See? Glass!

It was quite balmerrific yesterday, so we trucked on over to the lake, with all the kidlets in tow. I have no idea what they did once we got there, however, for the minute I hit the sand, I fell into my borderline-Aspergers-searching-for-sea-glass-zombie-stupor-walk. I'll say it again -- if anyone out there knows of some sort of job wherein I might be paid to crawl along a beach looking for rounded off pieces of old glass, let me know.

The xmastacular vacay at the rental's house has had its ups and downs. Xmas morning went surprisingly well. There was a minor meltdown by Miss O when, during the opening of the stockings, noticed that Mr. Z had a glow stick necklace and she didn't. But after that, things were amazingly peachy. They actually took their time opening presents and seemed to even savor each gift before tossing it aside for the next one. Our purchases went over very well -- the highlights being the Teen Titans action figures purchased on ebay ("Dad! How did you get these?! You totally lied to me!") and the giant, green fairy canopy thing for over Miss O's bed ("I can't wait to put this in my room! I'm going to put 1000 stuffed animals in it!"). The "Most Coveted" award goes to the bright green hippity-hop that we got Miss O -- Mr. Z hasn't stopped badgering her about using it since it appeared. The dude's already a complete spatial-relations spazmo, and lolling around on an inflated rubber ball hasn't been helping things very much. He's pretty much kicked everyone in the head at least once and is getting really proficient at "knocking shit over" and "racking himself."

Today, the old lady and I, along with my sister, brother and their spouses (spices?) are heading downtown to the Sofitel, some Frenchy hotel in the city, courtesy of my folks. We did the same thing last year -- they watch the kids and we go out and eat as much not-cooked-in-Michigan food and buy as much not-made-in-Michigan clothing as we can in 24 hours. I plan to savor every fucking moment, 'cuz the memory has to last until next December 30th.

So, instead of wrapping this post up all neat and clean-like, I'm outta here. We'll have to continue our chat later. I've got me some fancy shit to eat and wear.

Happy New Year.

Bruise Cruise...

On the drive here, the other day, we were embroiled in a serious game of "Slug Bug." Mr. Z and Miss O have a kind of love/hate relationship with the game, and vacillate between embracing it wholeheartedly and whining that it's unfair and that they never want to fucking play it again. So, we were chugging along and there didn't seem to be too many Bugs on the road to spot, so we added "Mini Innie," a Slugbug variation I invented that adds in the Mini Cooper. If you see a mini, you can poke the nearest person in the belly-button and say, "Mini Innie!" But again, there weren't too many Minis on the highway.

For some reason, the old lady pulled a majorly un-old-lady-like move, and suggested a new addition that involves P.T. Cruisers, which are like corn kernels in shit on the 5th of July, along Michigan roadways. Her suggestion: when you see a P.T. Cruiser, you yell, "P.T. Teat-ee" and grab your neighbor's nippleage. She introduced the game by grabbing my right nurple while I was driving, nearly sending us careening through the guardrail and into a gulley. Of course, the spawn thought this new amendment was hilarious/brilliant/strangely tittilating, and started grabbing each others' nips like they were going out of style. The old lady instantly regretted her suggestion, but I, too, thought it brilliant and I started scanning the oncoming traffic. I had a distinct advantage because, well, her bullseyes are WAY bigger than mine.

Before long, the whole car was slugging, poking and nurpling and we had a jolly old time, until things basically turned into a slapfight in the backseat, and I had to put the kibosh on the proceedings. Lucky for the old lady, too, cuz I'm the king of the P.T. Teat-ee.

She's just lucky I didn't see a Volvo.

Should Be Thumb Xmas...

Well, it's off to Chicago today. I've gotta go secretly stuff an ass-load of presents in the trunk of the car, along with all our bags, shoes, boots, coats, cameras, and all the other crap we somehow can't do without for seven days. Sure, a minivan would make the whole production a fuck of a lot easier, but I just can't commit to being a minivan person. I mean, if I do that, then you might as well shave off my hair, make me grow a goatee, dress me in some dockers and a turtleneck and then shoot me in the fucking head. And I'm not ready to be shot in the head... yet. Ask me in seven days.

So, yeah, perfect timing for the trip. Mr. Z and Miss O are both getting colds and their snot-cocoons should be nicely formed by xmas day. I don't know if any of the shit we ordered online actually arrived at my parent's house yet. I'm sure we'll be hit by a blizzard in Indiana when we get on the Skyway. And, I think my thumb is infected. There's some kinda cut under the nail, and the whole tip of my thumb is throbbing and warm, kinda like Fred Flintstone's thumb, after a giant boulder crushes it at the quarry. I'm telling ya, this is going to be the BEST XMAS EVER!!

Maybe I am ready to be shot in the head.

Anywhich, I'm going to try to keep posting from my folk's house. Unfortunately, the computer is in the room Miss O sleeps in, so I have to tap-tap the keys ever-so-quietly, for fear of waking her and suffering the who-deigned-to-rouse-me Miss O wrath.

I'm off, then. Let me just grab a couple suitcases here, and--OW! MY FUCKING THUMB!

I Hope That Thing's Paper-Trained...

Bath night, tonight. I walked in on Mr. Z as he was holding this little Harry Potter gnome action figure (Griphook, if you must know):



... next to his schvantz, saying, in a little gnome voice, "Hello, little piggy! Would you like to be my pet?"

Needless to say, I didn't stick around to see if the adoption was ever finalized. I just hope he didn't take his new pet to the vet to get it neutered.

I felt a little shitty today, as I was unable to attend Miss O's kindergarten Holiday Party this morning. It was from 9:30 to 10:30, and today's my short day at work, and I had to finish this music I was working on 'cuz I'm going to be out all next week, and blah, blah, I'm a horrible father, call DCFS, and I'll die alone and penniless. She was a little upset when I dropped her off, but, when I picked her up after school, she couldn't have cared less. So, I guess she'll live. And they apparently ate all my banana muffins, so... bonus.

Mr. Z, however, was a bit of a wreck after school today. Apparently, his one friend, B, has been hanging around with this shit-wipe who's been a total prick to Mr. Z. The boy's convinced his friend has gone over to the dark side, and now feels like he doesn't have any more friends. I tried to explain that B can be friends with lots of people and still be Mr. Z's friend, and I repeated my constant refrain of, "... and that's why you should try to make more than just one friend, so you won't be relying just on that one person." He shot back with the old, "But all other boys just play football or soccer all recess," and I volleyed back with, "But what about the girls? They're lots of fun to play with!" And then he said "no way" and I said "don't worry, it'll be all right," and then I gave him a butter-rum Lifesaver and we walked home, pals forever. Actually, I think he's just ready for xmas and a couple weeks off from school.

He seemed much better after his bath, tonight. Nothing a little plastic dwarf riding on his dink couldn't fix. I just hope that gnome doesn't give his little piggy a case of the Hogwarts.

Hairy New Year!

I was roped into making "something healthy" for Miss O's holiday party tomorrow, so I whipped up a batch of mini banana muffins. I guess they're healthy... except for that cup of sugar in there. And probably the odd hair or two. I s'pose I should've worn a hairnet. Oh well. I'll have Miss O say that they're traditional Welsh Hair Muffins -- and whoever pulls the longest strand from their mouth gets an extra present from "Chimney John!"

Eat up, kiddies!

Blah, Bleeh, Blew...

Well, those fuckers from Detroit didn't buy the elliptical trainer that we posted on Craigslist. Dicks. They came out here on Friday night, looked it over, tried it out, and then said they were coming back through town on Sunday and would give us a call. I knew, at that point, that it was a no-go. The woman was obviously the one who was going to use it -- the dude had a thick ol' skull and looked like more of a handball or telephone pole hurling type. As she was testing out the machine, she said, "Hmm... that's a really loud noise that it makes. Has it always made that noise?" I was going to say, "Oh, you mean the noise that all elliptical machines make? That kind of smooth, whirring, wheels on a track sound? That one? Or were you talking about the noise that's blasting out of your face hole that sounds a little like 'GNAAAA! GNAAAA! GNAAAAA!!!!!!'?" Instead, I said, "Yep. That's the noise it's made since the day we bought it." Then she looked at me, as if she were thinking "You, sir, are lying to me." So I tried my best to shoot back my look that says, "What the shit, lady?!" Apparently, I, instead, shot her a look that said, "Do not buy things from me."

Anyway, it looks like I cleaned the fucking basement for nothin'. Apparently, some other dude is interested in the thing, but I haven't heard from him in a couple of days. Oh Craigslist... at first you seemed so right... but now I see you for what you truly are -- a fickle e-mistress.

I can tell that the spawn are getting restless with all their pent-up holiday anticipaish. Last night, Mr. Z called out at around midnight and said his cryogenically blasted wart-balls were bothering him, so I dosed him up with a little Motrin. Poor dude. I'm sure part of it had to do with the warts, but most of it was due to the fact that he's going to get A CRAPLOAD OF FREE SHIT IN SIX DAYS. After settling him down, I went into Miss O's room to check her look. As I was adjusting her blankets, she rolled over and mumbled, I shit you not, "Looks like presents...." Oh, if only Freud were here to decipher that perplexing riddle of a dream. I guess we'll never know what horrific hallucinations she was enduring.

Well, this post is going nowhere. I wash my hands of these words. Be gone. Besides, I've gotta go watch my new favorite show, "My Boys," on TBS. And we all know what happens when I get into mildly critically acclaimed shows that nobody watches (e.g. - "Everything's Relative," "Sons and Daughters," "Austin Stories," "Freaks & Geeks," "Undeclared,"... um... "The Bonnie Hunt Show," ... uh, "Welcome to New York")?

Cancizzled.

All I Wart for Xmas...

Well, today was appointment number two for Mr. Z and his amazing "Foot of a thousand Warts!" And, just to make things exciting, once again, Miss O came along for the ride.

