I Called Him "Chico" And Lived to Tell About It

Diane reminds me on a regular basis that I have a not-so-healthy affinity with my car horn, and I, in turn, remind her that she should mind her own freakin' beeswax. I should probably listen to my wife more.

I had to work a longer shift Tuesday night to cover a coworker's vacation, so I was driving home a little later than normal...like the roads-are-totally-deserted later-than-normal. As I was driving home, I came upon a slow-moving vehicle that, though it remained in it's lane, seemed to be drifting excessively within the lines. I kept my distance. We came to a stop light and both of us maneuvered into the left turn lane. The road onto which we were turning started out with several hundred yards of two lanes before merging into a single lane. Since I didn't want to be stuck behind this potentially impaired individual, I decided that I would pass him if I had the opportunity. The light changed, he meandered into the right lane, and I made my move. That's when all the bad things began to happen.

As I turned into the left lane and attempted to pass, I was abruptly cut off by my liquor-imbibed amigo as he cranked the wheel hard to the left and shot out right in front of me. I jammed on the brakes to avoid hitting him, and yes, you guessed it, I instinctively reached for the horn and gave it a nice long blast, you know, just to let him know I was there. It must of worked because he over-corrected and shot back across the right lane and off the road, plunging my car in a cloud of dust before returning to the road. This pretty much confirmed my suspicion that this individual was indeed drunk, so I backed way off and let him go on his merry way.

I followed him all the way to my subdivision (oh great) where I eventually pulled up beside him at a stoplight. Why I pulled up next to a dude I knew was drunk is a question I continue to ask myself, a question to which I have no good answer. Probably the best one is that "I'm stupid", but the ones I've been going with are closer to "I was tired" or "I wasn't thinking", which is just a variation of "I'm stupid". Anyway, I pull up next to him, and he immediately confronted me. And since it was a pleasant Arizona evening, I had my windows down so I had no problem deciphering his message:

"HEY! YOU F***IN' HONK YOUR HORN AT ME?"

I probably just should have kept my eyes straight ahead and done nothing, but "I'm stupid", remember? I turned and looked and found myself staring into the glassy eyes of a behemoth of a man. He was stone-faced drunk and looking for a fight. At this point I figured I could do two things: I could ignore him and piss him off, or I could respond and piss him off. Guess which one I chose.

"Yeah, when you practically run me off the road, I honk my horn."

Well, that was enough for him. He started fumbling around at his gearshift on the steering wheel, then at his seat belt. Then he found the door handle and opened the door. "Alright, you! Get out of the car!" And he started climbing out of his car.

Now I'm a supposedly responsible, law-abiding, happily married father of two. I have a mortgage and own a minivan. I'm not supposed to get involved in street fights with chiseled, inebriated chuckleheads in the wee hours of the morning. I knew I needed to get out of there, pronto. But just when I thought my stupidity had reached its limits, I got stupider. I left him with a departing inquiry:

"Had a little too much to drink tonight, there, chico?"

And then I fled against the red light.

Before you label me as a racist, please allow me to try to explain myself. My high school Spanish teacher used to call us "chicos" and "chicas" (that's "boys" and "girls" to those of you not proficient in the Spanish language), and it stuck with me, especially under circumstances in which someone has pissed me off. On those occasions, these particular individuals, regardless of race, have become "chicos". It's not the best habit in our politically correct society, especially here in Southern AZ, but it's so fully ingrained in my vocabulary that it's going to be tough to break. Incidentally, "chico" also means "little" or "small", which is funny to me because this dude was huge. He was also white. I should have called him "Bubba".

So now I'm racing for home and trying to lose this guy. I had a good lead on him, but was reluctant to go too fast through a heavily populated area. I also didn't want this jerk driving his SUV into someone's bedroom, so I set a brisk, but responsible pace, the only level-headed decision of the evening. I monitored my rear-view mirror and finally spotted him FLYING up the road behind me. He blew right through a stop sign and came bearing down on me, eventually pulling in right behind me and tailgating me. That's it, I thought, I can't go home, so I slowed down and just kept driving.

He followed me for a couple of minutes with no sign of backing off, so I grabbed my cell phone, dialed 911, and headed for the closest police station. How the hell do I get myself into these situations? Well he either got tired or wised up to my plan because a few minutes later he turned around and went home. I sighed a sigh of relief, and when I thought it was safe to do so, I did the same.

So what has this experience taught me? 1. Don't honk. 2. Keep my mouth shut. and 3. Take an alternative route home, especially if I fail to follow #1 and #2. Oh yeah, and never, NEVER, call them "chico".

Smile...You're On Candid Camera!

Kailey has recently cycled back into her clothing tirades, and it's really irritating. She had been doing so well in the past few months, but all of a sudden she's gotten very picky as to what she will and won't wear. I have no idea where she gets this from (shut up, Mom...any comments from you on this subject will result in banishment from seeing your grandchildren). A couple of weeks ago it all came to a head.

She picked a pair of jeans out that she has worn a million times before and decided she didn't like them any more. Why? In Kailey's words, "It teases me!" I have come to hate these three words more than any other three word combo in the English language. The two things that it communicates is that 1.) Kailey is somehow uncomfortable in that particular garment and 2.) if you don't remove it from her body RIGHT FRICKIN' NOW, you're going to have a meltdown of Biblical proportions on your hands, and no amount of patient reasoning or attempts to talk her down is going to stop it.

Well, I still tried. "How is it teasing you?" I asked, using every last ounce of patience available to keep my cool.

"They're too tight around here," she said as she pointed to her waist.

Just as I thought. She's growing. Kid's jeans have those little elastic bands that run through the waistbands. Each end of the elastic band has a series of button holes that can be used to tighten or loosen the waistband depending on where you secure the buttons sewn on the inside of the jeans. Kailey's a skinny kid. We have to button the elastic band on roughly the seventh button hole on each side just to keep her pants from sliding off. I figured it was time to readjust her jeans so she could once again enjoy circulation to the lower half of her body.

