin with the incident.

Back in November, I was driving home from work. It was late, like it always is. I was driving down my street and was about 100 yards from my house when I saw a police car screaming around the corner in my rear view mirror. I pulled in to my driveway, turned off my car, got out, closed the door, locked the car and started to walk down the driveway to my front door. After all of this has happened this police car parks at the end of my driveway and the officer jumps out and starts yelling at me.

"You're getting a ticket for that one bud!!"

Um. Ok. I am? What did I do? (All of my comments are internal because I learned at a very young age that arguing, or even talking to a police officer out of turn just spirals them in to some sort of power rage and does nothing to actually help the situation).

"Go get your reg! GO GET YOUR REG!" he screams as he backs me up my driveway toward my car.

I hand him my license and registration.

"Whose house is this?"

"Um, I live here."

"That's not what your license says. WHOSE HOUSE IS THIS?!"

"I live here, I moved over the summer. That is my old address. I changed my address with the registry, look up my info. What is the problem?"

"You blew threw that stop sign going 30! You never even hit the breaks! You didn't even tap them, you better believe I'm giving you a ticket!"

A few things that are important to note here. The speed limit on my street is 25 mph. I drive down this street every single day. I know there is a stop sign there. It is a four-way intersection. It is pretty dangerous. It is also after midnight. I am also pretty sure I wasn't going 30 at any point that I was traveling down the street. It is also pouring rain. I am confused.

I give him my info and he says "Lean on your car and don't move."

At this point, it is after midnight, he still has his goddamn blue lights on, his headlights are shining directly in my face and has been yelling. Awesome. Thanks for making it look like I just robbed a liquor store. Surprised you didn't call for back up.

Dude is in the car for 10 minutes, gets out and his tone is completely different.

"Daniel, so, how come you don't have your current address on your license?"

"Because the RMV doesn't send the new labels any more."

"Well, its important that you have that."

"Ok."

"I hate to do this to you, but I have to write this ticket, we've been having traffic problems on this street. Besides, right before you went through the intersection I saw three teenagers dressed all in black walking by there, you could have killed them."

Ahhhhhh, the old 'teenagers dressed in black' story. Similar to the box of kittens story from driver's ed. Also, I'm pretty sure there is a curfew in our town, so maybe this guy could have taken them home. Again, I also remind you, it is pouring rain.

So, Officer Traffic hands me a soggy ticket and says the following. Which blows my mind.

"I'm really sorry I have to do this, get that address sticker for your license. If you appeal this, you'll probably win."

"Thank you, sir."

Now, before I go on, let's note the things I said during this interaction. I explained that I lived in the house. Explained why I didn't have my address on my license and I said 'thank you.' That's it. Like I said before, arguing with police is useless. Kind of like arguing with an umpire. So, I knew I didn't blow that stop sign, but that isn't going to get me anywhere. The officer himself told me to appeal. So I did.

Now, this is my theory. I live in an uppity, affluent suburb that also happens to border two middle class, blue collar cities with crime problems. My street is a short cut from one of those cities to the other. Some dumb old hag probably called the cops and bitched about people speeding down the street or running stop signs. It's late, this guy sees me, thinks he can bust my balls and pulls me over. Notice how his demeanor changed when he realized that I lived in town.

Also, it is important to note that I have zero recollection of actually being at that stop sign. I just know that I have never blown a stop sign at 30 mph at any point in my life anywhere. At the most, I may have done a rolling stop, as it was well past midnight and there is no reason to sit there any longer than I need to.

The appeal.

I appealed the ticket, as instructed. I had to pay a $25 non-refundable appeal fee, and had to be at court at 9 a.m. yesterday. After standing around and waiting for the clerk to show up, the hearing started at 9:40. I was first because I was the only one from my town to have a hearing that day. Let's keep track of all the things that worked in my favor here together.

I sit down across from the clerk who explains to me the process. "We don't have a representative from your town, so the court officer will read the police report."

That's one. In all of my experience, if the officer or a representative from the town does not show up, the hearing is waived. I win. If I don't show up the hearing is waived. I can't have the court officer read my statement, right? Of course not. Soooo, why are we continuing?

The officer begins to read. "On the night of so and so I was on a routine patrol at such and such intersection when I witnessed a white car traveling at a high rate of speed."

That's two. My car is gray. Dark gray. It does not look white, even if it is dark, you cannot mistake it for being white.

The report continued. The officer got the address where he pulled me over incorrect, as well as the address where I lived (they are both the same place, yet there were two different addresses for each in the report, neither one of which were correct). That's three.

Then we get to the part that makes my blood boil.

"Daniel was polite and courteous, but he quickly admitted to the violation and apologized."

WHAAAAAAAAAT?! I'll give you a moment to scroll back up the page and recap the things I said to this officer. At what point did I admit to the violation OR apologize?

Trying to remain calm I explained all of this to the officer. I explained that I never admitted to a thing, that he had harassed me about my address, that he changed his tune when he saw I lived there. I told him the teenager story and I explained to him that my car is not white. I also reminded him that I was in my driveway and out of my car when he pulled in to my driveway. That's four, by the way.

I told him my theory was that someone was either cruising around the neighborhood and he mistook my vehicle for his, or perhaps he was just looking to give out a ticket because there were complaints in that area. I also pointed out that I live on that street, travel it every night and at no point would I be flying through stop signs at 30 mph. (In the police report he adjusted my estimated speed to 25 mph).

Finally, I told him how the officer had told me to appeal.

All the man said was "That report seems pretty cut and dry. Read it again."

The officer that wasn't from my town or involved in the incident read it again.

"I think there is sufficient evidence, the officer says right there that you admitted to running the stop sign."

Trying to remain calm, but probably not doing a very good job, I said again that I did not ever admit to anything and denied running the stop sign.

"Well, it sounds like he was on a pretty routine patrol. He saw you do it."

"Saw me do it? He didn't even pull me over. I drove home and got out of my car!"

"Well, how long do you think it took him to gather himself and get to your home? Especially if you were going 25 without stopping."

At this point, the only thing stopping me from throwing this prick out a window was seeing the court officer's gun out of the corner of my eye.

"I wasn't going 25! I told you that."

"Well, were you going, maybe, five miles per hour?"

"No! I drove up to the stop sign, stopped, looked to the right and left and drove away. Did I sit there and hold my breaks? No. There was no one coming, at the very most I rolled forward to see around the corner before I kept going."

"Well, that sounds an awful lot like a yield. The law says you need to stop for a full three seconds at an intersection. And, why would you admit to it if you didn't feel he was correct."

"I told you I did not admit to anything."

"Well, it is in the report and if it comes down to it I am not going to call the officer a liar."

Yup. He through the 'full three seconds' driver's ed book at me. That is what we are dealing with here. A false confession, teenagers dressed in black and the three second rule. I was up four strikes on this guy and I lost.

I am pretty sure I entered a blind rage at this point, because I ended the hearing by simply saying "You know what? Fine."

"You can request a jury trial if you feel that this was unjust. There is a $50 filing fee."

"I'm not going to pay $50 to get out of a $100 ticket. Thanks, though."

"Do you need more than 20 days to pay?"

"Nope. Thanks, though."

"Who is next?"

Now, I don't know what I am more infuriated about. That the clerk was such a dick and ignored all of my points or that the officer lied on his report and said I admitted to the violation. You know what, though? I don't think it was either of them. I think the thing that pisses me off the absolute most is that I have to pay $100 because I didn't sit at a stop sign for three seconds. It is the ball busting. And that is what the police do. They bust balls. They sit around and wait for some guy on his way home from work to roll through a stop sign. Or for someone to take an illegal turn. I get it if somebody is flying down the street, pull them over, but don't bust my balls. And don't favor people who live in your town over people who don't. I get it, it is a white collar crime town and you can't catch the tax fraud or the parents who buy their kids booze until it already happens. But, you know what? Don't waste your time and resources busting people for stupid shit. Especially since, more likely than not, you weren't even looking for me. And if you do bust someone's balls, give them a fucking warning. Why does this have to cost me $100? You pulled me over in my own fucking driveway, after I got out of my car and you made me stand in the rain while you made a gigantic scene. You couldn't have just given me the teenager speech and told me to be careful? I got a lecture and a ticket. THIS is why people hate the police. They treat people like crap and they don't have any sense. I just hope that guy running stop signs at 30 mph in his white car made it home safe.

And don't give me the 'town needs money' crap, either. This town has the highest utility rates in the county and property taxes are through the roof. They are about to build a new police station. I should get to write this $100 off as a charitable donation.

See, I could have been a lot more angry about that. It is a good thing I didn't write it yesterday.

...
Bet you thought it was gonna be 'Fuck the Police'

Episode 162: Cupid must watch some really messed up porn

2012-01-11T09:52:00.000-08:00

I suspect the tale I am about to share will be one of those moments of intense trauma that will come up only when I begin suffering from dementia or old person insanity in about 40 years. Out of nowhere I'll become cross with my family or throw a Jello cup at my nurse. They'll increase my meds and tell me to go to sleep. But before I file it away in that part of the brain that houses these types of incidents, I feel as though I must share it with the public. A warning. This is not for the squeamish. Children, shield your eyes. Finally, I would like to say that, although the two characters in this story represent both the very elderly and the morbidly obese, it is not my intent to offend either one of these groups. Now, on to the horror.

Let's start by introducing the characters, two regular customers at the bar I work at. I know them both well and have seen them both multiple times, but they have never met. The names have been changed to protect the somewhat innocent.

Character # 1- "Sue."

Sue has been a regular customer at the bar for just under a year. A retired teacher/ principal/ tutor, Sue is a sweet woman, she means well. Twice divorced, she lives alone and is almost always by herself when she comes in to the bar. It is a sad situation, but she is always somewhat upbeat. She is also every bartender/ server's worst nightmare. Sue likes wine. House Cabernet, to be specific, and her teeth are usually already purple when she walks through the door. Most days, she likes to come in late. Like, 15-minutes before the kitchen closes late. She requires massive amounts of maintenance, like two bags of chips, some cornbread to go (usually after the cornbread is long gone) and packing up her desert in a to go box even though she wants to eat it with a real spoon at the bar. There have been times I have had to squirt Hershey's syrup in to to go containers. Other times she has asked for random fruits, like pomegranate or avocado (is that a fruit or a vegetable?) because she didn't want to go to the grocery store. She has her own drink, the "Sue Mai Thai," which I have to keep saved in my phone's notebook because it is in no way an actual Mai Thai, it is more of a combination of rum and fruit. Kind of like rum sangria.

None of this seems all that difficult, but combine it all together with 35-40 other guests who need help at the bar, or with the end of the night cleaning and stocking that needs to be done before we close, and it gets to be a bit much. I am at the point where I can anticipate her moves. I see her come in and I just fill a to go box with chips and cornbread, grab all sorts of napkins and silverware and boxes and just wait for her order. I essentially just give Sue her own service area.

Eventually, she will take a 20-30 minute shit. On occasion, this has lasted until after we were closed. We drew straws to see who would have to go in to the bathroom and tell Sue that it was 1:15 and despite what her colon was telling her, she had to go. Luckily, she appeared before that drastic measure was taken.

Perhaps the most important element to this story is Sue's physical appearance. Again, this is not meant to offend anyone.

Sue is obese. She isn't fat, or big boned, or hefty or wide. She is obese. Like you read about. Her ass is so big that it literally looks like she has taken the asses of two fat women and sewn them together on either side of her body. They are so big that they move independently of one another when she walks. I would estimate, and I swear I am not exaggerating, that from left to right, her ass measures at least three feet in length. The rest of her body is appropriately shaped. her head, topped with a giant, curly white lady afro that appears to never have been brushed, seems tiny. From the neck down she increases in size through the middle, peaking in the double wide ass area and then decreasing in size down to her feet. Sue on a bar stool is equal to you or I sitting on a plunger turned upside down.

The reason for Sue's size is not difficult to hypothesize. Her diet is deplorable. And that is coming from a guy who lives primarily on cheese and gummy bears. She spends her day sitting at bars and drinking wine. It is painful to watch her move. Again, I tell all of you this not to be mean, Sue is a sweet woman, but out of honesty. That's the way it is folks, I'm not making this up.

Sue is notorious both in my bar and in other bars around town. Nice lady, likes to drink wine, likes to talk. If she gets drunk enough she will tell you all about her first husband who left her for a 16-year-old, got hooked on meth and shot himself. Love that story.

Character #2. "Jack."

Jack is the dictionary definition of a crazy old man. Somewhere between 70 and a billion years old, Jack has insane Albert Einstein/ Doc Brown hair, white as a ghost, all over his head. He talks like Whitey from Adam Sandler's Eight Crazy Nights and he loves Boston College. He claims to be a lawyer, but he told me once he was retired and only holds a license in the state of Georgia where he helps a friend of his work on cases from time to time. This makes me think that he is probably just a crazy man who has hallucinated a former career. And 'Georgia' is more than likely just his doctor's office or the bank.

He used to come in all of the time, order one beer, and stare at the Boston College football games. Eventually, I had to stop ringing in his beer because more often than not he would just wander off an forget to pay. One night he came in with his wife, who is much younger (by comparison) and rather attractive. They sat in a booth in the corner and had dinner. Prior to the food arriving, Jack wandered off and ended up at the bar where he began to engage in a passionate discussion about Vietnam and Barack Obama with some couple who were having dinner. He left his wife in the corner alone. Eventually she just packed up the food to go, paid and left him there. I have no idea if he even realized.

Last night Jack met Sue. It was a typical January Tuesday. Pretty slow, but there were people at the bar. Most of whom were regulars, with the exception of one kid who called me a 'fucking prick' for asking him for his ID, ordered onion rings that he didn't touch and then left me a $19 tip. Weird shit like that happens all of the time.

Sue came in around 7 p.m., shockingly early for her. In fact, the manager on duty and I did an air high five across the restaurant when we saw her simply because we knew there was no chance of one of us dragging her two asses out of the bathroom at 1 a.m. We had a typical Sue evening for a while. She ordered a shepherd's pie pizza with extra meat (yes, that exists, and, yes, it is as disgustingly unhealthy as it sounds), crushed some wine and read a book. I was fine with all of this except for the fact that she was sitting at a seat that was both just feet away from the computer and directly behind the main beer taps and liquor well, so I could not really get away from her at any point. To her left were these two guys, Alex and Ernie, a couple of stoners who cook at the Pub 99 down the street (it is a national statistic that 97 percent of all white line cooks in the United States are stoners, by the way). Alex's sister works with me and I see them once or twice a week. They were extremely high and had come in to watch the Bruins and eat some nachos. That's a nice Tuesday night, right there. To her right was a revolving door of customers.

About an hour after Sue had arrived, after she finished dinner and just after she ordered her bread pudding, Jack walked in. I was surprised to see him as it had been about three or four months since he was in the restaurant. He took the open seat in between Sue and Alex. I brought him his beer, asked how he was and moved on. It must have been 10-15 minutes of me helping other people and doing my job until I looked over and saw them talking to one another.

"Oh, good," I thought. "Now the both of them will leave me alone for the rest of the night."

I was half right. It didn't occur to me that the two of them had hit it off until I looked at the clock and realized how long Sue had been there. We were going on three hours. Even for Sue, this was a long stay. Then I went over and noticed her book was closed and pushed aside. I looked at her tab. Five glasses of wine. That is one more than usual. She was in it to win it tonight. Then, Jack asked me for another beer. Jack NEVER gets two beers. "Uh oh," I thought.

I walked over to Alex.

"Uh, hey, what's up with this crew over here?"

"I dunno, man," he giggled. "But this old dude is laying it on THICK."

This didn't make sense to me. Jack was married, or so I thought, to an attractive, out of his league woman. Even if he had been drinking all night his goggles couldn't block out Sue's purple teeth, bees nest hair and pure mass. Plus, she just ate a meat and potatoes pizza covered in scallions, her breath must have been atrocious.

Just then another regular, Kirk, who is also somewhat of a friend of mine, came in. His usual spot was to the right of where Sue was sitting. He likes the middle of the bar, I think it is because he hopes one day some beautiful woman will have nowhere else to sit and have to join him. Unfortunately, even if that happens, I doubt he would actually speak to her anyway so it wouldn't matter. Anyway, Kirk came in and was scoping out a place to sit. He knows Sue and Jack and gave me a look when he noticed they were talking (at this point, they may or may not have been holding hands, I'm a little sketchy on the timeline). I just looked up and said, "Kirk, if I were you I'd get as far away from this scene as possible." And he did, to a seat in the corner where he could see, but not hear what was going on.

I work at what I consider to be a 'date bar.' We have a full menu with much more than just pub food, we have a pseudo-classy atmosphere, it is laid back and usually fairly calm and quiet. We have sports on TV but it is optional to pay attention. Most nights, the radio plays classic rock. It is a good alternative to college dives and trendy spots if you want to just have a few drinks, a good meal and some quiet conversation. Plus, our bar is huge, so there is usually always a place to hang out.

As a result, we get a LOT of dates. Awkward blind dates are big, there are a lot of catching up from high school dates, work dates, middle aged rebound dates or simply just traditional couples on dates dates. Thus, seeing two people making out at the bar is not exactly out of the ordinary. I have found that most people between 21-35 do not do this, and most people over 60 do not do this, it is the 35-59 year-old crowd that tends to get a little handsy and erotic in public settings. I am sure there are reasons for this. Many of these people may be dating again after long marriages that end in divorce, some may be having affairs or others may have simply just met on the Internet for a nice night out and some dirty parking garage sex. Whatever the case, about once a month there is a tit-grabbing, tongue-kissing couple somewhere at the bar making people feel uncomfortable. I am just thankful we don't have couches. A friend of mine that bartends down the street at a bar with couches has told me he has had to interrupt the occasional hand job. That is not in my job description, thank you very much.

In any event, with all of the making out and groping I see at work, one would think I'd be immune, or at the very least prepared, to see it from just about anyone. No sir. Not last night. Not Jack and Sue.

I will never forget this moment as it is scorched on my corneas and engraved in the deepest part of my brain forever. I turned around to pour a beer and I looked at Sue. She was standing. She had paid her tab and had her coat on. Jack stood up, grabbed her face passionately, like, REALLY passionately, and planted a kiss. Worse, she liked it. She dove in for more. I saw her tongue. I saw him grab her boob (or at the very least one of the boob-shaped rolls covering her midsection). Then, they exchanged numbers. Now, seeing two people kiss is nothing. People kiss all day, everywhere. This was a French kiss. A movie scene, under the bleachers at a high school football game, tongue-swirling, spit-swapping, face-mashing hair-pulling "I want to stick it in you" kiss.

Prior to this happening, I told Kirk that if Jack and Sue left together I would not be able to sleep that night due to the horrific mental imagery of what may be taking place. At no point in my naive little brain did I ever imagine that they would start making out. That he would be scraping the bread pudding off of the roof of her gigantic mouth with his old, crazy tongue. Have you ever seen an old person eat? Have you seen how much they drool!!!! I'm not just saying Jack is old because I'm in my 20's still. I'm saying he's old because this dude is fucking OLD. Kind of like how I don't just think Sue is fat because she is kind of hefty. Sue is OBESE. Like Montel Williams is going to have to help her pay for the forklift to get her out of her house some day. This is what I'm witnessing at this point in my life. At 28-years-old, midway through a Tuesday night, I am logging time watching the Grim Reaper try to stick his head in a hippo's mouth.

"It's fine," I told Kirk. "At least she is gone."

I went over to talk to Jack. I wanted to ask so many questions. "How is your wife?" "How drunk are you?" "How many different kinds of meat do you taste right now?"

Instead he just looked at me, and before I could speak he said "Wow, what a cool lady!" and scooted off to the bathroom.

I looked over at Alex and Ernie, they were staring at the bar as if they had just witnessed an execution, or watched their team lose a heart breaking game. Just staring down. Asking themselves 'Why? WHY GOD WHY??" White as a ghost, I walked upstairs and told my manager what had happened. She buried her head in her hands and said "I am so glad I came up to the office when I did."

I was still recovering from the trauma, texting coworkers for support, when Sue walked back in. She came up behind Jack, who may or may not have already forgotten who she was, and whispered in his ear. "Is this seat taken?"

Jack turned around, put his hand on her inner thigh and those old, wrinkly lips went back to work, smashing in to those fat, purple smackers on the other side. For some reason the only image I had in my head was a thawed hot dog struggling to break through a cobweb. It. Was. Awful.

This went on, and on, and on, for about an hour and a half more. Kissing, noodling, talking, kissing. Until Jack either confessed to being married or Sue sobered up. Eventually they had a talk about how they felt very attracted to each other, but they should be friends. At one point, Sue got to talking about her cats (of course) and Jack said, in soap opera tone, "Sue, take me home to meat those cats." A good line, but it didn't work. Finally, after most of the bar had left, Sue gave Jack one more taste of whatever collection of crap she consumed that day and left. Seconds later, Jack followed. I would love to convince myself that they went their separate ways and Jack didn't sweet talk himself in to Sue's mini-van and eventually to the bed she will some day not be able to get out of. But I am too smart for that. I can't convince myself that all of that was for nothing.

Maybe this does not come across as well because you do not know Sue or Jack. Or maybe my disgust is unwarranted. But there are certain people in the world you just don't want to imagine in those intimate, vulnerable situations. And I'm still having trouble keeping food down over this one. I get it, everybody needs to get some once in a while. Humans are animals with needs and instincts, and, admittedly, if these were two attractive people in the same situation, I would feel nothing more than maybe a little bit awkward at the fact it was happening so close to me. But, it wasn't two attractive people. It wasn't even two unattractive people. It was an old, old, old, crazy, senile, married man and a gigantically obese, very drunk twice-divorced woman who was still holding in her post-meat pizza shit, licking each other's faces. No thank you.

...

If the 80's gave us anything (besides AIDS) it was synchronized live guitar jamming, poor choices in leather pant styling and Prince. I'll take all three, thank you very much. (Yes, I know this Prince song isn't from the 80's, but I like it better. And the fly girls are hotter than they would have been 25 years ago).

Episode 161: Stick shifts and douchebags

2012-01-04T10:03:00.000-08:00

As a man, I am not afraid to admit that I have driven a stick shift exactly four times in my life. Twice while my 15-year-old fake high school girlfriend's fat, mustached dad was attempting to teach her (and by default, me) to drive one weekend. Once while screwing around with some metal/skateboarding kids I kind of thought were my friends in high school and once while attempting to drive a drunk friend's car home in college.

Three out of the four experiences, minus the one time with the kids who listened to Slipknot, went fairly well. After a few stalls I eventually got the hang of it and managed to nurse the car around with minimal transmission damage. From these experiences I learned three things. 1. I did not like driving with two feet. 2. Driving a stick is more work than it needs to be and 3. It is really only cool if you are driving a race car. Stopping and starting and shifting and clutching and rolling backwards is actually kind of annoying if you are just planning on getting over to the Target for an 8-pack of toilet paper and some batteries.

It was also around this time that I learned that primary category of people who own stick shifts are douchebags. Or cocks. Or meat sticks. Or Chooches. Or whatever term the natives in your parts use to describe some gym rat, tattooed "dude guy" who scores tail with his Honda Prelude and listens to either neu metal or popular hip hop. You know, guys who buy Toyotas or Subarus and add after stock spoilers that look like shopping cart handles, or decal kits or those little blue LED lights that make the bottom of the car light up.

When I was in high school these kids used to hang out in front of the Advanced Auto Parts (Or Double-A-P as they called it. Yes, that is a real story) and smoke cigarettes and compare aftermarket parts. As I have grown older and become an adult, these people are now insurance salesmen or construction workers or pizza delivery guys or whatever else they decided to do after their hairlines started to recede, and they don't show off their cars much. Many of them buy more expensive European stick shifts if they have the money, others pimp out Chevy Cobalts and pretend that it isn't just a Cavalier with a jazzy new name (which is actually a color named after an element, sooooo, your 'Cobalt' probably shouldn't be orange). They still date tan girls from the gym or hairstylists or the occasional 'used to be ugly and puts out easily now that she is a little hotter' banker type chick, and deep down, they still want to cruise the streets of their hometowns trying to impress, well, other idiots from their high school, but they don't. Instead they just rev their engines at stop lights and rock backwards when they start their cars. Most of them still think Jay Z is cool though. That doesn't change.

It is important to note here that I have an affinity for both sweet looking street cars and race cars. As a teenager I drove a Nissan 240 SX and a bright yellow Hyundai Tiburon. Both had all of their stock parts, though, and neither was a stick shift. I also got rid of both of them due to impracticality. I love cars. If I had the finances I would buy a very nice car. Maybe a Mercedes, or a Cadillac or a BMW. But I wouldn't be a dick about it. I think it is actually the sound of the revving stick-shift engine, which sounds so cool when coming out of a race car, that actually increases a person's douchebag meter when they are driving on a residential street.

Where am I going with this? What sparked this? I'm not really sure. I think it was an experience that I had last night, which actually proved everything that I just wrote completely wrong.

Because I drive a modest,silver, four door, American made family sedan, I have occasional car troubles. Lately, it has been my battery not being able to handle the cold weather. Whenever the temperature drops below freezing it won't start. Just 'click click click.' I have had to call AAA three times this winter. And it has been unseasonably warm.

*On a side note, I'd like to point out here how absolutely incompetent AAA can be. It is a great service that everyone should have but, damn, am I on a cold streak. All three times I've had to call AAA this season I've had the same Spanish kid come to jump my car. The first time, he runs his little 'battery test' and tells me my battery still has all of its life. The second time, he runs the same test, tells me the same thing and says all I have to do is make sure all of my accessories are off before trying to start my car (yeah, cuz everyone with a healthy battery has to do that, right?) The last time the dumb little shit doesn't even run a test, tells me it is my starter and sends me to a mechanic. The mechanic's exact quote, after my car started three straight times without aid in his garage was "Well, there isn't anything wrong with your car, you probably just have an old battery." Cool test, AAA. Cool fucking test. I could have told you that the first time. Thanks for wasting, my time... I digress.

Anyway, yesterday the temperature dropped to a miserable 22 degrees in the afternoon. My car just barely started when I left for work and I knew right away that I was going to need a jump to get home. But I will be dammed if I was calling up that little tow truck idiot again so I asked a girl at work who I knew had a car (which is an extreme rarity in the restaurant industry) to please jump me before I left. She handed me her keys and said 'Let me know if you have any questions, my car is kind of weird.' How weird can it be? It is a Chevy. Besides, a battery is a battery, right? After 15 minutes in sub-freezing temperatures at 1 in the morning trying to locate her damn battery, I had to consult her owners manual.

Turns out that her new aged car actually has two batteries, but neither one of them are normal batteries, they are 'no maintenance' batteries, which apparently is code for 'you can't jump your friend's car because one of us is buried in the undercarriage of your car and the other one only has a positive charge.' The manual actually said that if the battery dies, in order to jump it with another car the batteries had to be the same, low voltage and grounded by a piece of long, unpainted metal. In other words, if I tried to jump my car with her fancy battery there is a good chance one or both of the vehicles, and possibly myself, could have burst in to flames. All in the name of saving energy. C'MON! Sure, great, this probably saves an iceberg somewhere or preserves gas or something crunchy and stupid, but dammit, it screwed me over last night.

The girl felt bad and didn't want me to wait for AAA, so she called her boyfriend to come give me a jump. Now, among the most demoralizing moments in a man's life, having some chick you barely know call her boyfriend that you have never met to come jump your car in 10 degree weather is right near the top. The only thing worse would have been if I asked him to change my tire while he was there.

I waited for this kid for a bit, freezing my ass off, until I heard the rev of a douchebag engine rumbling down the street. "Oh, great," I said. "Of course this gym rat girl has a stick shift boyfriend." As he Tokyo drifted in to the parking lot I could hear the bass bumping from his Nissan Sentra. It was too dark to notice aftermarket parts.

Fearing one of those fantastic meat stick interactions, I gave him a 'dude' head nod and attached my trusty, rusty jumper cables to his engine. As it turns out, this guy happened to be a pretty nice dude. He spoke intelligently, didn't judge me for needing to have my vehicle serviced and carried on a friendly, cordial conversation.

See. Not all stick shift gym guys are douchebags. I admit my mistake. Now it is off to Pep Boys to get raped on a new battery installation. The only place cheaper is AAA and I'd rather spend an extra $20 than have that dumb teenager try and replace my battery. He'll probably tell me I need a new transmission.

...

My musical opinion of the day: Fuck Rush. No need to ask any questions. Just accept it.

On second thought...

2012-01-03T07:28:00.000-08:00

So, it is a new year and with that comes a bit of reflection. Among the many revelations that I have had during this holiday time, perhaps the most important is this: I am not nearly as clever and motivated as I thought I was. Ending this blog and trying to begin a new one at this stage was not necessarily a horrible plan, but it was quite misguided, and anyone who attempted to follow my feeble attempt at doing so, the appropriately titled 'Bog Dump,' quickly realized, along with myself, that it wasn't going to work. I am not connected to anything, and I am not motivated enough by current events to maintain any sort of hip, Internet-savvy blog. I hate politics. I hate celebrities and I hate waking up in the morning and having to care. So, today, January 3, 2012, I have decided to revive Trial By Fire and continue to share my thoughts here, rather than attempt to recreate myself as some sort of blogging madman with a trendy website name.

Despite the title, this blog has always been about more than parenting anyway, so it will continue to be about everything, and it will continue to be at this address. Enjoy.

Now, a brief synopsis of what you have missed. The holidays have come and gone and my house is now filled with trains. The big ticket gift this year was a train table and Av still can't believe it. I would say she spends 4-5 hours a day playing with it. I managed to get off cheap by purchasing many of the Thomas the Tank Engine characters off of EBay, a move that worked out fairly well aside from the one clearly counterfeit batch that I got from China. I thought about sending them back, but she is a toddler. She will never notice the smeared paint or the slightly askew parts. All I have to say is that Thomas the Tank Engine must be friggin loaded at this point, because these little wooden trains are damn expensive and they keep developing new characters and new movies so you have to keep buying more. I picture that little blue train on MTV cribs, showing off his pimp new shed, draping gold chains over his funnel, dancing around little hoe trains with big booties while he sips champagne. The point is that it is quite the gold mine. An entertaining gold mine, though, I will say the character development in that series is impeccable. My repertoire of voice characters has vastly expanded.

The best part of Christmas was that it was really the first year that Av had an idea of what was going on. She had a great time and she got lots of exciting presents. Watching her joy made the season much more tolerable than usual, something I will enjoy for the next three or four years until she becomes one of those asshole kids who want iPods and cell phones and computers for Christmas. None of which she will probably ever get and she will proceed to resent me in to adulthood, just like you and I did with our parents. Ahhh tradition.

As for myself, nothing has changed. I am still a bartender, still treated like a 16-year-old at my job and still spend most of the daylight hours feeling useless and unproductive. I stopped freelancing for the time being because I despise the new editor at the website I was working for and essentially started blowing him off. I do not feel bad about this. I will not be treated like an underling for $40 a story, thank you very much. Eventually, I will have to get back in to it somewhere, or perhaps I can find a new career. So far that isn't quite working out. I like to take naps.

I did join a gym for the first time in 4 years. That's a great time. All of the smells and noises and sights are the same. I still forget to charge my iPod every time I so I have to listen to the shitty stock pop music they play at a barely audible level, I still get tired really fast and want to go home after 10 minutes and I still feel weird, awkward and out of place lifting weights. But, I have to go. My father had a heart attack this year and since getting out of the hospital he has done nothing but remind me of all the hereditary health problems in my family and insist that I get all sorts of tests at the doctor. Actual quote "Between the cancer on your mom's side and the heart problems on mine, you're pretty much fucked." Awesome. Thanks, Dad. In the past two months I have been convinced that I have everything from esophageal cancer to ALS. I'm probably fine, but I figured I should probably get my fat ass to the gym anyway, at least to prevent Monica from leaving me for someone in their 20's when she hits her sexual prime in a few years. Yes, these are things that I think about. Yes, I am probably insane.

One of the many awesome things about my gym is that it just opened, so all sorts of people I know are joining, too. Nothing increases your embarrassment and insecurity at the gym like seeing one of the cooks from work, or some lady you know from Target and so on. Oh, and apparently old men still think its cool to just show off their balls in the locker room. How is this still ok?

As the year goes on I have a few modest goals. First, I want to lose some weight and look good enough to actually want to go to the beach this summer. Two, I want to win my bowling league. We are alone in third place and digging ourselves a hole, but I think we have a shot. We should probably drink less. Third, I would like to have some sort of plan regarding my professional future. I can't be a bartender forever, and I have decided this will be the last apartment I will ever rent. My landlord is a dick, and I am sick of having to share a driveway. Finally, I want to restore this blog to something I do consistently and that people actually read. That is all. Shouldn't be too much to ask. Most- all of this, actually- depends on my own laziness and motivation. If I can achieve three of these four the chances of me waking up in the morning and not hating everything about myself on a daily basis will probably be above-average. Again, not making any promises.

...

2011 was a shitty year for music. I couldn't name you the majority of the pop stars on the planet and there hasn't been a new band or musical group that I enjoy in a long, long time. The Black Keys have a new album that I hated, loved, hated again and now feel largely indifferent about minus a few songs. I'm more angry that I have to pay $75 for shitty seats just to see them live now, which I refuse to do. Other musical decisions I have made this year include not hating Lady Gaga anymore (She could just be so much worse compared to all of the other crap out there) and I have officially lost any and all remaining respect I had for Weezer. Which wasn't much to begin with.