It wasn't quite as horrific as the first go-round. At this point, all of the warts have turned into giant, pus-filled blisters, after their previous run-in with the liquid nitrogen. Which, apparently, is a good thing. Unless you're Mr. Z and you have to do things like, oh, walk.

We got there and I was a little better prepared this time. I brought a couple of books for the boy and I brought along a blank notebook, some crayons and a sandwich bag stuffed with handful of Polly Pockets for Miss O. The doc came in and took a gander at his handiwork, or footiwork, as it were. He had a look of awe mixed with detached bemusement. He gave off a vibe of, "Wow, that shit I used last time was pretty fucking powerful. And it looks like it's working! Get me, I'm a real doctor!"

So, Mr. Z, knowing what was coming this time, was a little reticent to assume the position on the exam table. I tried to reassure him and remind him of how brave he was last time, but he wasn't buying it. Finally, the doc said, "Well, I have a little something for you and your sister if you do a good job," and that seemed to chill him out a bit. I shot the doc a look of, "Dude, it better be a fucking lollipop and not some cartoony pamphlet on proper foot hygiene, or you're in deep shit." He quickly looked at the floor.

First up, it was time for more carving. The doc opened up a bag labeled "scalpel," and prepared to slice and dice. Mr. Z saw it and almost kicked him in the face. I got him calmed down again... and then I calmed down Mr. Z. (Ha! See what I did there? I made like I was really talking about the doctor! Comedy gold!) Yeah, so he started poking holes in the blisters and slicing the dead skin off to see what kinds of horrors lay beneath the bubbles. Frankly, it looked like the dude was kinda making the whole thing up as he went along, but again, for some reason I went along with it.

At this point, Miss O was pretty cool with the proceedings and was happily coloring away in her Frosted-Flakes-Box-Turned-Into-A-Notebook that I made. Then, the doc got out the can of liquid nitrogen. Miss O instantly pulled all of our coats over her head and plugged her ears. Guess the memories of Wartapalooza I hadn't quite faded yet.

The doc didn't need to blast all of them this time -- apparently three of them were successfully killted off the first time, so they were spared. HOWEVER, I pointed out two other, smaller, warterinos that the dude missed last time, so he had to zap those instead. Thanks for nothing, Dad! Mr. Z was not too thrilled about the freezing, but he was a trooper, nonetheless. Again, he almost kicked the doc in the face at one point, but you know what? The dude could probably use a wart-studded kick to the head now and again to keep him in line, ya know? Keep him honest.

And then it was over. He said they're looking good and we made a final (hopefully) appointment for three weeks from now. Oh, and the doc got the kidlets their treats -- two little bags filled with a few Hershey's Kisses, some candy canes and a pencil. All probably smeared with Streptococcus and Leptospira and BM cultures. THANKS DOC!

The boy did great again, though. Total pro. Miss O? Probably scarred for life. She'll never go barefoot again. I think she wore flip-flops to bed tonight. I'm pretty sure she's suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Dis-Warter.

Sorry... I'm tired.

Honey, Our Neighbor's A Swinger...

Sometimes you find yourself doing shit with other grown-ups that just kinda freaks your shit out, if'n you think about it too much.

Take yesterday - the weather was great, so the spawn and I ventured out-of-doors to see what the neighbor kizzles were dizzle... ing. Now, for some reason, four kids, aged five to nine, can't seem to get their shit together without roping me into their goddamn activities. First, they decided to play tag, but apparently you can't play tag with only four people, so I had to join in. And those fuckers are fast. Between trying not to blow my knees out as they were jukin' around me, and trying hard not to infarct while attempting to escape their reach, I just about passed the fuck out.

Luckily, they got bored with tag pretty quickly. Then, it turned into freeze-tag, which was a little better, because at least I was able to get frozen, affording me ample time to stuff my lungs and bronchii, which had prolapsed onto the lawn, back into my heaving chest. Then they tired of freeze-tag, as well. They have the fucking attention span of a gnat on meth, these kids.

So, while they were whinily debating about which torturous game should come next, the neighbor kids' dad came home and joined us on the lawn. He's a nice guy, and I was looking forward to having a conversation with someone that didn't involve the phrase, "NOT IT!" So, we started shooting the shinola, when the kiddlies decided that the next game was going to be Statue Maker, and both of us adults HAD to play. I tried to call "Customer," but I was beat out by Miss O. My next choice was Statue Maker, and, luckily, I was chosen as such.

Here's where it got a little weird. I spun each kid around, so they could turn into their stupid-ass statues, all of which involved screaming at the top of their lungs and running around and flailing their arms like an orangutan with its balls on fire. Then, I realized that I had to "spin" the other dad. At first I tried to balk, but the kids all shouted, "Go on, dad, spin P!" Busted. So, I grabbed his hand and started spinning him around. I wish I had a fucking camera, because it looked like a scene out of the gayest production of "The Sound of Music" ever. The only thing that would've made it more awkward would have been if I had spun him with both hands, instead of just the one. As it was, it was pretty fucking bizarre.

We made sure that, for the rest of the time, one of us was either the customer or both of us were statues. I guess the weirdest thing about it was that it's one thing to occasionally talk to someone on the lawn -- rapping about work or kids or... I don't know, lawns. It's a whole 'nother egg, though, when you suddenly grab that person's hand and start twirling them around. Seriously, try it. Go up to your neighbor, tomorrow, and extend your hand. When they reach out to shake it, start spinning them around and then let go. And then go up to them and whisper in their ear, "Okay, what statue are you gonna be?"

And then come back and tell me that it wasn't a little fucked up.

Time to Titan the Old Belt...

So, we've decided that this xmas is going to be seriously pared down from previous years. The old lady and I have, in the past, gone a little overboard with the gift-giving for the spawnage and it's time to cool the jets a little. The kids actually seem pretty cool with it -- their lists were pretty reasonable this year. Shit, Miss O put like two things on it and then said, "I just want to be surprised." Well, Miss O, the surprise is, Santa's got a light load waiting for you this year.

She wanted a couple of these "Groovy Girl" dolls. I swear to fuck, they're all exactly the same, except each one has a slightly different yarn color for her hair, and they all have different names, like Larissa, and Natalya, and Shoshana, and Fleeflonna, and Cheechonna and Chlamydia. The great thing is, they're way the fuck bigger than those goddamn Polly Pockets and they don't have miniscule rubber clothing that finds its way into your food, your clothes and your ass-crack. (Don't ask.)

So, yeah, I found those online and ordered them up. We'll probably get her some books, too, and maybe a couple of games. Mr. Z's list, however, proved a might more challenging. He's gotten way back into his "Teen Titans" action figures, and has been playing with those things daily after school. He's got like 10 of them, but, unfortunately, they all have this fatal flaw where their knee joints break and the lower parts of their legs break off. It looks like a goddamn VA hospital in his room. I actually made some replacement legs out of Sculpey for a couple of them, but apparently that ain't cutting it. Apparently Starfire is a little self-conscious about her prosthesis, and it's affecting her ability to fight crime.

So, he asked for some new action figures -- fair enough. I come to find out, of course, that "Teen Titans" has been cancelled on Cartoon Network, and, subsequently, it's fucking impossible to find those little plastic pieces of shit anywhere. Six months ago, I couldn't walk through Target without tripping over a stack of those fuckers, and now -- bupkus!

So, I went online, of course, to pick some up. No dice. The only place I was able to find them was ebay, and I'm not really "the ebay type." In other words, I actually live with a real, live woman. I mentioned to Mr. Z that the show had been cancelled and that Santa might have a hard time locating the action figures he wanted, and he pretty much had an existential breakdown right in front of me. He went on about how unfair it was and that the company that makes the toys is selfish and that they should just give them away to the kids that have stayed loyal to the show and that his life was basically over if he couldn't get a replacement for his "Robin" that got lost in the neighbors bushes last spring, and how he only had "good guys" and they had no one to battle and... well, then I kinda stopped listening after that.

But it did make me determined to find these things for him. So I got on the ebays and started a-searchin', and I found this dude "starwarsrod," (surprise), who was selling 8 Teen Titans (2 different Robins and 6, count-em, 6 bad guys), still in the original packaging. There was only one dorkus who had been bidding, and the thing was only up to about 25 bucks -- about what they would've cost in the store. So I waited. I waited all day -- kept checking in every hour or so -- until the auction was almost over. Still at 25 clams. Then, when there was only one minute left, I jumped in and bid $36.02. The clock ticked down, my heart was pounding, and THEN-- I won. Holy fuckstain. I was totally pumped, until I realized that the person I outbid was probably an eight year old kid who was blubbering to his parents that he got beat out at the last second by some 41 year old shitbag. But screw that kid -- he probably picks his ass and hits small animals with sticks. He doesn't deserve "Red X Robin" and "Cinderblock." Get him a fucking Groovy Girl.

What's the lesson to be learned here? Fuck if I know. Maybe... if your kid bawls his eyes out because he can't get exactly what he wants, you can always throw some money at the situation and make the problem go away.

Yet another Hallmark Moment from the Crabbydad household to you.

My Gills are Killing Me...

It's late, I'm tired, I have nothing to say and I'm hungry because I forgot to eat lunch today. Again, that's part of the dilemma of working from home. There's no one to say, "Hey, where do you guys wanna go to lunch today?" I know there's nothing up in the kitchen that I want to eat, so I say to myself, "Ah, I'll get something in a minute. I just have to finish this one last thing..."

Then it's 6:30.

I used to go upstairs around midday just to warm up for 10 minutes or so, but I got this new sweatshirt from Old Navy that's apparently lined with yak fat, or plutonium and now I'm sweating my nardleys off. So I sit in my freezing basement, sweating and not eating, and I never leave. I occasionally shift from one ass cheek to the other so as not to get bed-sores. And now, at 11:38, I feel that it's finally time to breach ground level and call it a night.

Five bucks says that, by the end of winter, I'm gonna look like this:



Although, hopefully my nipples won't be so rouge-y.

It's A Cellar's Market...