I tried to explain this to her but she would have none of it. She wanted them off. NOW. So she threw herself onto the floor and started kicking her legs like Linda Blair in the Exorcist. And that's seriously what it's like, because I'm standing there thinking this is not my daughter, and I'm frustrated and pissed because she's acting like a two year old. So in my frustration I blurted, "Kailey, if you could only see how ridiculous you look right now..."

Light bulb.

I turned and walked into our bedroom, grabbed the video camera off of the dresser, and popped out the viewfinder. I then calmly walked back to Kailey's position on the floor. The camera caught her attention. "What are you going to do with that?"

"I'm going to show you how ridiculous you look throwing a fit over a pair of jeans."

"Is it on?"

"Not right now, but if you don't straighten up right now, I'm gonna roll."

Problem. Solved.

The threat of the camera worked several times since then, until Saturday. Kailey had two meltdowns, one over putting on her own socks, and she finally called my bluff. I had two choices: I could either record one of her tantrums or put those threats to bed forever. The thought that recording one of her tantrums could make things worse actually had crossed my mind, but since she called my bluff I felt I had no other option. So I rolled.

I so wanted to post the ensuing footage, but thought that Kailey would never forgive me. Her performance made Linda Blair in the Exorcist look like Pee Wee's Playhouse (scary in its own right). Her voice changed, she threw stuffed animals and feces (kidding), slammed her door, and proceeded to inform me of the various ways she was going to bring me bodily harm. I guess I asked for it.

Later, after she had calmed down, put on her socks, and returned to her normal, sweet self, she asked me what I was going to do with the tape. My gut response was "You Tube", but thought that she had been through the wringer enough for one day. "We're going to sit down and watch it, just you and me, because I want you to see how crazy you got over a pair of socks. Then I'll record over it and it will be gone forever."

"OK."

Yeah, well, we haven't gotten around to watching that quality footage just yet. I'll forget it's there, only to discover it twenty years from now, when it will become an instrumental breakthrough in Kailey's therapy sessions as it sheds light onto just how badly I screwed her up. May as well send me the bill now.

Those Aren't Pillows!

Every couple of months it seems like I'm buying new pillows. I'm a side-sleeper, so I need firm, fluffy pillows to support my huge, virtual planetoid head, complete with its own weather system. Actually, my head's not all that large, but it must be fairly dense (you know, with all those brains packed in there) because it flattens out those firm, fluffy pillows in a matter of weeks. Granted, I don't spend a lot of money on my pillows, usually opting for Target's $9.99 Extra Firms, so I guess I can't really expect that much out of them. I have forked out as much as $20 at Kohl's with the hope that their slightly more expensive pillows would last longer, but, sadly, they don't. I keep telling myself to bite the bullet and drop a healthy sum of cash on some more expensive, quality pillows, but I just can't. I can't shake the sneaking suspicion that spending $100 on pillows will yield the same results.

My body tells me when it's time to retire the old pillows, like I can't tell by looking at their flat, lumpy mass that they are mere shells of their former selves. Pillow wanna-be's. Maybe I'm not that smart after all. Just cheap. The first hint usually comes from my lower back, but this week it was my neck. I first noticed the pain on Monday while installing the garage door opener. Naturally, I ignored the warning signs and popped ibuprofen religiously until Wednesday night, when every movement nearly sent me through the roof and I didn't sleep a wink. On Thursday morning I made a Target run.

I've heard insanity defined as "doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results". Well I'm not insane. I don't expect my Target pillows to be a long-term solution to my neck and back problems. I just want immediate short-term relief. I made a beeline to the pillow isle where I quickly located their Extra Firm pillows. I decided to browse a little to see if their inventory had changed since I last picked up pillows. I was surprised to find something like a Super-Ultimate-Premium-Non-Allergenic-Extra-Firm pillow for $14.99. Sold. I grabbed two and headed up to the checkout isle.

In order for the body pain modification system to work, I need two pillows (man, it sucks getting old). One, as I mentioned earlier, is for head and neck support, the other is for body support. I have to "hug" pillow #2 like Radar O'Reilly's teddy bear in order to keep my body fully on its side, not allowing me to slump over toward my stomach. If I do, I'm in for a bad day.

Well, my temporary fix worked. I've experienced two nights of peaceful slumber since Thursday night and my neck pain is subsiding. For now. Now I need to get my butt in gear and do some research on some quality pillows so I can avoid this fiasco in the future. Any suggestions?

Wii, Wii, Wii...All the Way Home

It has become my newest Holiday obsession, the ever-elusive great White Whale to my Captain Ahab, the One Ring to my Gollum, the Bandit to my Sheriff Buford T. Justice. Yes, I have been hunting for a Nintendo Wii gaming system, and I'm not even sure why. The girls' presents have been purchased and wrapped, and we're pretty much done with all of our Christmas shopping. I simply mentioned to Diane a few weeks ago that it might be fun to have a Wii because four people can play at a time and the system at least requires you to get up and move around to play, so you can't be a total couch potato. She rolled her eyes. "I just know how you are about video games."

"What? That was twenty years ago!" I defended myself. Man, you do one stupid thing and end up paying for it for the rest of your life. We were dating, both of us fresh out of high school, and I was over at her house one afternoon. They had a Commodore 64 computer and we were playing Summer Olympics. OK, "I" was playing Summer Olympics. Dinner was just about ready and Diane came into the room to ask me what I wanted to drink. I was performing in the high diving event and was concentrating on nailing the perfect dive. "Hang on just one sec," I said with no idea of how much I had just pissed her off. She turned and left the room without another word. She had become second to a video game and has never allowed me to forget it.