Here's hoping Queens of the Stone Age follow Tool's lead in 2012 and get off their asses and back on tour. I might actually pay $75 to see this.

Episode 160: The world has lost its damn mind

2011-11-08T08:07:00.000-08:00

I have been sitting on my couch staring at this blank screen for about 15 minutes. Av is watching the Thomas the Tank Engine "Day of the Diesels" movie for the 400th time, reciting every line as it is spoken. I remember when I was a kid I had a friend that would do the same thing whenever Wayne's World was on. I am pretty sure I hate Wayne's World for that reason and that reason only. I haven't got to that point with Thomas yet, though.

In any event, it has been five weeks since my last blog post. Sometimes I find myself with little to do and try and convince myself that I should be on this site pleasing you all with my words. Then I find other things to do, like read Internet articles, nap, have a snack or pick up one of the 25,ooo messes that surround me on a daily basis. Today I logged on and looked at the other blogs that I follow. As far as I can tell exactly two have been updated in the past six months, and the most recent one was over two weeks ago. This led me to wonder. Is blogging dead? Has this made up phase of Internet culture surpassed us? Has the age of Twitter (which I still struggle to understand as well as resent as it has become a 'legitimate' news source in our society) risen above long form writing? I don't know. But given that the world is going to end today - if you believe conspiracy theorists and lunatics- I figured I might as well limit my self-loathing for the day and give the aliens aboard the asteroid that is tumbling toward Earth something to read.

Oh, you haven't heard of this yet? Well, I hope it isn't too late for you. Apparently, according to astronomers, there is some sort of air craft carrier sized piece of space junk passing by Earth today. By all accounts it will not hit Earth, or the Moon, but it will come closer than any asteroid has come to the planet in some time. It is important to note here that astronomers and scientists are in no way concerned about this being a threat to humanity, rather, most of them are looking at it as an excellent research opportunity. There is decidedly no danger to our existence. Unless, off course, you are a lunatic that thinks they are all lying.

In my Internet perusing, I have stumbled upon many an article (see: blog) that suggest this space junk will hit Earth, or the Moon, or both and just spiral us in to a hellish apocalypse. Depending on who you believe in this amateur doomsday religious fanaticism, some of you may be spared if you are A. Christian. B. In the government or C. living in the state of New Hampshire. Seriously. One guy seems to think that New Hampshire will be some sort of peninsula in a lake off fire spared from God, or the alien's wrath. However, I would contend that a world where the only people left are people from New Hampshire is the equivalent to Hell on Earth. That is, unless you like rednecks, republican racism, personalized license plates and sloppy, drunk, slutty women. And, let's be honest, who doesn't love those things?

Much of the reasoning behind this doomsday theory is centered around a nationwide test of the Emergency Alert System (EAS), which most of you are familiar with as that horrifying noise that shocks you awake after you fall asleep with your TV on, or that thing that messes up your cable box so you have to reset it and loose your channel guide and features for an hour. Well, apparently, they now have the ability to send out alerts on this on a nationwide basis from the White House control room, among other places, in the event of, I don't know, attack or pandemic or any other variety of terrifying events- like asteroid threats. This, for some reason, does not make people happy. Because, obviously, our evil black president is planning some sort of attack on us today, because in the Bible it says something about the Mark of the Beast and not being gay and the collapse of the world financial system. Or something. Sorry, it's hard to keep track of on account of all of my sinning.

In any event, these idiots seem to think that because in a press release the government said it would be up to individual broadcast networks to add the 'this is only a test' audio to the production that it must not actually be a test. Some have gone as far as to speculate that they are hesitant to call it a test because they think this asteroid is going to hit Earth. Ignoring, of course, that the EAS test is scheduled for 2 p.m. and the asteroid isn't expected to pass Earth until nearly 7 p.m. But let's not let the facts get in the way of our conspiracy theory. Head to your bomb shelters. Wait, you don't have a bomb shelter?! Obama does. That's what you get for shopping at Target and listening to gangsta rap.

There, now that we have covered that, and we are all ready to burn in hell a few hours from now, you know, because there is porn on the Internet or something, let's look at some other events that have taken place since we last met here on this blog, shall we?

1. Occupy Everywhere. In case you missed it, some angry folks decided that they could somehow solve the world's financial nightmares by continuously camping out on Wall Street and protesting American capitalism. Somewhere along the line, hippies and unemployed college students decided it would be a good idea to do this in other cities. Things didn't go so well in Oakland, where there were riots (honestly, what did they expect) and there were spattered amounts of other incidents across the country. Here in Boston it seems that most of these smelly rich kids with a cause did little more than play acoustic guitar and bitch about student loans, accomplishing nothing. For all I know they could still be there. I'm not sure, though, because I have a job, and things to do with my life. On a hilarious side note, there was a brief Occupy Salem movement, which resulted in exactly four people standing outside the post office holding one sign that said 'End the War.' Great job guys.

I'm not necessarily against protest and rebellion. All I'm saying is that these kids would make more of a difference if they just went to class and learned something. Then maybe they can use their brains to change things. Instead of smoking weed in a tent and getting mad at the police.

2. Penn State sex scandal. This story is disgusting and infuriating. In case you missed it, an assistant football coach at Penn State is accused of raping and molesting young boys over a 15-year span, many times in the facilities of the university. He met these boys through a charity that he established specifically to help underprivileged young boys. Now two members of the university have been brought up on perjury charges for lying to the grand jury during an investigation, and several others have been scrutinized for not informing authorities after another coach walked in on the suspect and a young boy doing it in the shower. It is widely speculated that the university, as well as university police, kept the incidents quiet to avoid scandal. If this is true, they should throw all of them in jail.

Here is my thing. I have read a lot about this and it fascinates me. All of these former players and coaches and community members are saying how shocked they are that someone they knew and loved could do this. They had no idea. Despite at least two documented occasions where this man was caught in the shower with a young boy. According to the indictment, this man would take young boys on vacation with him, he would let them stay over night at his house, he would bring them on campus and seemingly everywhere that he went. Now, I get that he ran a charity for these boys, but c'mon. How does your wife not know you are raping these kids in your basement? 'Oh, hey honey, I'm gonna go check on little Billy and make sure he is ok, I'll be back in a half hour." Is she blind? Mute? Paraplegic? How does no one that you work with get suspicious when you are bringing an 11-year-old to lift waits and practice wrestling moves? I don't know any pedophiles, but I like to think that if I did I would be able to identify them based solely on behavior. People who rape kids can't act normal in every day social situations, right? And if I worked with them every day I might ask myself a few questions if there is always an 8-year-old boy in tow. Right? Maybe I'm off base here, but it seems like even the slightest suspicion of child rape should be handled better than this.

3. The Justin Bieber pregnancy scandal. I can't decide if I want the baby to be his or not. On one hand, if it is, he will have disappointed legions of fans and followers who thought he was wholesome, he will have to pay millions in child support and his squeaky clean image will be shattered. All of these things are good. However, I can see all of this backfiring. I can see him becoming a 'bad boy' and gaining more fans, as well as the sympathy of others for the gold-digging baby mama. Then he will turn 19 or 20 and just get to nail all of the hot actresses. Honestly, I kind of always hoped he was gay. Not like, regular gay. Like, creepy, I can't let go of my childhood because fame robbed it from me, child molester, Michael Jackson gay. I don't even know if that is classified as being gay. I think it is more ambiguous, disgusting sexual deviance. Yeah, that's what I want. I want Bieber to be hated and shunned by society because he is a creep.

4. The Michael Jackson trial. Speaking of the King of Creep himself, MJ's doctor was convicted of involuntary manslaughter, or something like that, this week. I guess he's guilty but for Christ sake, was Michael Jackson really the picture of health? How much longer was he going to live? Oh, and let me remind you, he was also a pedophile. Which means that the only thing he deserves more than death is eternal prison beatings. I say let this guy off with a fine and some probation. One less pervert off the streets.

5. Andy Rooney is dead. I totally thought this happened five years ago.

I am sure there are more stories we could discuss, most that are probably more important to society and involve fewer pedophiles, but I am largely out of touch and I don't much care for politics and world news. I am a simple man. The EAS will tell me if I should be concerned. Unless you want to discuss what happened on Thomas and Friends or Curious George today. On an interesting side note, Av calls Curious George 'Monkeyous George' which is just hilarious.

Av is doing well. She is an almost-three-year-old, which means she is largely a dick. She is usually pretty funny, especially when she says things like 'I told you 100 times I don't want to get dressed" or "You always tell me to be careful. Don't tell me again or you are going to go in to a time out." The NBA is in a lockout, the Patriots suck, I'm tired of my job and I have had three bad weeks of bowling in a row. Everything is falling apart. Just in time for the annual winter mental meltdown. Nice.

See, it is a good thing that I have Av as a distraction, because the world has lost it's damn mind and I can't handle it. I don't need to be getting fired up over pedophile celebrities and asteroids every day. I have enough internal conflict to deal with.

...

Episode 159: She's asleep, quick it's my alotted internet time!

2011-09-27T10:24:00.001-07:00

You know it has been a long time since you have written a blog when you sign on to the website and it forces a bunch of software updates on to your computer. Sorry. In the words of Peter Gibbons in Office Space, It's a problem of motivation.

Well, it isn't just a problem of motivation, it is also a problem of living an entire day with an almost-3-year old who has already developed the attitude of a 16-year-old. She rarely allows me time to myself, usually just to take a shower if I put on a really interesting show for her. Otherwise, she is right there. Grabbing on to the back pockets of my jeans while I clean the kitchen, turning the light on and off while I go to the bathroom, stealing food off of my plate even though she rejected what I was making for myself and forced me to make her something completely different for lunch. All of this, coupled with the fact that 85 percent of the time I am on my computer she will walk over and slam it shut, make for a difficult time when trying to craft a well-written account of the recent events of our lives. Come to think of it, this sounds more like spending your day with an old, grouchy hermit than a 16-year-old. Still equally as challenging.

Another issue I have come across is that of our beloved, cherished, much anticipated afternoon nap has all but disappeared. It was bordering on extinction to begin with, but up until last week I at least had the luxury of putting her in her crib and fooling myself in to thinking she would fall asleep. In reality, she just would play for an hour and then scream until I came and got her. Still, that was an hour of relative sanity. All of this came to a crashing (literally) end about two weeks ago when she decided that she was going to attempt the inevitable and try to climb out of her crib. She escaped the incident unharmed, aside from a bit of soreness and a lot of tears, which is a shock considering the completely idiotic method she apparently used to do the deed. According to her own reenactment of the events, rather than put her leg up and climb over, or stand on the rails and try to climb down the other side, she leaned over the railing face first on her stomach and swan dove on to the floor. Idiot.

All of this means that she now has a toddler bed that she can get out of whenever she dam well pleases. And trust me, she pleases. The only reason that I have even been allowed to try and write today is because she fell asleep in the car on the way home from the store. Because she woke up at 5:30 in the morning. Because she is a psychopath. I was able to type the bulk of this on the porch while she slept in the car in the driveway, but about halfway through she woke up and I had to convince her to start painting on her easel so that I could finish up. The clock is ticking. She is already snooping around asking what I am doing.

In any event, that is about the entirety of my day. Playing trains, cars, painting, putting together a variety of snacks, and arguing. Lots and lots of arguing. On Sunday we are going to 'take a ride on Thomas.' I can only imagine what that will actually entail, but for $18/ ticket it had better be awesome.

...

Av's song choice of the week. "I want the White Jack one"

Back to it

2011-09-06T09:20:00.000-07:00

Summer vacation has come to an end for just about everyone, including this guy, so it is time to get back to work. Back to trying to keep a 2-year-old alive and out of trouble. Back to waking up before the sun. Back to narrating my life on an Internet forum that literally tens of people may or may not check on a bi-monthly basis.

A quick recap of the summer's events. The usual zoo trips and park days were slightly reduced thanks to much of our time being taken up by our long-anticipated move off of Roslyn Street. The move went slightly more smoothly than the last one, but it did still entirely suck, as all moves do. More on that in a moment.

We also took a family vacation to Sesame Place, a small, Sesame Street-themed water park buried in the doldrums of Eastern Pennsylvania. The park was a lovely time if you were between the ages of 2-6 and Av got to meet all of her idols, including Bert and Ernie and Count, who was by far the most personable.

On a personal note, I continue to question why Sesame Street ignores the popularity of Grover, who was not available for any meet and greets or picture taking. The same goes for Telly Monster, who, along with the previously mentioned adorable blue monster, is one of my favorites. I enjoy Telly for two reasons. First, he looks like the actor Craig T. Nelson, better known to many of you as 'Coach.' Second, much like myself, Telly is paranoid, neurotic, slightly bi-polar and obsessed with random things such as triangles and tubas.

Both of these characters were featured only in the Sesame Place parade, held at 2:30 each day, in which the characters danced and sang down the middle of the theme park. Pictures and meet and greets were designated only for Cookie Monster, Count, Zoe and Bert and Ernie.

You may be asking yourself the question, 'What about Elmo?' Well, I'll tell you something about that over-hyped little red punk. He has star disease and he needs to be taken down a notch. Elmo has his own area of the park. His own studio where you have to go if you want to watch him perform. If you want your picture taken you have to go to a separate area and pay to have it done. Even worse, we paid for the 'lunch with the characters' in which characters join you in a cafeteria and sit at your table for photo opportunities. Count, Cookie Monster and Big Bird were readily available for everyone to love while Elmo was placed in the corner, on a chair, and there was a charge for pictures. This is unreal to me. Elmo sucks. This is all because of that stupid 'Tickle me Elmo' doll from the 90's. Elmo is the worst. Can't even talk right, ambiguous voice, gold fish having little pansy.

Like I said, the theme park was great for the kids. The location of the theme park was dreadful for adults. I don't know if any of you have even been to Pennsylvania, but it is a miserable state. There is nothing there but retail and Wa Wa convenience stores. And don't even get me started on beer. I had to go to a pizza shop to ask where I could buy beer. The kid tells me that in the state liquor stores can only sell beer, wine OR booze. One of the three. Not both. Not all three. He gave me directions to the nearest store, which was like trying to track down pirate booty. When I finally found a place, the only place around that even mentioned alcohol sales, it was an empty garage with a neon sign that says 'our beer is cold. Yeah, if you have to advertise that the beer is cold, you have a problem. Anyway, I go in to the store and realize that all they sell are cases. No 6-packs, no 12- packs. Cases. So, I got a case of Yuingling, the beer that everyone who doesn't live in Pennsylvania or New Jersey says is the greatest beer of all time. It is not. It tastes like vanilla Budweiser.

All-in-all the trip was fine. Av had a fantastic time and that is all that matters. But if anyone ever asks you to go to Pennsylvania, I suggest you say no. Just some advice.

The move

Leave it to us to be the only people who have ever moved out of the ghetto, to the suburbs, on a tree-lined street, two houses down from a cop, across the street from a firefighter, and find ourselves in a worse situation than we were in before. Allow me to explain.

As I have mentioned a million times here, Roslyn Street was the armpit of Massachusetts. It was loud, it was ghetto, we lived above a bunch of crazies and we absolutely had to move. Buried among the 7, 000 equally as shitty apartments we looked at on equally as shitty streets, was one gem. Located one town over in the suburbs. Beautiful, big, bright, air conditioned. Lovely. We hustled and fought and paid and did everything we could to get it, and we did. Great.

One thing the landlords failed to mention was that there is a family of 11 Spanish, or Portuguese or whatever people living up stairs. Of those 11 people, 6 of them are children. Children between the ages of 2-8. Needles to say, it is like living above a bowling alley. To make matters worse, they have a boat. A boat that is constantly parked in front of our house. Blocking half of the street, making it impossible to back out of the driveway safely. One of the adults that lives upstairs is a 450 lb woman who does nothing, NOTHING but scream at the kids. ALL DAY LONG. And for some reason every day between the hours of noon and 3 p.m. all they do is move furniture around. Their kids look in our windows. They throw trash in the back yard. Oh, and the father, Angel, is a carpenter. Of course he is. So the two days a week he isn't cleaning his boat or gutting fish on the sidewalk he is in the driveway sawing wood. Now, I don't even want to begin to speculate how a family of 11 can fit in a 4-bedroom apartment. But I don't care.

Our moron landlord, you know, the one that didn't check to see if any of the appliances worked before we moved in (three out of five of them didn't) says he has evicted them. Well, he obviously doesn't understand the eviction process because they are still here. And their court date keeps getting pushed back. Great. Perhaps the most infuriating part of all of this is that everyone in the neighborhood seems to be supporting the giant family. They love them. Well, they haven't had to live beneath them.

So, that's that. That is where we stand right now. Monica want's to move again but I'm not doing it. I'm just gonna take my kid to Petsmart during the day and avoid the noise. I'll keep you all updated on that progress.

...

These are the baby's two current favorite songs. No, I can't make sense of it, either.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x9pqFMYERbk

Episode 158: FINALLY

2011-07-07T07:46:00.000-07:00

Good news everyone, I did not go out to get a gallon of milk or a pack of smokes and never come home. I know you were all concerned that I had gone out on the lamb with some tattoo-covered, short-short-wearing chick in a wood-paneled mini van, dusting up the country side and breaking various local blue laws with my rebel-rambling ways. No, instead I was just toiling away in the purgatory that is Monica's Acer laptop with the 6-inch screen while I waited for this beast to be repaired after a screen-rocking tumble off of the arm of the couch a few weeks back. Note to self: buzzed vacuuming is detrimental to the health of small household electronics. Call off the search party, Joey Greco.

So, here we are. It has been about three weeks, it is 96 degrees outside, I have just downed a Red Bull and I am ready to write. Let's do it. Where to begin... Oh, ok. Yeah, Avelyn.

A few months ago I was talking to someone about how I thought the 'terrible two's' were a bit exaggerated. Av must have heard me have that conversation because she is seriously making up for lost time. There have been at least four times this week alone where I contemplated just handing her to the first police officer I saw and saying 'here, you deal with it.'

It isn't that she is a bad kid. It is just the whiny, bratty behavior that comes along with being two. She can pretty much say anything and put together complete sentences now, but instead of just not being a dick about things she is demanding, bossy and mean. For example. A few months ago mornings would go something like this.

Wake up around 7-7:30. Play in the crib, yell for mommy or daddy. Get up, change diaper. "What do you want for breakfast?"

"Ummmm. Cereal."

Done.

Now it goes like this:

Wake up at 6:15. Whine, yell, throw things until one of us gives in. Stand in the crib and f with us until finally we lift her out and change the diaper.

"What do you want for breakfast?"

"NO! NO BREAKFAST! CARS AND BLOCKS!!!"

(Just a side note, cars and blocks used to be a game where we would build tunnels and towns and buildings and then drive the Matchbox cars through them and knock them over and laugh. Now all it is is her playing with her Thomas the Tank Engine train set with missing parts that we bought off of Craig's list, breaking the track and yelling at me to put it back together. No fun).

At some point during cars and blocks she will yell/whine something along the lines of "I NEED CEREAL!" And then there will be a whole fight about how she isn't asking nicely and she can't have it until she does, at which point she will cry and scream until you threaten to put her back to bed, which brings more screaming.

There are also similar fights throughout the day that involve taking tubbies, eating lunch, brushing hair and cleaning up messes. So. Many. Messes. Seriously. I feel like we are in that weird transition where she is way to big for baby things, and she wants to use adult things, but she isn't coordinated enough to do it without spilling juice everywhere, knocking something over or just generally destroying everything that she touches.

I hate to say it, but since Monica has been home for the summer it has been more miserable than not. It isn't anyone's fault, it is just the terrible twos. Someone is always yelling or screaming or fighting or spilling or throwing or pooping. Av will piss one of us off and we will snap at the other and it is a whole thing. Some days I can't wait to go to work... Still, though. I always bring the milk home.

...

Perhaps the most positive thing going on right now is the fact that we are finally, FINALLY getting the hell off of Roslyn Street. Finally getting away from 2 a.m. fireworks in June, crazy neighbors fighting over stolen cigarettes, college kids drunkinly playing football in the middle of the road at 6 a.m., people hitting my car from all angles, getting contact high at 8 a.m. because my shower is over the crazy stoner bitch's bedroom downstairs, broken appliances, absentee landlords, clogged drains, convicted felons, half-way houses, dudes walking down the street pushing mattresses on top of shopping carts, stupid friggin taxi cabs beeping at all hours of the night, dog shit all over the sidewalk and W.H. Goodwin and his loud-ass, always working on his own house general contracting company. FINALLY.

I am willing to bet that most times when I am standing in front of the Walgreen's cooler, holding the milk, wondering where I can get a mini van, it is because of Roslyn Street. Now we have found a nice apartment on a tree-lined street in a duplex. It has a dishwasher and a washer and dryer on the same floor that we live on so I no longer have to swear and kick things because I can't get the overflowing laundry basket past the stupid damn baby gate that has to be up because we live on the second floor of an about-to-collapse building. FINALLY.

Perhaps the two most important things to me will be be the fact that I can purchase both a real grill and a real chair. These are really the only two things in life that I want (realistic things, I should say). I am a dad. I need a grill to cook meat on and a chair to drink beer and watch sports in. FINALLY.

...

All of this has inspired me to take a new outlook on life. An outlook that has landed me a surprising amount of ridicule. But my thing now is I am just going to try not to care. I am going to wake up, go with the day and try to do the things that make me happy, whatever those things may be. I will meditate, maybe try to be a bit more active. I have been trying to walk more to places and listen to more music. Both for physical and mental health. It is good to clear the mind. This is the new zen Dan. So far it is working 50/50. I still have a few kinks to work out. Life is confusing sometimes when you let your instincts take over. That is all for now.

...

You knew I wasn't going to come back from a three week break without at least one BLack Keys song. If this song doesn't make you want to get it on you either have no soul or no sex drive.

Episode 157: Father's Day edition

2011-06-19T07:59:00.000-07:00

Good morning all and welcome to the Father's Day edition of the blog. I have a little extra time as Monica has taken Av to visit her grandfather for the first half of the day, a wonderful gift of solidarity and peace leading up to what I am sure will be a lovely family dinner.

I'm going to watch NASCAR today. I'm also going to drink beer. Good beer. Like, $14 for a 6-pack beer. I am probably going to fall asleep about 10 minutes in to the race broadcast. No, I do not feel bad about any of this. Yes, I am an old man. As I have heard multiple times by multiple people over the past, say, 27 years.

I would also like to take this opportunity to thank my own father for not going out to get milk and never coming home, not drinking scotch and beating any of us up and resisting the urge to beat me to death with a tire iron and bury my body in the back yard when I was a complete asshole between the ages of 12-17.

That said, I am a pretty good son. I did go to college (however counterproductive that ended up being) where I was only arrested once, by campus police, and he never had to bail me out of jail. I also managed to avoid knocking up my girlfriend until I was 25, an accomplishment indeed for someone as charismatic and good looking as myself.

All of this just means that he did a pretty good job.

As for myself it is still pretty weird celebrating Father's Day, even though today will be my third one. I honestly didn't even remember that it was today until midway through the week. I guess I should be celebrated? It just feels strange. It is tough, I don't really picture myself as a dad. I mean, I am. I have a kid. I drink beer, eat meat, go to work, bitch about the house being filthy, drive a 4-door sedan with a car seat. I am definitely a dad. But somehow it feels weird celebrating Father's Day. I'm also not quite sure why dads don't get as much hoopla as moms do. Must be the whole physically squeezing the baby out of the womb thing. I like being a dad, don't get me wrong. Av is the best. She is hysterical and bizarre and infuriating and adorable, and she has taught me pretty much everything I know about life. But it still feels weird celebrating Father's Day as a father, not just a son.

Another dad thing that I have managed to accomplish is my recent entry in to a bowling league. Yes, a bowling league. Just like Al Bundy. It has long been my dream to be in a bowling league. I love bowling, and I feel like I need a hobby or activity, and I hate golf, so here we are. Every Monday at the Lynnway Sports Center. Bowling and $2.50 PBR. Can't go wrong. I even bought a vintage polyester bowling shirt from EBAY. $12. Would have been $8, but Monica thought it would be funny to bid against me to see how worked up I got when I thought I was going to lose. She was right. I got worked up. Then I had to pay an extra $4. Dammit. Oh well, I'm the best looking dude there.

Unfortunately, most of the people that I tell about the bowling league just mock me, don't take it seriously and think I am some sort of tool. Story of my life. Who cares? I like bowling and race cars and Norm Macdonald. At least I don't fucking like dolphins. Or politics. Imagine how much this blog would suck if I liked politics?

I had to work a party of republican pink polo-shirt wearing aristocrats at the bar the other night. Turns out rich people are so rich because they save all of their money not tipping.

Quote of the night, after an hour-long, off and on, back and forth debate with the groom over whether or not I would hook up his iPod to our music system (I refused).

"Man, I just wanted to hear this one LFO song."

TOOL.

...
Taxi-cabs, the sharks of streets, with fins of fire they troll for fares

I have long hated taxi drivers. In part, because of my experience as a drunkard, in part because of my experience as a motorist, and in part because of my brief experience as a tourist. No matter your reason for taking a cab, it always sucks. The drivers are awkward and foreign, or worse, not foreign and chatty in your language, they drive like shit, they get lost, they smell etc... This story is not about any of those things.

Last night my friend Mike and I were leaving work. It was about 2 a.m. We noticed some commotion across the street with fire trucks and ambulances and police cars near the water. We investigated and it became clear that they were trying to extract a vehicle from the water behind the parking garage. Someone had apparently either drunkenly driven off of the ledge, had a medical emergency and drove off the ledge or was trying to commit insurance fraud. Now, if I were more enterprising, and less miserable, jaded and bitter toward the newspaper industry, I would have walked down there, used my reporter skills to interview some people on the scene, talked to the cops and snapped some cell phone videos or photos.

It would have been great. I could have gone home, written a story, emailed my pictures to the lady at the place I freelance for who covers Salem, AND I would have known what was going on. Instead, Mike and I leaned on a railing and watched some divers until some clearly disappointed spectator walked by and said "The car has South Carolina plates and they say they can't see anyone in the driver's seat, but there is a key." Somehow, that was enough for both of us and we went home. Today, as of 11:30 a.m., there is no media coverage anywhere. Do I feel bad about dropping the ball pretty much for the entire community? Nope.

That, too, isn't what this story is about. This story is about a cab driver. This cab driver arrived at the same time as Mike and I and stood on the same railing and talking to us. He was either drunk or on some sort of awesome prescription meds because he was making no sense and slurring his words. He was also clearly a crazy person. He spoke multiple times about how "You know, sometimes you get depressed and want to drive the cab in to the water. But you snap out of it."

He told tragic stories of other people he knew who have driven in to water and died. Whole families. Too many for one man to realistically know. The entire time his cab is parked on the side of the road with the keys inside, running. Eventually, after a few more suicide references and a few more stories, he asked Mike and I to watch his cab while he went and investigated. We did not. We did, for a brief time, discuss stealing it out of principle, if for no other purpose than to move it around the block just to scare the crap out of him. We decided against this for two reasons. One, there were cops everywhere. Two, we really didn't want this guy to kill himself when he found out we stole his cab.

Now, imagine yourself at 2 a.m. You have been drinking and you need a ride home. Or maybe you were at a house party and your buddy stole your car. Or maybe some crazy person stole your car and drove it in to a harbor. Whatever the case, you need a ride. You call a cab company and this man shows up. This depressed man, fucked up on something, to give you a ride. Nine times out of ten I bet you don't even notice, because he just drives your drunk, beat-ass home. But how many late-night cab drivers are like this guy? How many afternoon cab drivers are like this guy? Think about it.

...

All the suicide talk got me thinking. Some of my favorite songs are about suicide. And on this Father's Day it is nice to remind all of the republican aristocrat Bruce Springstein listening-to dads out there that just because your kid listens to a song about suicide, or murder, or sex or smoking weed, they probably aren't going to do any of those things because of that song. If they do those things it will probably be because you were kind of a shitty dad. Except for the smoking weed thing. They will probably do that either way.

This is a great suicide song. Unfortunately, the first and last 30 seconds are ruined by some chooch within earshot of the video camera saying things like 'Bro I love this song!'

Episode 156: Kids like this crap?

2011-06-08T09:30:00.000-07:00

I feel like I've been pretty lucky when it comes to kid shows. Av is pretty much in to Sesame Street, Yo Gabba Gabba and Blues Clues. All very, very tolerable when you consider all of the garbage there is out there for kids. Does anyone remember Lamb Chop's Play Along? I am willing to bet that show was responsible for more than one 80's dad heading out for cigarettes and never coming home.

I suppose, like anything, there is a good side and a bad side. Mr. Rogers, Sesame Street and the like were all entertaining in some way, even for parents or older kids. Then you have crap like Barney and Lamb Chop and the dreadful and, thankfully, short-lived Telletubbies. More recently, Yo Gabba Gabba has emerged as a tolerable show, if for no other reason than it will give me the occasional flashback, and even Zaboomafoo (or Chris and Martin's Gay Animal Adventure) interests me based on my lifelong desire to be a zoo keeper.

Other than the well-documented three-week Barney phase, Av has spared me from most of the mind-numbing excretion that most kids subject themselves to. She avoids pen-in-the-eye shows like The Wiggles and she only likes the idea of Dora the Explorer, she doesn't actually watch the show. (Can we all agree that Dora doesn't rhyme with 'explorer'? Not in English, not in Spanish. We are sending our kids the wrong message. Also, Diego is not as cool as he is advertised to be. He is an 8-year-old Ricky Martin.)

Lately, though, she has been in to Thomas and Friends. If you aren't familiar with Thomas, God Bless You. If you are, you know that Thomas is a toy train with a face who travels around some weird, 40-year-old pedophile's basement train set playing out dull, outdated scenarios, such as lackluster debates over whether helicopters deliver mail faster than trains.

This is Thomas.

These are his 'Friends' who appear to be more like co-workers with terrifying faces who spend most of the day trying to fuck Thomas over. Again, no conflict is ever greater than 'ooohhh the train cars played a trick on Thomas an now he is late!" Ohhh geeze. Maybe Thomas should get a job leading the commuter rail from Salem to Boston. His lack of punctuality would be spot on.
All of this is inexplicably narrated by George Carlin (RIP), who apparently ate vanilla ice cream, stared at a blank wall and took a handful of downers before going to work because he has about as much expression in his voice as I do when someone asks me the question 'How's the baby?'

The episodes are so dull that they only have about enough material to fill eight minutes until they mercifully end with Carlin saying something like 'And Thomas went back to the station and smiled all day.' Great ending.

I think the root of the problem is that this stupid train concept originated in England. Stupid, humorless bores. I mean, who still has a monarchy? People whose TV shows revolve around toys who don't move.

Anyway, I suppose it could be worse. The thing that gets me- that really gets me- is that Thomas memorabilia costs about as much as fine jewelery. A Sesame Street toy, a small one, is like, $6 bucks. A toy airplane, car, ambulance, fire truck, monster truck, race car, tractor, police car, drag racer, Prius etc... are anywhere from 99 cents to $5. A toy Thomas, which is the same size as a Matchbox car, is $11.99. At Walmart! Imagine what it must be at a real toy store?!

Today at art class Av, her crush Vincent and myself played with the dirty YMCA second-hand Thomas train set for like a half hour. I told her we could go get a Thomas. I love her to death, but if she thinks I'm paying $12 for a stupid, ugly-faced train she is insane. Damn Brits. What I did find was a Thomas bubble-blowing set that came with a larger Thomas toy which doubles as a train-whistle blowing bubble wand. Exponentially cooler, $3. The world as a whole is just completely fucked up. That is today's moral.

...

Episode 155: Life is confusing when you're two

2011-06-02T11:25:00.000-07:00

Time continues to tick away in this cruel, permanent experiment called fatherhood and as each day passes Av seems to acquire a stronger and stronger grasp on her freakish, alien intelligence that will someday defeat me. With that said, she also remains an idiot.

Let's discuss. Av has an uncanny ability to identify her whereabouts. Like yesterday when she knew we were around the corner from a pizza place that she probably hasn't been to in months or when she can point out the street before the street that takes us to the park. On the other hand, she frequently walks face-first in to door knobs and trips over her own feet in the living room. Genius or moron? Both? Neither? No. The answer is E., 2-year-old. They are like moron geniuses. I can't explain it in any way that will do it justice so I'll just stop trying.

One of the more difficult things to deal with recently has been the combination of her endless curiosity and her relative inability to wrap her head around most things that are explained to her. I suppose this is how you enter the 'why' phase, something I am finding out is not a myth like I had originally suspected.

We have a lot of conversations like this one, which began the other day after the, uh, 'special' man who wrangles the carts at Stop and Shop started randomly yelling at the sky in the middle of the parking lot.

"Why he do dat?"

"Ahhh, I don't know, he is upset."

"Why he upset?"

"Because something made him mad."

"Who made him mad? Why?"

"Ahhh, I don't know, maybe his boss."

"Why?"

"Maybe he doesn't want to bring the carts in."

"Why?"

"Because it is hot out."

"Why it hot out?"

"Because the sun is out today and there aren't any clouds."

"Why no clouds?"

"Because there aren't any in the sky."

"Why?""

(Insert on the fly, made up scientific 'fact' here.)

... and on and on until I distract her with crackers or grapes.

She also likes to ask what people are doing. All day. Not just us, either, random strangers are not spared. Thursday we were at the zoo and she walked over to some volunteer watering the pond side flower garden and just started asking questions. The only problem is that she doesn't process the information she is given correctly so the conversation just goes around in circles.

"What you doin'?"

"Oh, I'm watering these flowers so they grow."

