Buried

Papers.

They're everywhere.

Everywhere I go, everywhere I look, shoved in every nook and cranny, there they are:

Papers.

School papers, work papers, news papers, magazines, catalogs, old bills, new bills, junk mail, papers to be signed, papers to be filed, papers to be un-filed, papers to be tossed, er, recycled, papers to be shredded, papers in the "to be dealt with later" pile (compounding my problems)...

Papers.

I thought I could handle 'em. Get 'em under control. Streamline the process. Thin out the file cabinets, the junk drawers. GIVE US MORE SPACE! But they're like frickin' rabbits, multiplying by the hundreds, the thousands. I shred one (paper, not rabbit), but ten more appear. I roll a heaping recycling container out to the curb, with piles and piles and piles of PAPERS still waiting for their turn in the wings, mocking me! Their numbers stretch to the sky, waving precariously in the wind! THEY'RE FALLING! I have nowhere to run and am consumed by the downward rush of PAPERS! Is there no one who can help me? IS THERE NO ONE TO HEAR MY AGONIZING PLEAS FOR MERCY? OH, FOR THE LOVE OF...

Honey? HONEY!

Hmm? Huh? What the...

Wake up...you were having a nightmare.

I was?

You kept mumbling "papers" and kicking me in the shins. I'm going to have bruises!

Oh. Sorry Hon.

Maybe you oughtta take a break from your reorganization project. You know, fall back and regroup?

But I've got 'em right where I want 'em!

Yeah, right. Go back to sleep. And if you kick me again, you'll be riding the couch! Stupid papers.

Don't Blame Me

There's a nasty little rumor circulating around our household that I'm directly responsible for some of the girls' unladylike behavior. OK, OK...for ALL of their unladylike behavior. I think that's unfair. Just because I'm the only male in the house doesn't automatically make me a bad influence. That hurts my feelings. What hurts even more is the accusation that I am the one who "taught" my girls how to belch and fart. This needs be cleared up straightaway.

First of all, belching and farting are natural biological functions. The body needs some method to dispose of gaseous deposits within the stomach and intestines, thus, the belch and the fart. Some people choose to deal with the discomfort of those gaseous deposits and hold them in, people like, hmmmm, my wife for instance. Others, like me, choose to be comfortable, releasing those deposits with great regularity. As long as I'm in the comfort of my own home and there's no odoriferous accompaniment, I don't see what the problem is. So what it really comes down to is a matter of preference.

Now to address this business of "teaching". I have never, ever, sat down with either of the girls to discuss the proper form, posture, or technique for the maximization of bodily eruptions. It's not like I stop Kailey after she emits a breathy belch to offer instruction:

"No, no, no...come here. It needs to be crisp. You're limiting yourself by using just your throat. You need to utilize your whole torso. Tilt your head forward slightly and push from the diaphragm. Now try again."

Nor do I pull Kyra aside and whisper in her ear, "OK, watch and learn while I sneak up on Mommy and rip one on her head."

I would never, ever do that, primarily because Diane would kill me. I'm not that stupid. The girls have mastered this behavior, indeed taking it to the next level, entirely on their own. Kailey taught herself to swallow air and then shake the foundations of the house with her belches. And Kyra prides herself in snuggling up in my lap and wooing me into a false sense of security before unleashing anal fury on my leg. Each eruption is followed by fist pumps and whoops of wild laughter. And they have not learned this from me.

Do I discourage such behavior? No way. In fact, this is better than I ever could have imagined it, much less planned. See, my kids don't listen to me when I try to teach them things. They blow me off. They sigh. Loudly. They roll their eyes like they know everything in the world at the ripe old ages of 7 and 9. So the fact that they have taken enough interest in something to want to perfect it to an art form makes me beam with pride (and snicker). It's just too bad that they can't make a living as body eruption artists.

Or get a date.

My non-plan is complete.

What the...?

I haven't been posting very consistently over the past few months, but I still regularly check my Sitemeter stats, which, accordingly, are pathetic. Most of my hits come from a segment of the world's most desperate, balding men seeking the answer to life's most important question: does Nioxin work. And of course they leave this site ultimately unfulfilled.

Today as I checked the daily numbers, I was floored by the Google search that listed my blog as one of the top potential sources of information to the following query:

"music to help you defecate"

I don't know whether to be horrified or honored.

But since I also like to be helpful, let me first ask my bound-up compadre a question: are you looking for music that will relax your bowels or would you rather find something that will scare the sh** out of you? If the goal is the latter, I would suggest any of a variety of death metal bands out there...seriously scary stuff. If that doesn't work, give Clay Aiken a shot (sorry Mom).

