They put my name on a Red Sox jersey

The surest sign on a blog approaching (or reapproaching in this case) than sequential posts that begin with an apology for not updating recently.

So screw you guys, I’m not apologizing for nothing!

There that should save me.

I suck, I know. But cut me a little slack please. I’ve been busy lately. No busier than you I’m sure and not even any busier than me normally. I’ve just been pissier than usual about it and therefore allowed myself more slacking than I would before.

Plus I’m making up for a lifetime being a nerd but not knowing how to play Magic the Gathering or anything like it.

Even my mom knows the Street Sharks were stupid

My head hurts, I need to get working on re-baby/inlaw-proofing this house and I really want to finish season one of “Avatar: the Last Airbender” before I go to bed, so we’re doing a short, slice of life piece and calling it a day.

My mom is a pack rat and it’s pretty much ruined my life. Not only did I nearly trip and fall over a box of saved Sunday funnies in our basement and nearly crack my head open but that little mental quirk is totally hereditary. I had to force myself to throw away a broken bike pump because I had so much wasted space in garage just begging to store stuff.

Her attachment to things totally paid off a tough. A couple week ago, she brought my old Ninja Turtle figures for me and her grandchildren to play with. I could friggin’ smell my childhood coming off these things.

My son and nephew have both been going though a bit of a Turtles kick lately so it was perfect timing and a ton of fun. And better yet, my son is now hooked on the concept of playing with toys like this now.

So now we play with action figures a lot. And of course these action figures need to fight which is done in the ancient martial art of smashing the things into each other while making fight noises with your mouth and hoping your fingers don’t get smashed.

Just like his old man, he doesn’t have a lot of actual action figures, so we get to play pretend while we’re playing pretend (that guy from the memes would love it). Like today, I had to let him use his apatosaurus (the word brontosaurus is forbidden in my home) figure as a superhero.

He’ll have plenty of time in the future to learn all about the racist laws that prevent such things from ever really happening.

Man, I really thought I’d have more than that. Sorry folks, you’re getting what you’re paying for tonight.

Toads? More like frogs that gave up

No world changing plans this time, just something I’ve been carrying for a long time and really need to get off my chest.

The following animals are stupid:

Skunks: Skunks are stupid. They’re a little black and white animal whose only defense is the fact that they really really stink.

We’ll I’ve got news for you to little poofy-tailed morons, you live in Nature. Nature already stinks. It’s full of big sweaty animals with shaggy hair that never bathe or wipe or put on deodorant. Things are dying and rotting all other the place. There isn’t a thing in nature that doesn’t smell like it’s own butt.

You’re not intimidating skunks. Go evolve some fangs or something.

Time to Grin and Bare It

So I screwed up and dropped my pretty decent update schedule, so to make it up to everyone I’m going to solve all the world’s problems.

And at the low low cost of letting me see you naked.

Not just me of course, me knowing what everyone’s naughty bits look like isn’t going to solve anything. I am however convinced that many problems will go away with everyone knowing what everyone’s naughty bits look like.

This is what I’m proposing, we finally let the internet be what it’s always wanted to be, a place of true equality, a place without boundaries and place where you can truly see every naked person that has ever been naked.

Sadly he did not inherit my preference in Ninja Turtles

It’s been amazing over the last 3 years to learn what exactly is genetic.

For example, I just learned that concern for hats is hereditary on you fathers side.

So my son and I were at Lagoon, our local amusement park,  for some bonding yesterday. Not wanting to engage in another genetic fun fest known as skin cancer, we both lathered up in sunscreen and made sure to keep our hats on as much as logistically possible.

Houses and other stupid ideas

There are a lot of accomplishments in my life that I'm proud of. One of the highest of these is that I don't have to listen to my neighbors have sex anymore.

Basically I'm home owner.

Back when I was a renter, I considered home ownership to be a sound investment, a chance to take pride in something and the opportunity to build the crap out of some equity.

I'm going to be honest here, I don't know what equity is.

Now that I own a home though, I know the truth. Home ownership is a lot of financial worry, the chance for a lot of work for no pay and the opportunity to electrocute yourself.

It has been worth every dollar we’ve put into that mortgage.