"You have a hat on?"

"I do have a hat on."

"Why?"

"To keep the sun out of my eyes and my face."

"Why?"

"So I don't get a sunburn."

"Why, sunburn?"

"Yes."

"What are you doin? Waterin' flowers?"

"Yes."

"You have a hat on?"

-At this point I interject to spare the lady.

"Hey, buddy, come back over and finish your lunch."

"Hey... What you doin' waterin' flowers with a hat on?"

"Yes. I am watering flowers with my hat on."

"Why?"

You get the idea.

I suppose life can be pretty confusing when you are two, also evidenced by her inability to accurately understand titles and relationships.

A few weeks back we went to lunch and hung out with my boss, Joe, and his granddaughter, Mia. I am refusing to call it a playdate. Playdates are for cupcake-making PTO moms, not cool, stylish dads like myself. Now, Av calls Monica's parents Mia (or Mima) and Papa. Mia called Joe 'Papa.' This, as you can imagine, created several confusing moments throughout the day.

"Who 'dat guy?"

"That's Joe."

"Joe? Who Joe?"

"Joe is my friend. He is Mia's papa."

"Mima here?!?! Where is Papa? He workin'? Dat Joe."

...and so on.

Today we were watching Yo Gabba Gabba and there happened to be a segment involving skate board star (?) Tony Hawk. In her world, Tony, or 'Pony' as she says it, is the nice Italian man who does auto body work on my car. She knows Tony well, as well as Frank from Hertz Rental Car, because my car has been driven in to twice already this year. She associates skateboards with the man who lives downstairs, Steve, who I told her worked at the skateboard factory. (Steve is actually unemployed to the best of my knowledge, but as I have documented here many times, loves to skateboard in front of the house and paint skateboards in our basement. Saying he works at a skateboard factory is easier than explaining laziness as it pertains to the American welfare system). She also thinks that he is just like Steve from Blues Clues because he is always with his dog. In a way she is right. I mean, they are both unemployed. The only difference is downstairs Steve lives with a woman and two children and Blues Clues Steve lives alone and hallucinates a world where everything in his house talks to him.

Anyway, all of this means that seeing Tony Hawk skateboarding on TV created a paradox in her brain that left her confused and speechless. Was that car repair Tony skateboarding on TV? Or Steve from downstairs? Questions ensued. As you can imagine, there was no resolution to the problem. Thank God for short attention spans.

...

Episode 154: Its 2 a.m. and at least 4 people within 100 yards of me are puking. What else am I supposed to do?

2011-05-31T23:27:00.000-07:00

I am writing this from my couch at a very early- or late, depending on your lifestyle- hour. I am the only person in this house that has not vomited in the last two hours. I came home from work to find Monica cleaning vomit up off of the floor in the baby's room and later off of a variety of stuffed friends. She then went in the bathroom to vomit herself. My house smells like someone drank an entire gallon of sour milk, ate a dozen deviled eggs and then threw it up all over the walls. Sorry if that is disgusting. Just be thankful you aren't here.

I have relegated myself to the couch in a desperate, and likely futile, attempt to thwart off the evil bacteria that is no doubt right now mobilizing an airborne effort to assassinate my immune system. I have little hope for myself.

In addition, and I am not even kidding about this, there are two teenagers- coming home from prom- vomiting in the street outside my living room window as they stumble home. Who goes to prom on a Tuesday?

I literally live here right now:

The origin of the vomit is likely as follows. Avelyn, with her young, easily manipulated stomach and less-than experienced immune system, has acquired some sort of bug. This, combined with the recent hot weather and her high dairy intake, has caused her to become very nauseous and have large, peanut butter-like dumps. The nighttime milk has no doubt started a fight with the stomach bug's goon counterparts and the mac and cheese from earlier has hopped in to make it a brawl. The stomach's bouncers have tossed everyone from the party- with force. Monica, likely suffering from the same nasty stomach bug, and with a much lower dairy intake, is now suffering a similar consequence, minus, to the best of my knowledge, the peanut butter dumps. The teenagers have just ruined their first regrettable sexual experience by sneaking way too many 20-ounce rum and Pepsi's in to the after prom party. What does all of this mean for your faithful hero? At least the next 48 hours will be spent with two very sick, impatient women and my sidewalk will be covered in drunk teenager prom vomit tomorrow morning. It also all but guarantees that taco night is cancelled tomorrow night. Tragic consequences, all.

So, here I sit. Tired, but afraid to sleep. Hungry, but afraid to eat. Wondering if the stomach bug may be a welcomed relief to the nausea and headache that follow spraying your entire house with Lysol disinfectant spray. On top of the world once again.

...

The last movie that I watched, not counting stupid yet hilarious comedies, like 'Dirty Work,' that I watch when no one is home, was Black Swan. Following that experience I lived the next three days in a mentally terrifying state, often times expecting myself to be existing in an alternate reality in which I am haunted by ballerinas that may or may not exist. In short, I didn't handle it well upstairs. Today I watched Horton Hears a Who, twice, and while there was no shuttering and cold sweats, I can honestly say that the concept of that movie was so disturbingly deep that I think I have changed my entire outlook on existence.

I will explain this as simply as I can. In the movie Horton Hears a Who, based on the Dr. Seuss book of the same name, an elephant accidentally discovers a town of people living within a spec of dust. This is because of his giant elephant ears. He is determined to help them find a permanent place in the universe, but is thought to be crazy by the other jungle creatures who eventually try to wrangle him and subject him to a variety of PG-rated, CGI-animated forms of torture. As a result he speaks to the mayor of this spec town from above through a twisty funnel and warns him of his crazy jungle friends who want to destroy his people. The townspeople, who are experiencing drastic climate change and natural disaster, don't believe and vocally doubt the proud, yet tragically innocent (see: dumb) mayor. The townspeople are proven wrong and eventually saved from a fiery apocalyptic death by a baby kangaroo whose evil mother had led a rebellion against the God-figure elephant. I know, right? Somehow I don't remember ANY of that from the book. It is like my brain just got gang raped by the Bible, the National Enquirer and Highlight's all at the same time. And somehow it is OK because there was a lot of rhyming and Steve Carrell. I'm done with movies.

...

Episode 153: Apparently I am a 'Goddamn idiot.'

2011-05-20T05:57:00.000-07:00

This blog was designed to discuss my experience in parenting. During this time I have had many ups and downs, trials and tribulations and all other sorts of cliche phrases that describe good and bad. Such as highs and lows, losses and victories etc.. Yesterday, apparently, was a total failure. So much so that I didn't even really want to blog about it, but I promised myself I would share the crappy stories, too.

Let's jump right in. Yesterday Av and I had a lot of fun. It was raining for the 737th straight day and she was just not in to going anywhere. I can't say I blame her, either. Instead of leaving the house we participated in a variety of activities that included chasing around the cats, arts and crafts, cars and blocks and plenty of Sesame Street. Early on in the day she managed to lodge some Play Doh in her hair, just above her right eye. I did not see her do this, I was sitting across the table writing an article on the computer and letting her play by herself, something we have been trying to encourage lately. I noticed the large, yellow clump of Play Doh and went over to try and pick it out. Like each of her parents, Av does not particularly like being touched and she shooed me away, yelled at me and wouldn't let me pick it out. That's fine. I know the feeling. Don't f-ing touch me right now. I get it. We will take a bath later.

Maybe about a half hour later the activity had shifted from Play Doh to arts and crafts. Same seat, same activity bucket, different substance. At first, she was just using some old watercolors, but soon started to smear some glitter paint, contained in a tube, on to the paper. She smeared it around with her fingers and told me she was drawing Little Cat. Now, I don't know if she had an itch on her head or what, but it was about this time that she managed to get a huge clump of that paint in her hair in the exact same spot as the Play Doh.

I saw this happen, sighed a defeated sigh and watched as she smushed it all together.

"We're going to have to take a tubby, you know."

"No tubby. NO TUBBY! NO TUBBY! Eat?"

"Ok, eat then tubby."

"Ok, mac and cheese?"

"Ok, please don't get it in your hair."

What do you think ended up in the hair?

I don't even know how. Like, the Play Doh and the paint I get. The mac and cheese? That is abnormal. The issue was, I think, that he bangs are very long, in here eyes, so when she leaned down to eat the already protruding clump of hair was sticking out and was repeatedly dipped in the cheese sauce. This created a kind of gross, dairy coating over the paint and Play Doh. She was, by all accounts, a disgusting mess.

We got in the tub and I told her we had to, HAD to wash her hair. Aside from the obvious mess her hair was gross. Nappy, dirty, smelly. Gross. The problem is that she hates having her hair washed. Like, HATES it. She will scream bloody murder, flail, hit, punch, kick and generally carry on just so she doesn't have to have water dumped on her head. This occurred again. I let her play for a while and then tried to sneak in to clean it. She let me shampoo her entire head. I scrubbed the spot as much as I could before she made me stop. I cleaned out the soap with all of the carrying on and the screaming and the only thing I managed to get off was the cheese. The paint had worked with the Play Doh to create a mold of crusty, dry grossness.

My second attempt to remove the substance monster in her hair was to brush it out. Av also hates having her hair brushed, but I had to do it any way to get out the tangles and the dreads. I got everything our and her hair looked beautiful and clean. I started to attack the affected area and was met with resistance. She screamed and flailed and yelled again and I got nowhere. The brush just got caught in the gunk and it wasn't coming out. You see where this is going.

Now, let me tell you what my thought process was. I pictured Monica coming home, seeing the gunk and just endlessly yelling at me. Asking me how I let this happen, why I didn't get it out etc... I said to the baby. "Hey, what if we cut your bangs, they are kind of long. Do you want a pretty hair cut?"

Excitedly, the baby said "Baby pretty!" and for the first time that day, let me touch her hair without resistance. Now, my plan was to just cut out the clump and get the bangs out of her eyes. Unfortunately, the area was too big and it looked like someone attacked her with a razor. So, I evened it out. In all honestly. I am being dead serious when I say this. I thought it looked good. her bangs were a little short, but they were too long any way. She looks normal to me. Like a kid who got a hair cut. Was it as even as it could have been? No. But I truly thought that Monica would come home, see it, asked what happened and maybe maybe give me a little bit of shit because it wasn't quite even. Boy, did I misjudge that one.

Let me proceed this by explaining how Monica and I coexist. We are both very caustic people, that is the best way I can describe it. I mentioned the touching thing. Outward affection is minimal. We are both 'leave me alone' type people. We don't care much for society or their rules. We like being left alone most of the time. We are cynical on every front. We spend much of the day picking on one another, poking fun, busting balls. Much in the same way you may with your friends. Our arguments are frequent, yet brief and usually not serious. We irritate the crap out of each other and we both know it. For some reason, this keeps us honest. We love each other. Some times we also like each other. Not all the time though. I like her more than she likes me. We are very much alike yet share few interests. Somehow, this has all worked for a very, very long time. Our relationship is a mystery to most people. People don't get us one bit. How we operate, our sense of humor, our outlook. That is fine. It works and we are both happy.

In the time we have been together I can only recall a few times when Monica has been violently furious with me. Once was the time I walked out of Not Your Average Joe's because the hostess was skipping over us to seat her friends and then she sassed me when I confronted her. Don't sass me, ever. Especially if you are a hostess.

Yesterday was one of those times. By the time Monica had returned home from work I had already forgotten about the hair cut. When Monica said 'WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO MY DAUGHTER!!??!" I had to think for a minute. Then I said softly to myself. 'Shit.'

I was yelled at, threatened with violence and generally scolded for some time. I see now why she is upset. I don't think it looks that bad, but whatever. I am not supposed to touch the hair. There is no rule book. It seems I just find out the rules as I break them. Here I was thinking I did something nice. Even now as I look at her it doesn't look that bad to me. But I will never say that again. I will also never touch her hair again. Clump or no clump. Lesson learned. Apparently, I am a 'Goddam Idiot.'

...

Episode 152:

2011-05-18T08:46:00.000-07:00

So, it has been a little while. haven't felt too motivated lately, not a whole hell of a lot going on that seems blog worthy. It is spring time, very rainy and cold around these parts and the world in general seems to be in the usual 'get shit done before summer time' mode. People are getting ready to graduate, teenagers and various wild animals are in heat and all of the out of town idiots are slowly starting to trickle back in to Salem. "We aint got none uh dem dere crosswalks in Wyomin'. I reckon aint too many us got to worry 'bout dem traffics.'

The Bruins are still playing which means I am enjoying busier shifts at work, serving nachos and light beer to a collection of men between the ages of 20-50 about three times a week, and in many cases, their supportive, yet slightly confused girlfriends or wives who deck themselves out in black and gold because the Bruins are the trendy sports team to root for right now. Unofficial survey indicates that the most frequently used words by male Bruins fans are, in order, 'faggot,' 'homo,' and 'pussy.' This is, of course, inappropriate, but as long as they keep drinking and tipping I will hope every game goes in to overtime and every series goes seven games until those pussy faggot homos finally win. Or, more likely, lose in heartbreaking fashion. I wonder, if the Bruins win the Cup this year, what will be the new trendy team for bandwagon fans and their uneducated girlfriends to root for? It has to be the Patriots, I guess, they would be the least removed from a championship at that point.

The Celtics, who many of you know rank #3 on my list of things that I love the most in the world, effectively screwed themselves out of one last chance at a championship by trading their toughest and most liked player at the trade deadline because they were paranoid about not having enough offense. Well, it turns out trading away one of your key players for offensive potential is not the right plan when you are chasing a championship with an aging team whose number one weapon is experience and continuity. The starting five from 2008 has still never lost a playoff series when all of them are on the floor together. The sad part about that is they couldn't seem to stay healthy long enough to make that work. After the 2008 championship they were decimated by untimely injuries that cost them at least one more banner. They were a buzz saw of a team in 2009 before Kevin Garnett got hurt- he's never been the same after- and they no doubt would have won game 7 of the finals last year if Kendrick Perkins hadn't blown out his knee in game 6. Instead they gave up 17 offensive rebounds to the Lakers and took a shit on my heart. That night ranks among the most depressing nights of my life. Without exaggeration, after that loss I sat in the rain on my deck for three and a half hours, drank and entire bottle of champagne and smoked three quarters of a pack of cigarettes until I passed out. Alone. I hate champagne and I don't smoke...

This year was supposed to exorcize that demon but instead they made 'the trade' and now Kendrick Perkins is in Oklahoma playing for the Western Conference title while the Celtics and, more importantly, myself, wonder what could have been if they just stuck to their guns.

Enough about basketball. Sorry about that. I haven't really been able to talk about any of that since they were eliminated by the soulless Miami LeBrons last week.

As for Av, she is now very much a 2-year-old. Fresh, adorable, infuriating, hilarious and annoying all at the same time. She is extremely talkative lately, bringing up things that happened days ago like Rain Man. Yesterday I stepped in dog poop because the inconsiderate losers downstairs don't pick up after their dog. She has been recounting the story ever since.

We went to a barbecue at our friend's house on Saturday. Likewise, she has been recounting that day over and over. Most of the conversation topic revolves around their dog and my friend's future wife, Meg, who she took a liking to. She, for some strange reason, is called Bob. There were others there who are referred to as 'dat lady' and 'dat man,' as if I was not at the party and needed a recap of what she did.

Perhaps the most hilarious thing that she has been saying recently is "dat jam is kickin'" which she says when she hears a song that she likes. I taught her how to say this, rather unintentionally, yesterday. The song 'Garden Grove' by Sublime came on my iPod while we were car dancing and I said 'ooohhh; this jam is kickin' for no other reason than to humor myself. She repeated it and it was on. The funniest part is that she actually deciphers which songs are 'kickin' and which ones aren't. "Dis one not kickin.'"

She also says 'honkey' instead of hungry, which is great, and will not let anyone, including herself, get away with farting. She thinks farts are hysterical and, let's be honest, they kind of are.

So, that's that. Not a whole hell of a lot going on. No fun stories. Today at art class Ms. Berta told me a sex offender lives next door. How are sex offenders allowed to live next door to the YMCA? I'm not sure, but it seems to me that maybe we aught to relax a little on towing cars with expired tags and focus on keeping perverts in jail. I think there should be a 'Pervert Island' where all of the sex offenders can just rape each other all day and leave the rest of us alone. Ms. Berta also routinely bags her, apparently very stupid, teenaged son skipping school.

"Oh, Jesus, that's my teenager walking down the street,"

I mean, you know where your mom works, why would you walk by? One day he came in and asked her for a cigarette. That sparked this conversation between she and I.

"Were you a good teenager? Or did you skip school and smoke with your friends."

"Ahh, I mean, I was pretty good. Here and there, we all do, right?"

"Exactly. He's normal. He hates school and he likes to smoke pot. My other son is the opposite. I think it's normal."

Sweet. I like Ms. Berta. She is just the coarse, raspy friend that toddlers need. Didn't do the best job with that second son, though.

So, there you have it. I have just effectively emptied my brain on to this computer screen. Take it for what it is worth.

...

Here are some jams that were deemed 'kickin.' And, no, I have no problem exposing my 2-year-old to profanity-laced hip hop at this stage. She's never repeated any of it. She just likes the beats. And, be honest, who doesn't like the beats? It is no different than you or I being raised on Clapton or the Rolling Stones. 85 percent of those songs were about cocaine... Anyway, I'll police her music better when she is older.

This jam was deemed 'not kickin.' I disagree.

Episode 151: I'm gonna try really hard not to offend anyone with this one...

2011-05-06T09:22:00.000-07:00

... Buuut, I'm not sure I can do it. Let's start with a disclaimer: Retarded people, er... developmentally disabled, or mentally handicapped or whatever it is that they are supposed to be called, are not to be mocked. It isn't their fault that they have (insert disorder here) and most of their actions, movements and speech are beyond control. Life is difficult for both them and their families and I am not trying to make fun of anyone with anything here. This is not intended to be a mockery... That said, I can't go on without telling you about our day at the park with the slow teenagers.

Today was absolutely beautiful. 75, sunny, not a cloud in the sky. The perfect day to be out at a park on the ocean. We were doing the usual. Swinging, sliding, climbing. There was a nice Spanish grandmother with a 2-year-old and some chick with another kid.

*Off topic, there was a movie made in the early 2000's called Primer. It is pretty much impossible to follow unless you were a physics major, but the basic premise is these physicists, while trying to create a better refrigerator to market in their garage, stumble upon time travel. In the most non-hokey way possible these two dudes figure out how to use a public storage box to travel back in time. Not to, like, 1792, or 1956, but more like yesterday, or last week. Essentially, they have the power to correct mistakes or win the lottery or pick the correct stock. They, obviously, start to abuse it and at some point start encountering themselves in the past/future, effectively screwing up the human matrix. I am pretty sure at one point one of the guys suffocates himself from the past. Anyway, I was both terrified and intrigued by this movie and spent many a night when I was in college taking mind-altering drugs and trying to follow exactly what happened. This movie messes me up to this day. I still think about it. I don't know the specifics, but the plot seemed so plausible.

Anyway, sometimes there are times in the day where I feel like I am in Primer. I see my car, or someone who looks like me, or the baby, or Monica, and I wonder if I am seeing myself from the future. The point is, there was a lady at the park who from a distance looked and dressed exactly like Monica. Even as we were approaching the park she was looking at me the whole way with a smile on her face. I got there and she gave me a friendly 'hello.' Even facially, they were similar. They had the the same body type, the same mannerisms. The same flip flops. I kind of went the other direction because it freaked me out. If I had never seen Primer it would have been fine. But that shit messed me up, man. Yet another reason I can only watch dumb comedies now. I'm still reeling from Black Swan, too.*

After Monica from the future left and the Spanish lady went for a walk we were left alone. From a distance I saw about 10 teenagers or young adults approaching the park. I assumed they would be the usual trouble makers who tag the slides and occupy the swings, but as they got closer it became apparent that they were a little on the slow side. In my experience I have found that many times in these situations there is a leader. Still slow, but less slow than everyone else. This group appeared to be led by one such leader. (Later an adult man arrived with another kid, who must have been having an issue, and that man appeared to be the councilor or what have you, but they were left to their devices for the first five minutes or so).

I watched them come to the park with no opinion on their presence, other than the fact that it is a little sad for a 19-year-old to be on the same mental level- or lower- than my 2-year-old daughter. After watching them for about 20 minutes or so, I can't not describe the scene.

First off, they were all between the ages of 15-20. They were all grossly overdressed in South Pole jackets and hooded sweatshirts and sweaters. The first woman to arrive walked immediately over to the slide, stared at it for 30-45 seconds and then dropped, face first, on to the base of the slide where she remained, no lie, for the rest of the time. Every once in a while someone would try to get her up and she would refuse. Face down. legs hanging off the end of the slide cut off at about the waist. She made no noise. She rarely looked up.

Another woman, wearing a teal sweat suit, too small for her heavy frame, sat down in the mulch, grabbed a handful, held it in front of her face and just yelled at it. Just yelled. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh." In to the mulch. This, too, went on, with brief lapses in the yelling, for the entirety of our visit. Like, what's up? Why are you so mad at that mulch?

Another gentleman, with a well-groomed neu-metal goatee, was very clearly upset about something, and he very clearly had a recent physical confrontation, because he was being isolated from every one else and he was just wearing a t-shirt but still had mittens on both hands. He was not allowed to take the mittens off. He sat, the entire time, on a picnic table- not the bench, the table- scowling. At one point, the adult man leader came over and gave him a cell phone which he used to turn on some music. I am not sure what he was listening to, but it was in the Destiny's Child, Jennifer Hudson genre.

Two of the folks that I actually envied a bit were a male and female who fell in love with the see saw. After kites and puzzles, see saws are potentially the shittiest thing ever to ask a kid to play with. Puzzles are definitely the worst, so boring, pointless and unrewarding, and kites are a scam, but see saws are right up there. Pain in the ass simple machine. Who wants to do that when there are slides and swings and a rock wall? Anyway, special people, is the answer to that. Those two loved it. Laughing, bouncing, smiling. It probably helped that they had the perfect weight differential, too. It just seemed so pure and innocent and fun.

So, here I was, Jennifer Hudson (maybe) playing in the background, failing to drown out the woman yelling at mulch, standing motionless next to my incredibly, incredibly confused, speechless child, trying to find the words to explain the face down slide girl, see saw pals and, most disturbing to her, the mulch yeller. It was at this time that Av looked at me and said 'Um, home? Mac and cheese?' 'Ahhhh, yeah. Let's go ahead and just have some mac and cheese and forget about this whole scene.

I guess the point is that there is no real good way to explain the mentally challenged to a 2-year-old, and for some reason today the group that we saw was so zombie-like and bizarre that it was a scene out of some sort of horror movie. I feel bad for them, and I know that they need to get out on a nice day, but I wished that they had chosen another park.

...
This is the most beautiful song ever written. That is not up for debate.

Episode 150: I yike monters

2011-05-02T10:02:00.000-07:00

First, I would like to start off by saying that today is a good day. I managed to pull myself out of bed and get myself and the baby dressed before 8:30 a.m. and I didn't contemplate killing myself out of pure lack of energy one time. I had to drop my car off at the auto body shop, as it was once again hit while parked in front of my house, and the transition to the rental was smooth. I got an early morning text from one of my best friends living in LA (clearly he has not gone to bed yet) who I had not heard from in months. Later we spent time at the beach because it is, like, 70 degrees out. I got home to an email from Bob asking me to write a story for him today. Both sources picked up on the first ring. I got the whole thing done in a half hour. Un heard of. Today was a good day. I didn't even have to use my AK.

Anyway, this post has nothing to do with any of that. I was just sharing. At some point when you are a parent you realize that a certain percentage of things that happen to you are payback for something you did as a kid. Some of it is karma, some of it is just payback from your own parents, like when my dad mailed Av a Sesame Street disco dance hits CD for Easter. At first I figured it was payback for being an annoying kid, but the more I think about it it was probably more because of all those times I made him listen to the Deftones on long car rides as a teenager. Dads decidedly do NOT like the Deftones. Not even sort of cool ones like mine.

Yesterday I got some payback of the karma sort. We spent the day visiting my mother who lives three hours away. It is a miserable three hours, too. The first half spent navigating slow, nonsensical Boston suburban traffic, the second breezing through miles upon miles of nothing but depressing Western Mass landscape and highway side advertisements for such regionally exclusive businesses as the Big Y Supermarket and Gary Rome Hyundai, who once sold me the worst piece of shit car I have ever owned, a yellow Hyundai Tiburon that literally fell apart like old Play Doh every time I drove it. That guy is a crook. Almost as much of a crook as the dude who sold me my last car at Commonwealth Motors. I swear they gave me a fraudulent Car Fax report, but I'm too lazy to prove it. I digress.

The ride to Pittsfield is rarely good and yesterday was no exception. By the time we got out of the car at the Hot Dog Ranch where I was meeting my Mom for lunch Monica and I were just about ready to find separate apartments. As is always the case the frustration was nothing a few Western Mass mini hot dogs with chili sauce and a hug from my mom didn't ease, but the ride still sucked.

We spent the day petting farm animals and hanging out and then it was the three hour drive back. Somehow the drive home always seems smoother. Until we hit 95 and that Boston suburban traffic again. Anyway, we got home and I went to Salem House of Pizza while Monica put Av to bed. We got the usual greasy special, chicken fingers and a pizza. Awesome on every level. It is like those Greeks channeled whichever one of their mythical gods was in charge of sub shops and put him right to work.

We were just diving in and watching America's Next Great Restaurant when Av started to make a fuss. Monica went in there to do the kind motherly equivalent of telling her to shut the hell up and go to bed and the following took place, according to Monica's account.

She went in to the room and leaned in to the crib. The baby grabbed her face, looked in her mouth and said 'What's that? A chicken nuggie? I'm huuuuuuungry.' Monica emerged from the bedroom laughing, holding the baby, and Av saw the food on the table and said "OOOOHHHHHH.' She proceeded to sit with us through the entire meal, watching the show and mooching french fries, pizza and chicken fingers. Yes, it was 8:30 and she is 2. Not the healthiest bedtime snack. Who cares? Not me.

I promise you that she smelled the food from her crib and wanted some so she made a fuss. This is where the payback comes in. I used to do the same thing to my parents when I was a kid. Every time the delivery guy knocked on the door, I heard chips open or I smelled food I was getting up to go to the bathroom and trying to bag them eating something awesome. After a while my parents started ordering pizza with toppings I hated as a counter strike.

The funny part was she started to just lay on the cute as heavy as she could so she didn't have to go to sleep. First it was Monica. "Mommy, I love you." Followed by a hug. Repeat. Then she moved over to me and did the same thing. I think at one point she actually told Monica that she was 'cute' and that it was 'nice to see ya.'

In the process she was also watching the show. She usually just watches a few kid shows a day and the occasional baseball or basketball game, but lately she has been wanting to watch what we do. American Idol (I looooove me some J-Lo), America's Funniest Home Videos ('Fallin' show!) and the restaurant show last night ('Dat man make a restahonk?'). At one point I realized that when you are 2 the commercials are just like little mini TV shows. She watches every one with intent and vigor and excitement.

At one point, as a last ditch effort realizing it was almost bedtime and the party was over, she turned around and said 'Mommy, I yike monters.' Despite knowing it was all entirely bullshit to stay awake, it was still the most adorable 45 minutes of her life so far.

Somewhat related, today we found two awesome stuffed monsters at Walmart. They were .75 cents. Easter discount. Look at these guys and tell me what they have to do with Easter.

This is Av in the back of my rented Honda Civic (its like fuchsia colored, or violet red, c'mon Hertz) asking 'green one' where his shoes are. These guys rule and she loves them. Almost as much as pizza and commercials.

...

This is how I feel today. Damn summer is great.

I recall my dad particularly hating this song... So now I have Elmo singing Mambo #5 to remind me.

Episode 149: Goin' against my mind

2011-04-29T05:34:00.000-07:00

A year and a half ago I started this blog based on two fundamental concepts. First, I had recently become a father and was going to take a plunge in to becoming a stay at home dad. Second, I hated being a newspaper reporter. The mere thought of the job made me want to repeatedly stab myself in the face with a screw.

I was reflecting a few days ago and I came to the following conclusions. First, the stay at home dad thing has worked out well. My kid is still alive and she seems to like me, and I have been supporting my family reasonably well with my bar tending job. My days are leisurely at times, although still stressful, tiring and infuriating as they are for all parents.

Second, the blog has been a relative, regional success. I am not making any money off of it or publishing to thousands every morning, but the 8-15 of you who read it seem to really enjoy it and that is all I need.

So, I stopped and asked myself a question. Why on EARTH are you still a newspaper reporter, Dan? About three or four months ago I was offered a job as a regional editor at a local online news site. I turned it down but, for some reason, decided that I was going to agree to freelance for this same organization. Great. Now, not only was I going back to a job I hated, I was doing it for, like, $150 a week. Think of your least favorite job ever. You were probably a teenager working at McDonalds, or babysitting for some crappy family, or, in my case, stocking the salad bar at Bonanza Steakhouse, learning the ins and outs of sex, cigarettes and the general shadiness of the restaurant industry at a much too young age. Now picture waking up tomorrow with a job offer to return to that job for a quarter of the money. Now take that job. That is essentially what I have done. Idiot.
I started out by doing 4-5 stories a week, stashing away $4-$500 a month in my PayPal account and I was burnt out within three weeks. Now I am down to reluctantly writing 1-2 stories a week and coming up with every excuse in the book not to accept the others.

Before I continue let me describe to you the situation that I am dealing with. I was reluctant to do this before in the case that my editor discovered this blog, but it doesn't appear that he has time to surf the net (Ha) so here goes.

I work for a man named Bob. Bob is a stereotypical newspaper reporter. Lets examine newspaper reporters, editors, desk guys and the like for the moment. The second-best reporter I have ever worked with is a man by the name of Thor Jourgensen. Enterprising, dedicated, energetic, old school. Not the best writer in the world, but it doesn't matter. One day Thor uttered a bit of knowledge that described newspaper employees to a tee: "The newspaper industry," he said. " Is the last haven for the insane and the malcontent." I looked around the room and I realized he was 100 percent correct. There is something wrong with every newspaper reporter. Something embedded in our personalities that has led us down this path to destruction. To a dying industry that offers no reward for a hard day's work other than the opportunity to put our name on the story we just wrote so everyone in a 6-city region knows precisely who to bitch at. Every reporter thinks they are better than every other reporter. None of us like each other, even the ones we work with. But we tolerate each other and operate under, usually, some semblance of respect. I'm better at this job than you and I should be doing that story but, you know what, you're part of the club. We are essentially a clan of trolls living under the figurative bridge of society.

Bob is as trollish as a troll can get. Socially awkward, long winded to a fault, poorly dressed and ugly. One day he came in to the bar to watch a game and have a burger. I told my friend and eternal bartending colleague, Mike who he was. A few minutes later Mike came back from talking to him and asked 'Is he retarded?' "No,' I said. 'He's a newspaper reporter."

I have a tremendous amount of respect for Bob. In his mid-40's with a wife and young son he found himself, like we all eventually do, unemployed. He picked up and moved himself from Maine to the North Shore to take this job as regional editor, leaving his family behind. He calls his wife every night and sneaks off to visit whenever he can. He doesn't want to. But he has to.

Bob is also a hard working so of a bitch. He is entirely Internet based so he has no office. His only employees are freelancers, most of whom do not have anywhere near the experience or writing ability that I do, and he is only allowed to spend so much money on us. He maintains all of the content on the site, some days working 16-18 hours just to keep it current. One Saturday he drove from Maine to Peabody to cover a trailer park fire at 11 p.m., sacrificing valuable time with his family.

I am an asshole. Bob routinely praises my ability as a reporter and my writing. He tells me how he wishes he could give me more work and he is constantly bouncing ideas off of me that he doesn't have time to get to. I don't care. I hate this job. I don't even want to do it anymore, but I don't have the heart to tell him. I just make up excuses, or avoid his phone calls. In reality, most of my excuses are legit. I do work 5 nights a week already and I have Av all day. My options are limited. I told him from the beginning that I needed to work from home on the phone, so I can't be dragging my 2-year-old to City Hall to interview the Mayor.

Still, there are some days where I wake up and say 'not today, Bob' and I turn down any and every story offered. My Pay Pal account is weak. Perhaps if it paid more than $30-$40 a story I would rethink. But, for now, that isn't happening.

One last thing on Bob. I mentioned earlier how infuriatingly long winded he is. Here is an example. He called me the other day and left me a voice mail. He wanted to check up on a story I was working on that involved me interviewing the fire chief. I hadn't heard back from the chief and Bob was angry. Not at me, but at the fact that, as always, he felt his tiny, unknown news site was getting disrespected in favor of the more well established print media. This, of course, is not the case. People hate us equally, the chief was simply busy, as one will find himself with such an important job as fire chief.

So Bob calls and I don't answer because I am tired, a little irritated at the baby and I know that if I answer and have to hear about how the chief was dodging me I was going to be short with him. So, I let it go to voice mail. It is never a good sign when more than three minutes goes by before your cell phone gives you a message notification. I listened to the voice mail and it was absurd. I got the story of his entire day. I got a speech about him getting no respect. He talked on my phone like he would if we were sitting across the table from one another at Starbucks. "Hey Dan, its Bob, wanted to talk to you about that fire budget story. I'm headed to a meeting, I'll be out around 2. Give me a call." That's a voice mail. To make it that much more annoying, he ends it with. "Ok, Dan. Call me back. Ok, bye now." WTF.