So, I've decided to catapult into the year 2000 or so by actually listing something on Craigslist. I have this Elliptical Trainer that sits about five feet away from me when I work in the basement, and we basically haven't used it since, oh, 2001, or so. We bought it in 2000 and both the old lady and I were pretty elliptically gung-ho for a good year or so. Then we realized that we're FUCKING OLD and that, if we kept our low-impact training up much longer, our knees would explode. That's about when the old lady discovered walking on the treadmill and I discovered doing nothing. Then, about three years later, I discovered swimming.

My knees have been fucked ever since I ran the high hurdles in high school (and in college, for a week, until I realized that instead of running, I could get drunk, get baked, and have constant sex.) I was an okay hurdler, mainly because I was about 6 foot 100 and I weighed, as I do now, about 130 pounds. I won a few races, got some ribbons and shit, but mostly I succeeded in smacking my right knee into waist-high wooden boards every day for two years. And when I wasn't doing that, my coach had me in the workout room, working on this goddamn machine called "The Leaper," which should've been called "The Fuck Up Your Knee-er." Seriously, I couldn't even find a picture of this torture device online because I'm sure the dickheads who invented it were hunted down, drawn and quartered and then burned alive, by an angry, crawling mob.

Basically, you stood on a platform and crouched under these big pads that were attached to ONE-MILLION POUNDS. Then you'd straighten your legs, forcing the one-million pounds up, and then you'd crouch back down again. Then you'd repeat that process for 20 hours or so. I remember this thing made a noise like, "KREEEEEEEPNNGGGHHH!" Actually, that might have been the sound of my cartilage turning to a fine dust -- I'm not quite sure. Whatever it was, I feel like suing someone right about now. Fuckers.

So, yeah, we don't use the elliptical thing and I posted it up on Craigslist today. So far, I've gotten two e-mails, and it looks like some folks might be coming by this weekend to take a look-see. Pretty fucking cool. I'm starting to look around this shithole to see what other dreck I can unload. I wonder if anyone would buy my 8-Track collection? Or my old computer monitors. Or my tax documents dating back to 1997. Seriously, how long am I supposed to hold onto those fuckers? I made like eight dollars in '97. Why can I not throw anything away?

You guys get first crack at everything, though. Anyone want a broken fax machine? Twenty bucks. Sequined jockstrap I wore while stripping on a roof, freshman year for a friend? Twelve-fifty. All of my English themes from 6th grade? A dollar. OOH! Look at what I just found!



See, that's why I don't throw anything away. I loved that game. That does it -- I'm not selling shit. It's all going back into the boxes. Don't touch my crap! Get out of my basement! Go on, SCRAM!

I Guess Some Loaves Just Don't Want to be Pinched...

I love Canada. Everyone I've ever met from Canada is really friendly, I hear there are some beautiful cities there, they have the whole national healthcare thing, they seem pretty liberal, and, according to my site's stat counter, Crabbydad is the number one result if you do a search for "your a farter, gassy gas, farty fart, smelly poop, poopy doo, lets smell one together, stinky smell" on google.ca! Whomever you are, person from Ontario, Toronto, Canada who came to my site at 13:40:28 this afternoon -- Welcome, and I hope I'm fulfilling all your gassy-gas-farty-fart needs, eh.

Speaking of turds, poor Miss O had a big'n that was stuck the other night. Poor kid -- she gets constipated pretty often, mainly due to the fact that she shuns most liquids. It sucks when your kid makes that switch from sippy-cup to grown-up cup. She used to suck down gallons of bevvies with the sippy-cup, mainly because she was able to carry it around with her -- upstairs, outside, in the crapper... wherever. Once they switch to the big kid cup, though, they pretty much have to drink at the kitchen table, and you have to keep yelling into the other room, "Miss O! Come on in here and have some more milk, will ya?!" Which she never does. I'm telling ya, the sippy-cup was better than a saline IV drip.

So, yeah, Miss O was trying to get this fucking ass-teroid to pass through her tiny bunghole the other night, and she was bumming hard. Luckily, the old lady was dealing with it this time. The last time this happened (a couple of years ago), I was "handling" the situation, and I ended up grabbing the mongo-turd with a wad of toilet paper and "delivering" it manually. That's when you're officially a parent -- when you pull a petrified BM from your kid's ass. I think my "You're A Dad Now, Brother!" certificate came in the mail the next day. I don't know how the old lady ended up coaxing out the timid turd, but I know that when it finally did come out, Miss O looked her right in the eyes and said, "I love you, Mom!" Almost makes holding another person's butt-biscuit in your hand worthwhile.

On a positive note, Miss O drank a hell of a lot more this weekend than usual. Which probably means she'll have diarrhea tomorrow.

Crap.

I Know Thou Art, But, Prithee, What Art I?

Mr. Z has been getting back into his drawrings, of late, and they're getting mighty wacky. He's doing this sort of space/wizard/undersea kinda vibe. Here's the cover for his latest, "Tales of the Throne":


It's classic because he and his friend are the heroes and all the shithead bully dicks from school are the evil sorcerors/trolls. Here's a classic moment from chapter two ("Plight of the Preposterous"), in which "A" (manipulative bully from school) and "B" (aggressive, racist bully from school) are having a heated discussion in their lab:

Suddenly, an ugly and demented old man came in. He was a total troll. "I am Lord B! I shall guide you!" said the troll.

"You're evil!" yelled A. "I don't like evil people!"

"But... you are evil yourself, A!" said B.

"NO!" yelled A.

"Come on upstairs, and I will show you," hissed B.

So, B, the evil lord, and A went upstairs. "See?" asked B. "They don't pay any attention to you. Just the babies, the babies, the babies!"

"Why?" wondered A.

"Because... you want me to say?" asked B.

"Yeah!" yelled A.

"They think you are EVIL! EVIL! EVIL! EVIL!..." echoed B.

That's my boy -- working it out through thinly-veiled fiction at home rather than with his fists during recess. Besides, like his old man, he'd probably get his ass kicked.

I can't wait until Chapter Three, when A and B get suspended from the Royal Academy because Principal Galahad finds a spiked mace, two daggers, a sword and a Ram's Head crossbow in their lockers.

Sah--WHISSSHHH!

So, I'm pretty sure my dental hygienist thinks that I'm retarded. Here's the "conversation" we had as she was cleaning my teeth today:

[clean, clean, scrape, scrape, gouge, gouge, poke in cheek]

HER: Okay, now a little water spray to swish around in your mouth...

[spray, spray]

ME: [swishing]

HER: Okay, now swish it around.

ME: [hesitation with "what the shit" look on face followed by resumed swishing]

[sucking out of swished around water]

[clean, clean, scrape, scrape, gouge, gouge, finger in too far--GAG]

HER: Okay, now a little water spray to swish around in your mouth...

[spray, spray]

ME: [swishing]

HER: Okay, now swish it around.

ME: [hesitation with "seriously, what the shit?!" look on my face followed by reluctant resuming of swishing]

[sucking out of swished around water]

This continued for THE ENTIRE CLEANING SESSION! I mean, she seems like a very nice person -- she has a picture of her dog sitting on Santa's lap, for fuck's sake -- but either she thought I was a complete moron, or she's been sucking on the laffy gas between appointments. By about the tenth minute of her telling me to swish and then IMMEDIATELY reminding me to swish, I was so tempted to spray my mouthful of spitty, blood-plaque into her happy face and scream, "WHAT THE SHIT IS WRONG WITH YOU, WOMAN?! I'M FUCKING SWISHING, ALL RIGHT?! I'M MOVING THE LIQUID, THAT YOU SQUIRTED INTO MY MOUTH, FROM CHEEK TO CHEEK, QUITE VIGOROUSLY, I MIGHT ADD! YOU DON'T HAVE TO SAY IT ANYMORE! I GET IT!! SWISH!! 10-4!! MESSAGE RECEIVED, LOUD AND CLEAR!!! THERE ARE SHITLOADS OF THINGS IN THIS WORLD THAT I DON'T GET: RELIGION, THE POPULARITY OF 'MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE,' ALOE VERA JUICE, WHY MR. Z CAN'T SIT STILL IN HIS CHAIR FOR MORE THAN 8 SECONDS, WHY MY EYEBROWS ARE THINNING WHILE EVERYONE ELSE'S GET BUSHIER, EUCHRE, WHICH OF MISS O'S TIGHTS GO WITH WHICH OUTFITS, LUTEFISK -- BUT THE ONE THING I REALLY GET... A LOT... IS THE SWISHING. SO LAY OFF!!!!"

But I swished instead. It just came down to me not wanting to fuck with the person who had pointy metal objects in my breathing hole.

And for the record, I find it strangely "neat" when the dentist takes a piece of gauze, wraps it around my tongue and pulls it out of my mouth a little, apparently to inspect said tongue for lesions or fungi or ants. It's something you just don't expect another human to do to you, and it's just a fucked-up sensation. I don't think I like it, but I don't hate it, either.

Try it with a friend.

Buffin' the Tube...

I have to work late tonight, which I try not to do very often, so I'll make this a quickie. I had my work camera on and there were still a couple of people in the office, finishing up. The cleaning woman was darting in and out of frame from time to time, cleaning off desks and vacuuming and shit. At one point, she came right up to the TV, on which my giant noggin was being broadcast, and she started dusting the lens of my camera. She obviously had no idea that I was a real person and not just a really fucking boring TV show, and she thought she was just cleaning off the tube. I was just about to unmute my microphone and say something like, "Hey, lady! Don't forget to wipe off my knobs!" when she must've hit the power switch, or something, and my connection crapped out. Bummer. Though it's probably for the best -- she probably would've had a fucking grabber and I'd end up getting tele-sued.

Wart Is Hell....

Well, give it up for Mr. Z -- the boy did a stellar job at the doc today. I had to drag Miss O along for the ride, and I really wasn't expecting the whole experience to go very well. Frankly, I was expecting lid-flippage the likes of which I have never seen.