Some day I'll write about how Batman needs to just get over himself

This weekend I did something I should have done a long time ago.

I ignored my family and went to the movies.

I am way behind on my summer movies this year. Actually I’m still way behind on my summer movies for the last four years.

I still carry a ticket to Star Trek that I wasn’t able to use, just hoping for a chance to plead pity from a ticket booth worker.

Heh heh, wooden balls

I saw an old “friend” the other day. One I hadn’t thought about for years. The one who made me the man I am today. The one with wooden balls.

Friggin’ Skee-ball.

I used to eat, sleep, breathe, dream and somehow poop Skee-ball. I was obsessed with it. It was the best thing ever. It was like a video game, but if you did well enough at it, you could get candy.

In my mind, it was the best invention since Cocoa Puffs (let’s be real here, chocolate for breakfast is amazeballs).

I think this means I can't be sexist anymore

Earlier this week I was sitting next to my son, explaining the more intricate details of the Green Lantern back story and thinking to myself “I’ve done it. It’s taken 3 1/2 years to do it but I’ve finally done it.”

“I’ve become comfortable with being a father.”

Then two days later I had that ripped away from me.

If you say it right, janitor sounds like a He-man villian

The other day someone was asking my son what he want to be when he grew up. He gave his spiel and I waited patiently for my turn to answer, figuring I would be asked next.

I would wait indefinitely, as the question never came.

After five minutes of awkward silence, I was like “Holy buttnuts! I’m grown up.”

And so as a responsible grown up, here is some advice for you young whippersnappers on how to properly be a janitor, because trust me at some point in your life your need for food will over power your need to not be up to your elbows in someone else’s toilet.

Maybe my real son is in another castle

I’m slowing learning that kids are more than an endless story of great poop stories.

Contrary to how it’s portrayed in after school specials, there’s actually a lot of advantages to having kids. They force you to grow up in ways you never thought possible. You see the world again for the first time with fresh eyes. You get to experience all the highs and lows of life all over again, now with the wisdom of your years.

They’re also little balls of proof that you’ve had sex that follow you around.

Along with all that, you get to teach them stuff. Not just stupid stuff like how to tie shoelaces or right from wrong. Fun stuff too. Just as my dad spent hours with my and a wiffle bat trying to teach me the sport he loved, I too can now spend time teach my son about what’s important to me.

And I have to say, I love my son, but I hate how bad he is at video games.

I can’t talk to my parents about this frustration. They’re normally great at reminding me that everything my son does to me I totally deserve. Every time I tell them about how he has drew on the wall, threw dinner in my face or walked around naked at church they just laugh as recount some story about how I did the exact same thing when I was his age. Or my senior year.

It’s demeaning and comforting at the same time which - as far as I can tell - is the basis of all good parenting.

But when I bring up the video game thing they just change the subject to something unrelated like how I need to focus more on growing up.

And they could totally do that again here. Everything he is doing to me I totally deserve. I have a vague recollection of Pac-man machine at grocery store and an even vaguer recollection of my mom hating that thing.

It's easy to understand why she hated it. This was the mid 80s when 25 cents was a lot of money to let a 3 year mash buttons and move a joystick in random directions for 20 seconds followed by 5 minutes of crying because the ghost got them.

That’s my life now. Only it didn't cost me a quarter, the ghost had way more pixels and I’m the one crying instead of him.

Seriously, how can he be this bad at them!

This is up early because tomorrow after work I'm going out of town for the week end. Always remember, Steve never leaves you hangin.

The only Bell I want to toll for me is Taco.

I make it a point not to speak ill of the dead. Or of the people who killed them.

I’m not a hypochondriac or anything like that, but I’ve been thinking about death a lot lately.

This is partially because I’m getting older, experiencing more of life and realizing that time only goes in one direction, pulling all of with it in an unending march to that final destination that we all know lies ahead. I’ve seen loved ones come and go and learned first hand that it is the fact that this is all temporary that makes life beautiful and worth living in the first place.

It’s also because I’ve been playing a lot of Mortal Kombat lately.

There’s just something about ripping the still beating heart from your enemy’s chest to make you realize how precious the time we have here is.