So I call him back and he proceeds to again recite the entire voice mail to me in person. I was on the phone for 20 minutes. I don't want to be on the phone with anyone for 20 minutes. Not Bob, not my mom, not Jesus, not Ken Griffey Jr. No one. Anyway, after that conversation mercifully ended I had to, unfortunately call him back. Knowing he was in the meeting I got a little bit of payback and left him an equally as long voice mail. About an hour later he calls me back. I don't answer. In his voice mail he makes it abundantly clear that he doesn't know why I called. Seriously, dude? He never even listened to it. So, I now have to call him AGAIN and recite my whole story. It is at this point that I snapped. I was done. Right then and there. I decided immediately that I'm going back to school. Grad school. I am going to become a master of something. Right now I need to become a master of convincing the government to give me more student loans.

Let's face it. I hate being a reporter and, at 27, I am too old to bar tend much longer. Too many 22-year-old co-workers living the college life. Not my bag. Stay tuned for updates. My plan is to go back to school and write a book about the process. 'Stay at home dad journalist goes back to school, chooses new career, struggles, triumphs etc...' Coming to Amazon.com in, like, five years. Or not. Probably not. I'm really going to school though. I might even buy a back pack. I will not be Bob in 18 years. Three hours from my family and leaving long winded voice mails because I am a lonely, sad, broke journalist.

Being a reporter again is the easy way out. It is the easy way to go when Av goes to school and I have to go back to work. My mind tells me to just suck it up, do it. You're good at it. You have a degree. It will be easy to find a hob. Not this time, lazy brain. This time I'm taking over. I will not be insane. I will not be malcontent.

If journalism is my last haven, consider me beyond savior.

...

Episode 148:

2011-04-27T04:37:00.000-07:00

Today we have a guest entry. Monica spent most of last week with the baby as she was on vacation. Thus, I have little material and she is ready to go. So, you get a break from my cynicism, hyperbole and random analogies today. Enjoy.

...

I decided that I would like to contribute to the blog since home last week on April vacation. I was really looking forward to spending time with Av since I am perpetually plagued with working mom guilt and have often reduced myself into thinking I am fun weekend mom. The child is at an age that I would like to bottle and save. Her hilarity is unrelenting. She is infuriating, annoying, spastic and adorable…sometimes all within the same action. With the weather forecast being less than promising my initial plan of a road trip to a Peace Pagoda and the zoo, didn’t pan out, so I had to get creative.

The family decided on a rainy Tuesday to take advantage of the free admission for Salem residents at the Peabody Essex Museum. I had heard there was a hands-on nature room for kids, so off we went. The room was full of taxidermy creatures and optical illusions. The museum smell was combined with other children’s diapers and petrified animal skins. I opened one discovery drawer to find old dried snake skins, one with ‘guess that animal hide’, and even a tiny stiff star nosed mole, my animal arch nemesis. Despite being all equally disguising, none of these compared the wall of stuffed birds. One thing immediately jumped out to the whole family…a grouping of three eyed owls. What the hell. These do not exist in nature, there was no literature to match up and explain why they had three eyes, and they were just there. All perched and gawking out of their three eyes. It was almost as if the curator was fucking with the patrons. Like, ‘who’s paying attention to this absurd wall of taxidermy birds?’ Like an animal abnormalities version of “Where’s Waldo?” Needless to say, I took a picture and the concept has tortured me ever since. Google it, it isn’t possible.

We had also collected the inevitable wayward child. It happens almost every time we take a trip anywhere. A child who seemingly belongs to no one latches onto me and before long I find myself correcting a stranger child’s behavior, tying it’s shoe, zipping it’s coat, pushing it on the swing, reading it a story, all but wiping it’s ass and putting it to bed. This one we collected at the museum appeared to have a limited language capacity and not realize its own strength. It was a child sized Lenny from “Of Mice and Men.” The child first grunted and joined up for a game of blocks. Av was intrigued and intimidated and I was just annoyed. I looked around hoping it belonged to some super serious museum going mom who would swiftly remove her from the likes of us and we could all commence playing. No such luck. The child continued to play with a box of stuffed chameleons and Av was giving me the ‘wtf who is this?’ look and I had to shrug and play it cool. Eventually it wandered away and we came to the conclusion that it belonged to the over-weight woman behind us loudly talking on a cell phone who occasionally swore while yelling about her dysfunctional drug addicted son or nephew. Go fig.

...

The slated day for the zoo was Friday. The forecast was again cold and shitty, like the rest of the week. I decided we would go to the movies. With Dan home “sick,” I was looking forward to a girls’ day at the movie theatre and mall. We arrived a little early for our 10:05 (am!) showing of the Easter film “Hop.” Av seemed so down with the concept. My brother’s fist movie was Ghost Dad staring Bill Cosby. Best. Mine was Flowers in the Attic. (My parents thought I wouldn’t remember/wouldn’t get it. They were wrong.) Anyway, I paid the $6 a ticket and fulfilled my promise for movie popcorn. It has been years since I have gone to the movies and paid myself…so I was kind of surprised by the kid’s popcorn at $5.50. I was not surprised however, by the clientele the movies contains on a weekday morning. Moms with unruly children, buying armfuls of candy and ice-junkies at 10:05 in the morning….good luck with that. Sad looking women with sweatsuits and perma-scowls.

I often feel conflicted about not being a stay-at-home mom…the weekday world intrigues me. We headed down to theatre number one, pricey popcorn and baby in tow, all the while Av is repeating, “don’t spill it mummy, don’t spill it…” I set her up, the chair folding up onto her tiny body, busted out Bert and Ernie and put them in each cup holder, strawed a juicebox and thought this was going to be awesome.

The lights dimmed and the most epic preview for a children’s movie commenced, sending the $5.50 popcorn flying and a clinging two year old onto my lap. “buh-byes! Buh -byes!” literal panic had set in. Did you know the fucking Smurfs were back? Like, 1980s can be both a noun and verb (yeah, I smurfed that) Smurfs are back. Terrifying. They are now in CGI animation. The preview consisted of a human (who WASN’T Brandon Frasier!) opening the box of Smurfs who screamed, then the human screamed, then the baby screamed, dug in her dirty unkempt nails, and demanded to be removed. Awful. In the lobby, the elderly usher and I tried to explain to her that the Smurfs were nice guys and the bunny movie was worth it. She wasn’t buying it. Smurf you, Smurfs. I liked the Snorks way better. Or Thundercats. Or She-Ra, or Jem. Assholes.

...

Ok, I'm back. Didn't she do a nice job? I think so. We are back in to the full swing of things this week, for better or worse. The baby clearly has more fun with Monica, but she deals with me because she has to. My week 'off' was nice, even though I was sick for a bit (and I was). It all just reinforces the fact that life would be exponentially better if neither one of us worked. Crackheads have it all figured out. Well, except for the crack part.

Episode 147: Happy 'Annual Catholic Guilt Weekend!'

2011-04-23T10:34:00.000-07:00

Here is an absolutely disgusting video of Av playing with her spaghetti. I would file this one under "shit every kid does and no parent likes." Saves her self with adorable laughter at the end.

...

Easter has once again crept up on some random, nonsensical spring Sunday and the Easter Bunny excitement at our house has begun. She saw him at the mall, gave him a high five, but didn't get her picture taken. Now tells everyone that she thinks he is a "nice guy." She also understands the concept that he will come to our apartment, hide some eggs and leave her candy in a basket. What all of this has to do with Jesus I am not sure, but, hey, it is a hell of a lot better than getting slapped across the face with Catholic guilt because you ate a Snickers bar three days before Lent ended. Or because you ordered a Big Mac instead of a Fillet 'O Fish last Friday. Fact: The Catholic rule of not eating meat on Fridays during Lent was created by a Pope who wanted to stimulate the sagging fishing industry. OK, I'm done.

I never much liked Easter as a kid. Mostly because it is on a different day every year which means I usually didn't see it coming. It also usually signifies the end of April school vacation, which is a huge downer when your a kid trying to party. My mom would never let me give up things like broccoli or vacuuming the living room for lent. It has to be a 'sacrifice' she said. Here I was thinking that waking up before dawn to go to church every Sunday was my self-sacrificial duty.

Av is very excited about the Easter Bunny and that is fun. We will have a lovely day having brunch with family, eating candy, playing with toys and drinking screwdrivers before noon. After all, holidays are about families, day drinking and over indulgence, right? All things I know Jesus would enjoy if he were to drop in on our Easter celebration tomorrow. Jesus seems like he liked to party.

We will also be enjoying 'Resurrection Tacos' for dinner because Sunday is taco night on Roslyn Street and few things in life make me happier than tacos (really). I'll be dammed if I am going to give up my favorite night of the week because society says I have to eat ham.

One final point of clarification. I am not an atheist. I am also not stupid. Religion is man-made. All of them. Show me the book God wrote himself and I'll follow it. Until then, people should probably just try not to fuck one another over. Don't beat people up. Avoid murder, cyber bullying and racism and try not to cheat on your wife with any 17-year-old runaways and God should be happy. And if he isn't, his priorities are seriously out of whack. HAPPY EASTER!

...
This song is about the end of the world. Seems somewhat appropriate in a sick way. Lyrically brilliant. Epic in length and emotional build up. I wish someone in art school would make an interpretive video and post it to Youtube. I don't know anyone in art school. No, Murder By Death is not a metal band.

Episode 146: In which I redisover baseball

2011-04-20T16:43:00.000-07:00

It is no secret to anyone that I am a huge sports fan. I always have been. In my younger years when I had more free time to watch games and follow teams I could name you every player on every team in the 4 major sports, how they were doing in a particular year and their career history. As one grows older and starts working there is less time to pay attention. It doesn't help that my girlfriend is in no way a fan of sports, meaning that it is typically not on the TV like it used to be, unless it is a playoff game or she isn't home. I try to follow my favorite teams and I keep very close tabs on NASCAR and football, mostly because they are once a week sports and it is easy.

Throughout all of this I have had to make sacrifices. The biggest of which is the Boston Red Sox. Basketball is my favorite sport both to play and watch, followed by NASCAR and football. After that there is not a lot of time for baseball. It is on every night, the games are long and the season is even longer. I keep tabs on the Sox and little else. Part of the reason for this is because I have found the Red Sox organization and the majority of their fans have become absolutely insufferable in recent years. The organization does nothing but grandstand, release lame theme songs and cater to casual fans with a lot of money. If I have to hear 'Shipping out to Boston' or 'Sweet Caroline' one more time I am going to spoon out an eye. I know the team didn't write these songs, but they have embraced them and crammed them down our throats. Worse, still, is the ownership group represents everything I hate about American democracy. Billionaires with a billion dollar product selling it to the public for twice as much as it is worth because they can. Slap two socks on a coffee mug or a sweatshirt and it is $30 more expensive. Kind of like how a 6-pack of beer is $16.95 but a 36-pack of water is $4.99. America: screwing everyone but the rich every day- because it is your fault your parents didn't birth you in to money so you could start your own business in your 20's.

Red Sox fans are even worse. The true, hardcore fan has been all but replaced by wealthy, band wagoners known around these parts as 'Pink Hats.' They know little about the sport, but it is trendy to go to the games and think the players are cute. On the male side, it is just as trendy to go, get drunk and post pictures of yourself in front of Pesky Pole on Facebook, not actually having any idea that Johnny Pesky is not just some random old man who hangs out at the games. Worse yet are the yuppie Metro-Boston families who use Fenway Park as a status symbol so their shitty, spoiled kids can go back to school with all of their merch and brag to their friends about how their dad paid for them to get to run out on the field before the game. Meanwhile most of the real fans are left scrounging for any ticket under $50 so they can go to one game a year and pay $8 for a beer. All set.

This season, though, has been different. Maybe it is because the Sox loaded up their team, or maybe it is because there have been a lot of day games, but I have found myself watching them again. Today there was a 3:30 start in Oakland and I put the game on while Av and I were playing. I know she has watched a few games with Monica's father when she is over there, but I didn't really know she understood it. Today she must have sat on the couch with me, or played in the general vicinity of the couch for at least an hour and a half watching the game- with excitement. She understands more of it than a 2-year-old should, and she absolutely loves it. For 15 minutes during about the 6th inning today she ran around the house "like a baseball" after watching Jed Lowrie round the bases after a home run.

While all of this was going on I dug up a few relics from the closet. A Wally the Green Monster doll and a giant, stuffed baseball with arms, legs, a face and a Red Sox hat that for some reason I still have in a box from my youth. She calls the latter "Baseball Man" and is currently spooning him in her crib because she insisted on bringing him to bed.

All of this has made me stop and think about baseball. Yes, it can be boring. Yes the Red Sox are run by evil, money-grubbing robots. But the fact is, at least around here, that it brings people together. Generations of families can share in their love of one thing. Something about Av loving a nice, relaxing game of baseball in the afternoon hit my soft spot. I got to explain things to her and remember the first time I went to Fenway Park with my dad. Now I can't wait to bring her. Maybe I am just longing for those long summer nights drinking beer and watching the game, windows open, grill fired up. We're close, folks. Almost there.

Forgive me for the lameness of today's post. I feel sentimental. Here is a collection of kick-ass music to assure you that I have not completely fallen off the deep end.

...

Episode 145: Adventures in manliness

2011-04-13T15:51:00.000-07:00

I do not consider myself a handy person in any way. I try, sometimes hard, to make it look like I am, but the truth is I am about as useless as a caveman who has traveled through time only to find himself employed as a computer tech support guy.

My knowledge of car repair is minimal. I can replace a brake light, fill some fluids, jump a battery and check my oil. If I am really motivated and I have all of the right tools I can change a tire, but usually I opt to call AAA or drive to the nearest service station. That's about it. Around the house I can screw things in or maybe assemble something from Target, but my services are limited. I do have experience caulking, painting and fixing garbage disposals, but in the handyman world that is equivalent to an accountant being able to change the batteries in an calculator or a barber changing the blade on his razor. Have we had enough analogies for the day? Good.

My biggest regret in life, other than wasting 4 years and $50 grand on college when I could have just learned a trade and got a city job, is being a shitheads from the ages of 8-16, as most kids are, and refusing to let my dad teach me how to fix things around the house or take care of my own car. He tried, I just wasn't interested, and he was too nice a guy to make me do it anyway. Damn.

Today I was asked to clean the mold and soap scum from our apartment. As I have mentioned, our apartment sucks. The landlord lives in Ireland, or California, or maybe Scotland- I literally don't know at this point. Shit brakes all the time and there is still scum from the last three tenants in the deepest of corners. The most disgusting of which is the years of dog hair matted in to the front hallway stairs. I have tried everything short of traveling through time to shoot the dog's mother (time travel reference #2) to get it out. Nothing works. I would love to just replace the carpet, but if I had the money to lay carpet on a stairway I'd have the money to not live here, so it stays. Have I mentioned that I hate dog people?

Anyway, since I was already asked to clean the mold, and Av was with Monica's parents at the aquarium today (LUCKY!), I figured I'd clean the whole house. Despite my general idiocy when it comes to skill crafts, I am an excellent cleaner. If it weren't for my inevitable onset of laziness I feel like I could run with those Spanish ladies in the yellow Ford Focus who clean houses for hire.

I proceeded to dominate the kitchen, living room and both hallways, even picking out the 4-year-old (at least) dog hair from the stairs with my own latex-glove clad hands, thinking the entire time "damn, it smells like I have a condom on my hand." The mold removal? Well, the mold removal was a different story. Let me first start by saying that the mold is gone. The bathroom is immaculate and the soap scum is a distant memory. It was not an easy road, though.

My method of cleaning was a scum/ mold removal product called "Mean Green." The label simply has two evil, mean looking eyes staring at you. I tried to find a picture, but a Google search for 'Mean Green' gives you, in order, a green computer drawing of a falcon, some weed and a kid dressed in combat gear. I am sure if I kept going or changed my search a bit I could find it, but that hearkens back to the whole 'laziness' thing, probably due, in part, to my relationship with the item featured in the second Google search result.

Anyway, the Mean Green worked fantastically on the bathtub, tile and floor, leaving me with only a few spots on the ceiling to tend to. This is where things went wrong. The product is used in a spray bottle, so getting it on the ceiling was tough. I put on a pair of Maui Jim Sport sunglasses (won in a sales contest at the now defunct Athlete's Corner, which my resume says I was once an assistant manager at, thank you very much) and my favorite t-shirt, also won in a sales contest at the same store,( this time for selling Mizzuno running shoes. I rule), and I started to spray.

Needless to say, my favorite shirt is now blue with a million pink spots all over the sides, shoulders and back, and I have probably shaved a few days off of my life with the whole bleach ingestion thing.

*Side note. Bleach issues always make me think of this kid I went to high school with named Chris. The story is tragic. Older brother makes younger brother drink bleach as a funny trick when both are too young to know any better. Younger brother becomes retarded. But Chris wasn't really retarded, he was just really, really, really sllllllllloooooowwwwwww. Nicest kid you will ever meet in you entire life. Life's aspiration to work at Price Chopper (Western Mass represent!) and save $1,000. As of three years ago, which was the last time I was at the Pittsfield Price Chopper, he still worked there. I hope his bank account reflects that. In 11th grade he had a teacher's aid who looked exactly like a character from the TV show 'Dinosaurs.'
I want to make it absolutely clear, I am not making fun of Chris. He was a great kid who got a bad deal in life and made the best of it, whether he is aware of it or not. From my end, I have been terrified of bleach for 15 years because of it.

For all of the bleach I ingested I still feel fine, aside from a weird taste in my mouth, so it is probably good. What wasn't fine was my bathroom walls, which looked like someone spilled white paint all over them from above. See, my bathroom walls are the same random peach color as the rest of my place, except for where the random peach color isn't, which is painted a sort of whitish pink color. In some rooms there are two-tone walls. Tough deal. Anyway, I had no idea how to prevent the Mean Green from dripping down the walls, so it was just a series of streaks. Luckily for me, I have, as most apartments do, a random paint closet that features just the right shade of peach. I was too lazy, however, to get a roller from the store, so I just used a brush and spot-painted it. It looks ok, not great, but it is better than it was before. Plus, it isn't my house, so who cares?

Yeah. I don't do much.

...

Episode 144:

2011-04-08T05:40:00.000-07:00

This is a slow loris. It is apparently some kind of monkey squirrel. Doesn't move too quickly, hence the name. He has predictably googly eyes and dangerous looking claws. I have somehow managed to go 27 years without knowing he existed. A quick, lazy google search informed me that people keep these guys as pets. There are also a variety of Youtube videos with titles like "Slow Loris with an umbrella," "Slow Loris being tickled" and "Slow Loris waking up from anesthesia." I did not watch any of them.

This is a slender loris. The slow loris' more fit "cousin." Apparently this particular species of monkey squirrel was scientifically classified by a 5-year-old. He appears to be more of a dick.

For some bizarre reason, there are no videos of either one of these guys eating a cricket in the wild currently available on the Internet. There is, however, a clip of just that in an episode of Zaboomafo titled "Fast and Slow." Av saw this today and I watched her little brain comprehend the food chain for the first time. Honestly, it was kind of weird.

...

Episode 143:

2011-04-05T09:05:00.001-07:00

This is Av in a frog raincoat encountering an inflated Easter Bunny at Acapulco's Mexican Restaurant. Mexican people love Jesus. I'm not sure why. But they do.

Yesterday Av pronounced the word 'restaurant' as 'retihonk.' Which is a very strange interpretation and pronunciation of the word. She also has a very difficult time pronouncing Little Cat's name. She calls her "wedidididi cat." This makes no sense. She can say the word 'little.' "That's the little one." "Big rhino, little rhino" but if you ask her to say "Little Cat" she can't do it.

The language of a 2-year-old can be very difficult to follow at times. She can say things like 'yellow' and 'purple' perfectly. She knows her animals, rhinos, hippos, crocodiles, snakes, giraffes and the like, but she can't quite get elephant right. Elephants are 'akidonks.' She also can't say banana, choosing instead to call them 'beenas.'

I suppose none of this is strange, I just can't get a grasp on why she can say some things and not say other things that are similar/ easier. I am sure some pretentious education or psychology major has some sort of scientific or developmental answer for me, but I don't want to hear any of that. Life is too short to give a shit about science.

...

I have been trying to come up with some sore of revenge plan regarding the downstairs neighbors this week. Now that all the snow is gone all of the disgusting crap that their stupid dog left all over the sidewalk is visible again. Just walking out the door to the car is like a minefield. They are so lazy. So, so lazy. I need to get them back. It is absurd at this point. I need to get them back and I need to do it with poop. No exceptions.

I have two cats and a baby. Chances are there is pretty much poop somewhere all the time in my house. Controlled poop, of course. Not just left on the sidewalk for me to step in and mash in to the car floor mats. So I am thinking to setting them up. Maybe putting poop in their mail box. Or smearing it on the handles of their car doors. Mailbox would be sneaker.

Unrelated story. I once had a disputed medical bill I had to pay Beverly Hospital. I lost the dispute so I placed the envelope in the cat box for a few hours, just until it got a cat skid mark on it. Then I mailed it to them. Enjoy your cat poop $90. I also use poop as identity theft protection. Whenever I have a large stack of personal info I have to throw out I will layer it in bags of cat poop and baby diapers. Genius.

Anyway, the point is that there needs to be some poop revenge going on soon. Just because you are stoned and lazy all day doesn't mean you shouldn't clean up after your shitty dog. I know it is them, too. It has to be. There is too much of it to just be random dogs walking past the house. That's it. Settled. Next time the baby poops it is going out of the diaper in to a Ziplock bag. Then, I am going to place that Ziplock bag in a manila envelope and mail it to them. It will be worth the postage. Is that illegal? Probably.

...

Episode 142: Children, testicle jokes and you

2011-03-29T05:27:00.000-07:00

In case you haven't noticed, I do not have the most mature, refined sense of humor. I like sexually explicit jokes, crotch shots, videos of inflatable mascots eating cheerleaders and saying 'that's what she said' at all the right times. Also, my favorite movie is Dirty Work starring Norm MacDonald, Artie Lange and that chick from 'Two Guys, a Girl and a Pizza Place' circa 1998.

Thus, I also find it irresistibly funny when people unintentionally say humorous things about nuts, balls, junk or any other euphemism for testicles. As you can imagine, this happens a lot when you watch kid's shows.

Av's current favorite show is a DVD called 'Count on Sports' starring Bert and Ernie as blazer-clad sports casters teaching children about math through the guise of sports. Putting aside the fact that there is absolutely no way to make math fun- I don't care if you give me a party hat, a fridge full of beer, and a busload of loose women with massage degrees from Blaine Beauty School, if there is a math lesson involved, I'm not going to have fun- the video is actually one of the more entertaining child-geared shows I have watched in a long time.

Bert and Ernie are a naturally funny pair, but when they start talking about balls it becomes even funnier. There are conversations such as this:

Ernie: "While I get started Bert, why don't you count all of the balls"

Bert: "What balls?"

Ernie: "These balls!" (various sports balls fall on his head).

Immature? Yes. Still funny? Yes.

Later on in the show Bert sorts the balls in to piles of small balls, medium balls and big balls. The baby refers to this show simply as 'Ernie Balls.' "Watch Ernie Balls, Daddy?" Ha!

Another one of Av's favorites is an episode of Zaboomafoo that involves a monkey. In all of the learning about the animals there is one segment where they decide that they need to share that the monkey loves nuts. What ensues is a solid 45 seconds of every character saying things like "I love nuts!" or "Monkey's love nuts" or "I think he wants nuts!" Then Zaboo goes over to the snack machine (which I have affectionately renamed the 'snatch machine'), says something along the line of "nuts! nuts! nuts!" and then lets all of the cashews fall on his face and in his mouth. Priceless.

I am always laughing at times like this, which makes Av laugh, too. She thinks it is because the show is funny. Someday she will also see the humor in testicles. Of course, she will not ever know what a testicle looks like because the moment she sees a man without his pants on is the moment I end up in prison, so we are just going to avoid that. I am still pushing for that lesbian thing.

I don't care if that is immature or cheap comedy. It makes me laugh every time. Just like a dad catching a wiffle ball bat in the nuts on America's Funniest Home Videos.

...

Over the weekend Monica and I took the baby to a place called the Rainforest Cafe'. This is a restaurant nestled within a mall that is supposed to create the illusion of dining in the rainforest. Without, of course, the poisonous spiders, various tropical bugs, hungry animals, cannibalistic natives or intestinal parasites that eventually burrow out of your ass and eat your entire family.

Instead, there are animatronic jungle creatures, flash thunderstorms, fish tanks everywhere and the occasional screaming monkey. The line for this place wraps around the mall hours before the restaurant opens while efficient, poorly dressed staff members pretend not to freak out about the shear volume of people.

Av absolutely loved the place. She was completely overwhelmed with the visuals and all of the animals. We got to sit next to the elephants, who she was concerned were too hot because of the artificial steam that was coming out of the artificial swamp they were artificially standing in. I have to say, the place is a well-oiled machine and kids love it. It just seems like it would be absolute hell to work at. I get annoyed at work when people get to lout watching games on TV, I can't imagine how I would feel if I was trying to take an order in the middle of an artificial thunder storm.

One thing I will say is that the staff really pushes the booze on the parents, which I appreciate. The whole time we were standing in line I was thinking to myself "Man, I am going to need a beer. But I don't think it is acceptable." I really didn't want to be that guy who orders a beer around hundreds of kids and their judgmental parents. I was almost as conflicted as I was the time that I had to go to a child's christening that also featured an open bar. Talk about inner conflict.

Anyway, I had conceded myself to having to tough out the Rainforest Cafe without the help of beer when the waitress came. She introduced herself, did the whole speech and then immediately turned to the page of alcohol. What I saw was a magical page of tropical drinks in souvenir cups, mix drinks and beer. I ordered a beer and looked around to find bottles of Bud scattered throughout the rainforest and a bold old man sitting next to us sipping on a scotch and water. Ahhh, the rainforest. Not too bad a place after all.

Overall the experience was decent. The kid loved it, there was beer, it wasn't as expensive as it could have been and I was able to make it home before the nachos forced me in to the bathroom. Monica was not so lucky, though. She had to poop at Stop and Shop. Yes, I debated deleting that last line. It is just funnier to leave it. I am prepared for the backlash.

...

...

Episode 141: In which I officially bid farewell to my youth

2011-03-24T05:41:00.000-07:00

I'm old. I know I'm old and I've been old for a while. Sure, I haven't quite hit 30 yet, but I am still old. About as old as a 27-year-old can be. As time passes there are things that randomly remind you of your age. Realizing that you don't know who any of today's popular music stars or actors are. Losing the desire to ever do a shot at a bar. Watching the children of professional athletes you used to watch as a teenager play in college now. Certain foods are no longer accepted by your body etc...

The worst is when you look at something that happened in a certain year and you don't think it was that long ago, but then you realize it was. Example: I recently watched sports footage from 1998- that I remember watching live at the time- and it looked grainy and faded. Like I was watching Babe Ruth in 1926. Some of the players interviewed in present time looked like my dad. Has anyone seen Mark McGuire lately?
Old. And he isn't the only one. William Shatner is 80. 80! Unbelievable. At least J-Lo still looks good. There is still a little bit of hope for society.

It isn't just celebrities, either. Businesses that I still consider new are celebrating 10 year anniversaries. My 2007 model year car has almost 80,000 miles on it. I graduated college five years ago. Five. What have I done with the last decade? Where did it go? I have no idea.

I have always kind of accepted this, embraced the salt and pepper hair and told myself I was distinguished and experienced. An urban George Clooney without the talent, success or hoards of fawning women. But this week I'm feeling a little bit more demoralized.

The restaurant reopened last week and up until yesterday I had worked six straight days. Most nights were late ones, ending around 2 a.m., and at times I have had to turn up the tempo and move fairly quickly while covering a large area. All of this is good. I like working, work equals money. I like when I have to work hard, it makes the time go by faster and it gives me more of a purpose, but my old-ass body is beginning to fail me.

After about two days my neck knotted up in to the size of a volley ball, I pulled a muscle in my calf, my legs are all stiff and I have shooting pains in my lower back. I can barely turn my neck. To make all of this worse, I have been extremely, extremely tired. I can remember my dad coming home from work, sitting down and just dozing off. Taking five minutes out of whatever he was doing and just falling asleep. I used to think he was borderline narcoleptic, now I realize he was just a tired, over worked old man. And so am I.

Yesterday morning I got up with Av after six straight days of working. I had gone to bed at 2 a.m. and she got up at 6:30. Five years ago I would have been resilient. Tired, but my body would have willed me through the morning with a little bit of Red Bull and adrenaline. Yesterday I could barely keep my eyes open. I dozed off on the couch all morning while Av watched Sesame Street. I could barely muster up the energy to empty the cat box or do the dishes. I tried everything. Red Bull, fruit, sticking my head out the window to get fresh air- nothing worked. I am just a tired old man. Even after we left the house I was limping through art class, being grouchy, driving slow because I was tired and my neck hurt. I almost fell asleep pushing the cart at Target.

Old people are up with the sun, napping my 10 a.m. and asleep by 8 p.m. at the latest. That sounds so good to me right now I can't even tell you. Maybe it is my stagnant lifestyle that keeps me from having young man energy. I don't 'work out' or 'eat well'. I am happiest with a few beers, maybe some queso dip or a bag of gummy bears and some TV. That probably isn't the healthiest way to go about life, but I get my exercise at work being on my feet and running around for nine hours. I think I am just old. It's over. That's what it comes down to. I am rapidly approaching my expiration date. I hope that I don't find myself single in my 30's. I used to think that if it happened I'd have a decent shot with some chick coming off a failed marriage with low self esteem or something, but now I'm thinking it will be like a 70-year-old back on the market. Just sad and a little gross. I think I have that Robin Williams disease. You know, the one he had in Jack?

...

2011-03-17T08:50:00.000-07:00

R.I.P. Nate Dogg. Let us all regulate today in memory.

Episode 140: Cool tricks, cool tricks!

2011-03-16T07:53:00.000-07:00

I've spoken about this before, but today I have a good reason for revisiting it. Yo Gabba Gabba is the weirdest and most oddly satisfying show on children's television. Robots, monsters and one giant tall cyclopes that looks oddly like a ribbed dildo dance around some acid-trip land under the watch of God figure DJ Lance Rock.
They go on adventures and sing songs and generally please the senses of toddlers with educational segments that border on nightmarish but somehow remain wholesome and comforting. Whoever designed this show was on lots and lots of drugs.

Part of the show's appeal to adults, besides the pure insanity of it all, is the many celebrity cameos. Musicians like The Roots and the Shins often make appearances on the 'Super Music Friend Show' segment, while others show up for 'Dancy Dance Time.' Jack Black even had his own episode. There is a drawing segment hosted by Mark Mothersbaugh, the wonderfully insane and unstable lead singer of 80's pop sensation Devo.

One of the best segments on the show is called 'Cool Tricks,' in which people- sometimes celebrities, other times just regular people, show of a 'cool trick.' In one episode a kid balances a spoon on his nose. In another a man hand-farts the alphabet. In one episode that we have been watching lately, the Cool Tricks guest is Rahzel.
Rahzel is a beat boxer who has been a member of The Roots as well as his own solo work. Think of that guy from Police Academy (not the very fit Steve Gutenberg, the other one who made police car noises) only more gangsta, more talented and more musical. He does a 30 second beat box session. There is also a segment on the show from time to time when Biz Markie of 'Just a Friend' fame also beatboxes, offering up Biz' Beat of the day.

Here is the famous song, just in case you missed this part of the early 90's.

Essentially, what all of this means is that Av is now attempting to beat box. She is young, inexperienced and not too familiar with the hip hop scene, but she tries. Usually, she says 'I like that guy' when she sees Rahzel and then makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a throat-clearing hack and a small child trying to imitate stadium crowd noise. I actually had no idea that she was trying to do it until Monica pointed it out, but it makes perfect sense. I see it now. I am going to try and get video, but as is the case with me trying to film her imitating the count (ah ah ah!), she will never do it when the camera is on.

...

Episode 139: It's fun to get harassed at the YMCA

2011-03-15T08:56:00.000-07:00

A few of you may remember about six months ago when we enrolled Av in what we were led to believe was beginner pre school at the new YMCA in Marblehead. This 'pre school' ended up being nothing more than a glorified day care with a tyrant teacher who yelled at Av for drinking juice and essentially kicked us out of the class. This has resulted in a crippling fear of abandonment on Av's part- sometimes you can be standing right behind her in a room and if she doesn't see you she will start to cry- as well as eternal bitterness on mine.

Following the school incident I canceled my membership and vowed never to set foot at that particular location again. We started going back to the Salem Y, which is old, run down and ghetto, but charming and friendly. We go to art class there and sometimes Monica takes the baby to swim. Someday if I ever feel the need to not have the body of a dad I will probably renew my membership and go to the gym there.

Recently, though, we signed the baby up for a parent/ child open gym. Av loves to go places and just jump around, what kid doesn't? So we figured signing up for a class at the YMCA would be a nice alternative to going over to Route 1 to Monkey Joe's every time. The only problem was that it was at the new location in Marblehead. I was reluctant at first but the concept sounded fun for Av so I agreed. What is the worst that can happen? It is just open gym, I'll be next to her the whole time it is fine.

We started going three weeks ago and what I found was the Marblehead YMCA is the unfriendliest, most irrational place on the planet. I have once again instituted my ban and I can now promise you that I will never, ever make another exception and go there again.