We got there and the boy was instructed to take off his shoes and socks and air out his pointy ol' foot horns. The doc came in and explained the dilly-o, Mr. Z rolled over onto his belly and the fun began. He told me he was going to bypass the numbing of the area because the needle is usually more painful than the freezing process itself. A bold stance, but he sounded confident, so I went with it. So he started by slicing off the rough dead skin parts of the two or three bigger warts -- the megawarts. Mr. Z was reading some Disney magazine and didn't even flinch. So far, so good.

Then the doc pulled out this little funnel thing that he proceeded to fit neatly over each protruberance. Then he pulled out his can o' freon, or whatever the shit that is, and started blasting away. That's when Mr. Z began to protest. He definitely didn't flip his lid, but he did let loose with his trademark "Hey! What the heck?!" a couple of times. It sure looked painful, lemme tell ya. After the doc would pull off the funnel thing, the wart would turn into a little white dome -- kinda like a little foot igloo. A "foogloo." Had I not known that the foogloo was a gnarly, flakey wart moments earlier, I might even call it "cute." Like a teensy penguin might waddle out of it and honk a tiny "Hello, stranger!" to us.

He made like four foogloos and then gave Mr. Z a break. (There were six on one foot and three on the other, by the by. It was wart-a-palooza down there, I'm tellin' ya!) Throughout all of this, Miss O was just staring at the war(t) zone with a horrified look on her face and, oh, she was also plugging her ears. I think the whole thing was pretty traumatizing to her, and I think the doc picked up on that. He asked Miss O if she'd like to do some drawing out in the hall at the nurse's station. She yelled, "WHAT?!" about three times, then I pulled her fingers out of her ears and she obliged.

Then I told the boy that we were halfway done, and that's when he got a little upset. But it was a "within-normal-ranges-of-upsetedness-for-an-eight-
year-old" kind of upset, which is HUGE for him. I calmed him down and the doc got back to his foogloo makin'. About 15 minutes later, it was over. The boy pulled on his socks and boots, hopped down from the table and that was it. Fucking trooper, that boy.

I didn't really mention that we're going back in two weeks for another round of foogloo makin', and that, sometimes, it takes multiple visits until the things are finally uprooted. Why kill the post-freezing buzz, ya know? I surveyed the damage tonight and, while they look less menacing than they did, I'm pretty sure they're gonna have to be zapped again. And I found tiny one that the doc missed, too. Fuck.

But I have to say, had this been done a year or two ago, Mr. Z would still be in that fucking office screaming his ass off. It's truly amazing the strides that boy has made in the last couple of years.

If only those strides hadn't been through the stagnant, viral cesspools of the YMCA lockerroom.

Wart's Happenin', Mr. Z?

So there are a shitload of responsibilities one has when taking care of children. There are the basics: feeding them, clothing them, bathing them when they stink, making sure they receive an education, and teaching them how to wipe their asses. Then there are the things you should do: helping them to appreciate art and music, making sure they get enough physical exercise, modeling socially acceptable behaviors, teaching them to put the seat down after they whiz, and the like.

Then there are the tasks that you would have never even thought about in a million years had they not smacked you in the fucking face and said, "Wake the shit up, neglectful parent, you missed me!" Like, say, occasionally checking the bottom of your kid's foot for a teeming colony of WARTS!

I swear, I am the shittiest parent in the world. It was about a week ago, and Mr. Z was pulling off his sock and I don't even remember what he said, but I went over and looked at his left foot and almost ralphed all over it. There were about 5 or 6 gnarly, horn-like warts poking out of the ball of his foot! I was like, "Okay, call DCFS, I give up. It was a good run, but I'm outta here. Visit Daddy in prison, kids."

Mr. Z was surprisingly nonchalant about the whole thing -- luckily they didn't hurt and didn't even seem to be bothering him. The thing that kills me is that, about a month or two ago, I did see a tiny little spot that looked like a mini-blister on his foot and I thought, just for a moment, "Hey, I wonder if that's the beginnings of a wart?" And then I'm sure Miss O ran into the room and farted or Mr. Z jumped up and started running around the house naked and I forgot all about it.

Well, cut to two festering months later and the boy's got fucking antlers growing out of his foot. What's next?! Is Miss O going to get scabies, or rickets... or "The Grippe"?! I'm telling you, you can't let your fucking guard down for a minute in this gig. Just when you think you've got all the bases covered, boom, you've got the Seven Goddamn Plagues to reckon with. Holy crapstain.

I'm blaming it all on the Y summer camp he went to. Swimming every day in some high school pool a couple of towns over. And I wasn't there to say, "Mr. Z, don't touch that, don't sit on that, don't lick that!" I guess I'm lucky he only ended up with warts, instead of... I don't know, trench-face?

So, I'm taking him to the family doctor tomorrow to begin the wartal excavation process. I remember getting a couple of those fuckers burned off when I was a kid -- I don't recall it being an enjoyable thing. I'm just waiting for the doctor's reaction when the boy takes off his sock. "Oh, I see this kind of thing all the time. There's nothing that'll surpri--GOOD LORD!!! IN ALL MY YEARS AS A PHYSICIAN I'VE NEVER WITNESSED ANYTHING SO STOMACH-CHURNINGLY HORRIFYING!!! I'VE SEEN THE FACE OF DEATH AND NOW MUST BLIND MYSELF TO ENSURE I NEVER SEE SUCH AN ABOMINATION AGAIN!!! GET THEE BEHIND ME SATAN!!!!

I'm ready now, though. I'm gonna make both kids do complete self-inspections before bed every night and give a full report before lights-out. Nothing's gonna be growing on, out of, under, inside or between anything that's not supposed to have something growing on, out of, under, inside or between it. Henceforth, this house shall be the land of germless dermis. If I see so much as a pimple, it shall be immediately located, cordoned off, and obliterated.

Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice? Oh, it's go time, papillomavirus.

Who's the Principal... Alice Cooper?!

Well, it's December and there was a light dusting of snow last night, so that can mean only one thing -- THEY CLOSED THE FUCKING SCHOOLS ONCE AGAIN! These motherfuckers will close their doors if someone so much as spills laundry soap on the ground. Wait a minute -- laundry soap?! Who the fuck am I, Scrubby Von Washboardenson?! Nice fucking metaphor. See, that's how pissed I am about this school closing -- it's making me sound like a grandma from 1943.

And I KNEW they were going to close, too. Shit, yesterday, when I went to pick up the spawn at school, Mr. Z said, "Mr. G [the principal] came into our class today and told us to wear our pajamas inside-out tonight, so there'll be no school tomorrow!" First of all, that's kinda creepy -- I don't want fucking adults talking to my kids about how they wear their pajamas. B, the dude was obviously going to close the goddamn school anyway. And what kind of fucking dark arts is this guy practicing, getting all the kids to adjust their clothing so as to change the laws of nature?! What's next, is he going to have them sleep under their beds in order to open up the hell-mouth under the school?! Fucking Principal Mephistopheles over there.

So, I had the kids for the morning and the old lady took over for the afternoon. Luckily, they were pretty accomodating today, mainly because they didn't have to go to school. The old lady had a great idea, though. We got out all of our old videotapes and they basically sat there and watched their childhoods from, like, birth until the present. It was fucking wild to see that shit. First of all, I forgot how fucking cute the two of them used to be -- they'd make you crap your pants, they were so cute.

The crazy thing was that the old lady and I were so patient and sweet and tolerant sounding on those tapes. It was like we were heavily dosed up on quaaludes, or something. I remembered every single moment as I watched them, and it seemed like it was just yesterday and then seemed like it was forever ago. I just kept thinking, "Man, that dude is awesome -- I've gotta be more like him." I mean, compared to back then, I'm like Johnny Buzzkill now. Sure, I was probably playing it up for the camera a bit, but still. I've gotta chill my shit out a little bit.

You know, it'd probably be easier to be so chipperiffic if Mr. Z and Miss O still walked around in onesies and mashed pureed peas into their faces. They have to be held a little responsible for my escalating crabbitude over the years. But it's not like I've turned into Uncle Charley from "My Three Sons" around here, though. I just have to remember those tapes from time to time and spazz down a little. Again, a packed bong would be mighty helpful in facilitating such a change. I'm just sayin'.

I'm sure we're going to be watching more tapes over the weekend. We're up to Miss O's first birthday party. You know, they're cute and all and I really miss them being so tiny and cuddly, but I do not understand those people who look at old pictures and movies and say, "We've GOT to have another one!" Are you shittin' me?! I remember the cuteness, but I also remember the no fucking sleep, and the carrying those ungrateful lumps around for hours trying to get them to fall asleep, and I remember getting puked on and shit on and peed on and wiping their shitty asses and all those fucking diapers and cradle-cap and vaccinations and waiting for their dried up, bloody bellybutton stumps to fall off and the whole house smelling like a fucking turd and having dried boogersnots on the shoulders of every shirt I owned and singing "Baby fucking Beluga" every goddamn night, not to mention the teething and suctioning out their snotty noses with that blue bulb thing and cutting their tiny fingernails and missing and making them bleed and not being able to go anywhere because they took a fucking nap like every half hour.

Fuck that shit.

They were pretty fucking cute, though.

Click-shit-Click-shit-Click... shit

So I couldn't post last night because my internecks was broke. I spent the entire fucking day, and night, and this morning trying to wrap my puny brainlet around the cause of the no-workiness. I spent a good million hours on the phone with some mildly Canadian Comcast lady trying to figure shit out. She was aboot no help, eh? I knew it was bad when she asked me, "So, what do YOU think's the problem?" I replied, "Hmmm... well, I'm no expert but I think the biggest problem is that YOU'RE A FUCKING CHUNDERHEAD!" Actually, I think I said something like, "Wish I knew... wish I knew. Well, thanks for the help, Laverne. You have a nice holidays, okay? Okay... great." Ya fucking long-foreheaded hoser.