As I’ve been considering this ultimate end credits I’ve decided all that sentimental stuff I said above was bull dookie. I wanna live forever. There is just too much in life that I want to experience, with more coming around all the time. I want to climb the Alps. I want to eat one of those six foot long hoagies. I want to learn how to play the Pokemon card game.

Besides, all the cool kids are immortal: Duncan McCloud, Doctor Who, LL Cool J.

Now that my living forever has been decided, I just need to figure out how. I figure having grown up in Idaho, I can count all that time as being cryogenically frozen, so that’s a good start. Plus if you are what you eat, and I eat mostly things with tons of preservatives, I should be in pretty good shape to end up being preserved as is.

So I’m just going to drink from every stream I find hoping it’s the fountain of youth and sleeping each night wrapped in toilet paper, just in case.

Oh and if I see that Harry Potter kid, I’m totally kicking his butt. Not for Philosopher's Stone, the Seventh Book just sucked.

(Stupid Column)

So this one starts out whiny, but I promise if you stick with me, you’ll get two nut shots.

No you personally, but two people that I talk about. I don’t want to spoil it, but you know what I mean.

So I’ve had one of those days (stupid days).

One of those days you just hate to have.

The kind where you have to lie to the cashier at the grocery store because if you answered “How you doing today?” with anything close to how you’re actually doing  you would get kicked out faster than the time you started swearing at the soup aisle because clam chowder was over two bucks a can (stupid soup).

We’ve all done that right?

It’s been one of those days where you drive faster than you like to, where you are constantly flipping people (stupid people) the bird from the confines of your pocket or farting in confined areas and you don’t even care because screw those guys, they totally deserve to get a nice big mouthful of last night’s enchiladas (stupid enchiladas).

It was a combination of a thousand different things, most of which were probably figments of my own imaginations (stupid figments). Which makes it all worse because nothing makes you madder than thinking about how you’re going to explain what’s making you mad to another person and realising it’s pretty ridiculous (stupid thinking).

So you sit (stupid sitting) and you stew (stupid soup again) and you watch the clock (stupid standardized work day) and then you go home. And then, if you’re really lucky, your son racks himself on his high chair.

He was trying to “do a trick” which involves some “new” way of getting into his chair and then looking expectantly to his mother and I to be blown away.

I’m not sure how he started this trick today, but I know how he ended it: screaming “My weewee, my weewee, my weewee!”

I know I shouldn’t laugh, but I also know that I shouldn’t eat sandwiches using donuts as bread. I know a lot of things.

I did my best to not show my mirth, but the massive amount of stress ripped from my shoulders was obvious. I was soon able to dance around with my son, until he head butted me, right in the Smith and Wessons. He laughed. I was about to tell him not to. Then I remember that he’d had a bad day too.

I guess he deserved a bit of the medicine he’d given me earlier.

(Stupid crotch blasting medicine).

It's not you, it's me. And the fact you could kill me with your bare hands.

I made an important personal discovery today. Not as big as the time I figure out that its ok to pretend to be a superhero in the shower (no one can see you)  but still better than when I realized that I’m not afraid of rock chucks.

I love ninjas, but I don’t think I could ever love a ninja.

Now let me be clear, I’m of course talking about love in the settle down and have a family kind of love a ninja. Not any other kind.

I could totally love a ninja like a brother from another more deadly mother.

I could have Christian love for a ninja. Heck I could Christian love the crap out of a ninja. Especially if they were a ninja widow, or a window made by a ninja, which is much more common.

But I just can’t see myself creating a life with a ninja.

Of course they’re the obvious logistical nightmare of actually finding a ninja and asking them out for the crucial first date. They’re some elusive buggers. People have written libraries worth of blog posts about how hard it is to find someone to love in today’s disconnected world. Just imagine trying to find someone to love with a lifetime of training in the art of invisibility. And when you think you finally found one, it turns out it just a kid in a ninja costume which causes a whole new stack of problems.

But once you found that special little assassin, you’re marriage is going to have issues.

Ninjas work late nights all the time. And their schedule is really erratic. You never know when they’ll have to run off to kill the Shogunate and even worse, you never know if they’re really killing the Shogunate or if they’re running around behind your back.

Kissing that mask would get old quick.