First, lets talk about the staff. At the Salem YMCA there are several entrances. The main entrance has a locked door that an attendant has to open. Upon entering the building the attendant hits the door button and lets you in. Non members are simply asked why they are there and payment is processed if needed, but usually it is because they have signed up and pre-paid for a class and they are let in simply by giving their name. When we go to art class we go in through the side door in to the children's room. We check in with the teacher and we are cool. If someone isn't on the list they send them upstairs to register at the front desk. Simple as that.Most days when we walk in we are greeted with a warm, friendly hello by someone. The teacher knows our names and the staff recognizes us.

To my knowledge no one has ever been raped, kidnapped, murdered, poisoned or anything of the like at the Salem YMCA.

In Marblehead, or 'Legg's Hill' as they like to pretentiously call it because it is carved out of what was once a lovely forest/ rock area long destroyed by towering home developments, they don't give you an inch. There is only one entrance to the building if you are not in the daycare program and it is guarded on each end by two Russian women and in the back by a fat, grumpy man with one dead, crumpled hand. Every week it has been the same. Go in, "Hi, we are here for her gym class." They ask if we are members and I say that she is. They look in the computer, screw up either her first or last name two to three times and say that she isn't a member. I point out that she is, in fact a member, and have to give everything from phone numbers to addresses. We then have a back and forth. Eventually I point out that I have paid for the class and they look me up, tell me my membership is 'expired' at which point I explain that my membership is canceled precisely because of situations like this. Once the KGB clears me I have to talk to Dead Hand Man, who then asks me the exact same questions and makes me sign in on a piece of paper. Last week I got yelled at for putting our names on the same line.

This week I bypassed the KGB and went right to the sign up sheet, same line of questioning from Dead Hand. This time I didn't even bother arguing with him as to whether or not she was a member, I just put her name down, got yelled at for not putting down my 'time in' on the appropriate line and muttered something along the lines of 'I see you every week and you know why we're here' to which he responded 'This is a safety and security measure.' You know, because lots of kidnappers, terrorists, rapists and murderers carry 2-year-olds who are yelling 'Jumping, Daddy?! Jumping, Daddy?!' right before they drop anthrax a the YMCA.

Anyway, I shook my head and said 'People at the Salem Y are much nicer' and slammed the door behind me. On to the gym. Open gym is from 10:45 to 11:25, strange times but, whatever. Before hand is a much more structured gymnastics class that appears to be for kids around the same age. Their parents wait outside and the kids go through drills and activities. Every week I sit there and picture what a disaster it would be if I ever left Av by herself with those women and tried to watch through the window. The teacher is incredibly mean to those kids. I saw two of them crying today alone, one of whom was disciplined for not listening. The teacher then came out and scolded him in front of the parent. I get that gymnastics is one of those discipline sports like swimming but, Jesus, that kid was like, three.

This same woman is in our program, too, but since it is pretty much a free for all no one listens to her and everyone does whatever they want. At the start she attempts to put together some sort of obstacle course but mostly the kids just disassemble it. The previous class almost always runs long by 2-3 minutes, and ours is always abruptly stopped at 11:25 with no exceptions. The kids are coldly and efficiently given a smiley face hand stamp and sent on their way. They have no respect for us because it is open gym and we aren't interested in their rules. Bitches.

Anyway, today three minutes in to class the fire alarm goes off. We have to evacuate the building. Of course, Av is pissed. 'No by byes! More jump!' Other kids are panicked. We get outside and we stand there for three minutes as I try to explain to my sad, confused child what is happening. Just then some woman, who looks like the director, comes out and says. "You have all passed the fire drill, but I have some concerns." Cool. Poor timing but, hey, if you need to have a fire drill to comply why not do it at 11 a.m. on a Tuesday. Whatever. If it ended there that would have been fine, but the bitch continued with her 'concerns.'

"I do have to say that in the future we expect people to leave all of your personal belongings inside, even parents with children.Also, it is important to make sure that you only leave through the main entrance." Ok, lady. It is 40 degrees out and my kid isn't wearing shoes, I'm grabbing our stuff. And if this monstrosity is ever actually on fire (not likely given the security team) I am going out the closest door and I sure am not going to wait outside. I'm out. Going home. Thanks, tho.

As she lets us back in there is no interrogation at the door, too many people I guess, but as soon as we got back in to the gym it started again. Two people- TWO- asked me in a span of 30 seconds if we had memberships, if we were registered and if we had paid. Are you f-ing kidding me?! We have been in this class for three weeks. Three! You know what the problem was? The stupid lady copied the names from the printed roster to her stupid notebook wrong and had her listed as- no lie- Averyn Barr. Give me a break. And, again, wasn't even nice about it. Asked to see my membership card and when I told her I wasn't a member started in on the whole 'you should get one' crap.

At this point I have had it. It is starting to remind me of when I called Dell and every person I spoke to asked me how I was going to pay before asking me what my problem was or why I was calling. Literally every single person I spoke to asked me if I had a membership. This is the YMCA. The m-f-ing YMCA. No one is sneaking in to the YMCA for open gym. They just aren't doing it. This isn't Communist Russia. Unreal. It isn't even like they are pleasant about it, either, they are all rude and accusatory. Welcome to Marblehead, I suppose.

So, don't take your kid to the Legg's Hill YMCA. You will get yelled at, accused of fraud and treated like a lesser member of society. Again, welcome to Marblehead.

I don't feel like I ask too much. I am generally friendly to everyone, especially when I have the baby with me. I may come off as negative and grumpy here, which I certainly can be, but generally I am calm and agreeable, especially when dealing with someone who is at work. Sure, there are exceptions, but I'm certainly not trying to pick a fight with Dead Hand. All I ask is for people to be pleasant. Perhaps a little less accusatory and a little more helpful. I'm actually in a good mood today, too. Society just needs to cool its jets.

...

I've been on a big acoustic singer/ songwriter kick lately. I blame it on my emergence from the annual winter depression.

Episode 138: Misbehaving parrents and the absurdity that is YMCA art class

2011-03-11T06:31:00.000-08:00

I don't know if it is because of my age. Maybe it is my beard. Or perhaps it is just because I am a man, but I am beginning to notice that the other parents we come in contact with really do not like me. This is something that has been going on for a little while now, but I have to say it is starting to increase in frequency.

I am certainly not the type of guy to want to make friends with other parents. Ever. My fear of other kids has subsided somewhat, but their parents are still off limits to me. But since Av and I have started attending more and more organized events, such as art class and the open gym and the Nazi-like Marblehead YMCA, I have been forced in to close quarters with more parents than I would like. When you are at the park or Monkey Joe's the parents are disposable. You can come and go as you please and you really don't have to see them again. But at art class it is the same crew every week and it starts to wear on me. Here are a few profiles.

We'll start with my least favorite woman of them all. I don't know her name, I don't know her kids' names and I don't care. She has told me, but I dislike her so much I think I have started to forget on purpose. My name for her is Disrespectfully Late Lady, or for this purpose, we'll just call her DLL. DLL has something like 75-80 kids. Ok, it is probably more like four, but the way she talks about it you would think she was like that lady on 19 kids and counting. I have only met two of the kids, two girls like 3 and 4-years-old, who have some sort of trendy snob names that I don't remember. DLL's name is pretty self explanatory. Class starts at 9 a.m. The earliest I've ever seen her show up is 9:15. And that was only once. Usually she rolls in around 9:25-9:30. I used to think that she was just an idiot and didn't know what time the class started, but after a while of observing this behavior I have concluded that she is just a self-absorbed wanna-be MILF with too many kids.

I say wanna-be MILF because she is the opposite of one. A MIWNF if you will. (No, I will not explain that acronym or what MILF is. If you don't know, Google it). She is shaped kind of like a sun-stained, worn out, freckled, too old to have kids inflatable pear- and that is putting it nicely. My problem with this woman, though, is not her appearance or her inability to arrive on time. It is her judgmental mom attitude. Her kids are by far the oldest ones there, and she seems to think that all of the 1 and 2-year-olds running around and half paying attention to the project are somehow horribly misbehaved. Even though art class is held in the same room as the YMCA toddler play group, which involves thousands of toys, art supplies, a wooden firetruck, a multi-room playhouse and a stage filled with costumes. The art class kids are allowed to play here and the do. Except for her snotty, well-behaved little girls who pony up to the table and pretend to formulate masterpieces.

DLL hates me. She gives me looks, she thinks Av is disrespectful and misbehaved (which is untrue, Av is very well behaved, she would just rather play with the toys than glue macaroni to paper most days.) She is also one of those moms who expects you to introduce yourself and your kid as soon as you walk in the door. The first day I got a look and a snide 'oh and what is her name again?' Which always, ALWAYS precedes this conversation.

"Her name is Avelyn."

"What is it?"

"Avelyn"

"Evelyn?"

"No. Avelyn. Evelyn with an A"

"Avelyn (mispronounced)"

"No. Av-a-lynn. One name. A-V-E-L-Y-N"

"Ohhh. That is unique."

Like, is it really that hard?

Anyway, DLL hates me and I don't care.

There is another mom in art class who is almost as bad. I, again, don't know her name but her daughter is either named Lila or Lilly. I can't remember which because they are both generic flower-like names. If you are going to name your kid after a flower, pick a less common one than Lilly. How about Violet? Violet is nice. Lilly makes me think of Lilly Tomlin. And Daisy makes me think of Daisy Fuentes. Which makes me think of that really dark period in history when she and Mario Lopez hosted an America's Funniest Home Videos ripoff.

Anyway, this lady is another one of those 'make friends' moms. Wants to know everyone's name and age right away. Listen, lady. I'm not at toddler art class to plan a birthday party. I'm here to get my kid out of the house for an hour and get paint on someone else's floor for a change. Now, we are in our second semester of art class, so when we showed up the first day of the new session there were some new people, including Lilly's mom. Just like DLL we had the 'what is her name' conversation the second we got there, but then it got worse. This lady decides that, on her first day of art class, without asking, she was going to bust out a snack. Not just bust out a snack, either, announce that she was busting out a snack, so that Av and the other kid there instantly wanted one. Worse yet, was the comment she made to me.

"Ohhh, I brought these veggies, I don't know if she will like them. They are healthy."

Screw you lady. Just, go away. Seriously. So self-righteous. Oh, I feed my kid healthy snacks. Like I walked in with a bag full of cane sugar, french fries and battery acid. Even worse than that was what she said last week to the teacher.

The teacher for the art class is not a teacher. She is some pre or post-grad co-ed who volunteers at the YMCA, like most of the staff is there. She took over the class after the last chick got a job. She is 25 at the absolute oldest. She does her best given that she doesn't care at all. She always has a project and supplies and she explains it and lets the kids go to town. If they want her help she helps them. If they want to run off in to the playroom she doesn't care. Some days she is the only one in there while all the kids play (until DLL shows up) doing her own project. Leave her alone. She is fine. But no, on Wednesday Lilly's mom decides she is going to offer some advice. I shit you not, this lady said this.

"Hey, Jackie. It's Jackie, right?"

"No, it's Jess."

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Jess, do you ever, like, research any of the projects we do here. Like, do you go online or to you just grab supplies and come up with it in the morning."

"Um. (looking as if she wants to punch this lady) I go on some really great craft sites, but the projects are limited by the supplies we have at the Y."

"Oh. Ok, just, today we used scissors and I just feel like that is too hard for little kids."

"Well, the scissors are for you to help them with. We made masks."

Jess is right. We made masks. The bulk of the project was gluing and coloring. I cut out eye holes. That's it.

"Oh. Ok, well, I just know that my other daughter goes to a class where they use macaroni. And that is cheap. You could get that yourself."

"I'll look in to that." Jess now walks out of the room, probably to go yell obscenities at a wall so she doesn't get fired from her volunteer job. I look at this lady and shake my head and walk out of the room.

This lady also hates me. This is what I deal with. We are trying to have a nice time, keep occupied on a Wednesday morning and I have DLL and flower name mom giving poor Jess shit and assuming that I feed my kid nothing but potato chips and candy. It is only going to get worse as she gets older, I suspect.

I Love You But I've Chosen Darkness. Cool band name.

Episode 137: This blog will not end up like Steve Gutenberg

2011-03-08T06:42:00.000-08:00

This is Steve Gutenberg. Star of the Police Academy series, he has been black balled from acting. Please don't black ball me from blogging.

So, I have been gone for a while. Well, actually, I haven't gone anywhere. In fact, over the past month I have spent more time in my apartment than I have in years. Unfortunately, much of this time was spent spiraling in and out of a mental breakdown and questioning my existence and the meaning of life. There was also an entire day spent fighting with a series of Indian men who work for Dell. I think if Dell hired Native Americans instead of Indian people to do phone-based tech support the world would be a better place. That is neither here nor there.

Anyway, I won't get in to the details surrounding the many days of self exploration I spent here as it is not worth it to relive. Just know that there were times when I was considering killing the blog- murdering it in a painful, graphic way, perhaps as a metaphor for my own existence. After going weeks with seemingly no one noticing that I had stopped writing someone finally addressed the elephant in the room and asked why.

"Because I don't feel like it any more and I don't want to half-ass it," I said.

"Well, I'm bored at work now and no one knows you are half-assing it anyway. You should at last say 'goodbye.'"

Point taken. So, I thought about it for a few more days and decided to go back to it. I can't even really say why I stopped. I think I just lost motivation. Figured there was no longer a blogging audience and realized Goggle never sent me my ad money, all $37 of it. So screw 'em. There were a few distinct instances that made me question why I was doing this and made me want to stop. At one point I was sure that the blog was just another tool for the government to peer in to my life and steal my money, identity and livelihood. But that was just because Monica's car was towed from in front of our house and it freaked me out. It still freaks me out. I never much trusted the police, and now I don't trust tow truck drivers, either.

At some point during all this mess I realized that I am not motivated by anything remotely relevant anyway so I should probably not let things influence what is apparently enjoyable to others. So I will continue to write the blog for you, the reader. Because I love you. Well, some of you. Some of you I could take or leave. Maybe I don't know some of you, either, so I have no feelings toward you. Wait. Gratitude. I feel gratitude, thank you... I know, there is an awful lot that goes on in such a largely unproductive brain.

One benefit to all of this that I think I have inadvertently written a TV pilot in my head. It is based on some sort of fictional parody of myself that leads a simple yet twisted and unrealistic life. I didn't know I was writing a TV pilot at the time, I thought I was just carving some sort of delusional path for myself. Does that make sense? It probably shouldn't. Don't worry about it, I am not going to pursue it anyway.

So, after all of that, here we are. March 8. The first day of the rest of your blog-reading life. I hope that at least a few of you who used to enjoy the blog are still around. Here are a few updates to recap before we get started.

Av turned two a few weeks ago. A pretty straightforward, uneventful party in which the highlight for most was her writhing in pain as she tried to poop but was too constipated and had a small cut on the inside of her ass that apparently prevented her from pushing the poop out. This problem has since been solved. We now have something called the 'poop high five' as a result. The presents were great, the company was nice and the food was enjoyable. She now thinks that everyone wearing a triangular, pointed hat is celebrating a birthday. She is usually right.

We did have to go to Chuck E. Cheese though. There I learned four important things. 1. That place is much, much cleaner than it was when I was a kid. 2. Chuck E. Cheese's full name is Charles Entertainment Cheese. Really. 3. Birthday parties are cruel, mean, heartless and unsavory for any child who is not there to have or attend a party. They pretty much just rub it in your face, bring out the mouse and don't let you near them. 4. Chuck E. Cheese is miserable for adults. I mean miserable.

Av has flung herself head first in to the terrible two's. She is routinely deceptive, disobedient and fresh. Somehow this is still a bit charming and adorable, although I find myself cleaning up a lot more messes and I find her inching closer and closer to catastrophic injury with every step. She speaks in full sentences now which is hilarious, and she can now identify 'crotch' as a part of the body.

We still do many of the same things that we have always done. Target, Kitty Store, Monkey Joe's, Walmart, art class and the like. She still makes scenes in public places when she doesn't get her way, but she understands the concept of getting in trouble now, which is helpful.

As for me, the restaurant I work for has been closed for six weeks to complete a renovation that was supposed to take a month. They refused us unemployment on the basis that we would be given shifts at another location, which has happened for exactly three of those six weeks. That is all I am going to say about it because my blood pressure too is already to high today and I don't want to get fired over a blog post. If you want my personal thoughts on the rest, meet me at a bar, buy me a beer (because I can't afford my own) and just ask. I'll go in to explicit detail.

I am also still freelancing, which pays at most $40 per article, but for some reason it still exists in my world. I think it is because I like the guy I work for. Or maybe it is because I sat in my house for two weeks with nothing to do. That is a portion of my turmoil.

I will not speak of this turmoil and anxiety any more as we all have our problems and this is not a forum to address those. I should be back to work by next week, so I am optimistic. Although, I said that last week, too, so who the hell knows.

At this point we will be going forward with the blog with little to no mention of these very dark, inactive two months. Enjoy.

Living directly above an insane person

Today we are not going to discuss Av's antics because she hasn't done anything that stands out to me in the past few days. I am sure we will have plenty of experiences as the warm weather returns. She has done little but watch TV and wipe snot on everyone for the past few days anyway.

Instead, I feel I need to share the saga of the downstairs neighbor. I am sure you all remember Crazy and her adult skateboarding boyfriend who smoke weed and listen to Radiohead all day long. Their lives are exactly the same. No one works. They make a ton of noise, they smoke a ton of weed and they are shifty. Unfortunately for me, I have had way, way to much contact with them over the past four weeks.

About three weeks ago I get a knock on the door around 8 a.m. Standing there in tears is Crazy, breathing deeply and very upset.

"Steven is in the hospital," she said. "And I don't have any childcare."

Mind you, this was a Tuesday. A school day. Her daughters are 12 and 8. She also doesn't have a job. Anyway, she didn't ask me to take care of them, she just told me that they were downstairs and asked if I was going to be home and if I could be available if there was an emergency. Ummm. Ok? I explained to her that I was taking the baby to her art class and I would be gone for an hour or so. Apparently this was ok. Let's hope there is no emergency between 9-10 a.m. Wouldn't want to hold two bedside vigils.

Later I would find out that the adult skateboarding boyfriend was in the hospital to get thyroid removed. A scary thing indeed. Apparently, so scary that she needed to hold a bedside vigil and keep her daughters out of school. Anyway, may makeshift supervision lasted for two days, and I didn't encounter either of them until well in to the second. I pondered for a little bit going to check on them, but I wasn't going to overstep my boundaries.

About noon on the second day I got a knock. It was the little one, and she informed me that she needed to 'take shy for a walk.' I was confused as to what that meant. Then I remembered that they had a dog. Which is apparently named 'shy.' Which is a really, really fucking stupid name... So, I had to stand at the top of the stairs as the girls let the dog walk down the sidewalk for about three minutes, then they said 'thanks' and went inside. This made me wonder. 'How long had it been since they walked the dog? They never asked for my help yesterday.' Poor thing probably just poops on the floor and eats it again because they don't feed him. Ok, that is a bit dramatic, but you see my point.

A few minutes later there was another knock. The little one.

'Can we come up and hang out for a bit, we're bored.'

Now, I wanted nothing to do with this. At all. I learned a long time ago that a 27-year-old man should have nothing to do with middle school girls in his apartment. Ever. But I felt bad that they have been abandoned by their crazy mother so I said OK. Hey, I have a baby. The girl went downstairs and disappeared. Ten minutes later I'm confused. Where are they? Are they coming up or not? Then I get a second knock.

'My mom said no,' said the girl, crying.

'Oh, Ok. Are you guys hungry? Do you want some lunch? Did you eat.'

She just nodded her teary head and left.

Adult Skateboarder came home the next day, giant, uncovered slash in his throat, looking like death warmed over. he talked to me for a half hour in the back hallway, clearly all lit up on painkillers, and still smelling like a hospital. Crazy never came up to thank me.

Fast forward about two weeks. Adult Skateboarder has recovered, everything is back to normal. I get another knock. It is 8:30 a.m. I am getting the baby dressed. We have to leave in a few minutes. It is her birthday.

Crazy is standing at the door.

'I just crunched your bumper.'

Ok, you hit my car. Cool. It was parked in front of the house on the street along with about 10 others. How bad could it be? Probably just scraped my bumper.

"Ok, how bad is it?"

"Pretty bad. Can you just come look?"

So I take the baby outside, screaming at me 'no lady, no lady, no outside, back inside, peanut butter toast!'

It is freezing out. I look at the car. Crazy's bumper is cracked up, my license plate is bent in half and my Commonwealth Motors license plate cover is broken. Ok, no big deal. I don't drive a Mercedes and that dealership sucks anyway.

"Its fine," I said. "No worries."

"Ok, well if you need any insurance info just knock."

Cool. A little while later we go to leave and I looked at it a little bit more closely. Behind the bent license plate was a hole. A massive, gaping hole. There was a crack from one side of the bumper to the other and my trunk didn't open. Jesus. How f-ing hard did she hit me?

So, I knock on the door. Might I remind you that she is unemployed. Her car is out front. The TV is on, the dog is barking. Nothing. Ok, cool. Maybe she is in the shower. I left, came back and did the same thing. This time I can hear her moving around. Nothing. This went on for two days.

You know it is me. You know why I am knocking. You know I know where you live, what you drive your license plate number and your name. Give. Me. A. Break. I am not the census taker.

Finally, I called the insurance company. I didn't want to wait any more because insurance companies are evil. I told them the situation and they told me I should report it to the police. 'Please,' I said. 'Please do not make me call the police on my neighbor. She admitted to it. She is just crazy and she smokes a lot of pot.' Imagine what would happen if I called the police? Jesus, what a mess.

In a shocking turn of events the insurance company did just that. Filed the claim and sent me a check. Cool. That was two weeks ago. My ride is getting fixed now and the process is almost done. I still have not seen any of them. Not Crazy. Not Adult Skateboarder. Not the girls. None of them. If They hear me coming down the stairs the rush in to the house. If we pull up at the same time they wait until I am inside. I may never have to speak to them again...

So, that is my story. That is what I've been dealing with from them. Add that to the work issues, the computer issues, the terrible twos and the cold, wet, terrible weather that plagued us all winter and I am a shell of a man. I'm digging out of the rut though. Today the sun is out. It is 35 degrees, but the sun is out. Baby steps.

...

Episode 136: The inaccuracies of Sesame Street Live

2011-02-07T12:02:00.000-08:00

After much debate, a little bit of guilt and a whole lot of soul searching, I decided last week that I was going to accompany my family to a showing of Sesame Street Live. I did not, by any means, want to do that, but it turns out that I didn't have a choice so I sucked it up and made my way to the Lowell Auditorium for some good, old fashioned family entertainment.

On the surface it may seem like kind of a dick move not to go, but look at it from my perspective. I was given a choice, and she was going whether I tagged along or not, and I wasn't too in to spending a Sunday with 200 of my closest under-5 friends. In any event, I went, and I could not have been more disappointed with the result.

It is no secret that Sesame Street was a giant part of my childhood, as I am sure it was for most of you. I still think a lot of the skits are pretty funny and some of them are just plain iconic. For example:

Do you remember this song? I do, the production and effort that went in to it is superb, and it has a haunting melody that should be appreciated far beyond a kid's show. Much better than any crap on any kid's show today. Who lives in a letter in the sky, anyway?

Unfortunately, as has been the case with society in general, Sesame Street has really become a shadow of its former self over the past decade. Bert, Ernie, Grover and Kermit have lost their leading rolls in favor of Elmo, Big Bird and a bunch of unidentifiable, ethnic monsters with shitty personalities. The only cool one that seems to have survived in to a consistent roll on the new episodes is Telly.

Grover was always my favorite growing up because of his hilarious skits with Kermit and Mr. Johnson, that fat headed blue guy who is always giving him shit at Charlie's restaurant. Lately, though, I have been beginning to appreciate Telly because he is neurotic, anxious and obsessive compulsive. Kind of like me. He is funnier, though.

Because I find Elmo, Zoe, Rosita and the rest of them to be annoying and not funny, we don't watch much Sesame Street anymore. It is a shame. Luckily, there is a show on demand called 'Play with me Sesame.' THis show is hosted by Grover, Bert and Ernie and Prairie Dawn- and it is wonderfully old school. They play old skits, new skits and introduce viewers to characters like Oscar and Cookie Monster who have fleeting rolls in the new, nicer, healthy eating Sesame Street. Damn yuppies.

Anyway, because of Play with me Sesame, the baby has fallen in love with the characters, hence the trip to Sesame Street Live. The theme of the performance was 'Elmo goes Green' or 'Elmo's Green Thumb' or something of the sort. Great. A whole show about Elmo and being nice to the Earth. Shoot me. To make matters worse, we got there about an hour early, so there was an hour walking around the Lowell Auditorium and trying to keep our kid from spazzing out.

The show finally began with Bert and Ernie, Cookie Monster and Telly coming our on to the stage. The costumes for some of them looked good, Bert and Ernie just looked like really small men with abnormally large heads. Each character was introduced based on the letter of his or her name until everyone was out there. They did not, however, introduce Grover. He just kind of appeared. Same with the count. Not to mention, Grover was fat in the costume. Look at that video of Grover above again. His arms are the size of twigs. He isn't fat. Disrespectful and inaccurate. Probably the creepiest of them all was Big Bird, whose head couldn't move and for some reason he was wearing a polka-dot tie. This is what the cast looks like. Look at Grover. Just look at him. And all of those unidentifiable 'new' characters. Suck suck suck. Why do the female characters have to all wear tu tu's? I don't know. I don't all of the monsters have always been naked, or fur covered. New Sesame Street sucks.

Anyway, Av was really in to the show the whole time. The concept was Elmo wants to plant a flower in Big Bird's garden, but is somehow shrunken after a character named 'Abby Cadabby' shrinks them.I had no idea she was even a character. She wears a dress. That sucks. If I ran Sesame Street I would kill her off for the offense, but I don't, so she gets to live. Lucky.

The show was tolerable for the most part. Telly and Cookie Monster saved it with their humor and the baby really geeked out through parts of it, so it was cool. I will say that there was way too much dancing and the characters were way more animated when they spoke than they actually are on Sesame Street. And most of the songs were terrible. My only real, valid complaint, though, is that Grover didn't have a speaking part. I mean, that is outrageous. The guy was on stage through like half the show, dancing around in his fat suit, looking like an idiot, and he never said anything. You couldn't even make out his voice during the singing parts. He was just there. His mouth moved, he sang along, but there was no Grover voice. Unacceptable. No wonder this generation of human beings suck so much. No one should have to live in a world where Elmo is the star of Sesame Street and Grover doesn't speak. Fascists.

Like I said, Av had a great time so it was worth the trip. It felt like the show lasted about 13 hours, but I was surprised to walk outside and find that it was still light out, and only, like 2:45 in the afternoon. Oh, and Av made two new best friends.
They cost me $15 bucks each and I have to spend about 8 hours a day doing their voices and making them talk, but it was worth it.

...

Episode 134: Two hours at Monkey Joe's

2011-01-28T09:42:00.001-08:00

We go to Monkey Joe's all the time. Like, once a week usually. Unless there is a blizzard, which there has been about every day this winter so far. But we still manage to make it over there enough. Never in my entire Monkey Joehood have I had the pleasure of spending two solid hours there, and I hope that I never will again.

Maybe it was her cabin fever, or maybe she was just having a really good time, but Av didn't want to leave today. I don't blame her, really, it isn't like we had anything else to do. The point is that a lot can happen in two hours when you are trapped inside a 100 square foot carpeted warehouse filled with giant inflatable mazes. And a lot happened, indeed.

The MJ's trip actually got off to such a poor start that it looked like we were 10 minutes and done, but somehow we managed to rally. Av decided that she was going to try out one of the bigger kid apparatus, which I supported given her lack of coordination and ability to tackle challenges with confidence. I figured she could handle the big guy thing and everything would be ok. We were good for a while until she decided that she wanted to go in to what she called the 'house' but was really just a long tube that led to a maze that led out the other side. In order to get to the 'house' she had to climb over some tiny inflated squares that were tightly placed together. In other words, they were impassable unless she scaled them. Getting over the tiny squares went surprisingly well, but when she realized she wasn't tall enough to climb in to the house panic set in. Disappointed and a little tired she turned around and tried to go back, but for some reason felt like she was trapped.

For some unknown reason this time she decided that she didn't have it in her to scale the inflated cubes and she decided she was going to wedge herself through them. Of course, she got stuck. Keep in mind that I am watching this through a mesh window. I can't help her as I have no way of physically getting to her unless I climb in to the maze myself from the other side, a strict no-no at MJ's. She started to cry when she realized I couldn't help her and I thought for sure I was going to have to go get the 'referee' to come get her out. But then I remembered that she made it over to that side herself, so I wasn't going to let her give up. Like Mick training Rocky I encouraged her through her tears and her unwillingness to scale the cubes. She was literally stuck and crying for over 10 minutes, no exaggeration. I somehow stayed supportive and didn't let the fact that she was making a scene bother me. 10 minutes. 10. She was stuck on the cubes crying for 10 minutes. She finally got over them, fell flat on her face and struggled to get out, snot running down her face and tears in her eyes. I thought we were done. But as she emerged from the apparatus she greeted me simply with 'Hi Daddy!' and ran over to another one that she had never been in before. Confused, yet proud, I wiped her nose and we went on our way.

We were having a fun time in the new, yet less challenging bouncer for some time when some other kids decided to come up. Most of you are aware that other people's children are my worst nightmare. I don't like associating with them, I don't like befriending them and I certainly don't like it when I have to touch them. Unfortunately for me, I appeared to be the only adult adhering to MJ's 'adult supervision' rule, and the entrance to this particular apparatus was very slippery.

It started with one polite little boy who was struggling to get up. Her turned to me and said, very nicely, "Hi. Can you help me?" So I looked around, saw that it was cool and gave him a boost. This opened up the flood waters. For the next five minutes I became the designated booster of small children in to the bouncy thing. Sweet. I was just waiting for the moms to start scolding me. Luckily for me, none of them were paying any attention anyway.

It was at or about this time that Av made a friend. A real life, met at MJ's friend. This girl was probably three or four, a little busted, kind of chubby with a purple sweat suit and Ramen Noodle hair. Yes, I am aware that the previous sentence is extremely mean, especially when referring to a toddler. No, I don't care. I know that this girl and Av were 'friends' because the girl told me, several times, and then gave Av a hug. The hug was very sweet. The first time.

The girl followed Av around for a bit, talking her ear off, apparently not noticing that she was a 2-year-old who only puts together sentence fragments. Av seemed ok enough with her, so it was cool but the hugging. Oh, the hugging was constant. After a bit I started to look around for this one's mother. At one point another lady asked her where her mother was because she wanted a lift to the water fountain. She pointed to a bench where an old woman was seated and said, 'That's Grandma."

Now, I am sure that Grandma was very nice, but she looked like Mac's mom on It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia.
She was wearing a hoodless sweatshirt, wind pants, sketchers and a permanent scowl. She never spoke, but I imagine if she did she would have sounded like she swallowed a box of nails in the back room of a cigar shop. Again, could have been the nicest lady in the world, but that is what she looked like.

Av and the other girl frolicked around for a bit, having fun. Tom Petty's 'In to the Great Wide Open' started playing as they bounced around and laughed and it seemed eerily appropriate. Everyone was having a good time.

Then the hugging went to far. It was borderline toddler sexual assault, actually. Every time someone would come over to play the little girl would grab Av, squeeze her in a bear hug and say she is MY friend. It reminded me of those commercials warning teenagers not to date controlling dudes who text you all day (yeah, because it is always the teenage dude who is the crazy possessive one, right? Have these people ever BEEN to a high school?). The final straw was when the little girl went to give Av a kiss. Av turned away, the girl grabbed her arm and pulled her, kissing the first available place on my struggling daughter. Humorously enough, this was on her giant, diaper- effect bubble ass because Av was in the process of diving in to the fetal position to ward off the advances.

It was at this point that Av turned to be and said 'bye bye Monkey Joe's" and made me pick her up. I said to the little girl "It was nice meeting you, but we have to go now." She ran over to her grandmother and she was gone. Then Av said "No home? Monkey Joe's?" and I realized that her 2-year-old brain just formulated a lie to get out of an uncomfortable situation. This makes me proud, again. I will feel slightly more comfortable when she goes to high school.

As time went on I started to feel a little bad for the other kid, who clearly lacks affection and friendship. Still, no one goes to MJ's to make out on the toddler bounce, so she needs to back off.

The stay was smooth from there and we briefly encountered the rapist again on the carousel, but everything was under control there. Hard to hug when you are spinning on a horse.

Episode 133: Living with Rain Man

2011-01-18T08:35:00.000-08:00

It's snowing again, which means I am again destined to spend the next few days inside the house, with no relief in sight, trying to entertain a 2-year-old. Every day Av does or says something new, and as her personality begins to take shape she has really become quite a character. I have always found her to be quite funny, but lately she has really been cracking me up. It is a good thing, too, because she has also started to drive me crazy. Like literally insane. Some days I just want to lock myself in an empty room.

See, she does this thing now- which I am told is completely normal- where she just constantly repeats words over and over and over again, and she usually won't stop until you repeat it back to her, and sometimes that doesn't even help. She is getting much better at speaking, so she can now form sentences, like when she hears a dog outside and says 'Do you hear that doggy?" Over and over and over again. Yes, it is adorable, but often times there is no doggy. Sometimes she just makes it up. She also does it with other things. "Do you hear that car?" Do you hear that noise?" and my personal favorite, "Do you hear that fire?" which she says ever time she hears a siren or sees a fire truck. This is all very adorable, at first. After a while, it becomes irritating. Extremely, extremely irritating. The worst is when she starts saying words that you can't understand. Then it becomes a battle of me trying to decipher the word and repeat it correctly, and her getting angry when I cannot. This happens at least once, usually more, every single day.