I'd like to think that I've grown and matured in the past twenty years, and, if not, I think I've certainly learned my lesson: to give my wife my undivided attention even if it costs me my video game life. See? Problem solved.

Shortly after our brief "discussion" about the Wii, I revealed my desires to my brother. "Good luck with that," he laughed, "You can't find 'em anywhere. And people are lined up to snatch 'em as soon as they come in stock. It's crazy." Well that seemed to be it. The gauntlet had been thrown down. Oh yeah, I thought, we'll see if I can't get a Wii for Christmas. And that's when my obsession began.

Perhaps "obsession" is too strong of a word. It's not like I'm calling all of the stores in town and asking them when their next shipment of Wii's is arriving so I can camp out and snag one as soon as the doors open. My obsession falls more into the providential realm. I've been faithfully monitoring several Wii Tracker websites to check on different stores' online availability, and if I can somehow manage to secure one, then great, it was meant to be. If not, then oh well, maybe next Christmas.

But here's where the obsession comes into play. This morning I've been monitoring the websites so faithfully that I'm afraid to leave this stinking chair for fear of missing that ever-so-brief window of opportunity. My bowels are screaming at me right now, but I don't dare leave because I know that as soon as I do, Target will have them available at the best possible price, which will sell out in 2 minutes. I just know it'll happen.

My obsession does have its limits, though. I'm not going to pay an exorbitant amount for my Wii. I won't go to Amazon or E-bay to pay $450 for a $250 system. And I'm not going to fall for a $700, 10 game system package from Walmart or Toys-R-Us either. I will pay a fair price for a basic system or I won't buy it at all. Then I'll pay the $250 in shipping charges to get it here by Christmas.

Wii, Wii, Wii...All the Way Home

It has become my newest Holiday obsession, the ever-elusive great White Whale to my Captain Ahab, the One Ring to my Gollum, the Bandit to my Sheriff Buford T. Justice. Yes, I have been hunting for a Nintendo Wii gaming system, and I'm not even sure why. The girls' presents have been purchased and wrapped, and we're pretty much done with all of our Christmas shopping. I simply mentioned to Diane a few weeks ago that it might be fun to have a Wii because four people can play at a time and the system at least requires you to get up and move around to play, so you can't be a total couch potato. She rolled her eyes. "I just know how you are about video games."

"What? That was twenty years ago!" I defended myself. Man, you do one stupid thing and end up paying for it for the rest of your life. We were dating, both of us fresh out of high school, and I was over at her house one afternoon. They had a Commodore 64 computer and we were playing Summer Olympics. OK, "I" was playing Summer Olympics. Dinner was just about ready and Diane came into the room to ask me what I wanted to drink. I was performing in the high diving event and was concentrating on nailing the perfect dive. "Hang on just one sec," I said with no idea of how much I had just pissed her off. She turned and left the room without another word. She had become second to a video game and has never allowed me to forget it.

I'd like to think that I've grown and matured in the past twenty years, and, if not, I think I've certainly learned my lesson: to give my wife my undivided attention even if it costs me my video game life. See? Problem solved.

Shortly after our brief "discussion" about the Wii, I revealed my desires to my brother. "Good luck with that," he laughed, "You can't find 'em anywhere. And people are lined up to snatch 'em as soon as they come in stock. It's crazy." Well that seemed to be it. The gauntlet had been thrown down. Oh yeah, I thought, we'll see if I can't get a Wii for Christmas. And that's when my obsession began.

Perhaps "obsession" is too strong of a word. It's not like I'm calling all of the stores in town and asking them when their next shipment of Wii's is arriving so I can camp out and snag one as soon as the doors open. My obsession falls more into the providential realm. I've been faithfully monitoring several Wii Tracker websites to check on different stores' online availability, and if I can somehow manage to secure one, then great, it was meant to be. If not, then oh well, maybe next Christmas.

But here's where the obsession comes into play. This morning I've been monitoring the websites so faithfully that I'm afraid to leave this stinking chair for fear of missing that ever-so-brief window of opportunity. My bowels are screaming at me right now, but I don't dare leave because I know that as soon as I do, Target will have them available at the best possible price, which will sell out in 2 minutes. I just know it'll happen.

My obsession does have its limits, though. I'm not going to pay an exorbitant amount for my Wii. I won't go to Amazon or E-bay to pay $450 for a $250 system. And I'm not going to fall for a $700, 10 game system package from Walmart or Toys-R-Us either. I will pay a fair price for a basic system or I won't buy it at all. Then I'll pay the $250 in shipping charges to get it here by Christmas.

On the Lam

Oh mama, I'm in fear for my life from the long arm of the law...

The jig is up, the news is out, they finally found me. Of course, they didn't need to look very hard, or far for that matter. They simply sent me a postcard. The "they" in question just happens to be the Pima County Superior Court and their post card was simple and to the point:

Our records indicate you failed to appear for jury service as instructed on the date noted above [December 6th]. You must immediately call the jury office to reschedule your jury service. Failure to contact the jury office may result in further action being brought against you by this Court as prescribed by Arizona law.

Oops. I completely forgot. But really, what do they expect? It's December, the busiest month of the year, for crying out loud! I didn't just blow off jury duty because I didn't want to do it (which I don't). I've just been busy. Busy, busy, busy. So busy, in fact, that I even forgot to write it in my Outlook calendar. I know that I thought about putting it in there so I wouldn't forget, but I must have gotten sidetracked somehow, which isn't hard seeing as how I'm global and everything. December 6th came and went, as did the 7th through the 18th, without so much of an inkling that I had broken the law. Usually that kind of thing will nag at the back of my mind as though I know I'm forgetting something that I can't quite put my finger on, like leaving the iron on or forgetting to pick the kids up from school, again (kidding, Hon). But not in this case. I was blissfully unaware that I was a wanted man.