If it's relaxation you're going for, might I suggest some smooth jazz, Air Supply (possibly falling in the scary range), Yanni (Hey! What happened to the mustache?), or just plain ol' nature sounds. Hmmm. I wonder...if the sound of running water makes you have to pee, does the sound of...oh never mind.

If none of that works, just take some freakin' Miralax.

To Kill A Mockingbird

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been, let's see, never since my last confession (I'm not Catholic), but I really need to get this off my chest. You see, I have murder in my heart.

No, no...it's nothing like that, although I wouldn't mind roughing up that jerk that cut me off the other day. I guess I need to confess that too, huh? But I digress. I feel kind of stupid admitting this, so I'm just going to say it. I want to kill a bird. A mockingbird. And since Atticus Finch told his kids, Jeb and Scout, that it was a sin to kill a mockingbird, I figured I'd better come clean before this business got completely out of hand.

Normally I have nothing but admiration and respect for all of God's creatures, except pigeons (I'd like all of them dead), oh, and spiders, I don't much care for spiders, but desperate times call for desperate measures. My neighbors have a large mesquite tree in their backyard. And in that tree lives the aforementioned mockingbird, the subject of my ire. He sits up in that tree and sings, and sings, and sings, which is fine. He has a beautiful voice and is usually very entertaining. Until the sun goes down and I want to go to sleep. But he's up there in that tree just singing his fool heart out. I don't know when the damn thing sleeps! I've woken up way too many times in the middle of the night only to be greeted by his gleeful song that keeps me awake for hours, and nothing I do returns me to my blissful slumber. I'm at my wits end! I need my sleep!

So while I know and understand that it's wrong to kill a mockingbird, what's your take on hosing him down a little bit?

The End of the World...Finally!

OK, this is it...I promise. My final "Final Project" from my video editing class. I chose to make a two minute music video to REM's It's the End of the World As We Know It (And I Feel Fine) where I basically pulled a bunch of the craziest video clips from You Tube I could find (you know, people falling down, throwing up, getting hit in the nuts, dying in horror and disaster flicks, MASS HYSTERIA) and threw them together to make a video. Diane's response when I showed her my "masterpiece"?

"Oooo-kaaay?"

Some people just don't appreciate good art when they see it.

The Ones I DIDN'T Use

A couple of months ago, I was invited by one of Diane's extended family members to open an account on a new family tree website called Geni.com. It's a pretty neat little site where families can upload pictures, share time lines of significant events in their lives, and just generally keep in touch...which can have its ups and downs. It's family, you know. Shortly after I joined the site, I sent out invitations to several other family members to join as well. One of those invitations went out to my brother, and while most of my family members replied by joining the site, my brother's invitation went unanswered.

Now, my side of the family likes to joke around, and that includes practical jokes. I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to "entice" my brother to join the website. So I found a picture on the internet (that doubled me over with laughter) and posted it as his profile picture on the website. It might have looked something like this:



Well that apparently wasn't enough to bring him out of hiding. Not "outlandish" enough. So I added another:



Now, my brother is typically someone you shouldn't screw with. He gets even...times ten. I think at about this time I received an e-mail from my mom reminding me that I was playing with fire, but I didn't listen. This was too damn funny. And he still wasn't joining. I decided to up the ante:







Finally, last weekend, he joined the site...and got his revenge. But instead of adding pictures, he added events to my timeline. So right along with significant life-events like my wedding day and the birthdays of my children, I now had new events:

1. Alternative Experimentation
2. I Came Out of the Closet
3. I Strangled My First Prostitute

Oh, and one of the nice little features about using Geni.com that I didn't realize, or at least overlooked, is that whenever you make a change to your profile or to someone else's profile, anything at all, they NOTIFY THE WHOLE FAMILY. And by the WHOLE FAMILY, I mean anyone even remotely linked to you. Diane's 16th cousin 400 times removed? Yeah, she knows my brother is a freak and that I strangle prostitutes. Greeeaaaat.

Shortly after I stop laughing at my brother's additions to my profile, I notice that my profile has not one, but TWO messages from that family member who invited me to join the site in the first place. She also sent me a personal e-mail. She was not a happy camper, and the whole frickin' extended family now knows it. And while I was thoroughly pissed off with the way she chose to handle the situation, I decided, with a little prodding from Diane (who was just as pissed), to let it go (until now) for the sake of "family harmony". Yes, I'm a "high-road" kind of guy.