Luckily, I figured it all out late this morning, and by "I," I mean the tech guy at work figured it out. We (he) surmised that one of my routers was busted, kaput, deed. I dragged the spawn over to the Best Buy after school to pick up a fency-schmency new Linksys Wireless hub. With antennae and everything! I promised to get them "a treat" there, mistake, so I ended up buying a "dance music" CD, per a request by Miss O. We went home and had a dance party in the family room. I was so pissed about the broken internecks, but I figured, fuck it -- I'm gonna have a goddamn dance party in the family room with some shitty "uhn-tiss-uhn-tiss" music and I'm going to like it, by gum. I don't know which song I liked/despised most -- the dance version of Bryan Adams' "Heaven" or the dance version of Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer." Of course, tomorrow I'm going to have to erase all memories of said tunes from the spawns' memory -- I'm thinkin' a little Captain Beefheart will do the trick.



Now THIS I can dance to:



And no, I'm not going to start putting youtube shit on every post. I just thought it was hilarious that I could just go grab a fucking Beefheart video in 5 seconds and post it. This internecks, I tells ya. Crazy shit.

ONE MORE TIME!!!!

Only one thing has enabled me to purge the "music" of Laurie Berknerd from my cranium. Mr. Z and Miss O literally spent HOURS fucking around with this keyboard in my parent's basement while we were visiting over the weekend. They would play the demo song over and over and pretended to "jam" along with it. I practically shit myself with laughter every time I watch this...



Fucking brilliant.

Ew... Who Berknered?!

Dear Laurie Berkner,

This is not a song:

"I was sitting in my garden
When I saw a bumblebeeeeeee
He said his name was Oscar

And he went
buzz buzz buzz
ba-buzz buzz ba-buzz buzz
buzz buzz buzz ba-buuuuzzz
ohh Ohh Bumblebeeeee, can't you seeeee

It's just you and me
Ohhh One-two, ahh 1-2-3 GO!

buzz buzz buzz
ba-buzz buzz ba-buzz buzz
buzz buzz buzz ba-buuuuzzz

BZZZZZZZZZ
BZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ"

Now, I'm sure you think it's a song, and you're probably making shitloads of money on the CD on which it resides, and CDs usually have songs ON them, but "Bumblebee (Buzz Buzz)" is not a song. You can maybe call it a "tune," or a "musing," or maybe even a "refrain," as in "PLEASE REFRAIN FROM EVER PLAYING THIS GODDAMN FEEBLEMINDED NON-SONG AGAIN!"

One thing it is, along with the other non-songs on "We are... The Laurie Berkner Band," is a GIANT MUSICAL SPIKE THAT WAS DRIVEN INTO THE LEFT HEMISPHERE OF MY BRAIN, MORE SPECIFICALLY BROCA'S AREA, FOR A GOOD PORTION OF THE 4 1/2 HOUR DRIVE FROM CHICAGO TO MICHIGAN! Holy shit, woman, you make Raffi sound like Pink Fucking Floyd.

And find a fucking second rhythm, will you?! Booma-chicka-booma-chicka-booma-chicka is not the only goddamn rhythm on the planet! Put down the acoustic guitar... PLEASE! Get an accordion or a dulcimer or a pair of fucking spoons. Mix it up a little for fuck's sake. Yes, "D" and "G" are very pleasing, full chords to play. But there are other letters. How about an F# minor?!

"But I'll bet your kids liked listening to it," you might say. Sure, they enjoyed it -- they were stuck in a fucking car for five hours. They would've enjoyed listening to Lou Reed's "Metal Machine Music." Dogs like eating shit -- that doesn't mean you should feed it to them.

Now, I'm not saying you don't have a right to make music. I think it's great that you're out there entertaining kids and I hope you're raking in the cash. (I don't blame you, really. I actually blame the friend of yours who one day said, "Oh, Laurie, you're SO talented, what with all those clever tunes you write! Hey, you know what? You should make a children's album!") All I'm saying is, smoke a big ol' bong and listen to some Robin Trower, or something... preferably "Bridge of Sighs." Listen to "Day of the Eagle" about 47 times.

THEN write a song. And don't put any fucking insects or dinosaurs or farm animals in it. And NO fucking onomatopoeia!

[And I know my kids write little songs about animals and shit, too, but you know what?! They're five and eight. It's still cute when they do it.]

Sincerely,
Crabbydad

The Nastiest Tea-Baggin' You'll Ever Have...

We're back and, while there are many things to discuss, I have to start with a comment on my new lover, Trader Joe's. Don't get me wrong, I've been partaking of her peanut buttery, pretzel-y goodness and sipping her ruby red inebriants, but I have, unfortunately, found m'lady's fatal flaw.

It is known as "Trader Joe's Jasmine Green Tea," and I must say, I am flummoxed. We got home from our trip to Chicago late this afternoon, and I rifled through the packed Joe's bag to find the flowery green box of leafy nectar, eagerly awaiting a cupful of this ancient unguent to salve my roadtrip woes. I boiled a pot of water and poured the steamy liquid over the fragrant satchel, waiting until the brew was properly steeped.

When it was time, I raised the mug to my quivering lips, and sipped the fragrant fluid, ready to be transported to 14th century China, or India, or wherever the fuck tea came from.

What I got was a mouthful of soap.

I swear to fuck it's a bag of soap, man. And it's not like Dial of Dove, it's like old lady soap -- like those purple heart soaps in the porcelain dishes next to the fancy paper hand towels that you were afraid to use at Granny McGillicuddy's house.

I took another sip, just to make sure and... soap. Now this is the company I read about that flies all over the world to find the best peanuts, the best breads, the best cheeses, and the best they can come up with tea-wise is purple granny soap? It tasted like I sucked up a mouthful of some 18th-century old maid's underwear drawer. It was like a mug full of boiled bloomers.

So I took the liberty of amending the text a bit on the side of the box:



So, yeah, still open a store in East Lansing, Trader Joe's, but move the goddamn Jasmine Green Tea over to the "Soaps 'n' Sundries" aisle.

Bleh.

Traitor Joes...

Now, I know I have it pretty shitty living in the middle of "The Mitten," when it comes to food/shopping/having a life. But I don't really realize just HOW shitty I have it until I come back to Chicago. No, not even Chicago -- 40 minutes north in the suburbs of Chicago. The old lady and I popped out to pick up a few food items for our stay at my folks' house -- mainly because, apparently, my parents no longer eat food of any kind. Correction, they only eat butter, olives, stale crackers and a variety of bland unwrapped cheeses. There was a day when I'd come home to find their kitchen bursting with chicken salads, loaves of bread, a variety of lunchmeats, briskets, and cakes, but now I'm welcomed with graham crackers in the pantry that are so stale they can be bent into a Mobius strip without breaking.

So, we went to this deli called "Max and Benny's" to get some bagels. We pull into the mall parking lot and what do we see right next to the deli? Trader fucking Joe's. Goddamn. The rich get richer, the fuckers. So we make a stop at Joe's and it's like a goddamn religious experience in there. You've got your racks and racks of fresh loaves of bread, practically spilling onto the floor. We got an asiago/pepper loaf for like $1.99. A DOLLAR NINETY-NINE! If that were a Zingerman's loaf that we were to purchase from the half-assed co-op back home, it would have been 9 bucks.

So we just started throwing shit into the cart. A couple bags of the Thai Lime peanuts here, a shitload of the peanut butter filled pretzels there, a couple bottles of six dollar Barbera, some boxes of exotic teas, licorice Altoids, honey-sesame-coated almonds -- I mean, what the shit are those? I didn't even know honey-sesame almonds were a thing. Fuck, we just loaded up on all kinds of weird didn't-know-they-were-things items. And all the shit's cheap, too. It's not like Whole Foods, where you have to take out a home equity line of credit to purchase three shrimps. And don't get me wrong, I'd take a fucking Whole Foods in Michigan in a second. I'd take a Half Foods, even. It's like a sick fucking joke.

Of course, they've opened up a Trader Joe's in Ann Arbor... right next to the H&M, most likely, and down the street from the area where all the hip, alternative dads live who are looking for a drummer to jam with for their kick-ass band, and near the giant wood shop where they teach people how to make furniture for free. Fucking Ann Arbor. They need a Trader Joe's like I need Radon supplement tablets. Shitheads.

Maybe if I mention the right combination of words often enough in this blog, the folks at Trader Joe's will hear my pleas as they sit on their giant piles of money googling themselves and consider opening up a branch in my nape of the neck. Let's see... TRADER JOE'S... EAST LANSING... FILLING A GIANT FOOD VOID... um... MAKING MONEY HAND OVER FIST... uh... WHO DOES ONE HAVE TO SCHTUP TO FIND A THAI LIME PEANUT IN THIS TOWN... 45,000 HUNGRY COLLEGE STUDENTS... I WISH I HAD SOMEONE TO HAND ALL THIS EXTRA MONEY TO...

Now, I'll just sit back with my bowl of "Savory Thin Mini Rice Crackers" and my mug of Pomegranate Green Tea and wait...

Here's What You Can Do with Your Spoonful of Sugar...

Hey, remember how, last night, I said, "if I can just sit there in bed before getting up in the morning, and say, 'Okay, I'm going to be patient today and I'm not going to yell, and I'm going to focus on the good shit and not the annoying shit, and I'm not going to let work get me all tense and shit, and I'm going to be in the moment and not worry about all the shit I've gotta do tomorrow, and man, I wish I had a bong right now 'cuz that would REALLY help a LOT," then, nine times out of ten, it will be a pretty fucking good day'"?

Yeah, I was full of shit, apparently. I tried just that, this morning. I was chip-chip-chipper at breakfast, and when I picked them up after school I was Mary-Fucking-Poppins, asking how their day was and being goofy and using funny voices and shit. The only thing I didn't do was make the goddamn car fly and, believe me, I tried. And then the rest of the afternoon was a fucking disaster. It was meltdown central at the Crabbydad Ranch, culminating when Mr. Z burst into tears after Miss O wouldn't let him look at the fucking Disney Princess sticker book some asshole mom let her daughter give to her for a birthday present. [Ow, that was a painfully worded sentence, but fuck it.]