Seriously, though, what do they expect? It's Christmas for crying out loud! The Courts should take the month off because who wants to be prosecuted during the Holidays? I know that no one ever wants to be prosecuted, but to have it done during the holidays just adds insult to injury. Nothing like Christmas lights and Jingle Bells to conjure up memories of the year they sent Uncle Louie up the river. C'mon, people, where's the Christmas spirit?!

And I'll bet half of the jurors summoned failed to show up because they were too busy to remember, right? Surely there are plenty of folks more incompetent than me out there. People who are all too engrossed in shopping and picking out the perfect Home Depot Christmas tree and dangling from rooftops to hang lights and spread Christmas cheer and laying flagstone patios and putting in 20 hours of overtime at work and writing stupid class papers and shuttling kids to and from various after school activities and spending way too much time blogging and finally drinking themselves to sleep to remember to report for their lawful civic duty.

I'm so going to jail.

'Tisn't the Season...

...to lay flagstone.

Fa la la la laaa

La la la laaaa.

Unless you are my father-in-la-aw

Fa la la la laaa

La la la laaa.

I've been dealing with a self-imposed guilt trip this past week as I have largely abandoned my father-in-law on the patio project. My only consolation has been the fact that I at least helped him put down all of the large pieces, so I don't have to worry about him crushing a body part or throwing out his back. It's just that, with Christmas just around the corner, I've had to give my attention to other things. I did help him on Monday, but he flew solo for the rest of the week, God bless him. I've had good reasons for my abandonment, and this is my attempt to cleanse my conscience whilst my dear ol' dad-in-law slaved away in mine own back yard.

Tuesday, I was gone. There can't be a better excuse than that. And it gets better. I was accompanying Kailey on her field trip, so not only was I spending quality time with my daughter, but was also performing my civic duty and providing quality care for your children as they expanded their educational horizons.

Wednesday morning, Diane and I took Kyra to the doctor. Another fantastic excuse as I was looking after my youngest daughter's well-being. Before that, though, I had a haircut appointment which, in my mind, is another good excuse for bailing because who wants to get all of those Holiday photos taken with a shaggy head, right? After returning from Kyra's doctor's appointment, Diane reminded me that Wednesday was now or never for getting the Christmas lights up on the house. Now I love having the house lit up with Christmas lights, but I loathe hanging them. Fortunately I did all the really hard work three years ago when I installed hooks under the eaves of the roof. And I was actually considering adding another layer of lights this year, which meant another layer of hooks. I quickly came to my senses and put the kibosh on that idea and reverted to the normal light set up.

Thursday morning was my final class for the semester (whoo hoo!), and then it was off to work (doh!). And I spent all of Friday morning paying bills and making sure we had the money to buy all this Christmas cr...stuff. I figured it would be also be prudent to pay the mortgage and keep the home we're (or he's) working so hard on from going into foreclosure.

We're making progress and I should be able to lend more of a hand next week. The flagstone is all in place, and now the long and laborious project of mortaring begins. Here's the "before" pic:



The "laying the foundation" pic:



And here's where we stand now:



Quite the difference, huh? Thanks Papa!

Free Coffee or a Kick in the Head...I'll Have Both, Please

Today I received yet another free coffee from Starbuck's. Usually I'm thrilled when such fortune shines it's friendly face upon me, but today I was just grateful because coffee goes great with humble pie. All the better to choke it down with.

Two days ago, as I do on most every day before I go to work, I drove through the Starbuck's drive through and ordered my venti breve coffee (that's a large coffee with cream for you uninitiated). I pulled through to the window where I was greeted by a familiar barista. "Did we mess up your order yesterday?" she asked.

"No," I laughed. "I don't think you've ever messed up my order."

"That's weird," she said with her face all scrunched up. "After you came through yesterday we found a venti coffee sitting here and we didn't know who ordered it. We thought we must've given you the wrong order."

"No, my order was fine."

Another barista joined her at the window. "See I told you it wasn't my fault," he joked as he handed me a coupon. "Here, take this anyway. You're a cool guy."

The coupon, used by baristas as recompense for shoddy service, was for a free beverage of choice. The barista was none other than Obnoxious Starbuck's Guy, the kid I lambasted in a post two weeks ago. Right then I felt like anything but a cool guy. I felt like a two-faced jerk. But free Starbuck's coffee is free Starbuck's coffee, so I thanked him, took the coupon, and went on my way. Then I waited a whole two days to use it, you know, as a penance for my scathing tongue. Yeah, it would have been a better penance to throw or give the coupon away, but, hey, free Starbuck's coffee is free Starbuck's coffee. Never look a gift barista in the mouth, or in the eyes for that matter, especially after burying a knife in his back.

Yes, I do realize how much I suck.

NUMB3RS

This past weekend a number of "numbers" came to my attention for various reasons. Some are milestones, others are records, and the rest I just scrounged up for the sake of this stupid post.

12 This is the 12th day of Nablopomo, and my 12th post for November. I still feel strong. I feel like I can really do this thing. I have yet to panic, the operative word being "yet".

20 This is Illinois' AP ranking after dashing Ohio State's National Championship hopes on Saturday. 'Nuff said.

200 Yesterday I realized that my post on Saturday was my 200th in a little over a year of blogging. And 6 of those posts don't suck. Writing is therapeutic for me, so I guess it's not all that surprising that I've stuck with this whole blogging process. Yeay me. OUCH...this is me breaking my arm while patting myself on the back.

30 I'm a Sitemeter junkie. My self worth rises and falls with my Sitemeter stats. Since this blog is little more than a Mom & Pop operation, minus the Mom, who is content to sit back and critique my content with quotes like, "I can't believe you just wrote about your daughter's boobs", those stats aren't high. As of Saturday, my daily average was 30 hits. And most of those hits came from balding men eagerly pursuing the answer to life's most vital question: "Does Nioxin actually work?"