Like I said, this is one of her very cute traits. When she says certain things it is just hilarious. But it can get intolerable at times, too. Another thing is that she has not figured out how to say 'yes'. She just says 'OK' to everything. So, most mornings go something like this.

Me: 'DO you want some breakfast?"

Av: "Ok. Peanut butter toast?"

Me: "Ok, you want some peanut butter toast?"

Av: "No"

Me: "Ok, what do you want? Cereal? A banana? Peanut butter toast?"

Av: "Toast?

Me "Ok, toast."

Av: "Ok."

Me: DO you want peanut butter toast?

Av: "No"

Me "What do you want on your toast?"

Av: "Peanut butter? Ok. Peanut butter."

Me: Peanut butter toast?"

Av: "Ok."

Yeah. That is just about every morning. She always wants peanut butter toast. Except for when she doesn't, and then the battle is on again.

She appears to be very smart, but I am worried about her coordination and her social skills. Sometimes she acts retarded, especially around other kids her age. She has problems with falling over, handling stairs and walking in to things. I think this is because she is freakishly large for her age, but it is still troubling. Like when she gets passed by kids smaller than her trying to climb up the foam stairs at Monkey Joe's. She will never be able to climb those stairs. I'm convinced. She also has a terrible time listening to and following directions, which she does pretty much never. This creates problems at home but even more problems at dance class, where she has already been moved from ballet to tap for not following directions. (Personally, I think it is absolutely absurd to expect a 2-year-old to stand in a line and follow dance directions. All she wants to do is wear a tu tu and jump around. But, hey, I'm not a snobby dance teacher. What do I know?) In any event, Av is either brilliant or retarded. Or both. Like an idiot savant.

One thing that we have managed to avoid for the most part is any sort of sick dependency on a binkie or blankie or toy of any kind. She has always had her favorites, but there has never really been any one toy that she has obsessed over to the point that it is a problem.

This is hand cat.

Hand cat comes from Ikea and has been buried under a pile of toys for probably a year. It was unearthed a few weeks ago and has since become her new best friend. When she isn't making one of us ear it on our hand, she is carrying him around or asking where he is. Last night she wouldn't go to sleep without him. I don't really see anything wrong with hand cat, but he is kind of creepy and now he always has his nose in on everything. He is always around, always seeing everything. Always involved. Weird. The creepiest part is that she gets some sort of sick sensational pleasure from rubbing hand cat on her face. Like she is on drugs or something. We are now officially at the point where Monica has decided to purchase a backup hand cat just in case something happens to the first one. I guess we made it this far...

2011-01-07T22:07:00.000-08:00

If anyone out there is wondering what the exact definition of "comedy" is, this is a video example. Forget that it is for kids and just enjoy the pure, innocent, primal humor throughout. I promise you that if you forget your age this will be the best part of your day.

Episode 132: Child supervision is not optional

2011-01-07T10:42:00.000-08:00

Av and I have been spending a lot of time at Monkey Joe's this winter, mostly because there is no real opportunity to go outside and have fun when it is 27 degrees out and windy, which it has pretty much been here every day since December started. At least that is how it feels. Anyway, the indoor inflatable play place has been a blessing for us and Av is starting to put together a little more gumption and vary away from the toddler apparatus on to the big girl jumps. Putting aside the fact that she has little to no coordination and completely lacks the ability to climb a set of plastic, inflated stairs, the new bravery is a pretty good thing. Especially since there was a time that she would break down in tears every time she wandered too closely to another human being.

There is something going on at Monkey Joe's, and I suspect a lot of other places, too, that is disturbing to me. That is the rampant, inappropriate use of Facebook, specifically by parents who should be paying attention to their kids. It is a fact that over 80 percent of Americans, myself included, use Facebook way, way too much. It is a toxic waste of a website that is flooding the minds of Americans with trash, invading our privacy, exposing our flaws and entertaining the crap out of anyone who likes to stalk people they used to make fun of in high school. It ruins relationships, costs people jobs and, on more than one occasion, has brightened my day when someone whose life is exponentially more miserable than mine makes that fact known for all of his friends to see. There is money to be made from Facebook and I will make that money some day, probably by exposing these very same, whiny, pathetic individuals who spill their tragic lives in their status updates on a daily basis. This is not the issue that I am speaking of. The issue that I am speaking of involves caddy moms and their attachment to a social life that no longer exists.

Today at Monkey Joe's the place was very busy. Apparently a lot of people had Friday off this week, I don't know. There were kids everywhere and just as many parents. The nice folks at MJ's as a courtesy provide two free computers for parents to use while their kids arr playing. I like to think that these parents are using the computers to send timely emails or at the very least, casually web surf for celebrity gossip. Apparently, I was giving society too much credit- again. Today i was disturbed to find moms just lazily sitting around, chatting, not paying any attention to their kids or even their basic surroundings. Meanwhile the rambunctious little bastards were running each other over in the aisles and leaping off of apparatus and fighting over balloons.

About 10 minutes in to our stay I heard a child crying and then watched in horror as he ran over to his mom, who was sitting at one of the computers, and was immediately ignored. Annoyed, the mother eventually looked up and meanly asked what was wrong. What was on her screen? Facebook. Not just Facebook, but her Facebook page, complete with slutty profile photo and two, yes two, active chats going. I looked over to the computer next to her and saw the same thing, only this mom's picture was slightly less slutty.

First off, I don't remember the last Facebook chat that I had. Chances are it was unprompted and I was annoyed when I got it. Second, even if I did have all of these friends in the multimedia world, I would have the common decency to wait on the gossip until after my kid left Monkey Joe's. You know, so she didn't have to run over to me crying. And what is with the slutty photos? I know that a lot of people look pretty slutty on Facebook, but you are a mom. With an at least 3-year-old kid. Who are you trying to turn on?

Look, I am all for trying to rediscover your youth or getting back in the dating game if you are a single mom. Go for it. But for Christ sake, go easy on the Facebook. I mean, your kid just took a header off of a giant inflatable monkey and you are annoyed that he interrupted your Facebook chat? Come on, lady.

In which I return to my old life

A year and a half ago when I left my job as a newspaper reporter I vowed never to return to that life of snooping, harassing phone calls and stressing over deadlines. Then somewhere along the way I realized that writing and reporting were pretty much my only skills, so something had to give. About a month ago news came down that the bar I work at would be closing for close to a month, maybe longer, for renovations. Aside from a few shifts at other locations, we would all be headed to the poor house. So, with that in mind and my savings account begging me not to drain it, I reluctantly re-entered the world of reporting.

Yesterday I became potentially the most overqualified person to ever interview for a job, forgetting my previous vows and passing along my experienced resume for a freelance position with AOL Patch, a new online newspaper that exists in several communities throughout Massachusetts, the east coast and other well-populated areas of the country. I will be covering the same community that I did when I first started my full time job at the Item. I will essentially be writing the same stories on a contract basis. Basically, I will be using my kick ass resume to overachieve at a job usually reserved for college graduates. I despise the fact that I just typed that sentence.

Yes, overall I don't care for the stress of reporting, and yes, I am selling my soul to the future working for an Internet only publication. But I am happy to have the position, and so is the editor, who appears relieved that I know what I am doing. At the same time, I am not happy to be thrown back in to the world of reporting. The opportunity is great, the company has room for advancement and I need money. So I'm going to make the best of it. So far on my first day I have called 13 different people for comment on two stories. I have heard back from exactly two. Ahhh, life as a reporter. At least now I don't have to space out in front of a computer screen for six hours a day or deal with the crazy custodian singing Foreigner songs while he empties my trash. I can just play blocks with my kid and work when I need to. We'll see how long until I start to lose it. I hope it is a long time, because I don't think I am going to win the lottery any time soon, and I am probably going to get too old for this bar tending thing before too long.

I am in the process of deciding which head shot I should add to the website. OUCH! Technology is starting to beat the shit out of me already.

Episode 131: You're not allergic to mushrooms

2011-01-03T04:54:00.000-08:00

As a child and later a pre-teen/ teenager, I have always been plagued by allergies. I had inhalers, nose sprays, pills and syrups. I always had a runny nose and just about every January from the ages of 7-17 I would get a sinus infection, complete with green mucus. As many of you can imagine, I was not exactly ruling school at that point in my life anyway, and being the kid with allergies and a perpetual runny nose did nothing to help me.

At or around the age of 15 my parents finally sent me to an allergy specific doctor and I underwent a test. I am not sure if anyone out there has ever had an allergy test before, but it is rough. They essentially take needles and inject a small sampling of everything you can imagine in to your arms and back. You get something like 30 shots, which makes for 30 track marks all over your arms and back. Once the shots are given, you go home, don't shower for two days and come back. If an injection area is irritated after two days you are allergic to that thing. Well, my test results came back positive. For, like, all of them. Trees, grass, pollen, dust, dogs, cats, leaves... pretty much whatever I was tested for I was allergic to. I am pretty sure that I am allergic to air. The good news was that I managed to avoid any food allergies, with the exception of one. Because I tested positive for a fungus allergy, the doctor said it was best not to eat mushrooms. Fine, cool. I hate mushrooms anyway. Well, at the time of the test my mother was very skeptical. Since we had both a dog and a cat and I spent most of my childhood outdoors amongst the trees and grass she assumed that the test was bogus, not keeping in mind that through all of this I have been suffering from horrible allergies.

Also during this time I was waging a war against broccoli. As a child, and still for the most part today, I hated broccoli. It is just a shitty vegetable, hands down. As a result, I would often lie to people who tried to feed me broccoli and tell them I was allergic to it. I was not. My mother knew I was lying but never really tried to get me to eat it because it was futile anyway. Anyway, because of the broccoli incident no one believed that I was also allergic to mushrooms. No one really tried to get me to eat them, but whenever I pointed it out I would get an eye roll. I tell you all for a reason.

My mother and sister made the annual pilgrimage to my apartment from Western Mass over the weekend. Monica put together a homemade chicken pot pie for the occasion, one of my favorites. I mean, really, who doesn't like chicken pot pie? I was eating the pie when I found what I believed to be a mushroom and calmly asked Monica if there were any in the pie. Now, I have not actually knowingly consumed a mushroom since finding out I was allergic. On a few occasions I ended up getting sick after eating some things that my or may not have had mushrooms in them, but it was unconfirmed as to whether or not that was the cause. When I asked about the mushroom at the table I was, like always, ridiculed and made to look like a faker which, admittedly, is kind of my own fault because of the multi-decade broccoli scam. Monica said there were no mushrooms and wee moved on. Long story short, I killed like three more pieces of pot pie and finished my day normal.

The next morning I woke up and wondered why the hell I was so itchy. A brief examination determined that I had hives covering my arms. It quickly spread throughout my body until I was almost completely covered. I was the itchiest person alive and I didn't feel all that well.
I started to think about what it could be and got all sorts of paranoid. At one point I was positive that a spider had laid eggs in my wrist that eventually hatched and were now eating my skin from the inside out. Another time I got out of the shower and started to fear that my eyes were swelling shut. In reality, I just had some sort of dust particle in my eye and it was twitching. As the hives continued to get worse I went to CVS and got some Benadryl in the hopes that it would do the job. I don't know if any of you have ever taken Benadryl before, but it isn't pretty. It zonks you out and makes you jittery at the same time. Because nothing is more fun that being uncontrollably tired and shaking with cold sweats at the same time. This must be what it is like doing meth.

I again asked Monica about the mushrooms and she again denied it, although she was not very convincing the second time around.

"If there were, I picked them out." Great. I totally ate a mushroom. Sure enough, when I made her read the ingredients there were mushrooms in the veggie mix she used. Now does everyone believe me?

The best part of my whole experience was that yesterday afternoon was the day that Monica and I were forced to take three giant loads of laundry to the laundromat because out washing machine has broken. Per usual, our California slumlord is not getting back to us regarding the situation, just like with the fire alarms, so we have to go mingle with college kids, single people and struggling old people again. Just like the old days. Great. Standing in a crowded laundromat for two hours when it is 28 degrees out and your entire body is covered in hives may be one of the worst experiences of my life. happy 2011. I can see nothing is going to change here.

Speaking of 2011, I hope that all of you had a lovely, festive New Years Eve. When you have a kid your party options are pretty much nonexistent so I decided that I would work the night and try to make a little money. The night at work was uneventful and there were only three people still in the restaurant when Dick Clark's paralyzed, wax-looking face counted us down from midnight. At least they didn't make the poor bastard start at 20 like they did last year.

A coworker of mine and myself were stuck at work late putting away new stuff that we were adding to the menu for 2011 and left around 2. I waled in the parking garage with my friend, hit my remote to unlock my doors and heard someone yell "Oh, fuck, dude."

I turned the corner to find three dudes standing in front of my car and a girl who looked like she was about to die slumped against the wall. " I told you someone was going to show up!"

We walked up to the car kind of half ready for a fight and one of the panicked kids explained that he and his friends were "Just going to blow a couple of lines and get out of the way." I looked at my hood- my dirty, dust, snow, salt, sand and parking garage roof drip-covered hood and saw a pile of cocaine. "You want some?" The kid asked.

"Dude, no. I don't want any."

"Are you pissed? We'll get out of here.

"No, dude, I'm not pissed. You already have your cocaine out on my hood. Just do it and get the hell out of here so I can go home, OK?"

"Dude, that's so awesome!"

Yeah, I'm awesome. happy new year. I hope that road salt is easy on your nostrils. Like, seriously? It is New Years Eve and your partying, I get that. If you want to do cocaine all night, get no sleep and feel like you want to kill yourself in about 8 hours go for it. More power to you. I don't care, but at least have enough dignity to do it indoors. Or maybe off the hood of your own car. Thanks. Again, happy 2011. It really isn't shaping up to be the greatest year. At least not judging from the broken appliances, hives and potential arrests for being an accessory to elicit drug use in a parking garage. Go team!

As for the baby, she has a house full of toys and continues to be spoiled by someone on a weekly basis. My New Years resolution is to update the blog more. Stick with me.

This is the baby's favorite song. Completely inexplicable, yet hilarious. It is a decent song, but nothing about it stands out. It is pretty much on my iPod by mistake. If you saw the dance she does in the back seat you would never delete it, either.

Episode 130: Snow storms, fire alarms and car sex... Ahoy!

2010-12-27T08:28:00.001-08:00

The snowbanks are higher than the baby's head and the snow is seeping through the hallway ceiling. Christmas break is off to a pretty rough start and we are once again trapped inside and left to our vices. For me it is trying not to drink all of the PBR I bought yesterday until the sun goes down. For the baby it is being weened off of glazed munchkins and the kitty store. And I am pretty sure all of us are going to overdose on Blues Clues before the end of the storm.

Christmas was a great time for everyone, especially Av, who was apparently the best behaved child in the world because I now have everything from a mini piano to a rocking unicorn with real life noises taking up space in our tiny apartment. The most rewarding thing, though, is that she won't stop playing with the retro wooden play kitchen that Monica and I bought her. This is only rewarding because it took me four and a half hours to put together. I had to put the hinges on the door. Let me repeat that: I had to put the hinges on the door... of a child's play kitchen. It was literally like building an actual kitchen. So, seeing her tossing around plastic vegetables and pretending that her pot of soup is hot makes that lonely Saturday spent sifting through a pile of screws and efficiently labeled parts a few weeks ago well worth it. And it is much less annoying than the unicorn or the piano.

After Christmas, though, things have started to go downhill. Prior to the storm that hit yesterday Monica and I were treated to a sleepless Christmas night thanks to a very, very motivated and dexterous couple who managed to have sex- and very loud sex at that- in a green Honda Civic for two and a half hours outside of our bedroom window. The unfortunate part is that those two and a half hours were from about 3 -5:30 a.m.

Being woken up by the erotic, lustful screams of what turned out to be a rather large woman, along with the struggled cries of an at least 10-year-old, reclined passenger side seat, is as you can imagine very confusing. The sexcapade woke me up first, and I discovered the scene when I looked out the living room window and saw a big, hairy man ass pressed against the windshield. It was not long after that Monica emerged from the bedroom groggy and pissed off. I would later find out it was because she thought I had for some reason woken up at 3 a.m., gone to the living room and started loudly watching porn. Luckily for me, they kept banging, rather aggressively, for quite some time, proving my innocence. The incident, while both annoying and uncomfortable, raises many questions. First, for one to have sex for multiple hours you have to assume that there was either a lot of blow or a lot of Viagra involved, maybe both. Probably both. Second, I get that maybe you had no place to go, and I get that it was 3 a.m. when you started, but these two were as naked as naked gets. Not even any socks. Just parked in plain sight on a side street in front of about six densely settled apartments where any number of people could see through the windshield and the passenger side window from the second floor. Oh, and did I mention that it was like, 22 degrees? Hardly worth it. Then again, when you're all hopped up on Viagra and blow, you gotta blow off some steam somehow, right? The best part was when I left in the morning to find a frozen pair of boxer shorts stuck to the street where the car was parked. Gross.

The incident was so loud and disturbing that I didn't get back to sleep at all that night. I woke up with the baby, went to Walmart and the grocery store before 9 a.m. and settled in for a relaxing storm day. I went through my entire day watching the snow and looking forward to sleep. Had some tacos, a couple of beers, a little Playstation Jeopardy and tucked in. I was excited. You know how some days going to bed is the best thing in the world? You can't wait. You are like a kid on Christmas Eve. Surely the two feet of snow that was in the process of beating the shit out of our neighborhood would prevent any crazy car sex parties from ruining my sleep again.

Everything was going well until around 2 a.m. when the fire alarms started to go off. Like, all of them. I sprang in to action, throwing on a mismatched set of clothing and running to the basement. I couldn't get the alarms to stop. I ran to the front hallway, I couldn't get them to stop there, either. At no point did I think the house was on fire. Long story short, some water leaked in to the ceiling and shorted out the alarms. No way to turn them off.

Anti-social upstairs neighbor was freaking out, pacing through the basement trying to find this mystery master switch. The downstairs deadbeats barricaded themselves in the apartment, probably smoked some opium and drowned out the beeps with Radiohead. I called the fire department. From what I can remember, this was my first experience with the fire department. Before my only knowledge was that most of them were sex perverts who lure women in to their firehouses with their red trucks and bravery and then take advantage of them. Coming out to Roslyn Street at 3 a.m. in the middle of a blizzard was not on their list of things to do, and they made that apparent. Irritated from the start, the three of them sauntered around and essentially solved nothing. One younger gentleman disconnected one of the alarms and the older man said we needed to call an electrician. Good night. Thanks Mr. Fireman, sorry to pull you from your warm firehouse stocked with women. Neighbor and I disconnected everything and he said he would call an electrician. Another sleepless night. The best thing that came of this, though, is that Nugget was so nervous about the noise and the people in the house that she peed on Monica's hand. Awesome and hilarious.

I'm not really complaining, it isn't like I have anything else to do. I should be happy that the snow came early and I won't have to miss a day of work. Hopefully tonight we can make it through without any sex perverts of any kind. Whether it is party animals in a Civic or a trio of firefighters. God Bless America. Christmas pictures and video to follow later this week.

Obligitory traditions abound

2010-12-23T05:55:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas everyone. I'll be back with videos of an exited child tearing open presents in 2011. Until then, be safe and watch out for Christmas streakers. Maker's Mark begins flowing in 5, 4, 3, 2....

Episode 129: Story corner

2010-12-21T07:38:00.000-08:00

I am writing this from inside of a poorly constructed couch fort. Av has a small cold and a little bit of a fever, so she is in the midst of a required sick day today. It is about 20 degrees and there is snow everywhere, so we are going to get this one before it becomes a full blown holiday sick fest. So, today we are trapped inside and looking for fun in the form of forts, stuffed guy piles and Ellio's pizza. Oh, and a variety of kid's cable programming, of course.

Right now the baby has piled all of her stuffed friends on top of Nugget, who has essentially just given in to the abuse, and the cat is pathetically whimpering as Av makes a hard, plastic horse dance on her fat, furry, lumpy back. Nugget's back fat is so prominent that the other day Av pointed to it and said 'Nunnie boobs?" Yes, the baby knows what boobs are, sort of. This is not because of me.

We are all very excited about seeing Av go nuts on the first Christmas that she is going to be able to understand and as the day grows closer she has become increasingly exited by lights and flamboyant lawn decorations. That said, there is not much going on that is blog worthy, unless you want to hear a little bit more about kid's shows, and I'm willing to bet you don't. So, today I'll dig in to the archives and pull out another story from my life as a roving community newspaper reporter.

One of the more challenging things about being a newspaper reporter is trying to explain to people the difference between something that is newsworthy and something that is simply just happening. It seemed like every time that I would cover something for a local organization or school I would inevitably spend the next three months hearing about every little thing that they did or were doing, even if it was something as simple as 'we had a few kids go out in to the school yard today to pick up trash, you should come take some pictures.' No, no I shouldn't. They are kids picking up trash, probably their own trash, that isn't exactly news. Most of the time I didn't mind the emails because they worked in helping me fill out the days that I didn't have anything to do and every few weeks I was able to get some good stories out of them. Problems only arose when the people on the other end of the emails began to get upset with me when I would turn them down, thinking that it was their right to have me at the ready to cover any and everything that was happening that particular day.

One such organization was KIPP Academy Lynn, a local charter school that literally, by the end, had become the bane of my existence. KIPP (Knowledge Is Power Program) is part of a national charter school chain and is extremely controversial as most charter schools are. The majority of their student body consists of children with behavioral problems, immigrants or kids who just didn't do well in school. They take the kids and enter them in to their 10-hour-a-day curriculum and essentially make them do well with discipline and incentives. All of that is fine, except for the part where, since most of these kids were poor, non English speaking or dealing with issues at home, the school seemed to think that it was really, really important every time any of them did anything remotely related to school. Like the time they wanted me to write about a math program that teaches the kids life skills like counting money and paying bills. Oh, so you guys are a school? Neat. I'll get right on that.

So, I don't think that I was out of line when I deleted an email from KIPP asking me to attend a program in the gymnasium two days before Christmas a few years ago. Knowing the school's annoying reputation for forcing me to watch stupid kids do every day things I simply skimmed the email, saw nothing of note and deleted it. Screw you, KIPP, I get three days off starting tomorrow. Later that afternoon my phone rang- which is rarely a good thing when you aren't expecting a phone call, and sure enough, it was Nancy from KIPP.
"Are you coming up tomorrow??! Dan, I think you should. It is a great program. There is going to be a Celtics player there!'

Now you have piqued my interest. Among things in the world that I love, the Boston Celtics are near the top of the list. Right after beer and right before my TV. Surely whatever mundane, idiotic pre holiday assembly you're holding will be made more tolerable if I am able to interview a Celtics player.

"Cool, who is it?" I asked.

"It is a surprise." She said.

Intrigued I decided that this time I would go. By no means did I expect to see Paul Pierce or anyone else from the current team, but maybe it was some recently retired player who I can at least get some amusement out of meeting. Whatever the case, it was going to be better than meeting some half retarded kid from Africa who just passed in his science project like usual.

To be perfectly honest, I have no recollection of what the event was actually for, but I was handed a pamphlet when I walked in the door. On the front was a picture of this old-ass looking dude with a whistle around his neck and a Providence College jersey on. His name was Ernie DiGregorio. I said the same thing you are thinking right now. Who the hell is Ernie DiGregorio? Well, at the time I was not exactly at liberty to look it up, but you can be sure that I did when I got back to the office. A Rhode Island native, DiGregorio was the 1975 NBA Rookie of the Year with the Buffalo Braves. He had a mediocre to terrible career, which ended with the Celtics in 1978, for whom he played exactly 27 games. It is tough to imagine a less relevant "Celtics player." Thanks, Nancy, I should have known.
Like I said, I have no idea what the purpose of the event was, I think it was like, do your homework or something, it doesn't really matter. The point is that the humble looking old man above is some sort of raging lunatic, and his actions that December afternoon salvaged what I thought was going to be a miserable afternoon, and gave me a great story to tell in the process.

Almost immediately it became apparent that DiGregorio's ego could barely fit in the old church basement that the school used for an auditorium. The man who played just four years in the NBA, mostly with the Buffalo Braves, was dressed head to toe in Celtics gear, and constantly spun a basketball on his finger like a Harlem Globetrotter the entire time that he spoke. His young, attractive assistant was very outwardly 'picked on' in that way that old men pick on women that they want to have creepy old man sex with. Most importantly, at no point during his entire speech did he mention why he was there, or anything about the program that he was supposed to be promoting for the school. No, he simply told the story of his stupid, short NBA career, bragged about being rookie of the year and setting the record for most assists in a game by a rookie. Then he made some excuses for why his career was so short and it was over.

The speech sucked. But that isn't the good part. Afterward Ernie decided that
he would indulge the kids in a game of basketball on a tiny, eight-foot hoop that happened to be in the room, probably for some foreign kid lunchtime team building. The premise of the game was a 3-on-1 contest to see how many points middle school kids could score on a former NBA player. Apparently Ernie forgot that he was an NBA player 35 years ago because these little kids were schooling him. He did OK against the girls and uncoordinated kids who suck at sports, but about every third kid was an athletic middle school boy who would just run past his old ass and score. This began to piss old Ernie off.

If I remember correctly, there was some sort of lame prize for the team that won and there was one particular kid that was running circles around everyone else. He had scored on Ernie every time he went to the hoop. Now, it is important to mention that Ernie was not trying so hard, considering he was playing against kids on a tiny hoop, but the kids were getting a lot of confidence, especially this one guy who kept scoring. I was standing next to the photographer the next time the kid came up and he leaned in and said ' I think this guy is getting pissed.' Sure enough, the kid went to the basket and scored on Ernie again, this time celebrating wildly with his friends. So, the adult, former basketball player who was supposed to be there to be a positive influence on the students walked over to the kid and handed him the ball. "Try again." he said.

The kid, boasting a smile, went at Ernie like he had four times before, only this time instead of letting him score, Ernie blocked his shot. Tossed it Shaq style across the room with anger and authority. The room went silent, the teachers all looked at each other and the kid put his head down in shame. Then Ernie said something about how it was harder to score when someone is playing defense. It was at this point that the assembly ended and the principal awkwardly thanked Ernie and sent him on his way. Then he came up to me, apologized, and asked that I please not mention how angry Ernie was in my article. I obliged.

So maybe that story wasn't as good as it was to actually watch, but I hope that the vision of an old man talking trash to a 12-year-old brought you some joy today.

2010-12-17T10:09:00.000-08:00

Episode 128: Is this man your worst nightmare?

2010-12-14T10:39:00.000-08:00

He probably should be. This is Mr. Noodle. He has to be the most unsettling character on children's television today. I don't even know where he came from, he just showed up one day outside of Elmo's window on Sesame Street and never left. Now he is a reoccurring character and I can't for the life of me understand why. I mean, the guy is just creepy. Look at him. Creep. He doesn't even talk, he is like a mime without face paint. And he can never figure anything out. He's always putting hats on his feet and shoes on his head and trying to throw baseballs with his mouth. Idiot. Anyway, this post isn't really about Mr. Noodle, he is just a jumping off point.

Today I finally convinced the baby to watch Sesame Street. After months of Barney and Zaboo and Blues Clues, all shows that came on after my childhood prime, I got her to give in and give it a try. Up until this point she has completely shunned it, but today it happened and it was a success. She finally realized that the characters on that show are entertaining and strange, and she learned what most kids learn early on. Sesame Street is just nothing but educational fun all of the time. This is another step in my efforts to relive all of the things that I liked from my own childhood, something I have been subconsciously doing for a long time, but just realized. I am not sure why this is. Perhaps it is because I just want her to enjoy all of the things that I enjoyed, or maybe I am just trying desperately to relive the simple, carefree days of my youth. Whatever the case, I am definitely turning this kid in to a mini me, and in the process, making her kind of a weirdo.

I was recently visiting my dad and I found myself in his attic looking at a bunch of old crap from when I was a kid. Most of it was stuff I didn't have any attachment to, like old books and trinkets, and the worst record collection I have ever seen ( I went through the whole thing and came out only with Don McLean, Chicago's Greatest Hits and Huey Lewis and the News), but I did find a few things that took me right back. The biggest one was this old cookie jar that we used to have. It was a wrinkly-faced old monk who is holding a scroll that says 'Thou shalt not steal (cookies)." Awesome. He was a fixture on my counter tops for my entire childhood until my parents got divorced and both moved about seven years ago. I loved that guy. Well, I found Mr. Monk and much to my delight he was in perfect condition. Needless to say he is now living in between our coffee maker and dish rack in the kitchen. This, by the way, does not make Monica happy. I don't care, that guy is awesome and he is now always stocked with fudge striped cookies. It wasn't until I found the monk that I realized how much being home with Av has made me kind of inadvertently cling to my own childhood.

As a kid I had two things that I did almost exclusively when I was home. First, I played with matchbox cars. A lot. Second, I had a ton of stuffed animals. These were my interests as a young child. I created little worlds with all of them and I obsessively kept track of everything, making sure that I knew where everyone was at all times. With the Matchbox cars I would collect them in a giant bin and take them out each morning to transport the imaginary people in my imaginary world. Accuracy was key, the more it looked like an existing street-legal vehicle the better. Probably about 8-9 months ago I realized that Av had taken and was enjoying playing with some toy cars at Monica's parent's house. I saw this as a fantastic opportunity to share my own enthusiasm for that particular toy and I began picking up a few toy cars here and there. The good thing about that is they only cost a dollar, so it is a fun and easy thing to just pick up when you are at Target. At the time I don't think I realized how much I was tapping in to my own childhood love for the cars, but now it is becoming apparent. As was the case 20 years ago, accuracy is key. At first, I would get service vehicles, like a garbage truck and a school bus, but soon that expanded in to whatever I felt were the coolest cars at the store that particular day. Now that we once again have an organized bin, I realize that my obsession has returned and I have reverted back to my youth. As long as I don't go back to standing in the toy car aisle at the store for an hour trying to pick out which one I want we should be ok.

The thing is, though, Av loves playing with them, too. We will devote entire segments of play time to cars and she is constantly carrying them around with her and in to the bathtub. It isn't like I am making it up, they are fun to play with. She thinks it is most hilarious when you drive the car around on someone's leg or arm. Funny stuff.

As for the stuffed animals, I am pretty sure every kid loves those. I mean, what is cooler when you are a kid than a whole collection of soft, lifelike animals. However, I don't remember having as much of a variety when I was little. The baby has everything from sheep to elephants to monkeys. And we have about 600 stuffed dogs. The favorite game with these guys, other than me creating voices for them and putting them in to strange relationships and imaginary social situations, is when she piles them all up on the ground and leaps in to them. Something that I also always did when I was a kid. Although, I was kind of an aggressive spaz so I would usually tackle one of them and things would get out of hand. I had this huge Yogi Bear rip off guy for a while. I used to kick the shit out of him. Girls appear to be more loving.

Speaking of making up odd relationships and social situation, I have really gotten in to it during bath time lately, too. Bath time at one point was the most boring part of the day. She literally spends hours in there sometimes. But ever since the cars have been added and some more non traditional bath items have turned up in the water I have started having a bit of fun with it. I, again, have created a whole world where anything is possible. There is Grandpa Turtle and his magical powers, the frog barbers who make sure that everyone's hair gets washed and, of course, Mayor Hippo. Oh, and Dora the Explorer is dating Ralph Wiggam from the Simpsons. She got him a job at her dad's tow truck company. This kid has no shot.

Revisiting Barney

A few weeks ago I mentioned that the baby has decided to love Barney and it is slowly sending me on the path to mass murder. Well, it hasn't gotten any better, especially since Comcast still has the same damn four episodes on demand, so I pretty much have every song and dance memorized. Including the rock rap, which I inexplicably can't find a Youtube video of, but features such gem lines as 'If we had instruments I guess you could say that we were in a rock band hey hey hey' and 'I wonder if a rock could grow some hair, that's a silly question, but we love rocks, hey hey hey.' That sound you here is my soul slowly blackening.

Anyway, one character that is not involved with the camp episode is Derek, our slow, 'can't read so good' friend from such classic episodes like 'all about bugs.' Derek is typically a silent character, but when he does talk he sounds like that kid that had to leave your regular class around lunch time to go spend some time with the 'resource teacher' in that tiny classroom next to the bathroom.

This is a man who calls himself 'Gifted That Go- Gitta.'

Look familiar? Take a look at the previous picture again. Yes, this Dallas-area rapper is none other than slow, silent Derek himself, all grown up, chasin' hoes. I actually don't know what sort of rapper he is. He looks like the 50-cent gangsta all of my songs are about sex and shooting people type but let's not type cast him right away. He could just be dropping knowledge like Talib Qwali. Although, I doubt it. Here is a Youtube video I found. Just in case the full body of this information hasn't set in, I remind you of two things. 1. He has named himself 'Gifted That Go-Gitta.' 2. He once wore fake butterfly wings and danced slow kid ballet in the classroom in which Barney and his friends trespass. Have a nice day everyone.

Episode 126: Are children's laughter and holiday spirit making me soft?