Granted, it sounded like the boy had a shitty day at school. His best friend was out today with strep throat, he was "it" for for the entire game of tag during recess, and apparently no one sat with him at the lunch table today. That one made me feel really shitty. I guess there's this rule that once you take a bite of your lunch, you can't change your seat. There's my tax dollars at work -- Gestapo Lunchroom. So, Mr. Z was one of the first ones to sit down and didn't realize that everyone was sitting at a different table. But the boy will follow a fucking rule to the death and, having already taken a bite of his sammy, he was forced to sit solo for the entire lunch period. That just made my heart burst, picturing him sitting there, all alone, sipping on his little chocolate milk.

So, yeah, I can see why he lost his shit when he got home, but it sure as hell didn't make the afternoon go any easier. Sure, I cut him some serious slack, but he picked up said slack and then shat all over it. And Miss O was no fucking help, mind you. She's like a lioness sniffing out a lame gazelle. She knew he was on edge and sat there clutching onto that fucking sticker book, just waiting for him to crack. She waited, and waited until, wham, meltdown. Then she looks up at me like, "Gee, what did I do? Here Mr. Z, you want to look at it now?" She's a crafty one, that musky minx.

What's the best remedy for all this, you ask? Why, piling everyone into the car tomorrow night and driving to Chicago, that's what. Pawn 'em off on my 'rents for a couple of days. They'll get them all sugared up, let 'em stay up late for a few nights, then we'll load 'em on up again and drive back home. I can't WAIT for NEXT Monday afternoon. That should be a real fucking treat.

Who am I kidding? I'm going back to waking up in a shitty mood.

And How Was Your Weekend?

What an ass-ripper of a weekend this has been. The kids decided to lose their shit on Saturday instead of Sunday for a change, so it kicked off very nicely. Mr. Z had four classic meltdown/lid-flippages over the course of the day. Don't know if I remember exactly what they were about. I do know that one of them had to do with this charming new habit of his where we basically tell him to do something and he says, "No." No pleading, no whining, just "No." It basically went like this:

[Mr. Z and Miss O basically screaming at each other after playing nicely for a couple of hours]

ME: You know, guys, you've spent a lot of the morning together -- I think maybe it's time for you to split up and do something on your own for a bit. Mr. Z, why don't you go read a book or something.

MR. Z: No.

ME: Okay, then why don't you work on one of your comics for awhile.

MR. Z: No.

ME: Excuse me? You know what, I think maybe you need to go hang out in your room for a bit until your mood changes to something more positive.

MR. Z: NO!

ME: All right, let's go, up to your room. You're not showing any respect for what I have to say, so get up there, dude.

Mr. Z: [SFX: him going apeshit and stomping upstairs]

ME: [calling after him] AND DON'T SLAM YOUR--

[SFX: SLAM!!!]

ME: ... DOOR.

MISS O: I told him he needed to share but he--

ME: You know what, Miss O? I don't want to hear it.

You get the idea. There was also a dual lid-flipper when we were eating pizza and watching a DVD we rented, "Lassie." It was the recent version, with that young lass I have a thing for from "Nanny McPhee" and a little boy who looked exactly like what I'd imagine Thom Yorke looked like at age five. So, yeah, we were watching and then Mr. Z knocked over a glass of water, which we really didn't give a shit about, but he lost his shit anyway, just for fun. He was convinced he was going to get in trouble, so he just started bawling and flippin'. I said, "Have you ever gotten in trouble for spilling something?" and he said, "No," and then I said the equivalent of "Well then, what the shit?!" and he kinda stopped. But then he and Miss O started bickering and arguing over who had more blanket and they were tugging at each other, and then finally the old lady and I let out the simultaneous, "All right, that's it. Movie's over, let's go up to bed."

Boom, tandem lid-flippage.

I think they were just both tired as shit because THEY NEVER SLEEP IN ON THE WEEKEND, and they were basically begging us to end the day. We happily obliged.

Today was much better. Miss O went and played at a friend's house and Mr. Z and I went to the library and the grocery store. I made a vow to myself this morning to not let anything piss me off and to try and enjoy the day and it really worked. Mr. Z and I had a blast and pretty much everything the spawn did today seemed cute/funny instead of grating/exasperating.

Attitude is so fucking crucial. I mean, a lot of times, it's just plain impossible to not get wrapped up in all their shit and lose your mind, but when you get that 'tude going just right, it's golden. I've gotta work on my crabbitude. It's something you have to be conscious of at all times. Like if I can just sit there in bed before getting up in the morning, and say, "Okay, I'm going to be patient today and I'm not going to yell, and I'm going to focus on the good shit and not the annoying shit, and I'm not going to let work get me all tense and shit, and I'm going to be 'in the moment' and not worry about all the shit I've gotta do tomorrow, and man, I wish I had a bong right now 'cuz that would REALLY help a LOT," then, nine times out of ten, it will be a pretty fucking good day.

Unfortunately, most days I just wake up and say, "Goddammit, I'm awake."

Friday Nite Flashback-ack-ack-ack...

Blogger was all broke and shit last night, so I couldn't post anything. I had a post ready, though. It was an excerpt from a "journal" I tried to keep back in October of 1990, when I was in my old band and living in Los Angeles. I was totally depressed living out there, hated the whole music scene bullshit, and was ready to murder the other three guys in the band, who I was living with in a one-room apartment. The bedroom had two sets of bunk-beds, for shit's sake.
Anyway, this entry was from 10/17/90, and it was apparently written at 1:38 a.m., after a "showcase gig" in LA.:

"The Coconut Teaszer gig was tonight. I'm probably more pissed and frustrated right now than I've ever been in my life. Fucking D [our lead singer]! We started the set and I made a fairly sizeable blunder by counting off the wrong song -- I caught myself, obviously, when no one joined in, but fucking D fumed onstage like a shitass over the mistake for the whole show. What an inconsiderate asshole. I'm sorry, but the days of putting up with his bullshit are over. He's fucking inconsiderate, has zero compassion, and is one of the most selfish fuckers I've ever known. And to top it off, after the show, he storms by me saying nothing and proceeds to inform everyone we know there of my blunder, just in case they missed it themselves. Overheard to J.W., 'I was so fucking pissed, he starts the wrong song, I couldn't believe it!' That's the way to build great PR for the band, ya dick -- and it really draws us together as a unit, doesn't it. Fuck, I've never felt like I've ever wanted to leave the band, but tonight I could easily pack up and go. I think he's completely lost sight of what we're here to do. I'm here first and foremost to have fun -- to enjoy my fucking life. He's become Mr. Network-Schmooze-money-buzz-business-put you in your place asswipe. What a dick."

Hm. Guess I was a little angry. Of course, I stayed with the band for another three years, almost quitting another 237 times. What a fucking shitty time I had out there. I remember one meal I used to make back then -- I'd boil a whole bag of generic tri-color rotini and then mix in about a cup of mayonnaise and then eat the whole thing in one sitting... actually, standing. Then I'd wash it all down with generic beer (the bottle caps had little rebus puzzles underneath them, which helped take your mind off the fact that you were eating pasta and mayo and drinking GENERIC BEER).

Interestingly, that was the last post in the journal. Either I resolved all my problems with the guys in the band after that night, or I passed out from mayo poisoning.

Yep... good times.

The Crabapple Doesn't Fall Far from the Crabtree...

This morning, Miss O complained that her bowl of Cinnamon Life tasted like "roasted hotdogs."

This afternoon, she grabbed my shirt pocket and pulled it until it ripped.

Tonight, she was crying at bedtime because none of her teeth are loose yet.

Methinks she's going through "the change" again.

Counter Attack: The Denouement...

The kitchen -- she is feeneesh! Well, sorta. The moron twins ("We're not twins") still need to hook up the garbage disposal and finish this little shelf thing above the sink, but the rest of it is pretty much finito. Holy fucking shitballs, I never thought I'd live to see it. Witness the transformation...

Before


During


Now


I know it might not seem that dramatic to you, gentle blogee, but this is what we used to prepare our food on:


[I'll wait for you to stop yacking...]

And this is what we have now:


The counter alone was worth the whole ordeal. You know that Walt Whitman poem where he was practically talking about fucking that tree? That's kinda how I feel about our new counters. I'd like to see Walt Whitman fuck our counters. They're that incredible. And the stove is highly boinkable, as well. The smooth top, the sleek knobbage, the gaping, cavernous oven. The old lady and I prepared our first meal on "Jenny," our new Jenn-Air. It was simple yet delumptious -- Linguine with cauliflower in a red cream sauce:



Sure, I'll be floating some serious cauliflatus under the sheets tonight, but I'll revel in the warmth of its home-cookedness. It feels fantastic to ingest something that wasn't toasted, microwaved or spread between two slices of bread for a change. I can't wait to bake me some shit this weekend. A pie, perhaps? Cookies? A loaf or two? Maybe some bagelage? The baking world is my oyster. Hell, maybe I'll bake some oysters. Wait, does one bake oysters? I think they're usually steamed, actually. Doesn't matter -- the point is that I CAN bake oysters if I so choose. Look, forget the oysters! I don't know how I even got on the topic of shellfish. No one's gonna be cooking oysters this weekend, okay?!

Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a new faucet to buff.

Off My Rocker...

So, the show went surprisingly well on Saturday night. It was a surprise party for a woman who, back in the day, was a big fan of our 70s cover band, early to mid to late 90s era. The party was at a fency-schmency country club down on Chicago's Sout Side, over-by-dere. Apparently, she was out at a baby shower and her dad, who was supposed to be baby-sitting her son, called and said the kid was in hysterics and refused to stop crying until he saw his mom. She raced over and, well, there was the old surprise.