385 Thanks to a Jonas Brothers fan sight, I had 385 hits and 557 page views yesterday alone. They linked to my Hannah Montana concert review, and the kiddies came out of the woodwork to see the pictures. Who knew? I guess you should never underestimate the power of Disney.

I checked my Sitemeter stats a couple of hours after posting the review expecting to see the number around 20 or so. I about fell out of my chair when the number was 108. "What the hell?" I whispered as I immediately opened up my Blogger Dashboard page. I am embarrassed to admit that the first thought that shot through my mind was that I had been selected as one of the Blogger "Blogs of Note". Yes, I am that big of an ego maniacal dork. When those hopes were dashed to pieces and then stomped into a fine dust, I collected myself and did the sensible thing: checked the stat details which led me to the fan sight.

And the hits keep rolling in, though they are slowing down a little bit. So now, in order to maintain my newly boosted ego, I'm considering a format change to a pre-teen Disney concert review site. You know, cover all 3,000 of the different Disney on Ice shows, High School musical live shows, Ali & AJ, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. I realize that this would be the blogging equivalent of selling your soul to the devil, but hey, I've now got Sitemeter stats to support.

And finally...

2 Girls for whom I need to scrounge up some lunch.

Finally, finally...

Happy Veterans Day and a heartfelt thank you to all of the veterans out there!

Disgusted

Always. Save. Your. Work.

Always.

This morning I downloaded ScribeFire, a blog editing add-on for Firefox, because I wanted to experiment with an editor other than the one here on Blogger. I set it up and linked it to my Blogger account and typed up today's post. I didn't want to publish directly to my blog without looking it over first, so I clicked the "Post as Draft" box, then the "Publish" button. Several seconds passed when a "Publish Successful" box popped up, followed by a prompt asking if I wanted to save or clear my post.

Always. Click. Save.

Always.

Before I knew what I was doing, I clicked on the "Clear" option. That prompt was immediately replaced with a honkin' huge "Error" box. Oh no. What have I done? I cleared the error message, and in a mild panic, called up my blogger account. No draft. I went to my blog. No new post. Insert expletive, no, series of expletives describing the depths of my stupidity and incompetency here. Now in full panic mode, I reopened ScribeFire and furiously searched for an "Undo" button, a "Magically Reappear" button, anything that would bring my post back. But to no avail. It is lost, free falling into cyberspace, where no one can hear you scream. Or is that just "space"?

I started to reconstruct my post, while it was still fresh in my head, but lost heart. I'll work on it later this afternoon and publish it tomorrow, if I can only remember to save it, that is. Frickin' idiot.

I Guess It's Just Not the Same

Getting the girls out of bed has been much easier the past couple of days with "Sexy" Rex the dog around. To make a long story short, I simply "release the hound". He launches himself from the holding cell of the family room, literally beating a path down the narrow hallway toward the girl's rooms with his spastic and potentially lethal wagging tail. Moments later the girls are startled awake from their slumber with cries of "Awwww, Rex!" What usually takes me 5 to 10 minutes, Rex accomplishes in 10 seconds.

So this morning, I decided to give it a try. My alarm went off at 6:00. I hit snooze once then got up and made my way into Kyra's room where I dropped to all fours and sidled up to her bed. Then I stuck my nose right into her ear and started sniffling like a dog. Never have I seen one's facial expressions change from joyful expectation to repulsive hatred so quickly.

"DA-AD! YOU'RE NOT REX! AND YOU WOKE ME UP!"

"Well, that was the idea. Did you think that I was Rex?"

"NO. Rex does it like THIS!" She shot up, stuck her nose in my ear, and performed her doggy-sniffling impersonation, pretty much EXACTLY like I had just done.

"No, I think it's more like THIS!" I countered, sniffling back. And there we were sniffling each other's heads back and forth like a couple of dogs at 6:10 in the morning. All of our commotion woke Kailey up, so she was expecting me. When I snuck up to her and started sniffling in her ear, she smacked me in the head. They SO don't appreciate me. But what I lacked in appreciation I made up for in effectiveness: the girls were out of bed in a minute, quicker than my fastest time, but still slower than Rex. I guess I'll have to leave the wake-up routine to the dog.

Why, Do I LOOK Lost?

My first day of school was this morning. Trying to avoid looking like the NKOTB, I spent the better part of last evening studying the campus map so that I could at least pretend I knew where the crap I was going. My plan was to arrive on campus early, find the bookstore and purchase my USED textbook for $73.75 (WTH?), locate my classroom, and then spend time catching up on reading since I missed the first day of class. I felt pretty good about it, but everybody knows that nothing ever goes as planned.

This morning Kailey had one of her classic clothing freak-outs, where clothes that suited her just fine last week all of a sudden morphed into evil garments that "tease" her. "It teases me!" is Kailey's all-encompassing method of describing how a piece of clothing itches, clings, or just doesn't "feel" right. She went through five outfits before finding one that met with her approval. So I was frustrated with that whole situation when Diane asked me if I would take the girls to school. This is conflicting with my plan, I thought, but I reluctantly agreed. So right around the time I was hoping to leave the house was when I actually stepped into the shower. I hit the road 25 minutes later.

Being an East-sider, I've never been to the West Campus. I knew its general vicinity, but was not at all familiar with with any of the buildings or the layouts. I arrived about a half-hour before my class started and headed to the building that I had memorized from my map the previous evening. What the map fails to show you is the layout INSIDE the building. As I approached the building, I saw that I had a decision to make: stairs or no stairs. I chose stairs.

You IDIOT! You NEVER choose stairs!

I know, I know...what can I say? I panicked.

I climbed the stairs and entered the first set of doors I could find which opened into what looked like a student services area. I walked through and came to a staircase going down to the ground level where, at the foot of the steps, was the bookstore. Crap. At least I got some exercise. I descended the staircase to the bookstore where I ponied up $79 for my textbook and, yes Hon, a new notebook. I emerged from the bookstore with 10 minutes to spare.