Smoke bombs are the perfect way to get out of spending time with your side of the family.

Forget throwing plates when you fight. While you’re at it, learn how to dodge ninja stars.

So yeah, no ninja love for me. I guess I’ll just have to settle for getting my wife a ninja suit for Christmas.

It ain't fair that ain't ain't a word and all the rest

Today I had a chance to live my lifelong dream of hand feeding a zebra outside of a gas station.

(I have very specific lifelong dreams).

Unfortunately, it turned out the zebra was a total jerk and literally knocked the food out of my hand and spat on it, right in front of my son.

My mom was dead right on two things. Sometimes, life just ain’t fair (number two was about spitting out a bug. Good call Mom).

So as I’ve spent the last three days on vacation, I’ve had plenty of time to consider things about life that just aren’t fair.

It just ain’t fair that days spent driving to your vacation count as part of your vacation. Driving cross state/country is hard work. I think we need to do something about this. I don’t know what though, because I’m still technically on vacation.

It just ain’t fair that adults can’t wear goggles to the pool. Ok granted, adults can wear goggles to the pool, but if you do, you’re either going to look like you take swimming very seriously, or you are an extremely lost snorkler.

While we’re on the subject, why can’t I spend money on a hobby without looking like I take it super seriously and should be way better than I am? Maybe I just wanted that real nice cake decorating frosting bag to eat frosting directly out of. I think this is pretty unfair.

It just ain’t fair that I look like to do with my shirt off.

It just ain’t fair that it didn’t rain while I was gone and my grass looks like dried crap now.

It just ain’t fair that it’s suppose to rain tomorrow.

It just ain’t fair we only get a few truly carefree days a year with our family to build memories that have to be good enough to make it into our eulogy.

It just ain’t fair that vacations have to end.

It just ain’t fair that childhood ends.

It just ain’t fair that anything ends actually. We work so hard only to have time and life slips away from us like a scurrying lizard on the red rocks of life. There is no constant. There is no rest. There is only running and the change it brings.

But it’s like that for everyone.

So I guess, in a sense, it’s fair after all.

But seriously zebra... that was cold.

The Run Down on my Rub Down

Today I learned that sometimes it’s ok to be naked with a stranger.

We’re going old school here. No life lessons. No Star Wars jokes. Just some thoughts about something that happened to me.

So today I cashed in a voucher we bought for a couples massage.

Notice the pronoun there. I cashed it in. My wife was unable to join me for reasons. It takes a special kind of guy to walk into a day spa alone with coupon for a couples massage complete with drink and chocolate covered strawberries.

Mom always said I was special.

They were totally cool with it though. After asking me if I had to use the bathroom the receptionist took me to a secret waiting room while I filled out a from. She did take away the plate of strawberries and drinks though, slapping my hand and explaining “Those are for couples.”

The form started with some pretty standard medical questions. I scribbled as much information I felt a lady about to rub my back would need. It got weird further down. There was the question “What are you goals for this massage?” followed by three full blank lines.

The last time I had to write that much about a goal was on a college application.

I thought I’d look like a jerk if I wrote “not waste $40” so I put down “Learn Spanish.” Might as well shoot for the stars.

After I filled that out, my masseuse asked again if I needed to use the bathroom and then took me into a room where she told me to “get as naked as you’re comfortable” then left the room. I looked down at myself. I was already as naked as I was comfortable.

I try not to be the one story people talk about for weeks, so I stripped down, hopped up on the bed and covered up with sheet provided. As soon as I laid down I instantly figured out the obsession with making sure customers peed before going past the point of no return. The bed was heated and the heat seemed to be completely focused on my bladder.

I tried to think about anything not liquid related (fortunately the fountain in the room was turned off, unfortunately is was audibly raining). I had to psyche myself up to no pee myself when I got all relaxed.

Suddenly I had a bigger concern. Would I be able to not fart this whole time. This was a 60 minute massage with nowhere to run and no one else to blame. This whole room was one big dutch oven just waiting to happen. I don’t think I’ve gone an hour without ripping one in my whole life (high school dates excluded).

Once she came in though it wasn’t a problem. The whole process of getting a real massage was distracting enough to prevent either bodily function based disaster from happening. My masseuse was very nice. She said she had “the best job in the world.”