But here's the real problem. I still have all of these pictures assembled for my beloved brother, and I now can't display them for my family to enjoy without other "family members", most of whom I don't even know, getting all bent out of shape. So I guess I'll just have to post them here. So without further ado, here are the one's I didn't use:









So, there you have it, the rest of my pics of my little bro. And if anyone doesn't like it, they can...

Exercise Your Creativity Somewhere Else, Please

I've been tweaking the girls' bedtime routine lately and I thought I'd finally come across something that, for now at least, had the desired calming effect on them. I used to tell them stories about my childhood and sing them a song, but there are only so many childhood stories I can remember. And the pressure was always on because the stories had to be "funny". I'd finish a story and the girls would either be cackling with laughter, the opposite effect I'm trying to achieve at bedtime, or they'd stare at me blankly before giving me the bad news, "Dad, that wasn't funny." Then they'd whine and beg and plead for another, funnier, story. So for now, stories are out.

A few weeks ago I began writing words, one letter at a time (duh, that's how you usually write 'em), on Kailey's back. I'd write a letter and she'd guess what it was until she could decipher the message, usually in the vain of close your eyes and go to sleep or there will be hell to pay, but sweeter. One night Kailey asked me to draw a picture on her back.

"Ummm, OK. What do you want me to draw?"

"A unicorn chasing a butterfly."

She'd been thinking about that one for awhile. Now if she had asked me to draw that on paper, there would've been no frickin' way. I'd try, of course, but it would most likely elicit a response not dissimilar to my unfunny bedtime stories. But she didn't. She wanted me to draw on her back with my index finger, which is magic, by the way, and that night I created the most breathtaking unicorn and butterfly in the history of unicorns and butterflies. Rembrandt's jaw would have dropped in awe. Picasso would have shat. And Michaelangelo would have put down his brushes and walked away. It was that good. And the best part of all? It practically put her to sleep!

Each night we've been mixing it up, from back messages (not to be confused with back massages), to back drawing, to face tracing, where we, yes, trace each others' faces. Last night was face tracing night, and Kailey wanted me to go beyond the normal face trace and push the limits of my face tracing creativity. So I made her a clown. I traced all of her facial features the way I normally do, then added a big red smiley face to to match the big red nose. I gave her those high, arching eyebrows and freckles, a flowing curly pink wig, and topped it all off with a green bow tie. Voilà!

Kailey asked if she could have a turn. Who am I to turn down a good face trace. So she sat up and went to work immediately on my eyes, giving me those long, luxurious lashes that most women would kill for. She rouged my cheeks, lipsticked my lips, and for the pièce de résistance, gave me two humongous, sagging breasts followed by two tiny nipples. Then she collapsed in a fit of riotous laughter. I just grinned and shook my head.

"What? I was just being creative!"

Looks like I'm back to the drawing board on that bedtime routine.

The Fugitive

I had the strangest dream last night, which is par for the course for me. If I can ever remember a dream these days, it's because it's strange. Really strange.

I'm shopping in an open-air market, which is to say that it's a grocery store, only outside. There are aisles and displays and specials right out there with the trees, but at least it's blacktopped, you know, so you don't have to push your shopping cart through the dirt. The developers of this open-air market were really on their game. Well it must have been a crisp day and my throat must have been dry and croaky because as I pass an end cap display of Halls Mentholyptus cough drops, I reach down and, without picking it up, expertly insert my thumbnail at the end of the rectangular pack, rip open the packaging, and remove one cough drop, all in one fluid motion. I then pop it into my mouth and go on my merry way.

"Ahem. So you think yer gonna wanta pay for that?" comes a voice from behind me.

I turn to see who in my dream I perceive to be the store manager. In reality it is Greg Eichorn.

Greg Eichorn was a schoolmate of mine from probably Kindergarten through high school. Actually through college, though we only saw each other one time on the U of I's large campus in the four years that I was there. I haven't seen or talked to him in nearly twenty years, and here he is confronting my Halls Mentholyptus theft in my first wacky dream of 2008. Greg Eichorn is no grocery store manager. In fact, I think I heard somewhere that he's a fairly successful lawyer in Chicago. Maybe that's why he's been designated to chase me in my dream to get his Halls Mentholyptus back.

"Give me a break," I crack back. "It costs all of 5¢. Here." I shove my hand in my pocket, produce a quarter, and flip it toward him. "And you can keep the change."