It was at this point that I realized that though I had studied the campus map to pinpoint the building in which my class took place, I had failed to memorize the room number. ROOKIE IDIOT! So I rifled through my bag to find my registration slip and identify my room number. I knew I only had ten minutes to get to class, so I consulted the building directory in order to get pointed in the right direction. Ah, there it was: "Student Classrooms: Level 2". I jumped on the elevator and rode it to the second level. Only when I got off the elevator I was greeted by another sign informing me that the classrooms were in another building. I'M THE STUPIDEST FRESHMAN IN THE HISTORY OF STUPID FRESHMEN!!

I whipped out my registration slip again, this time noticing the two letters in front of the number: "CG". A second consultation of the building directory confirmed that "Computer Graphics" was located on the ground floor. Back to the elevator! I wasted no time on the ground floor and asked a woman thumbing through a magazine where the classroom was. "Right there," she mumbled and pointed to a door RIGHT NEXT TO THE BOOKSTORE! Correction: I am the stupidest person alive.

Here's hoping the rest of the semester goes a little better.

I Need to Learn to Keep My Fat Mouth Shut

Well, my Cubbies are on the verge of getting swept by the Astros and are in the midst of a three-game losing streak. I think I jinxed them by praising them a little too early. Little did you know that the success or failure of the Cubs is directly related to the amount of praise I heap on them. I can HAVE hope that this will be their year, I just can't EXPRESS it. The mere expression of hope sends them into a free-fall. That being said, I am resolved that this will be my last entry on the Cubs this season. Unless, of course, they start kickin' butt and takin' names again. Then I'll be compelled to praise them. What can I say? I'm cursed!

OK, there's still a lot of season left, but I'd like to see them continue to win series and keep the pressure on Milwaukee. The only saving grace is that Milwaukee is in a slump as well, allowing the Cubs to stick around. There's still time. So until the playoffs arrive, here's me sticking a sock in it. Cubbies, that's your cue to go on another run.

'Cause I Don't Feel Like It

Have you ever had one of those "'Cause I Don't Feel Like It" kind of days? Yeah? Me too. Like right frickin' now. Ta-day.

It's raining outside this morning, which doesn't help the problem, otherwise I'd be out there working on the patio right now. But though the rain has offered a welcome reprieve from manual outdoor labor, there is still a mile long list of indoor projects clamoring for my attention. Maybe I'll get to them, maybe I won't. Why? 'Cause I don't feel like it.

I watched The Exorcist on Bravo earlier this morning. Why Bravo was airing The Exorcist at 8:00 in the morning is beyond me. Perhaps they're launching a new campaign to scare the hell out of the little kiddies who are channel surfing whilst Mommy and Daddy prepare themselves for work. I had nothing to worry about today because I'm off work today and the kiddies are in school, so I watched it. Why? 'Cause I'm stupid and didn't feel like doing anything else, including changing the channel. How lazy is that?

After the priests were dead and Linda Blair was restored to her perky self, I strolled into the den, picked up my guitar and played through a half-dozen unfinished songs, half humming and half singing them (half-assedly, I might add), but then put down the guitar. I should have picked at least one of the songs and worked on it a little more, but I didn't. Why? Say it with me: 'Cause I didn't FEEL like it.

I didn't even really FEEL like blogging, but once I started, the feeling followed. So here I am. I highly doubt the desire to vacuum will follow once I start doing that, but here I go anyway.

Responsibility beckons.

My New Weekly Ritual

"I'm not stupid...I'm an idiot!"

This was recently quoted to me by one of my co-workers, and it's been banging around in my head all week long. He basically was commenting on how he didn't lack the mental fortitude to analyze information or situations and come to a rational conclusion (i.e. being "not stupid"), but rather lacked the moral fortitude to do the sensible thing with that information (i.e. being "an idiot"). He's going through some relationship issues which would make idiots out of most of us.

I think this is going to become my new mantra. Say it with me: "I'M NOT STUPID...I'M AN IDIOT!" Case in point, my new weekly ritual. For the past few weeks, I've been watching movies on Saturday nights. Well that's not so bad, you might say. Only "Saturday nights" are really "Sunday mornings". I've been staying up until 3 am watching "stupid" movies (Diane says they're "stupid". I say they're "stupid AWESOME").

I am a Dad, and Sundays are family day. It's the one day of the week where our family is able to spend the whole day together, yet I stay up until 3 am the morning before. That makes me an idiot. I don't care. It seems like that's the only time of the day where I get to watch what I want to watch. No Toon Disney. No Cartoon Network. And as long as it doesn't inhibit me from fully engaging in family day, I'm gonna keep doing it.

My new movie ritual began a couple of weeks ago with Braveheart. I think it was on Bravo, but what do I know; it was frickin' 2 o'clock in the morning. I was flipping through channels when I came across Mel Gibson rallying the Scotsmen for the first major battle scene of the movie. I've seen Braveheart hundreds of times, but I watched it anyway.

Last week's movie was The Dirty Dozen with Lee Marvin, Charles Bronson, Jim Brown, Telly Savalas, and a very young Donald Sutherland. And last night I watched Paul Newman's 1977 hockey classic, Slap Shot. It's been probably 20 years since I saw this movie, and it did not disappoint. Slap Shot isn't so much a hockey movie as it is a fighting movie. As the old saying goes, "I went to a fight and a hockey game broke out." That's Slap Shot in a nutshell. My favorite scene in the movie is when the nerdy trio of Hanson brothers finally get their chance to play and hit the ice for the first time. They are hell on ice, chucking guys into the boards, low-sticking the refs, and high-sticking their opponents. All three are ejected after a couple minutes of play and exit the ice to thunderous applause. I had to stifle my laughter for fear of waking up the house. I may be an idiot, but at least I'm considerate. That rhymes.