I didn’t believe her though. She was touching my feet at the time.

As for the massage itself, it was interesting. Mostly the good kind of interesting. I felt totally relaxed and and one with the universe afterward. I also felt sorta in pain. She did things with her elbow straight out Muay Thai.

She stayed clear of the Danger Zone. She was on the highway there a couple times, but she always took the off ramp before it became a problem.

This has gone on long enough. So that’s a thing that happened to me.


He's a cute little cuss

Today before dinner I had the special opportunity that only a parent gets of hoping a number a random events go against me and do so quickly so I could eat. In other words, I played Cootie Bug with my son.

I’ve played dozens of games of Cootie Bug with my son since we adopted the game.

I’ve won once.

Keep in mind, you can’t cheat at Cootie Bug. Or if you can, I don’t know how. It is a game where you just roll a die until someone wins. Further proof that I blew my life’s worth of luck on that day I found an unopened candy bar under the tree at the park.

I mean when I met my wife. That’s a better answer.

Anyway, so here I am, really hungry, sitting on the hard floor and completely at the mercy of Lady Luck. I was so caught up in the moment that I almost missed something.

My son was swearing.

Not swearing in the sense that he was saying swear words. He hasn’t done that since the time he wanted to keep my sister’s dog from licking his by telling her to poop on the carpet (he wanted to say “Paisley! Sit!”).

But after each roll of the die that didn’t bring him closer to glorious Cootie Bug completion, he was most certainly repeating a word that, to him, expressed his frustrations with the latest turn of events.

That word was “pants.”

Imagine, if you will, a three-year-old seeing that he rolled a four, shaking his fist towards heaven and screaming out “Pants!”

That was my evening.

And it got my thinking. Swearing is actually really fun. I just can’t use the good words because I’m not 12 anymore and I know it doesn’t make people think I’m grown up.

I have a hairline for that.

So here are a couple of the new words I’m planning on adding to my vocabulary, along with “pants,” to express my anger with the planned situation in brackets.

“Peach bucket!” [Someone who uses the express line with too many items.]

“Spinosaurus!” [I miss my exit because I was trying to explain song lyrics to someone.]

“Didgeridoo!” [My team misses a shot. I will also accept “Didgeridoo better you peach bucket”.]

“Sweet Popping Bacon Grease!” [I pick up some litter and find gum]

“Treebark!” [My son beats me a Cootie Bug.]

Leave your suggestions for more in the comments.

Paper beats rock and diaper

I love everything about my son.

Everything but his butt-hole.

I know I’m not the first father to complain about his kid pooping. Kids poop. Fathers complain about it. It’s the circle of life.

But I adulted up and did what I had to do. Pretty soon changing diapers became just another thing I did. Like paying taxes, but slightly less demoralizing.

Potty training became a priority once he started talking. I didn’t mind cleaning up after him, but I didn’t like him asking questions while I did so.

I must not have done much research though. It turns out even after they start doing their business on the potty chair, you’re still in charge of paperwork. And now they’re talking better so they’ve moved on from asking questions to criticizing your technique .

But now, wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, fiddler of fiddlers (I think that’s how the song goes), he’s started wiping himself! I know that I only get 5 exclamations point a year, but this is totally worth using one.

Now granted, he doesn’t have the decades of wiping experience that I have, so he just goes with what feels right. I can respect that, but what feel right appears to be all of the toilet paper. He must figure, if there’s that much butt stuff there, he must be supposed to use it.

And of course, he can remember every time I ever said he could have a cookie but didn’t give him one but he can’t remember to flush so basically every time I walk into my son’s bathroom it looks like a mummy took a dump in there instead of a three-year-old.

And of course, buried under this massive wad of toilet paper is a couple of the smallest, most well behaved poops I’ve ever seen this kid produce. Where were those during diaper time?

So now - for the most part, there are still times he forgets - my waste management responsibilities have been reduced to flushing up afterwards and occasionally chasing a giggling, pantsless kid with a fist full of toilet paper.

It’s been nice.

So that’s where I am. There’s a light at the end of this long stinky tunnel.

I just hope I can make it before he turns 10. Neither of us want that.