2010-12-08T05:38:00.002-08:00

It is December, which means that most of you are probably stressed. Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Winter Solstice and whatever made up science fiction holiday that Scientologists celebrate are all stressful in their own way- unless, of course, you are a child. This is typically the time of year where my seasonal depression kicks in and my anxiety rises. Buying gifts for people and visiting family is a lot of pressure. When you are a kid you don't have to worry about any of that. You get a week off from school, people give you stuff and changes to your routine are widely accepted as a good thing because you get gifts, you can sleep in and you don't have homework. Not when you are an adult. Adults not only have to worry about gift giving, which for some reason is an incredibly hard thing to do, but also appeasing all of their family members and creating the illusion that they still closely follow the traditions of whatever religion they choose to believe- at least while their grandparents are around. Don't even get me started on this whole 'including everyone from other cultures and beliefs' crap, either. I don't ask Jews to put up a Christmas tree, don't make me put up a menorah. Also, don't make me put the 'Christ' back in
Christmas. Abbreviating doesn't make me an atheist. It means I don't have enough room or energy to write out a nine letter word. Sorry for ruining your birthday, Jesus. I'll get larger Post-it notes sometimes.

As a child, Christmas was always a time when it seemed like the entire world stopped, but as an adult you realize that, despite all of your obligations for the month, life does not, in fact, stop in any way. You still have to go to work, you still have to pay all of your bills and no one gives you any extra money to buy all of these gifts you are supposed to buy. Unless of course you have a 'good' job that gives you a 'bonus' every year in which case, screw you, I don't want to talk to you.

The point is that typically I dread this season, except for the copious amounts of whiskey drinking, but this year I am feeling a bit different. I am still experiencing the seasonal depression, mostly because I hate, hate, hate cold weather, but I am starting to enjoy the holiday festivities simply because I get to see Av get excited. I don't think that she really gets what is going on or why, but she knows that Christmas is fun and there is a lot of decorating and a lot of symbols that she is supposed to care about. I am also pretty sure that she knows she is going to get gifts at some point, too. I can honestly say for the first time since I was like, 13, I actually looked forward to getting a Christmas tree this year. Usually Christmas tree day is the worst day of the season. Trees are outrageously expensive, then you have to carry them upstairs and in to your house, leaving a trail of pine needles every where you go, and not just for that day, there are pine needles everywhere for like, three months. Once you get the tree inside there is the pleasurable task of having it fall on your head 56 times while you try to get it to stay in the stand, and the inevitable trip to Family Dollar to get yet another strand of lights because the ones from last year are either missing or broken. I hate Christmas tree day.

That said, this year I was actually kind of looking forward to it. The baby talks about Christmas trees every time we see one, and we really hyped it up for her enjoyment. I even let us get the tree like three weeks earlier than I normally would, just because she was excited. See, I am getting soft.
Here is a shot of her helping to pick out the tree. She really had a good time with the whole thing and it completely eliminated any stress that I may have had seeing how excited she was. I think what makes it funnier for me is that she acts like a little adult all of the time. Like, she was walking around, checking out the trees, talking nonsense like she was trying to imitate me. Then she cried because she didn't want to leave the tree yard, even though it was about six degrees out. Even putting up the tree went a bit more smoothly this year. That is not to say that it didn't fall on my head, because it did, like three times. But I only dropped a few f-bombs and managed not to throw anything against the wall, even after I randomly opened the fridge to grab a beer after one particular head-falling incident and found soy sauce spilled all over everything. In most cases I would have probably had to take a walk to calm down, but I held it together. Even Family Dollar was pretty empty when I had to go in and buy this year's string of lights. Good deal.

Decorating the tree has gone on for about three days, as she is pretty much just taking everything off and throwing them around like they are balls. I don't really care about this, although I am pretty sure that she has ingested an unhealthy amount of glitter and artificial ornament paint. It's cool, her body has to be immune to her eating foreign objects at this point, especially after I caught her chewing on the brush end of a paint brush the other day. My life is a constant uphill battle against crap like that.

Now that the tree is up I even find myself looking forward to Christmas morning, just so I can see her get excited at finally getting all of the toys she has been yelling about for months. Yes, I think fatherhood has made me some sort of softy. I don't even get annoyed when she sings, and I hate the sound of children singing. I guess I shouldn't complain, anything that makes the Christmas season more enjoyable is welcomed. I just hope she is always cute and excited on Christmas and doesn't become one of those snotty, pretentious little jerks who complain about their gifts and ask for outrageous things every year. I don't shop at whole foods or drive an Acura, so this should be avoidable, but you never know.

...

My late year resolutions are coming along well. I have already had one cooking excursion, which I will share with you later this week once I upload the photos to my computer, and I have been making an effort with the ukulele. The problem that I am having is that I am finding it difficult to keep my high quality, $8 instrument in tune, which according to Pineapple Pete's ukulele instruction website is damning to any potential ukulele master. I think I may need to tighten a few screws.

This song is badass

Episode 125: Rekindling my adolecent hatred of Barney, and what it means for humanity going forward

2010-11-30T22:09:00.001-08:00

Barney is a dinosaur from the imagination of a crazy woman from the Greater Dallas area. It is largely recognized as the single worst program of any format since the birth of television. It is currently ruining my mornings and on the verge of destroying the relative balance of my home life while simultaneously crushing my spirit and will to live.

If by some extremely fortunate fluke anyone out there doesn't know who this prehistoric school-yard predator is, I can pretty much sum up the situation like this: Barney is a lifeless purple dinosaur who, when excited by the sound of children laughing, magically comes alive. Once on the scene, he lead said children, usually no more than five in number, but no less than three, in to an empty school. There he apparently teaches them some sort of lesson amidst a lot of really, really gay dancing and serious over acting. Then everyone says 'I love you' and hugs. The end.

If for any reason what I just described above sounds even remotely appealing in some delusional reality that you have somehow slipped in to, please, please take my word for it and don't try it. Please. Consider it publicly televised angel dust.

I remember hating Barney when I was a kid. It was the show that we all made fun of other kids for watching (although, I suspect there were more than one of those little meat heads I used to roll with in first grade who were watching it on the side). Barney was a creep. He played shitty games and sang songs that your grandmother used to sing when school was still in the apartment building at the end of the street. He was also purple. On the surface, a dinosaur is a pretty decent character for a kids show. Dinosaurs are cool, ferocious, and a little bit mysterious. Not Barney. Barney is purple. He dances around and flaps his tiny arms like an idiot and his voice is insufferably high. He sings all of the songs off key so that you can distinguish his voice. His stupid dinosaur eyes don't friggin close (this drives me INSANE) and he wears dentures.

When the baby first started to watch the show I thought to myself 'this can't be as bad as I remember. I was probably just being a dick because I was a teenager.' Not so. Ohhh, no. Not so at all. Watch this clip below and we'll talk.

I'd like to start by pointing out that this clip was from the early-2000's. Now, I know that I may not have an exact concept of how long ago 2002 really was, but it wasn't so long ago that I forgot how people dressed, and no one dressed like that- especially kids. Look at #12, and those unshapely girls. Cool Keds and tube socks. What the hell kind of crab/beetle walk was he doing anyway? That doesn't seem accurate at all. And then there is the white kid, Michael. He is the absolute WORST.
Here is a closer look. What is up with that hair?
His pants in this shot are slightly less acid washed than normal, but you get the idea. In one episode he is wearing a long-sleeved, teal shirt, purple corduroy shorts, tube socks and boat shoes. Nice look, dweeb. Behind him is Lucy, the older sister of the other Spanish girl, who is so loathed and outcast at her high school that she has to go to a vacant middle school and spend her afternoons frolicking around with her sister's lame, pre-teen friends and an imaginary dinosaur. Good luck getting a date to prom, weirdo. Even my lanky, wind-pants-wearing 9th grade self wouldn't have asked you. I actually despise Lucy. I feel a little bad for Michael, because he might be a little bit retarded, but Lucy just sucks. The faces she makes are unbearable, and that pony tail. Oh, that pony tail. Open up a magazine, lady. You look like a middle-aged doctor's office secretary with a Chips Ahoy addiction.

How are these kids allowed in this school by the way? And where are the teachers? The janitors? The principal? Surely they do not leave before the children in the afternoon. Apparently in Barney land (which, according to Wikipedia, is Dallas) the school day ends when the school day ends and children are free to trespass as they please. The classrooms aren't locked and are treated like some sort of public play space. I would go as far as to say that Barney is a bit disrespectful of the facilities funded with our taxpayer dollars, and the public servents who use them. I'm going to need to see your childcare license, Barney, oh and your social security number for a CORI check, too. Thanks.

Also according to Wikipedia, this show is still in production after 18 years, although the original creator has left due to a dispute with the studio. Of course she has. What is the lifespan of a dinosaur anyway? Supposedly these shitty little kids who hang out with Barney are just local students from the Dallas/ Fort Worth area. What does the casting poster say about the roll? Wanted: Child between the ages of 7-12. Must have no friends, an awful wardrobe and a vast knowledge of nonsensical, outdated children's music. This is quite the talent pool, which makes it slightly impressive that this lame ass show has produced such, um, 'stars?' as Selena Gomez and Demi Lovato. I have absolutely no idea who either one of those people are, but Youtube says they are famous so I am going to believe it.

One final thought on this awful, awful waste of TV airtime. Barney's entire gimmick is based on magic. He just waves his big, creepy dinosaur hand and things happen. People appear, things move, problems are solved and broken things are fixed. This is not educational. This teaches you to solve your problems with magic. Sure, most kids shows are entirely unrealistic and based in some way on magic and myth, but Barney flat out uses it as his out for everything. This is no way to get through life. This is probably why he spends his days lurking around middle schools instead of going to work. Lazy dinosaur. He is like that weirdo who goes to the bar by himself, lurks in the corner and never buys a drink.

As much as I hate this show, Av loves it. I guess it makes sense, there is singing and dancing and friendly people, and she is way too young to understand just how lame it really is. She does all of these adorable dances in the living room and she swings her arms and sings along. The problem is that I don't think I am emotionally prepared to handle watching Barney every day. Sometimes it is so lame that it activates my rage trigger. I can feel it in my chest. It is literally the lamest show ever. Lamer than the Wiggles or Mad About You. I can never go see Barney live because there is a strong possibility that I will storm the stage and tackle his giant purple ass.

Let's be honest, kids love Barney, but there are plenty of other shows out there to get attached to. Like Blues Clues. Kids will never know the difference if Barney disappears, and the world will be a better place for it. Let's put our heads together and come up with something better before all of our children start wearing elastic-waste denim shorts and hallucinating prehistoric creatures at school.

Episode 124: Late year resolutions

2010-11-28T08:50:00.000-08:00

You know that your life has become way too routine when you can't differentiate dreams from reality. This is where I am at right now. Essentially, every week is the same for me. I wake up, spend my day with the baby, go to work. Weekends are the same, with a little more sleep mixed in. The problem is, that I am often so tired when that sleep comes that I start having vivid, lucid dreams that completely overtake my mind. It is kind of like watching a movie instead of going to sleep. Then, as if nothing happened, I shoot awake and start to ask myself what is real. Was I just asleep? Was that a dream? I am in my underwear, it has to be a dream. Far out, right? Trippy, man.

What sucks about this, other than the fact that I am slowly becoming a delusional lunatic, is that my dreams are extremely routine and bland. Nothing cool ever happens. I am usually just stressed out because they are based on my every day life if my every day life were like a sitcom about a guy with bad luck. Last night I got home from the bar and went to bed around 2, exhausted. I woke up 5 hours later having no idea that I fell asleep and asking myself if I really had to forcibly remove someone from the bar or if I really had a pet lemur with a violent streak who attacked me over some twigs and leaves. Way too much work and way too much Zaboomafoo.

"Ahhh I'm freakin' out man! I need twigs, dude. I NEED TWIGS!"

Because of this I have decided that I am going to make a few lifestyle changes. A few resolutions, if you will. Yes, it is not yet December let alone the new year, but I fear if I wait until the Jan. 1 to institute these resolutions I will lose motivation and abandon the effort. Plus, I tend to be hung over from about Dec. 23- Jan 10, so I am in no position to make decisions.

Resolution #1: Join a bowling league. I need something routine to hold on to, an activity that I am known for other than sporadic, mediocre writing, parenting and sleeping. I also need a little bit of non-homosexual male camaraderie in my life since I hate poker and fantasy sports. So, why not get a few pals together and join a bowling league? Bowling is good fun and it is one of the few sports that you are allowed to participate in while drinking. There are cool shirts and plenty of competition. Plus, with a little bit of practice, I know that I can be pretty good. Besides, who doesn't love feeling like they are in The Big Lebowski? I'm humming Bob Dylan's 'The Man in me' as I type this. Walter would dominate candle pin.

Resolution #2: Perform all scheduled maintenance on my car myself. I drive a Chevy Impala. You can find parts for those down the street in front of the Lafayette Market for like, $6. I am sick of paying some gear head to change my oil and flush my fluids and check my breaks. I am a warm blooded American male. I should know how to do this myself. Enough with this city-guy lifestyle that I have been forced in to. I am ready to get my hands dirty. If I can't have a lawn to mow or a driveway to plow I am at least going to break a finger tinkering with my car. I am going to make a trip to Auto Zone, get one of those manuals and I am going to become one with the Impala. Besides, this will be good practice for when I buy all of that land in Vermont and begin using my free time to restore a Plymouth Superbird. Big dreams. Big dreams. Resolution #3: Cooking. The key to every interesting, eclectic man is his ability to cook. I feel like this is a necessary talent to obtain if I want to legitimately eliminate my uselessness. Right now my cooking repertoire includes mac and cheese, anything you can make on a Foreman Grill and birthday cake. That's it. If I am left home alone for more than a day my diet consists primarily of chips and salsa, queso dip and freeze pops. Unacceptable. I have decided that cooking will be a good way to kill time with the baby during the day, and an activity we can both handle together most of the time. I don't care much for baked goods, I'm good for about one cupcake or one cookie then I am all set with the batch, so I have decided that I am going to specialize in cooking actual meals. What these meals are is yet to be determined, but there will be meals. Most of them at some point will likely involve cheese.

Resolution #4: Learn to play an instrument. Also important to being well rounded. And for driving my family nuts, which I feel is part of my duty as the dad. I bought an $8 ukulele at the Christmas Tree Shops yesterday. We're going to start there and see what that does for my confidence. Maybe there will be a larger stringed instrument in my future if it works out. I have already found a surprisingly detailed and in depth 'how to' website. On a separate note, ukulele may be the hardest word in the English language to spell.

Now, you will notice that none of these resolutions involve getting in better shape or making more money. Somehow I just don't see that getting much better next year, so why bother getting all worked up over it? I probably should find a better job, though. I do hate this apartment. As for getting in shape- exercise hurts and it goes against my natural instinct to do things that hurt. Life is hard enough without having to go to the gym and get sweat on by some meat head or having to look at some old man's balls. I drink tea now. The Buddhists say drinking tea helps you live longer, so I am going to replace the gym with that. I actually just made that up, I have no idea if that's true, but I choose to think it is. Just like how I chose to believe that drinking every day is good for you. It has to be, the Internet told me so.

Happy hangover Monday. Going back to work after a long weekend is on the same level as root canals and paying your taxes. You should all strive to be less employed like me. C'mon. Do it. It will make me feel better.

RIP Frank Drebin.

2010-11-25T00:59:00.000-08:00

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. As you may know, this is far from my favorite holiday. But Stove Top and gravy sounds pretty f-ing good right now. And the Patriots are poised to blow an easy win against the Lions early in the day, too, so I can't complain. Here's wishing you a happy and DUI-free Thanksgiving.

TO celebrate the occasion here is my favorite Queens of the Stone Age song for no reason.

Episode 123: Travel blog and other things of note

2010-11-18T09:32:00.000-08:00

Now that Av is just a couple of months away from her second birthday, her personality is really starting to come out. She is full of energy, dancing all the time, bouncing around from one place to another and generally leaving a complete path of destruction everywhere she goes. Just moments ago I had to clean water color off of the TV screen, only to turn around and find that she had taken an un capped bottle of water and spilled it down her chest. And we have only been up for a half hour.

I think my favorite thing that is happening right now is the evolution of her vocabulary. She is in all out repeat mode, and she can say all sorts of things that babies should not be able to say. The funny thing to me is that there is no rhyme or reason to things that she can and cant say. For example, she can't say pumpkin or Christmas Tree, but she can say armadillo and robot. That makes no sense. She also likes to sing songs, like the 'everyone goes doo doo song' or the 'night night cow' song. Both are originals and destined to be hits.

Here is a video of her dancing rather provocatively in the kitchen.

Why is is everyone here so nice?

Although I don't have much of an opportunity to do it very much any more, I like to consider myself fairly well traveled, at least in the northeastern portion of the country. In my younger days I have driven to a variety of places, including an epic 17 hour drive to my grandparent's house in North Carolina. There have been trips to Canada, New York, California and Virginia. And who can forget the horrible, horrible trip to Mexico. The most backward, disgusting, useless, underdeveloped, smelly, piece of shit place that I have ever been to in my entire life. I hate Mexico. If the tectonic plates shift and the entire country split in half and collapsed in on itself I would not only feel joy and relief, but I would not donate to whatever Red Cross fund has been set up. Again, I reiterate, Mexico sucks with a capitol SUCK. Sorry, Sammy Hagar.

Anyway, after a summer of jet setting around New England with the baby, going to various zoos, Monica and I decided to hit the road together baggage free last weekend when we headed up to Burlington, VT to celebrate her birthday. I had been to Vermont before, mostly as a teenager when I had to travel up there to play with my high school basketball team, but I had never really paid much attention to it. I think that it is a beautiful place and I like their whole relaxed attitude so I thought it would be nice to go.

I am not sure if I have mentioned this here before but I fancy myself an outdoorsman. As a child I grew up in an area that was heavily wooded and spent a lot of time exploring. My afternoons after school were filled with mountain bike adventures and ill-advised nature stunts. My favorite job ever was working outside, cutting grass and battling nature with a weed whacker. I am not exactly city folk. Because of this I have always enjoyed places like Vermont, where so much of the land is still uncompromised and every day can bring along a new outdoor adventure. Yes, if it hasn't become apparent to any of you regular readers, I am pretty much a hick stuck in the developed world. The point is that I have been bugging Monica about moving somewhere with a lot of land so I can spend my time working outdoors, chopping wood and various other activities. You know, when I get that figurative high paying job that I don't have. Anyway, to make a long, rambling story a bit shorter, I thought a nice weekend trip to Vermont would be an enjoyable birthday weekend for both parties, so I did a little bit of research and decided to head to Burlington. This way we can have the whole outdoors aspect and still have a bit of shopping and nightlife to keep that city vibe that she is in to.

Despite a fairly long drive (four hours) the trip up to Lake Champlain was pretty nice. New Hampshire is a shithole of a state, (most of you already knew that) but Vermont was lovely to drive through with lots of trees, farms, lakes and bridges as well as cows, sheep and horses with coats on. Once in Burlington we realized that we had made the right decision. The town was well populated and there were a ton of restaurants and bars. That is all you really need when you are on vacation. The city itself is beautiful and we experienced all of the food offerings there were to experience, toured a brewery and did some shopping. It was all very nice. Kind of like Salem only done correctly. As in it doesn't just cater to tourists and idiots who think they still hang witches downtown, and in place of hokey magnet and bumper sticker shops there were lots and lots of bars. If Salem had a few cool places to go see live music, a few cool restaurants that weren't pretentious and over priced and didn't place a white trash carnival on a vacant lot next to a gas station once a year it could be nice like Burlington, too. But, it does not and therefore it is not. Screw you, Mayor Kim Driscoll.

One thing that really stuck out to me was the fact that everyone was super, super nice. Maybe it is because Vermont is so close to Canada, or maybe it is all of the weed they smoke up there, but it was a pleasant change from the 'Masshole' lifestyle that we lead down here. It did take some getting used to, though. The first few times someone in a bar came up and started talking to us we were very guarded. In Massachusetts if someone is talking to you at a bar and you don't know who they are they are either A. extremely wasted and have no idea what they are saying B. looking for either sex, drugs or at the very least a free drink or C. think you are someone else. The fact of the matter is that down here we just don't care to talk to other people. We are introverted, grouchy and frankly don't give a shit what you have to say. Not so in Vermont. Everyone up there is friendly, helpful, talkative and genuinely good-natured. Even the guys begging for change downtown were nice. It was a nice change but I have to be honest. I am kind of a dick. I don't really want to talk to anyone that much. Especially if I am drinking. I'm not sure I could keep up the act if I lived there.

While the trip itself was very nice I do have a bone to pick with our hotel room. We stayed at a bed and breakfast called the Willard Street Inn. It is supposedly some sort of old, colonial mansion set downtown. Very historic. Keeping in mind that all I had to go with was information on the website and a few online reviews, I chose the inn based on this description of the room: 'A rich leather headboard on the queen-size bed with a cozy comforter of green, cranberry and gold make this room warm and inviting. Two large windows provide views of the Inn's gardens, Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks. Private bathroom with tub/shower directly across the hall.'

Sounds nice, right? Well, not to say that it wasn't, but that description was a bit exaggerated. For example, the 'view' of Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks was a bit of a stretch. Sure, you could see them, but only because none of the trees had any leaves and there were a few sight gaps in between all of the houses between the inn and the lake. The hotel was also nestled in between an entire street of residential homes and dorm rooms for Champlain College, not exactly the 'convenient downtown location' that the website suggested. Still, the room was very nice, albeit very small, as is to be expected in a colonial mansion. The closest thing I can liken it to is taking a vacation at your grandmother's house. It smelled a little like old people, the room was small and the bed decorated very clearly by an old person. The bathroom was across the hall and was set up exactly like the one in my grandmother's house. the layout was the same right down to the voyeuristic window that allowed the folks across the street to watch you pee.

The inn itself was very nice on the inside, but was decorated in a very creepy way. Upon walking in to our room we were greeted by this woman on our wall.

Who the hell is that? Probably your worst nightmare, that's who. Upon further investigation we began to learn the history of the inn. It was a private mansion at one point and then turned in to a nursing home in the 70's. As if this picture wasn't creepy enough, I had to then worry about being haunted by all of the spiteful old grandparents that called it quits in that room still bitter that their families had not let them die at home. Cool. To make matters worse, I could not find a Bible in the room. I am not an overly religious person and I have no desire to actually read the Bible, but I feel as though Bibles in hotel rooms are the one fixture in life that creates sanity where there often is none. The room not having one just made me uneasy. Something was amiss. This made it difficult for me to feel comfortable. I don't care what your opinion on Christianity is, hotel rooms need Bibles. It is like not having soap or a TV.

Once I got over the no Bible thing I went exploring a little bit and found that every corner of the inn was creepier than the one before it. Then I stumbled upon this.

That is a couch that directly faces a mirror. Why? I have no idea. Just in case you want to stare at yourself while you read? Or perhaps taunt spirits in to haunting you over your shoulder. Upon returning to the room I found another friend on the wall. It was former president Teddy Roosevelt. That is one thing that I learned on my trip. People in Vermont LOVE Teddy Roosevelt. I still have no idea why, either. I tried to do some research but after at least 6-8 minutes on the Internet it appears that he just visited Lake Champlain once, before he was president, and he really liked it so now he is all over the place. They even named a highway after him. We forgot to take a picture of his portrait on the wall, but just to remind you, Teddy Roosevelt looks like this:

Between his mustache, monocle and judgmental stare, as well as his creepy friend on the other side of the room, it made it very difficult to have a 'romantic' weekend in the hotel room. I don't need Teddy seeing any of that.

All in all the trip was very nice and I do hope to some day retire to Vermont and own land that I can conserve, work on and, of course, enjoy in a relaxing, potentially herbally- aided manor. Unfortunately, Monica suggested that this will be a chance for me to get to know my second wife, as she will not be partaking in the move with me. So, you know, maybe consider this a personal ad for the future. Looking for a woman who wants to move to Vermont, will still be hot in like, 25-30 years and potentially may earn enough money to buy lots of land in Vermont because I am probably not going to do that myself. Inquire within when my current spouse has decided that she has had enough. Must love cheese.

Episode 122: An afternoon in the seventh layer of Hell

2010-11-15T05:25:00.000-08:00

Despite being both a father and an adult male, I feel like I do not normally fit in with the cliche' societal male stereotypes. I do not play fantasy football, trade stocks, golf or go to strip clubs. I don't typically speak to my spouse in a condescending voice, spend my holidays talking up in laws about my career or my business (probably because I don't have either one of those things), and I don't have much desire to listen to bands such as Pearl Jam or Van Halen. I have never played a game of poker in my life and I don't think Eastbound and Down is funny. I also thought the Hangover was a terrible movie. I am apparently just not your 'average' male. Therefore, when I see commercials, movies or TV shows that portray people like me as boob-driven and inconsiderate, wanting to leave family dinner to watch the college football game I get kind of offended. Especially the ones that insinuate that all men hate spending time with their families outside the house and must have some sort of smart phone at the ready to follow any number of sporting events.

Ok, now that I think about it I do like boobs. But none of that other crap.

That said, last Thursday I felt just like a typical Bud Light commercial dad. You see, last Thursday was Veterans Day. This meant that Monica was home for the day and expected to spend it as a family. This was all fine and good, except for the part where she thought it would be a good idea to spend it as a family at the mall- specifically the photo studio called 'The Picture Place' or 'The Picture People' or something like that- just a few weeks before Christmas. I almost immediately found myself wishing I had some sort of device where I could sneakily watch Internet videos and analyze football stats, and I couldn't help but to start subconsciously speaking to my family in a short tone.

As soon as she told me that we had an appointment to get the baby's pictures taken I knew I did not want to go, but I said I would because I am a nice guy and, let's face it, any enjoyment I would have taken out of having a few hours at home by myself would have been shattered when Monica came home with her hair all messed up, looking all stressed out and pissed off because she had to wrangle the baby through the mall by herself. So, I agreed to go and pretended that I cared what the baby wore in the picture and who we were going to send them to when they were done. Personally, I hate professionally done photos. I don't get it. If you were a grandmother wouldn't you rather have a cute photo of your grand kids in their natural habitat than some artificial shot created in front of a white screen? I think most of the time the kids in the pictures don't even look like they do in real life. But that is just me.

We got to the Picture Place to find about 6 million kids and their stressed out, bitchy moms lining the walls of the store and meandering about outside with scowls on their faces and Starbucks in their hands. Apparently, the mid-week off day provided a perfect opportunity for awkward holiday family photos for all. This was, in my world, the equivalent of toiling in Hell for an afternoon. The photo place pissed me off just about immediately when it became apparent that the appointment we had made pretty much meant nothing. We gave the lady our name, we checked in and we still ended up sitting among the masses for over a half hour before any action was taken. This is fine if you are getting your oil changed or waiting for a table at a nice restaurant with a bar. Not when you are sitting next to some lady with 5 kids dressed in Christmas pajamas all bitching because the are hungry. While Monica chased the baby through the crowds and tried to get her to play with toys I sat. I listened to children being scolded because of their attitudes. I listened to moms gossip about their caddy friends and quietly complain about how busy it was at the photo place. I watched the efficient Picture Place manager direct her employees and keep order, and I watched as a group of shopping mall photographers tried, usually in vain, to pose children in all sorts of unnatural, awkward positions, usually with shitty holiday props.

As if the room was not crowded enough, a man dressed as Santa soon showed up and started meandering around like he just walked in to a high school reunion. He was leaning against the wall shooting the shit with employees, standing around with his hands in his pockets and doing a mediocre job of interacting with children, which garnered a wide variety of reactions. Some kids ran up to him and gave him hugs, others made snotty comments like 'That's not really Santa.' Yeah, you little douchebag, obviously that isn't really Santa. You think Santa came all the way here just so you could ask him for a Nintendo DS? Fat chance. At this point I was so angry at this little snot that I just wanted to yell in his face that there was no Santa. I did not. Impressive restraint by me. The baby was pretty shy when he was around, but in the end she liked him and even gave him a high five at one point. Weird. For the rest of the day she kept saying 'Santa is a nice guy.' His interactions with the children were fleeting, he wasn't set up anywhere, he was just wandering around the store. He asked them all what they wanted and then offered commentary on their choices, like 'I am hearing a lot about those this year' or 'Those are pretty expensive, you know.' The sad thing is that most of those 7-year-olds are going to probably get cell phones for Christmas, and they are all going to be nicer than mine. Children should not be allowed to have electronic gadgets. It was at this point that I was really pondering walking over to the Apple store next door and just pretending that I had interest in buying a fantasy football avoid my family phone. Just to get the hell out.

Finally, after what felt like six hours, but was really just like 45 minutes, we got called over to our little photo area. Surprisingly, the baby had no apprehension about getting her pictures taken at all. I thought for sure that she would do the whole stranger danger thing and freak out, but she was all set to go. Maybe it was because she had a lot of time to watch the other kids doing it. Whatever the case, she was having a great time, rolling around on the floor, posing in weird ways and laughing her ass off. As for me, I had just about had it by the time it was our turn to go. It had been a long time, I was hot and sweaty and had just spent the last ten minutes holding about 8 bags and sitting on a stool next to a mother who was having an argument with her spoiled daughter about going to Pretzel Time. I was ready to take the damn shots and get out.

The baby's antics were amusing enough and were kind of keeping me going, but as soon as the photographer opened her mouth that all went away. Photographers at the Picture People establishment have a certain way of dealing with children, and it is obnoxious. They make loud noises to get their attention and they try to make them laugh. This is fine. I get why it works and I get why they do it. However, our particular photographer was a bit too much for me to handle. Her voice was very, very loud and she kept making the noise that crazy old women make when they are trying to get the attention of a house cat. The most irritating thing, though, was the fact that she kept yelling 'Say stinky feet! Do you have stinky feet?' Ugh. Shut UP lady! Anyway, the baby kind of liked her so it was fine, but in all of her noise making and distraction she seemed to forget to actually take pictures. She was so concerned about getting the right professional pose that she missed a ton of good faces. Of course, I am again of the mind that a 'good picture face' is a natural, funny, cute, smiling one, and apparently everyone else seems to think that she needs to look like a store mannequin. So, along we went with this charade for about 20 minutes or so, mixing in a stool that she never sat on, a ball that she kept throwing at the photographer and a lot of spastic dancing. It was all hysterical, if it weren't for the 600 other people around me, the 107 degree temperature inside the mall and the continuous, obnoxious, loud old lady cat noises.

Once the shots are taken you are summoned to a computer where someone sits down and shows you the shots that you want to pick out to buy. I was in charge of the baby who decided that this was the point in time where she wanted to pull out all of her baby wipes and pretend to clean the inside of the photo store, which given all of the children prancing through there, was probably a pretty decent idea. My favorite part of the day was when she ran behind the counter where the tyrannical manager was working. I was a little disappointed that the manager wasn't there to freak out and yell at us, but then I realized that some snot mom spilled her coffee all over the floor and had sprung the staff in to action to help her clean it up. She, in fact, showed no remorse for the spill, either, despite the very clear 'no food or drinks' sign on the wall. She came over to the counter with this entitled look on her face and said 'I spilled my coffee, we're going to need some paper towels.' She is lucky I didn't work there, because I would have not have been as nice.

The pictures came out fine. They look professional, like picture day at school with a touch more whimsy. I would still prefer a shot of Av in her sweats dancing in the living room, but, hey, at least we have some Christmas shopping taken care of. In retrospect, it would have been a pretty funny day if we had just gone and been able to have her picture taken without the super long wait and the hoards upon hoards of families in seasonal sweaters, but that is the way it goes, I guess.

We still had to hang around the mall for another half hour or so after waiting for the pictures to be developed, and that was when I really thought I was going to lose it. Again with the cranking heat- sure it is November, but it was like 45 degrees out, no need to bake all of us- and the stupid amount of people everywhere, I was in full out 'dad is missing his football game' mode. I was ready to split. But first we had to wait, and while Monica was waiting in line at Picture Hell Av took her cup of water from Pretzel Time and hurled it across the mall. It was like slow motion as I watched it explode on the ground in front of the hand cream kiosk. I didn't even ask for paper towels, I just went the other way. Maybe I was a bit too harsh on that other mom with the coffee.

Here are a few pics. Many of you may find these gift wrapped and in your mailbox around a month or so from now, because I sure as Hell am not going to buy you anything from the mall. That is a promise.

This one is nice, but it looks like she is haunting some old hotel somewhere. Also, I promise you that she took off running toward something a split second after this was taken. Below, you will find a photo of her flailing on the ground. She had some pretty sweet poses in this sequence and some goofy ass faces. Unfortunately, as I mentioned, most of them were missed because the photographer was too concerned with yelling 'STINKY FEET!' and trying to get her to lay a certain way. C'mon lady.

Episode 121: Blowing my contest karma

2010-11-11T11:21:00.000-08:00

I am not much for entering contests. Mostly because I don't really ever win. As a kid I can remember begging my parents to send back those Publisher's Clearing House mailers that said we were already winners, and I still vividly remember the time that my father and I entered one of those 'if your key starts the Ford Escort, you win it!' contests at Johnson Ford. They key came in the mail and the day we were going to see if we could start the car I dropped it behind the stairs on our porch. I thought my dad would be pissed, but he just said 'Oh well, it wasn't going to be the key that started the car anyway.' That is pretty much the pessimistic attitude we have all taken to winning things throughout most of my life. As an adult, I never win KENO, my lottery tickets never hit, especially scratch tickets, and I never win the 50/50 raffle at the figurative high school football game. In fact, I can remember exactly twice in my life that I have won a contest, and neither time has it been worth it. First, when I was in elementary school I came the closest to correctly guessing the amount of jelly beans in jar on the lunch counter in the cafeteria before spring break, meaning that I got to take all 400 or so of them home. That was a pretty big deal at the time, until I remembered that jelly beans- and we're talking traditional jelly beans here, not the Jelly Belly gourmet ones or anything- are a shitty candy to win. Seriously, when was the last time any of you have eaten a jelly bean? They suck. They are all fat and chewy inside, and half of them are flavored like lemon or liquorish. What kid wants that?