So here's the considerate idiot looking forward to next week's movie.

Just Another Entry in the Journal of Bad Parenting

Kyra woke me up yesterday morning, which is not unusual since she wakes me up EVERY morning, usually by rushing into our bathroom and slamming and locking the bathroom door. Why she needs to lock the door is a mystery. I guess she likes her privacy. Yesterday was different though as she shook me awake bristling with excitement. "Daddy, I'm going to pull another tooth!"

I wasn't sure she had any teeth left in her head to pull. It seems like every other day one of the girls is walking around sporting a bloody Kleenex and a fresh gap in her teeth. It's a little maddening. I asked Kyra if she even had a loose tooth. "Yes! Look!" she said, thrusting her opened mouth within an inch of my face and wiggling her remaining top front tooth. And with a maniacal cackle, she fled the room. I turned over, flipped my pillow to the cool side, and made a vain attempt to return to sleep. Two minutes later Kyra returned, head down, lower lip puffed out, tail between legs. Kyra is susceptible to severe mood swings. It makes me kind of concerned for her future. "It won't come out," she pouted. I consoled her and gave her the old "keep wiggling it" pep talk then sent her on her way.

We didn't hear anything more about the loose tooth until lunchtime when, out of the blue, Kyra punctured the silence: "WHERE IS IT!!" She darted around the room screaming, looking under couch pillows, and scanning the floor.

"Where is what?" we asked, thoroughly confused.

"MY TOOTH!!" she bellowed as she pointed to the newly acquired hole in her head. "I WENT TO WIGGLE IT, AND IT WASN'T THERE!!" Surely enough, the loose tooth gave up without a struggle, and not an ounce of blood was shed. I also noticed a pronounced lisp as she explained her situation. Without missing a beat, the rest of us began combing the family room for the missing tooth. Diane and Kailey pulled the bottom cushion off of the love seat and investigated the long lost kernels of popcorn and other miscellaneous pieces of crap that congregate under the cushion to see if the missing tooth was hiding among them. Kyra did the same with the couch. I scoured the floor for a moment before making my way over to the kitchen sink to inspect Kyra's lunch plate. Sure enough, mixed in with the remaining crumbs of Kyra's lunch and garnished with just a touch of tomato sauce (or was that ketchup?), sat Kyra's tooth.

I've never cheered for a more disgusting sight in all my life.

Fast-forward to this morning. Kyra woke both of us up, head down, lower lip puffed out, tail between legs. "The tooth fairy didn't come last night."

CRRRRRRRRAP!

"Well did you write her a note?" Diane asked groggily. I've got to hand it to my wife, she's quick on her feet and able to pull BS out of her nether regions even while half asleep. I fell in love with her all over again, morning breath and all.

"Noooo," Kyra whined.

"Well, we'll have to work on that today. She'll come. Don't worry."

Kyra seemed somewhat satisfied with Diane's response, so she continued with her morning routine by slamming and locking our bathroom door for her morning pee pee.

OK, we suck. I get that. But in our defense, we had a very busy night last night entertaining Diane's family and throwing a birthday party for our sister-in-law. We baked five pizzas...from scratch! And did I mention that we decorated for a birthday party? We were busy, busy, busy. Cooking, cleaning, decorating, eating, cleaning, partying. After the family left, we bathed the girls and didn't get them to bed until 9:30. We were tired.

And we were a little traumatized, too. At around 10:00, Diane decided to put together a batch of margaritas, but discovered shortly after mixing the necessary ingredients that we had no ice. NO ICE!! We used it all at the birthday party! All of our ice was gone! Gone, I tell you! So Diane and I stood at the opened freezer door and stared at the ice maker willing it to produce some ice. It didn't work. So we nursed ice-less margaritas until Diane heard the water turn on about a half-hour later. I rushed to the freezer, collected the ten or so precious cubes of frozen H20, and deposited them into our warm drinks.

We finished our drinks and went to bed, and never gave Kyra's tooth fairy pillow a second thought. We were tired and traumatized, and maybe a little toasted, so I guess when it comes right down to it, yes, we're bad parents. We'll pay though. Literally. I'm sure that when the tooth fairy comes tonight, she'll be leaving Kyra a fresh, crisp Ben Franklin to make up for all her troubles. I think I need another margarita, warm or otherwise.

King of Pain

"What song do you want to hear?" Diane asked as she sat down on the bleachers. She just got off work and joined me to watch Kailey's softball practice. I gave her a puzzled look, so she clarified. "Debbie's going to the Police concert tonight and she wants to know what song you want to hear. She's going to call us when they play it." I immediately began to feel sorry for myself. Here I was watching a bunch of 8 year-olds trying in vain to catch a softball while my sister-in-law was on the verge of seeing one of the greatest bands of all time in concert. Sure, I could catch them in concert when they come to Phoenix a week from Monday, but I don't have $225 for a ticket, let alone $450 for two. Someone please pity me, or send cash.

My answer was immediate: King of Pain. I love that song. It could be my theme song because, as the Battered Ham, it may very well be my destiny to be the King of Pain. Is anyone coming to my pity party? If so, bring cash. Debbie called a little while later and I told her my song of choice. "I want to hear that one too!" she cried. She was way too excited, but who could blame her? She also offered to buy me a T-shirt, which was very cool of her. Life was getting better.

So we finished watching Kailey's practice, went home, fixed a little dinner, chucked the girls in the tub, and got them to bed. By the time we finished the nightly routine, it was already a quarter to ten. And all the while I waited for the phone to ring. Diane and I crashed in front of the TV and decompressed. At 10:30 the phone rang. The caller ID verified that this was the call I had been waiting for. I pressed the "Hands Free" button on the receiver and we were met with a wall of sound, mostly screaming people. The screaming eventually subsided and we could clearly hear Sting's vocals along with Andy's guitar riffs. But I never heard a drum beat or a bass line. It didn't matter. It was still awesome.