The first set was typical -- people just kind of standing around, not really sure why four middle aged dudes, dressed in ill-fitting 70s garb and playing half-assed versions of bad 70s tunes, were invited to the party. But, after a well-timed break, allowing said spectators to "drink heavily," they came back rarin' to go by set two. Here's a shot from my perspective during our version of REO's "Time for Me To Fly":



I really do miss playing in a band. Shit, I've been playing with these dudes for over 15 years and there's something instinctual and comfortable and freeing about performing with them. I don't even have to think about what to play, or when to stop or when to just improvise and wank around a bit. I can't imagine starting over with a new band now, though. I'm too fucking old and I wouldn't have any patience trying to find the right musicians. I hate musicians.

Nope, I'm just gonna have to get the family band going. Mr. Z is doing the piano thing, so he's well on his way. I'm pretty sure Miss O is going to follow in the drumming footsteps -- she's a natural. As long as I don't teach her how to play, she'll be fine. The old lady's got a great voice, but she doesn't like singing in front of people. One year, I got her voice lessons for her birthday. She went to like one or two lessons and then just blew it off. Thinking back on it, that was a pretty shitty present. But her voice is great, so I'll just have to work on her confidence.

I've gotta get back to recording the kiddlies. They've been bugging me to get my shit together and record some new stuff. I've got probably four or five songs that I've partially recorded already. That does it. I need a fucking deadline... let's say, spring. New CD from the Crabbykids by the thaw. There it is.



Note to self: call Mr. Kincaid to set up some gigs.

So That's Why They Call Them The Golden Years...

I guess I've become that kind of person who, the minute they get in the car to go anywhere kinda far away, has to piss like an elephant who REALLY has to fucking piss. And I've completely given up on that whole, "Well, there's a rest stop here but I think I can hold it for another 40 miles until the next one" bullshit, because I've learned that I pretty much can't hold it for another 40 miles. Or even "a" mile. And I think one of the main reasons I've become "Yuri Nation" is that, like a moron, I tend to drink about a gallon of green tea right before I hit the road. Green tea may have high levels of anti-oxidants, but drinking a shitload before a road-trip can lead to a high level of "panty-accidents."

Going to Chicago, I made sure to hit pretty much every rest area, whether I had to go or not. It worked out pretty well until I got on the Skyway. Once you get on that fucker, you better be wearing some hip-waders, 'cuz there's pretty much nowhere to stop. I was doing pretty well until I got past the last toll booth and traffic basically stopped. That's where it narrows down to one lane as it feeds into the Dan Ryan. I sat there for a good 40 minutes, while my ureter filled up like a goddamn balloon-animal weinerdog. I tried not to think too much about the pain, as I frantically scanned the car for any receptacle options. CD case? Nope. Altoid box? Curiously small. Aquafina bottle? No way -- the opening was too small and bad aim could end up spraying the inside of the car a la a thumb over a garden hose.

Why did I stop drinking those Sobe drinks?! Sure, they were pricey, but they had that nice, wide opening at the top. Those things are practically hand-held urinals. Damn!

Eventually, traffic started up again and I was able to zip over to the office before I completely blew out an O-ring. No time for any cordial "Hellos," as I dashed into the bathroom and let loose with a stream that probably raised the level of the Chicago River about 3 inches.

Coming back today wasn't as bad -- I had a couple of beers at the show last night and woke up painfully dehydrated. I made sure not to introduce a single drop of liquid into my parched system and, while I felt like I was basically freeze-dried, I zipped past the rest stops with anhydrous abandon.

It really is fantastic turning into an old man. I can't wait until I go blind and my craps stop coming out. Oh well... gotta go do some kegels -- and HOLD - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5...

Book-ing a Later Flight...

Well, I'm supposed to be on the road to Chicago right now but, GUESS WHAT?!, I'm not. Tomorrow night is my company's "wrap party" for this project we busted our nuts (and, I don't know... ovaries? Ovaries are basically women's nuts, right? Sure. Ovaries.) on for the last year, and Saturday is yet another "last" gig for my old band. So, I was getting ready to leave when Mr. Z mentioned that tonight was "Reading Night" at his school. What is reading night, you ask? Fuck if I know -- apparently you go back to the school you just left a few hours earlier and hang out in the gym, making bookmarks, listening to stories, eating shitty baked goods and getting a migraine.

So he brings this up, and I mention that I'm not going to be around for it because I'm going to Chicago and that I'm betting his mom probably won't want to lug the two of them around the gym by herself for a couple of hours. Well, you'd think I shivved him in the leg or something because he had a classic Mr. Z lid-flippage. Miss O soon followed. They were both bawling their asses off, the Moron Twins ("We're not twins") were in the kitchen working on the stove, and I just stood there like a giant shithead.

And for some reason, instead of calmly explaining why they couldn't go and promising that they could go "next time," I said, "Okay guys, you know... I guess I can leave early tomorrow morning and we can go." Where the shit did that come from?! I'm telling you, you get to this point where you just don't want to deal with the goddamn conflict anymore and you just end up saying and doing moronic shit. I mean, I guess it's not a big deal to leave in the morning, but it'll just make the whole trip more hectic and shorter and I'll have even less of that feeling of "Ahhh, I'm away." And it made them happy, I think, so why the fuck not. They just owe me big time, and I'll lord it over them for many months to come. "What? You have the gall to stand there and whine at me about playing Monopoly with you when I postponed my trip to Chicago for a WHOLE DAY?! Frankly, I am shocked!"

So, we went to fucking Reading Night and it wasn't horrible. They both made a bookmark, both ate shitty cookies and Mr. Z won a "Captain Underpants" book that he's already read by playing some weird version of a cake walk, but with shitty books. We skipped the story reading by, I shit you not, "Sir Read-a-lot," ("Baby got BOOKS!") and I managed to get out of there with nary a headache. Bonus.

So I guess I'm leaving in the morning. Oh well, at least I can go to sleep tonight knowing that deep down, my kids don't really appreciate it.

Counter Attack II...

Well, the moron twins ("We're not twins") showed up today with the kitchen counters and, guess what? SURPRISE! They fucked them up. They put in the top for the kitchen island and for the desk area, no problem. Then they brought in the big one with the sink attached to it, and it didn't fit. It came up a little short... like their DNA strands. So they put it back on the truck and said, "Hmm... they must've cut it wrong or something. We'll have to order a new one... probably gonna take a little while." That's okay, guys. Counters and sinks are overrated. I love washing all the dishes in the pedestal sink right next to the place where my whole family sits to void their respective colons.

Oh, and they also fucked up the countertop in the family room. There was this little wet-bar area there, very "Bewitched," and we had them remove the sink so we could make it a nice solid surface for wine and shit. They installed the top... unfortunately it was the wrong solid surface. They put in the same top as the kitchen, which doesn't match the completely different color scheme in the family room. I mean, I don't want to sound like a dick but dudes, there were like four counters to install. Would it kill you to check the work order before drilling and cutting and gluing shit all over the inside of my house.

You know, I made a conscious effort not to stand there and watch them install everything because I thought it would be disrespectful, like I was surveying their every move to make sure they wouldn't fuck up. Good idea. It really pays to be conscientious, doesn't it?

So it's back to plywood boards for counters and washing dishes next to the crapper for who knows how many more fucking weeks. You know, I'm actually starting to like the simplicity of it all. I'm thinking of breaking out the windows and covering the openings up with clear plastic tarps and wheeling in a coupla yards of dirt for the floors. Build us a nice firepit near the microwave, maybe get a mini-bike to ride around in there... a three-legged dog with a rheumy eye.

Why do I have a sudden craving for a pickled egg?

Nerdily Ever After...

You hear these stories about people who think they know their spouses, and then suddenly some shocking secret is revealed -- like they find a stash of diapers in their husband's sock drawer, or they discover their wife has been storing every one of her B.M.s in pickle jars in her closet since the late 90s, or they read in the paper that their husband is a meth head and likes to get his pulpit pulled by some male body-builder in Denver.

Well, I have become one of those people. Today, the old lady came back from a Target shopping spree with Mr. Z, and I discovered a little something she had purchased for herself. Brace yourself -- it was... a SUDOKU BOOK. You could've blown me over with... some sort of blowing device that really doesn't blow very hard. I mean, she might as well have walked into the house and declared, "I'm a gazelle trapped in a woman's body and I'm moving to Chad to marry a rhinoceros. Fuck you." Of all the things in the world she could've purchased, that has to be one of the last... right before "The Complete Works of The Three Stooges DVD Boxset."

I asked her where the shit that purchase came from, and she just said, "What? I like puzzles. I just wanted something mindless to do while I watched TV at night." She likes puzzles... HA! I say! I don't know what she's really up to, but something's not kosher in Denmark. Except maybe this:



And what's next? Today it's Sudoku, tomorrow what? Sangaku? Sokoban? Soma cube? JUNIOR JUMBLE?!?!?! I'm telling you, it feels like the last 20 years have been a lie. Up is down, left is right... it's like I'm trapped in some sort of 9 x9 grid and every column, every row and every 3 x3 box contains the digits 1 to 9!

You know, we're thinking of getting some tiles to do the backsplash in our kitchen. I have a sinking feeling I know the pattern that the old lady's going to pick out:

I Vote for More Sleep...

Erection day tomorrow and, of course, no school once again for the spawnage. That's a sure way to get people out to the polls -- send the kids home for the day to make the already difficult task of getting to the right polling place even more cumbersome by making people take their kids along. And if the kiddies thought the laundromat was fun, LOOKOUT FOR A HOOTIN'AND A-HOLLERIN' GOOD TIME IN THE VOTING BOOTH! I'll probably be bending over, tying Miss O's shoe or something, and Mr. Z will be fucking around in there and accidentally vote a straight republican ticket for me. "Well, the final results are in and, OOOH, Governor Granholm was defeated by a mere single vote! Looks like the head of Amway is now Michigan's next governor."

Fuck, I'm tired. This kitchen thing is killing me. The doors are finally on all the cabinets, but whoopty-fucking-doo, 'cuz there's still no sink, stove, dishwasher or... what was that other thing? Oh yeah, COUNTERS! I was priming the newly plastered walls yesterday and I've gotta fucking paint them tomorrow night. Between the fumes from the "Killz" yesterday and the fucking adhesive the cabinet guy was using today, I think I've killed off a good chunk of my brain stem. All I want to do is sleep... like right here, on the floor. All that good money I wasted on weed all those years, when I could've just been huffin' primer. Oh well... live and... wait... what was I talking about?