The second contest that I won was from ESPN. I think it may have been during the early days of the Internet, but it could have been some sort of mail in flier that I sent in, I don't quite remember. The grand prize was like a trip to the World Series or a Camero or something cool like that. Second prize was some sort of cash and then there were a small number of third prize winners who got some sort of prize package. I was one of those third place winners. What did I get? An over sized commemorative 'ESPN Baseball Tonight' baseball autographed by Karl Ravich- the host of the nightly baseball highlight show and the only member of the show's panel that was not either A. a respected, hall of fame baseball reporter or B. a former baseball player. He is simply the host of the show. That ball is worth nothing and no one cares about it. Not one bit. Cool. That stupid ass ball is still sitting in the top of my closet. What the hell am I going to do with that? It has been like 10 years.

It is the karma from these two contest wins that I am convinced has prevented me from ever winning more than $40 on a scratch ticket and will prevent me from ever winning any worthwhile contest for the rest of my life. We all have a certain amount of luck in our lives and I feel like I have wasted it on these two previous shitty prizes. Knowing this, imagine my surprise and relative displeasure when I found out a few weeks ago that I had inadvertently entered, and won a contest- just because I was trying to be a nice guy.

Before I get in to the details, I have to confess something that not many people know about me. I am an avid, almost obsessive NASCAR fan. I do not talk about this or share this with anyone because, at least in this part of the country, it leaves me open for almost immediate and constant ridicule. I am not preachy about it, I keep to myself, I don't talk about it with other people who do not want to and I don't make anyone else watch it with me. In other words, I am not a soccer fan about it. I get why people don't like it, don't get it or think that it is stupid. That said, I enjoy it quite a bit. I know a lot about the sport and its history and I enjoy watching it. When I was a kid my dad and I would go to a dirt track about 45 minutes from our house in Western Mass. I thought it was really cool and from then on I always watched racing on Sundays, often times with my father. So there it is. It is out there. I like NASCAR, I follow it as close or more closely than I follow any other sport on a weekly basis. I don't care if you think that is stupid and I am not going to apologize for it.

The thing with NASCAR is this. Unlike other professional sports, it isn't as easy as having a favorite team. Sure, you can have a favorite driver, but drivers switch teams very frequently, so some people have trouble following just one driver or just one team. In my case, I always found the personalities of the drivers to be a big deciding factor in who I rooted for. Since winning a championship is not as easy as going head to head in a game like in other sports, sometimes you have to chose a few drivers that you like. Maybe pick one of the guys in contention for the championship to root for and another guy that maybe doesn't win that often who you would like to see win the race that week. It is, for me at least, much more abstract than liking the Patriots because I am from Massachusetts. Got it? Good.

As a teenager watching the sport I would root for two or three drivers every week, never having much of a favorite. Sure, we all liked Dale Earnhardt because he was badass and he always won, but after a certain amount of time that gets old. One day when I was about 15 or so I was watching a race on TV with my dad. It was just some lazy Sunday where he was doing house chores and I had the day off from Bonanza. The particular race was taking place up in New Hampshire, the most local of the NASCAR tracks and a driver who had never won before ended up wining the race. I'm not going to mention his name because I don't particularly think that it matters. I watched an interview after he won the race and he seemed like a likable guy so for whatever reason I started rooting for him and have ever since. He was a so-so driver for the early part of the 2000's and then, as will happen in NASCAR, his career kind of started to fizzle because he wasn't young and carrying sponsorship. Eventually, he started his own team and has been running in about last place with no money for a few years. OK, this seems like a bit too much background, but I felt it was necessary to properly explain what has happened to me and why.

About a month or so ago I was reading some article that linked to his website and there was a little note that said something like 'The driver's birthday is this weekend, if so and so amount of people sign up for the mailing list some company will sponsor the car for the race.' Or something like that. It was so irrelevant that I honestly don't remember. Knowing how tough it is to race without sponsorship, I felt like this would be a nice thing to do, so I clicked on it and signed up. What is the worst that can happen? I get a few emails in my spam folder? That happens plenty already, what is a few more? So I clicked on the link and it asked me for my name and email and then at the bottom it said 'Tell us why you're a fan.' I contemplated leaving this blank, but I had come this far and I was a few beers deep so I wrote a few lines about why I became a fan and hit send. I certainly did not write anything all that meaningful or epic. In fact, I can't imagine it was more than three lines. I didn't even use any writer speak. I just kind of did it because it was there. Yes, this makes me a dork. Again, I do not care.

About four or five days later I had something in my inbox from the mailing list. I almost didn't even open it because I didn't care, but something told me that I should. This is what I read when I opened the note.

First on behalf of whatever motorsports and our driver we would like to thank you for being a passionate fan and loyal supporter of us.

We are very thankful for all of the birthday wishes that were received, and yours was one of the most notable. We decided to randomly pick from a few of the best and send an autographed trophy to three fans, and your birthday wish was selected! The trophy is from a past event and has been on display in the shop. The driver will autograph it and we will ship it out to you. Please reply to this email with the address that you would like the trophy shipped to.

Cool? I mean, yeah, I appreciate that and all, but what the hell am I going to do with an old race trophy? Seriously? I had no idea I was entering any sort of contest. None. Not that I don't enjoy winning things, but if I had known I probably would have chose not to include my birthday wish. There are several reasons behind this. First, I have always been a closet racing fan so I have little to no other memorabilia. It isn't like I can display it next to anything else. 2. Where do you put a trophy? I quit basketball in 11th grade and never won a trophy doing that anyway, so it isn't like I have a trophy case, and I live in a ghetto second floor apartment, so it's not like I can have a 'dude room.' 3. I wasted a contest win. Sure, I like this driver and I like NASCAR, and winning a piece of autographed memorabilia is kind of cool, but how does this change my life? It doesn't, it just reinforces that I am never going to win the lottery.

So, that is my story. Am I appreciative? Yes. Am I glad that my signing up for a mailing list and writing a few lines meant enough to someone to send me a prize? Yes. Am I more a fan of this driver than I was before? Yes. But, I repeat, what the hell am I going to do with a trophy?

The prize arrived in the mail the other day, and it wasn't as big as I'd expected, but as you can see from these pictures it will look a bit out of place in my house. For now I have given it to Av to display in her room. Maybe it will inspire her to be a race car driver and make lots and lots of money.

2010-11-08T13:34:00.000-08:00

Monica taught the baby how to say Sex Robot today, and accompanied it with a dance. Now every ten minutes she says 'Sex Robot?' and expects one of us to dance. I have never heard her laugh so hard.

Episode 120: You go doo doo... A lot. Don't deny it.

2010-11-08T06:32:00.001-08:00

We're almost there. So... Close... Of course, I am talking about what else? The day we finally unhinge ourselves from the oppression of diapers and start going doo doo's in the toilet. Or at least a smaller receptacle that reasonably resembles a toilet and may or may not play princess music as you eject all of your body's toxins out in a convenient little log. We haven't set up the potty training equipment yet, but we are at least at a point now where she understands what happens when she, or anyone else, goes doo doo's.

This is so promising. You have no idea. I hate, hate, hate diapers. I hate the way they smell, the way they feel, the way they sound when you crinkle them. Hate. Changing them is worse. No one should ever be that close to human poop. No one. And they are expensive, half the time the sides snap off (even on the really good ones) and then they make the baby's ass look huge. They look hard to walk in, and did I mention they smell funny? Even before the poop. I can't wait. Of course, this will open up plenty of awkward 'cover her eyes' moments as I have to take her in to the men's room to go doo doo's, but that is a different topic for a different day.

I think my favorite part of the whole process is that she likes to reinforce the fact that she is not the only one who goes doo doo's. For example, whenever anyone goes in to the bathroom, or whenever you are changing her diaper, she will recite the fact that everyone she knows goes doo doo's. 'Mommy doo doo, Daddy doo doo, Papa doo doo, Little Cat doo doo, Nuggie doo doo, Uncle John doo doo,' and so on. This is, of course, very educational and very effective in convincing her that doo doo's are very normal and it is more fun to go on the toilet than it is to go in your pants. Don't laugh, she will do it to you, too if she see's you. Because you go doo doo's. A lot. And you know it. The problem is that she has started to tell strangers how much everyone goes doo doo's, and she has a bad habit of exaggerating, too.

She already has a tendency to tell random people, like checkout clerks at stores, that I am her daddy. "That's my daddy," she will say as she pats me on the chest or the shoulder. Now, she has expanded it to "That's my daddy. Daddy doo doo." Cool, thanks for telling everyone what I did before we left. Even funnier, though, is the fact that whenever someone goes in to the bathroom she just assumes we're going doo doo's, even though they may be just brushing their teeth. This makes for a lot of joking and making fun around our house.

'Mommy doo doo's!'

'I'm not going doo doo's I'm cleaning up the tub!'

'Mommy doo doo's!'

'Yeah, your mommy goes doo doo's all the time. I think she is sick.'

'Hey! That's not true!'

And so on...

There you go. A short glimpse in to my life. Poop jokes. Classic. I give her three months before she is going on the toilet. Longer post tomorrow, as soon as I get my grand kids to show me how to upload the photos I need for it on to my new fangled Internet machine. I am pathetic.

Episode 119: Weeeeeen!

2010-11-02T11:21:00.001-07:00

This is a picture of Av and her friend Leah on Halloween. As you can see, Leah has an adorable dinosaur costume on. My daughter, however, is dressed like a hooker. I was opposed to this costume from day one and I feel that it is slightly inappropriate and embarrassing. That said, if you are not jaded and do not have a mind in the gutter like myself, she looks kind of cute. She needs cat ears and would have still been funnier in the dinosaur suit, but I'll take it.

I was not there for the trick or treat extravaganza, as I was still working my college job as a bartender that night, but the days leading up to the evening were pretty funny. Especially since Av started calling Halloween 'ween,' which in Monica and I's crazy, kind of juvenile world has always been slang for 'wiener.' Av has an uncanny ability to repeat just about any word, like 'yellow' 'hippo' or 'mac and cheese' but for some reason she can't get certain words down. Like pumpkin. She just kept saying 'Mama.' As you can imagine, this was very confusing. She is also yet to mimic any swears that she hears, which is remarkable, because Monica and I are pretty bad a censoring ourselves.

From what I hear, trick or treating went fairly well with no incidents. The baby learned how to say 'Baby Ruth' and chowed down on Crunch Bars and M&M's all night. Cool. Meanwhile, I was bar tending at a restaurant directly in the center of the busiest Halloween city in the country. The night was, in a word, miserable. Most of the month of October is pretty hectic, and most Saturday nights are as busy, if not busier than Halloween was this year, but it is just something about that day specifically that makes the job that much harder. Aside from having to deal with crazy business levels, i have to wait on people that seemingly only go out to a bar once a year as well as having to listen to freaked out managers asking me to make sure that no one gets drunk. It is a bar, guys, people are going to get drunk. My goal is to just make sure no one falls asleep or gets in to a fight. That said, there were a few humorous drunk guy incidents that took place Sunday night.

First, I always think it is funny when another bartender asks me if they should cut someone off and then serves them anyway. It epitomizes how we all think when it is busy. 'This guy is obviously drunk. He isn't causing any trouble, though, and I don't have the energy to fight with him after I cut him off, so let's just give him one.' I do it all of the time. Just make sure you call them a cab, Dan, and everything will be cool. Well, my friend, Pat, was waiting on this guy and came up to ask me the question. A rule of thumb as a bartender is that if you A. have to ask if someone is too drunk to serve or B. if you are wondering if you should ID someone, the answer is always 'yes.' Always. So Pat comes up and says 'I think I should cut this guy off, what do you think?' I looked over to see a man with one eye open, smashing tortilla chips in to his face. Before I could answer, Pat had poured the beer. Classic 'I don't want to deal with it' mentality. The funny part is that this particular gentleman never drank the beer, because he fell asleep on the bar. This is one of my favorite things. I love waking drunk people up. I have been known to throw coasters at them, hit the bar top with broom handles and pulling their chairs out from under them. Don't sleep at my bar. Grow up and go home. The only exception to this is an old, fat man named Peter, who I have nicknamed 'Sleepy Pete.' Pete is fat and miserable, but deep down he is a nice guy. Also, most of the time he falls asleep at the bar it is because he has been driving back and forth from Connecticut taking care of his dying mother and just wants a beer and some turkey tips before he goes home. A 4-hour drive, plus beer plus triptophan equals sleepy time at 11 p.m. That said, I don't let him sleep, I am just nicer about waking him up. Anyway, I chose to wake up Pat's friend by simply pounding the bartop and yelling 'no sleeping!' as I walked by. This not only woke him up, but apparently marked the last straw for his girlfriend, who got up and left, leaving Drunky McSLeeperson there to find his own way home. He stood next to the bar, wobbly calling his girl for at least 45 minutes before I finally got some mercy and handed him a business card for a cab company, forgetting, of course, that the roads downtown were closed. I'm not sure what happened to that guy, but he left the bar and we never saw him again.

Someone asked me the other day if I liked to kick people out. That is a tough question, if I am in a bad mood and someone is pissing me off, absolutely I like to kick them out. I take pleasure in it. I once made a guy follow me in to the bathroom and explain to me every single thing that he was complaining about, right down to the paper towel on the floor, before I took his beer out of his hand and told him never to come back. That was cool because I was pissed at him anyway, having a crappy night and was ready to give him the boot. Other times, though, kicking people out sucks. I just don't have the energy or the passion to fight.

One particular incident took place late Halloween night. A group of fairly young (21-22) kids were at the bar and they were drunk. They weren't making a lot of noise or causing any problems, they were just drunk, kind of rude and didn't need any more beer. Another bartender cut them off and one of them proceeded to ask all of us for a beer at one point or another, hoping to catch one of us who hadn't heard the news. A member of his group asked me for a shot of Jack Daniels, and I calmly explained that we don't have liquor because we are a micro brewery that brews beers on site and it is a different license, a conversation I have about 600 times a night. His friend's response was 'That is fucking gay.' To which i did not respond. Almost immediately after, the cut off kid asked me for a refill, nicely. I said, 'Sorry man, but you're done tonight.' He looked at me, surprised, as if this was the first he heard of it and he said 'Ok, they take your fucking glass back, asshole.' Now, most nights I would have just given him the shark eyes and not said anything, but tonight I was tired and ready to go so I said 'You know what, man? Now you and your crew can leave.' He ignored me and I went about my cleaning without addressing it again, figuring he got the point and would stop talking back. Unfortunately, another bartender heard this and got the manager who gave him the boot. The kid told me he would be waiting for me when I left and I told him that he may want to think twice about how he talks to people who control whether or not he stays in a bar. Inside, though, I felt kind of bad. I even pulled the manager aside and admitted that I had a little bit of a quick hook with him, but it was to no avail. He was removed, yelling and threatening me, really just because he was a little drunk and was mad that we wouldn't get him more drunk. That is when I don't like kicking people out.

So, there is some insight in to what it is like to bar tend on Halloween. Hectic, tiring, confrontational. Sometimes I wish that I was a kid again so that I could look forward to it. As for my kid, she had a decent time in her hooker costume, but she brought home a disappointing amount of candy. Good thing Walgreens has Halloween candy on sale.

Episode 119: Weeeeee

2010-11-02T11:21:00.000-07:00

Episode 118: Putting the 'fun' in funeral

2010-11-01T10:13:00.000-07:00

So, I must apologize. I promised I would post this on Friday and I thought I had, but upon logging in to the site today I realized that it still said 'draft' next to this. So, sorry it is a couple of days late.

As I mentioned on Thursday, I spent a good amount of time last week at my grandmother's funeral in Western Massachusetts. This not only marked the first time I have spent any significant amount of time at home in a few years, but also the first time in much longer that I was able to spend time with family beyond my parents and sister, for better or worse. This, obviously, left me very much outside my comfort zone and we all know, as tiny as that zone is, it makes for a much more functional experience if I am calm and relaxed.

Although my grandmother lived well in to her 90's, I feel like the entire family has been waiting for this day since 1987. That was when my grandfather died and it wasn't too long after that my grandmother started experiencing health problems of her own. Not that anyone wanted her to die, I think everyone just expected it. Literally every single year, starting with my preschool graduation, my mother at some point would remind me of how important it was to do something because 'This could be the last time Gram gets to celebrate (insert event here).' One of my least favorite things to do as a kid was go to the annual family picnic, I hated being forced in to spending time with every kid in the family that was in the same age range as myself and having my face pinched by smelly old aunts, but every year my mother would say 'You have to go because it is important to Gram and this could be her last picnic.' Needless to say, it was never Gram's last picnic. In fact, much to everyone's surprise, the picnics ended before she did. This pessimistic attitude that our family displayed, along with the obvious rapid decline of Gram's health over the past two years, really went a long way in preparing everyone for last Friday when she actually died- 23 years after my grandfather.

Because of the inevitability of the situation, I think everyone, or at least myself, kind of looked at Gram's funeral- whenever it was going to happen- as kind of the next, last big family event. While most everyone from Gram's immediate family, children, grandchildren, cousins, aunts, and the like all live fairly close to her, there were many of us that did not and only made it home for sporadic special occasions. This stressed me out. Going home and seeing all of those people, as well as having to deal with my own feelings and those who are close to me feeling sad all combined to give me a relatively pessimistic attitude going in to the week's events.

Monica and I managed to get the trip started off on the right foot, though, meeting my cousins from Rhode Island, who I rarely see but actually enjoy being around, at an Irish Pub just as you enter town. Much like the Irish, Italians like to get a little buzz on before they do, well, just about anything, and especially before they go to any sort of formal event like a wedding or a funeral. The main difference being that Irish people drink whiskey and cry and Italians drink beer or wine and bury their emotions somewhere deep inside their gut. Both are effective ways of mourning.

The wake pre-game was good at easing a lot of the tension and bringing us cousins together in a kind of 'fuck 'em all, we're here for Gram' defiance.' It was also the first indication that, despite the circumstance, we may actually have a little bit of fun. The second indication of that was the fact that each of us showed up to the wake with a 12 pack in our trunks, which we combined in to a tiny cooler in the back of my cousin Patrick's Youkon, which he had backed in to a parking space at the funeral home in case things got too overwhelming for any of us. Which it did, about twice an hour. I think one of my fondest memories of the entire occasion was myself and my two cousins huddling in back of the truck, pounding beers and saying 'Who is this piece of shit?' every time someone pulled in to the parking lot, nine times out of ten realizing that it was either someone we didn't recognize or a family member that we hadn't seen in decades, but we remembered liking. The piece of shit ratio was actually like 1-10, so I guess we were way off on that. It could also have been all of the beer.

So I'm not going to give a play by play of the two days, there are just a few things that stand out to me. First, I had a lot of crazy, interesting interaction with the funeral home staff. A bit of background. Ever since I can remember, we have had a family funeral director. One thing you should know about the family is that we have a person for everything. I am the 'writer of the family' my cousins are the 'cops of the family,' etc... Well, along the same lines, Roger is the family funeral director. He has done everyone's. Aunt's, uncles, cousins... everyone. I have no idea how this came to be, he isn't even related to us. he was friends with my mom's cousin Kathy and somehow he cornered all of our business, even after he and Kathy stopped speaking when she married a rival funeral director- or something. Yes, only in my family does this happen. Scandal at the funeral home.

One of the things I took the most enjoyment out of at the wake was seeing all of the people who still remember me as an 11-year-old and watching the looks on their faces when they figure out who this tall, bearded, gray haired man was standing in front of them. Roger was one of those people. As was typically the case, he did the 'Oh my goodness, I'm so old' thing, and then called me in to another room to 'catch up' with him. Roger is a strange fellow. That is the best way I can describe him. And not just because he is a funeral director. No, it is something else. He is older, very tan, very eccentric and very, very serious about organization. Oh, and he wears personalized socks. In the process of speaking with Roger, I was introduced to the funeral home's owner, Mr. Dwyer, who looked exactly like the crypt keeper, appropriately enough. He was about 11 feet tall, his head looked like it was made out of wax and he had no expression in his eyes. He was about 100 years old, he had all sorts of wires coming out of his ears and his teeth were all perfectly the same size. He was the most terrifying man I have ever seen. Nice enough when we talked, though, even though I was pulled away for something mid conversation. He managed to find me though, and made sure to track me down and finish his story about a man from Romania who walked 10 miles to his in-law's house to ask for his wife's hand in marriage, even though he had never met them before. Cool. Completely irrelevant, but cool.

I was also thrust in to the position of Pallbearer for the event, something that I was both proud and nervous to do. They literally give you no instructions, they just hand you a pair of gloves and put you in a limo. Myself, along with three of my cousins and two of my grandmother's nephews were asked to do the job. Both nephews, well in to their 50's, asked to be in the middle so they didn't have to work as hard, leaving my two cop cousins, liver-transplant Tommy and myself to work the four corners. I ended up in the front, exactly where I didn't want to be. Too much pressure. Although, my suit looked pretty friggin nice. The first observation I had was that casket is pretty friggin heavy. I know that it has a person inside, but my grandmother was tiny, and I am pretty sure that the box itself outweighed her by like 300 pounds. The funeral directors make it easy for you, wheeling the casket most of the way and only making us carry it up stairs and on to platforms and such, but it was still a strenuous act. So, as the face of the funeral, I guess, I carried that thing up the stairs and in to the church, confused the entire time about what my role was going to be during the funeral, and hoping against hope that none of us screwed up and dropped our end. The Crypt Keeper must have had to correct me three or four times on where my hands were and what I was supposed to do next, and that was before we were in the church. Once inside, we didn't have to do any heavy lifting, just place our hands on the casket and guide it as it was pushed down the aisle. This would have been cool if the aisle wasn't so narrow, or if maybe I was a little bit stronger or something, because I kept getting run in to all of the pews on the way by. This was cool because I had to walk sideways and try to avoid every obstacle, creating a fantastic visual effect for all involved. It was the same thing on the way out, too, bouncing off of pews, wondering what I was doing wrong. I am still not sure that I actually did anything wrong at all, but I have been to a few funerals in my day and never seen anyone run in to anything, so I was obviously messing something up, right?

TO make matters worse, I was forced to sit in the passenger seat of the limo, meaning that I had to ride in awkward silence next to the Crypt Kepper's son/ assistant as he drove us to the cemetery. As nice as it was to not be crammed in the back of the car, it was very uncomfortable riding up front in complete silence. And a little terrifying to have a bird's eye view of the limo barreling through red lights and cutting off traffic.

Finally, it was the trip to the cemetery, where we were blessed with the task of lifting Gram out of the hearse and over another headstone on to the platform above the grave. At first, my morbid curiosity wanted to see in the hole so I peeked over. It was just concrete, kind of boring. Once again, though, I was put in the front, which meant that I had to be the brawn of the operation, lifting the casket up over the headstone, which is like three feet off of the ground. Yeah, that didn't go well. Aside from almost dropping that heavy-ass thing, I realized the plywood I was standing on was in no way supportive of a man my size and nearly caused me to fall in to the hole, putting a damper on an otherwise lovely ceremony.

In the end, the trip home was a pretty successful one and I feel like we all did a good job of honoring Gram. I will, however, forever have the thoughts of Roger's personalized socks, slamming my hip in to church pews and almost falling in to an empty grave tattooed on my brain. I am decidedly glad that it is over and I hope I don't have to bury anyone else any time soon..

Episode 117: The time I wore a yellow headband in public

2010-10-28T09:18:00.002-07:00

Sorry for not updating much recently, I have been away for a few days dealing with the death of my grandmother. I will have much more on that situation tomorrow, when I have a little bit more time to sit and write (the baby has already woken up from her nap), but for now I will say this. I loved my grandmother very much, we were very close and I will never forget the time I was able to spend with her. That said, I am not sad that she is dead and I don't want anyone reading this to feel bad for me. She has not been my grandmother for some time now. Old age and declining health had relegated her to a nursing home that she never wanted to be in and took away any sense of life, energy or personality that she had. Two weeks ago I drove home by myself to see her for the last time and what I found was a shell of a human being, experiencing nothing but sadness and pain. She was half asleep, could barely talk, and struggled to acknowledge that I was there- even though she knew exactly who I was. I wished right then and there that God would just take her once and for all. So, when my mother called last week and told me that she finally succumbed I was totally relieved and felt a sense of happiness. Sure, I will miss her and everything that we had experienced together, but it made me feel a lot worse to have to sit there and think about her suffering in that home than it did to know that she was finally at peace.

Like I said, the past week or so has been stressful with the whole travel arrangement, dealing with family and, in my case, writing her eulogy thing but my grandmother's death in the end was a blessing for both her and our family. We were able to come together to celebrate her like we had not in many, many years, and were able to put aside a lot of longstanding feuds and differences for at least a few days. So, I thank everyone for their thoughts and prayers but please, do not be sad for her or for myself. She is happy now and I am relieved. I'll miss her, but I know this is best for everyone. All the sappy mourning crap aside, the wake/funeral experience was pretty entertaining in a lot of ways- not the least of which was me almost falling in to the grave trying to lift her casket over a headstone. Yeah, I was not the world's greatest Pallbearer. Anyway, tune in tomorrow for a full, sadness-free report on the funeral experience. For now, read this story about how I wore a baby's yellow headband out in public for several hours today. Thanks, and sorry again for neglecting you readers for the past few weeks.

Since Av has become more and more of a human and less and less of a baby I have been subjected to increased amounts of forced dressing up. She likes to make me wear funny hats and yellow shirts, put stickers on my face and draw on my arms. Typically, any morning I can be found laying on the floor of her bedroom going through her little cabinet of headbands, hair ties, clips and bows, or as she calls them, 'pretties.' At first I was kind of a dude about it and wouldn't put stuff on when she asked me to, but I really don't care anymore. In fact, it is pretty safe to say that I don't really care about much of anything anymore. I have no one to impress, as long as I don't smell.

I would say at the very least, three out of the five days of the week I end up wandering around the house with various little girl hair accessories in my hair, much to the amusement of Av. Today we were playing like usual and I put a yellow headband with some lace and sparkles on my head. Av laughed hysterically and the day went on. We kept playing for a little bit, took a bath, had a snack, got dressed, played a little bit more and eventually decided to head out and enjoy the unseasonably warm weather. We climbed in to the car and headed toward the park, making a quick stop at Walgreens for a caffeinated beverage. We spent about 10 minutes in the fairly busy store and checked out. We made our way across town to Forest River, fed the ducks, jumped in the leaves and walked to the playground. There were a ton of people everywhere because it was so nice out. We were on the playground equipment for at least 15 minutes when a sassy old black woman playing with her grandson looked at me, laughed an awesome Whoopi Goldberg-like laugh and said 'Oh sweetie, that's cute.' I had no clue what she was talking about. I thought she was referring to the baby's shirt. I kind of gave her an 'ok crazy lady' smile and went along my way. That is when I remembered the headband. 'Oh no,' I thought. 'Tell me I am not still wearing that.' Sure enough, I reached up and there it was sitting comfortably on my head. I had been wearing it in public for a half hour- with no hat, no hood- nothing. Now, obviously everyone knew that I was just wearing it to be silly with my daughter, but I was still kind of embarrassed by it. Then, as I was about to reach up and take it off, I remembered how little I cared about being embarrassed at the park and just kept wearing it until we got home. I really, truly just don't care. Screw society.

That is the thing now. I really just don't care. Everyone always has something to say about everybody these days. Everyone has issues and causes and things you should and shouldn't do. Everyone has some politician they want to vote for and another one they hate. No one just goes about their business anymore. Everyone has to be worried about everyone else. Well, not me. Do what you want, leave me alone, and if I am wearing a little girl's headband to the store don't worry about it. Maybe I like it. Maybe it is comfortable.

Episode 116: 'Bye Bye That Guy!'

2010-10-19T08:46:00.000-07:00

Anyone who has been following this blog for more than a day or two understands by this point that I am a pretty emotionally unstable individual. For example: I no longer watch the Price is Right because it makes me sad when the old people lose. Can't handle it. Some days I wake up in a great mood ready to tackle the day. I am talkative and fun loving. Other days, like today, I wake up sad and lazy with a 'what's the point' attitude and depress myself in to thinking that I am some sort of epic failure. There is no reason for any of this. I haven't experienced a whole lot of trauma in my life and my childhood wasn't particularly bad, although I do tend to erase my memory every five years or so as a sort of mental cleansing mechanism, so who knows. I've always just kind of been a weirdo with a lot of insecurities and emotional baggage. It's cool, I gave myself an honorary psychology degree so that I could treat myself. No worries. All is well.

The important thing about this is that I am full aware of my own insanity and have come to terms with it, although many times I don't realize that I am being crazy until several days later. One way you can always tell when I am on an upswing is when I spend more money than normal, especially if it is on things like $103 wireless routers, or a 16 pack of forks. Likewise, a downswing will cause me to sleep more often than not, dread every day tasks like brushing my teeth and, more importantly, will usually result in infrequent, short blog posts. This is why I could never write a book. I am not stable for a long enough period of time to accomplish anything. Anyway, I have no idea why I think anyone cares about this. Today's post isn't about me being weird, it is about my kid and how I prevent her from following suit.

Since the day I found out that we were having a girl I knew we were going to have our hands full. Women by nature are completely illogical and insane to begin with. Yes, this counts for all of you. Every single one of you. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is. It isn't your fault. It is some sort of gene you are born with. Or maybe it is just that whole 'cycle' thing. That seems like a weird thing to have to deal with. If you combine that with my overall weirdness and moodiness, likewise with Monica, you have a ticking time bomb. Luckily for us, Av has managed to maintain a fairly steady mental demeanor thus far. She is absolutely a weirdo, but emotionally she is almost always happy unless she is tired. Good for her. We're doing a nice job, I think.

There is one disturbing trend that has surfaced, however. The baby has a complete inability to let potentially traumatic things go. The best example was school. Remember the whole school idea? She was pretty much afraid of any adult that resembled a teacher for about two weeks afterward. We couldn't even go to the library. I had initially chalked that behavior up to the trauma of the whole school experience and being so young and all, but recently she has started to show a pattern. When she doesn't like something, or more importantly something scares her or makes her sad, she is constantly looking out for it and doing everything she can to prevent it from happening.The best example I can give is something that happened at Target today, and has been happening the past few times we've been there.

At the Target near our house they have set up a toy display that features this guy:
From what I understand from the display, he is supposed to be Big Foot. He moves around and walks and talks and growls. I am pretty sure he is designed to be a ferocious but friendly type guy, kind of like Mr. T, but he terrifies the baby. The display is inside a plastic case and you have to press a button to activate him. Having no idea that he would scare her I showed him to her one day, garnering a pretty negative response. A few weeks later Av was being a brat in the store so Monica walked past it and hit the button again, knowing it would scare her, in an effort to teach her a lesson about payback- or something. Anyway, Big Foot was greeted with the same result. Was that a mean thing for her to do? Absolutely not. She deserved it. Kids can be dicks sometimes.

Well, that second encounter must have done something to really screw her up because the past two times we have gone to Target she has started freaking out in the parking lot. Usually when Av encounters something that she can't identify she refers to it as 'That Guy.' Thus, when she doesn't want to be around something she will say 'Bye bye, That Guy.' Well, that started up almost immediately when we got out of the car. She clung to me like she did when I dropped her off at school, like a Koala, and just kept yelling 'Bye bye That Guy!' Ok. I get it, kid, but we need some stuff and we have to go in the store. Relax. The entire time we were in the store the kid was in a panic. Wouldn't sit in the cart, even cried at one point when we turned down an aisle that was in sight of the display. All she did while we were checking out is remind me that we were leaving and we weren't going to see that guy. Like I was for some reason just going to run over there real quick and press his 'try me' button just to be a dick. So dramatic. So unnecessary. I don't know what to do. I don't think we can shop at Target anymore.

In a somewhat related story, we were at a Tedeschi's yesterday and there was a stupid Halloween display with some scary looking zombie. She did a less panicked version of the 'Bye bye That Guy' thing the whole time there, too. Then the one-toothed, mustached old lady behind the register, who was about 300 times scarier than the zombie, decided that we would be the one customer a day that she interacts with and made the situation worse by basically harassing the baby. She did this by yell/ speaking in her three packs-a-day voice 'I don't know what you're saying sweetheart!' 'Your bottle died?' 'Did your bottle die?' Yes. Her bottle died. It woke up one day, took one too many pain killers with an anti-depressant and blew up his heart Heath Ledger style. It was tragic. We are actually coming from the funeral. We're all still a little bit shaken up. He was so young. What kind of ridiculous assumption is that? I get it. You don't understand what she is saying. She is a toddler. You aren't supposed to. Just shut up and do your job. I didn't come here for the great interaction, I came here for a Red Bull and a package of hot dog buns to feed to the ducks. You have one tooth and a female mustache, don't you know by now that kids are terrified of creatures like you? I was so concerned with keeping this beast from scaring my child, in fact, I didn't even realize that she charged me $2.69 for the hot dog buns despite the giant, yellow .99 CENTS! sticker on the front. So you've scared my kid and ripped me off. Thanks Mustache Mandy.

I am probably being way to dramatic about all of this. She isn't even 2 yet, so she won't remember most of this trauma, but for some reason I still overcompensate whenever she is upset and give her like 6 pop sickles or let her watch TV. In fact, I should probably try and get her used to dealing with the little things now while she still doesn't understand a lot of things. Her life is going to be hard enough trying to manage this confusing little science experiment we all blindly live through every day without me getting in the way.