As we were listening, Debbie shouted into the phone, "This is their second encore!" They followed King of Pain with So Lonely, from their first album, then left the stage. Or so I heard. Several times during the second and third encore, Debbie and her friends would engage in a discussion on whether or not we were still listening. "Are they still there? I don't know. I think they're still there! Are you guys still there?" Like they could even hear us if we answered in the affirmative.

The arena went nuts when The Police began their third encore with Every Breath You Take and they ended the concert with Next to You, also from their first album. I think Diane was getting tired of listening to the garbled music through the speakerphone, but I didn't care. I know it's pathetic, but I just couldn't bring myself to hang up on The Police. They finished their song and Sting gave his last, "thanksforcominggodblessyougoodnight!" and Debbie confirmed the end of the concert with, "That's it". We talked for a couple of minutes and I thanked her for letting us listen in as well as for the T-shirt. Then we hung up and our vicarious Police experience through my sister-in-law's cell phone was over. The silence was deafening.

Tomorrow morning I'm dragging my guitar downtown, setting up shop on a street corner, and raising a little concert money. For now, enjoy The Police live from Vancouver.

Reconnecting

One of the many pitfalls of parenting is sacrificing quality time with your partner in order to deal with life's daily grind. Diane and I stagger our work schedules as well as utilize the services of my in-laws to avoid having to place the girls in daycare. And then we're constantly transporting the girls to softball games, softball practices, gymnastics, etc. Throw in miscellaneous activities like play dates and birthday parties, and, oh yeah, homework, and there's not much time left over for Diane and me. In the midst of all of this activity, communication gets easily lost in the shuffle, and is often reduced to grunts or smart-ass remarks (usually uttered by me) that bristles against the sensitivities of the other party (usually Diane). Sure, we have a couple of hours together to connect after we get the girls to bed, but by that time we are exhausted and usually collapse in front of the TV.

Last week was a tough one for Diane and me. I am a guy, and guys sometimes do or say stupid things that hurt our loved ones. Sometimes this is intentional, but most times, in my case anyway, it is not. We are just oblivious to what we've said or done, and in many cases the ones we've hurt just stuff their bruised emotions. Thank goodness Diane isn't like that, and last week she'd had enough. She confronted me on some of my attitudes, words and actions. Like I said before, I am a guy (notice I didn't say "man"?), and guys sometimes don't deal with confrontation very well. Guys are more interested in saving face than dealing with the consequences of their words or actions. So, like a guy, I addressed her issues at the surface level and then tried to sweep them under the carpet because I was pissed and didn't fully understand where she was coming from.

We continued to go through the motions for the next few days, mostly because we saw each other in passing on our way to work or to the girls' activities, but Diane, thank goodness, refused to let it go. One thing I really love about my wife is her strength. She is a beautiful woman, minus all of the emotional baggage that most beautiful women seem to carry with them. She pulled me aside one morning late last week and asked if we could spend some time talking through our issues on a day where we had time. I was tired of all the tension between us, so I agreed.

So last night, after we put the girls to bed, Diane threw a bag of popcorn in the microwave and stirred up a batch of margaritas (what better than a buzz to loosen the tongue), and we settled into our positions on our comfy chair for a heart-to-heart chat. Diane shared first, and although I sat down ready for a fight, her words took all the fight out of me. Her feelings weren't insecure and irrational the way I thought they would be, and I quickly realized that I had a decision to make: I could argue for the sake of saving face and continue being an ass, or I could validate her and her feelings, own up to my actions and apologize for hurting her. Let me add here that approximately 99.9% of the apologizing in our relationship is done by me. It's not manipulated out of me, I'm just that stupid. I clicked the override button on my stupidity, took my medicine, and apologized for the zillionth time.

We were then able move into a productive discussion about our relationship where we came to the realization that we miss each other. We see each other every day, but we're always in motion, going somewhere or doing something. This is a necessary evil as parents, but we end up neglecting ourselves and our relationship in the process. One of the best things we as parents can display for our girls is our love for each other. Diane even commented last night that the girls actually get excited when we go out on a date. The last time we went out (before Valentine's Day...ughhh), the girls teased us, "MOMMY AND DADDY, GOIN' ON A DA-ATE!!" then running off and giggling, well, like school girls. So, we're going to make a concerted effort to date more, and I'm excited about it.

Our discussion wasn't fun, but it helped me to realize just how much I still love my wife...actually how much MORE I love my wife...because she doesn't let me get away with my childish B.S. She's a tough cookie who makes me want to become a better man. I love you, Hon. You're the best. Happy Early Mother's Day.

A Little Too Excited Over Home Cleaning

Rex went home yesterday, but he left millions of reminders of himself all over our house, just so we wouldn't miss him. We could actually collect all of the hair he distributed over our house to construct a smaller version of Rex...call him Mini-Rex. Earlier in the week, Diane swung by her folks house to pick up their super-duper, industrial strength, dog-hair-picker-upping vacuum cleaner. I thought it was overkill until I tried our regular run-of-the-mill vacuum that took nearly a half-hour to clean a 10' x 12' area rug. I decided to give their Hoover a try, and I wasn't disappointed. In fact, once I started, I was actually EAGER to vacuum the whole house, including rooms he hadn't been in. What's up with that? The model was a little bulky and heavy for my taste, but it did a much better job on our carpets. Diane's folks arrived to pick Rex up while I was vacuuming, and I actually asked them if I could keep the vacuum just to finish the house! Yes, it's official, I'm quite the dork. So now I'm adding a new item to my coveting list: guitar, drum machine, HD TV, surround sound system, HD video camera, and, yes, a new vacuum cleaner.