Zzzzzzz.....

More Fun in The Lurkerroom...

I encountered a whole new kind of creep in YMCA showers today. Instead of being from the "ancient-man-lathering-his-ballsack-at-me" camp, this guy was from the "middle-aged-demented-creep-who-talks-to-himself-and-
wanders-from-shower-head-to-showerhead" camp.

I had finished my laps and was looking forward to a nice relaxing shower -- the parking lot was pretty empty today, so I figured I might actually have the place to myself. When I got there, there was one other guy in the corner -- looked fairly normal: middle-aged, a bit hairier than most and he was somewhat pear-shaped... maybe more of an eggplant, actually. At least that's what I was able to glean from my periphery -- it's not like I was checking the dude out, okay? So, I chose the showerhead furthest from him, following proper showerroom etiquette. At first I thought he was talking to me, because I heard him say something. Well, he kinda said something... actually, he was just making this low vocalization that sounded kind of like "Nyarrrrm, nyarrrrm, nyarrrrm...." Okay, maybe he was singing to himself, I figured. Then he picks up one of the plastic chair/benches that are in there for the handi-capable showerers and starts looking at it and turning it upside-down and shit.

All right. At this point, my "creep-o-meter" was starting to register some strong creepitudinous vibrations. So he keeps on "Nyarrm"-ing and studying the bench and I'm trying to rinse off as quickly as possible to make my escape. I turned my back to rinse my face and when I turned back around, he was kind of strolling behind me, much like an eggplant-shaped cheetah might stroll by a lame wildebeast, stuck in a mudpit.

That was my cue. I turned off the shower and scurried around the corner to dry off and get the fuck outta there. As I was drying my hair, ol' Nyarrrmy actually peeks around the corner at me, kinda like this:



I'm pretty sure my eyes bugged out of my head, making a loud "AHOOOOGA!" noise, as I bolted to my locker and started throwing on my clothes. As I was tying my shoe I heard the dude turn on a couple more shower heads and his "Nyarrrm"-ing grew to a fevered pitch. I left him to Nyarrrm in peace.

Once safe in the cool air of the parking lot, I realized there's a good chance the dude probably suffers from some sort of psychosis/mental disorder. Then again, there's always the chance that he's just a creepy dude. Either way, if I had to choose, I think I'd take the grandpas lathering their balls at me to ol' Nyarrrmy. With the ball-latherers, you know what you're getting -- lathered balls. That's as far is it ever goes. With Nyarrrmy? Who the fuck knows?!

I'm thinking I might just start showering at home.

Ah, Shut Yer [Lint] Trap...

Got the old hairs cut today. I just went for it and asked for an appointment with "Faith," and wouldn't you know it, I was right. It wasn't "Hope" after all. She did a respectable job. Again, I felt awkward while she was massaging my scalp and then washing my hair. Didn't close my eyes... just stared up at the ceiling, so she wouldn't think I was fantasizing about her. It's surprising hard to do, keeping your eyes open while someone is washing your hair. Try it some time. So, of course, instead of thinking that I was a horny shithead for closing my eyes, she probably just thought I was an insane shithead for keeping them open. You can't win with these hair-ladies.

The Sears guy came out to look at our broken washing machine today. He was a roly-poly sort of man, very friendly with some serious roly-poliage. He said there was an oil leak and the timing thing on the transmission was fucked up. Apparently, the agitator was trying to spin and agitate at the same time. Apparently, that's bad. The great thing is, though, that he actually said, "It was really smart of you guys to buy that extended warranty plan, 'cuz this is like the most expensive repair that could happen." So, for once in our goddamn lives, we did the right thing. Of course, now both cars will probably break down.

But we have to wait for the parts to be shipped out, so the Crabbyfamily had a field trip today to... THE LAUNDROMAT!! You can imagine that Mr. Z and Miss O were THRILLED to spend their Saturday doing laundry, but it was surprisingly not shitty. I think the "actually getting out of the house for a fucking change" part had something to do with it. We got there, and carried in our four overloaded laundry baskets of stanky nappies. I guess we didn't look like the average laundromat customers, 'cuz the smelly but very friendly Judd Nelson dude running the joint said, "I can help you guys out 'cuz I'm assuming your washing machine broke or something at home. That's usually the case with families that come in here." Look Judd, I've spent more time in laundromats than... your fucking dad who gave you a carton of smokes for christmas has, so enough with the patronizing toneage. But we gladly accepted his help -- fucking laundromats have changed since back in the day. They had these little debit key things, and these fancy drawers where the detergent went and shit. So, Judd set us up with his own, personal debit key, and then we bolted to go get some eats.

We got back, dumped the shit into the dryers and I played a game of "Sorry" with the spawnlets. Now, playing board games with Mr. Z is tough enough, 'cuz he completely flips his lid when he loses, but playing "Sorry" is probably the last board game he should ever play. "Hmm, what does this card say? Oh, I guess I get to move my piece all the way up to where your piece is, Mr. Z, and then I get to send you all the way back to the beginning. SOOOORRRRRRYYYYYY!" So that was a fucking blast, as you can imagine.

And that was pretty much it. I folded about 900 pairs of underwear, we bid adieu to Judd and we were outta there. Mr. Z and Miss O said they had a great time and want to do it again. Bizarre. Maybe next weekend I'll take them to get the oil changed on the car and blow their fucking minds.

Who's Schoolin' Who? Wait... whom. Right? Yeah, it's 'whom.'

Last week, the spawn had no school on Friday. This week, there was no school on Wednesday. Next week, on Election Day, no less, they're also off from school. Then it's fucking Thanksgiving. What the shit is up with the school districts in this state?! If I wanted them home this much I'd be home-schooling them. I'm telling you, I'm this close to running for the school board. If only I weren't so unbelievably disinterested in whatever that job might entail. I know it would mean wearing some fancy slacks and shaving, so fuck it.

I took Miss O to the dentist today for her six month checkup. That girl is amazing -- sat there, still as a... person who is still a lot... maybe a catatonic schizophrenic, say, and didn't even complain when she was getting her teeth cleaned. Our girl is gittin' all growed up, Ma. It was pretty cool, though, seeing her interact with the hygienist and the dentist, answering all their questions and joking around and shit. I like that they're getting older. Sure, I loved when they were little and cute and shit, but it's pretty cool now that they're becoming little people. They can still be pains in the ass, but it just seems so much more manageable. Of course I'll be singing a different tune in two weeks when I have to take Mr. Z to the dentist and he's squirming around in the chair and biting the hygienist's fingers and gagging while she's poking around in his mouth. But for now, I'll just bask in the delusion that they're growing up and life will soon be so much simpler.

I finally started swimming again, by the way. The fucking pool was closed for over two months while they "replaced the filtration system," code for "scraped the years of spum, scabs and fecal greaseballs out of the drain." I have to say, though, that the water seems a hell of a lot clearer and less "burn-y." It was like swimming in applesauce before. Now it's just like swimming in pee. I was able to do about half the laps I did before the shut-down, and I think I coughed up a few alveoli when I was done. (I made sure to hock them into the water, just for old times' sake.)

It snowed here today. Of course, yesterday we gave a bunch of our old winter coats to some sorority that was having some charity coat drive. Seemed like the right thing to do, but unfortunately, I gave them my only winter coat, thinking I'd have time before it snowed to get a new one. Boy is my face red -- except it's not from embarrassment, it's from goddamn frostbite. So I guess it's off to Old Navy for another crappy winter coat that I'll give away to another sorority next year because a) it's ugly, 2) it doesn't keep me warm, and b) it's ugly. Where does a guy, in the middle of Michigan, get a hip, warm winter coat that doesn't either make him look like "Hikey McOutdoorsman" or "Puffy VonDownerson"? I need the equivalent of a Chuck Taylor high top in a toasty winter coat. Something like this:



Perfect. Note to self: call Converse.

When It Rains, I'm Poor...

Our goddamn washing machine broke. Fucking Sears. I knew it was stupid to go with Kenmore, but NO, Consumer Reports says the one we got is a "Best Buy!" so shit, you can't argue with those geniuses, right? The thing is two years old and, two days ago, it starts smelling like 'electric-burning' and then it starts making a noise like we're washing an elk. I called these local appliance guys because, well, I like to support local small businesses and because I'M A GIANT MORON. This wee, little troll of a man, complete with pungeant troll-B.O., waltzes in, turns it on and says, "Ah, you've got a burnt out tranny, right 'dere. S'gonna cost you about two-fitty. You should call Sears and see if it's still under warranty. Oh, and sorry, but I've gotta charge you 80 bucks for a service call."

Oh yeah?! Well, Stanky Troll, YOU'RE a burnt-out Tranny. Ya dick.

So I'm already out 80 beans and now we've got Sears coming out on Saturday to take the rest of our money. Of course, we didn't get the extended warranty because CONSUMER REPORTS TOLD ME NOT TO! Why do we get that fucking magazine? It gives me nothing but heartache.

And I need haircut, but I can't remember my haircutter's name. It's either "Faith" or "Hope." If I call up and ask for one, and it's really the other, I'll feel like a total douche. Wait... maybe her name is "Charity."

Shit. Maybe I'll just grow it out.

Nougat on The Block...

Miss O refused to share a single piece of candy with me tonight. Oh, if she only knew to whence the Milky Ways mysteriously vanish every night.



I can't wait until tomorrow when Mr. Z ceremoniously kicks off his year-long existential crisis about what he's going to be for Halloween next October.

And by the way, who the fuck gives out Fritos for Halloween? I can pretty much guarantee that there's not a single kid who looks into his/her candy sack at the lone Fritos bag and declares "YESSSSS!" (Except, perhaps, the kids down the block in the "Bandito" family.)