Yes, I was a bit of an ass in my dream (sorry Greg). I am surprised by my dream-behavior because it is completely out of character for me. And I am equally surprised, like a quarter would even cover a pack of Halls Mentholyptus cough drops. But I didn't need a pack of Halls Mentholyptus. I only needed one. I am amazed that I was even able to find a quarter in my pocket during my dream. Usually you can't find things in your dreams. If you need a quarter (or pants, for that matter), you spend the entirety of that dream desperately looking for it as though your very life depended on it.

Well apparently mine did because after I flipped the quarter at Greg Eichorn and turned to go, he followed me. What did I expect? Now I don't remember paying for my groceries in the dream, but I presumed that I had because they were all boxed up. Apparently in dreams the checkers don't ask you "Paper or plastic". So Greg Eichorn is chasing me over a Halls Mentholyptus, and a flipped quarter. But we're not running. Yet.

I wheel my cart of boxed groceries up the blacktop a ways until we reach the entrance of the subdivision where I grew up. I've glanced over my shoulder a couple of times and see Greg Eichorn casually following me at a comfortable distance. He might be whistling too. I remove two boxes from the cart and begin a brisk walk home. Why the hell did they have to use boxes? They're so hard to carry. Greg Eichorn, too, picks up the pace. I break into a sprint, or as much of a sprint as I can manage, carrying two boxes of groceries. Greg Eichorn follows in hot pursuit. The Halls Mentholyptus is nowhere to be found, whether sucked down or spit out, I have no idea. It is now a distant memory as I run for my life.

I arrive home with Greg Eichorn hot on my heels, only my home isn't my childhood home, but a large apartment building. I'm hauling ass up flights of stairs with Greg Eichorn right behind me. I burst through my apartment door, throw the groceries down (man, I must have really needed those groceries), and slam the door. But it's too late. Greg Eichorn is right there to keep the door from slamming shut. I push with all my might to shut it, but it's no use. Greg Eichorn is a big guy.

"Hey, I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to talk," he assures me from the other side of the door. I don't know why I'm afraid of Greg Eichorn in my dream. Greg was also a really nice guy. But dreams don't always make sense, and in this one I just know I have to get away at any cost.

I let him into the apartment, and we engage in small talk around the dining room table for a few minutes. I am careful to keep the table between him and me. He is careful to keep himself between me and the door. There is nothing between me and the window. After luring him into a false sense of security, I make a break for it, paying no attention to the fact that I just raced up, like, a hundred flights of stairs. I've caught Greg Eichorn completely by surprise. He yells, "Hey!" but I'm already gone, having thrown open the curtains and the window and hurling my body out into space.

On the outside, the apartment building has transformed into my childhood home, and I have just jumped out of my first floor bedroom window. Phew! I hit the ground running. Using the crabapple tree at the corner of the house for cover, I sprint across the front of the Hill's house next door, around the corner and across the border of their back yard. But the landscape has changed in the twenty years since I lived here. Where there was once open land between all of these houses in my neighborhood, there are now chain link fences dividing their properties. And in each of these adjacent properties lie very large, sleeping dogs. I'm screwed. I can easily scale the fences, but to do so would awaken the dogs and, at the very least, alert Greg Eichorn to my whereabouts. And at the very worst, the dogs could relieve me of my life.

I'm scared to go back the way I came because Greg Eichorn has certainly emerged from the front of my house by now and will surely head in my direction. I hunker down behind the vacant kennel and dog house in the Hill's back yard trying to hold my terror at bay. Oh why did I have to steal that stupid frickin' cough drop? And why did I have to act like a jerk and flip a quarter at Greg Eichorn, a man easily twice my size? I am an idiot and I'm cowering like a frightened little bunny rabbit in a crappy hiding place. Any second now Greg Eichorn is going to find me and after how I've behaved, he'll no longer be in the mood to talk and I will pay for that Halls Mentholyptus...

Pop.

...I'm comin' home, to the place where I belong, where your love has always been enough for me...

It's 6:00 a.m. and my alarm has just gone off. I've never been more thankful to hear Chris Daughtry in all my life. I hit the snooze button and then flop back down trying to decipher the bizarre elements of my dream. Why did I steal? Why did I act like a jerk? Why was Greg Eichorn, of all people, the agent of justice? I know he's a lawyer, but I don't know in what field, and, besides that, I haven't thought about him in years. Why did I run? Very strange. Very, very strange indeed.

My alarm went off a second time and I arose to start the day. But I haven't been able to shake my dream because my behavior in it really bothers me. OK, all you dream interpreters out there, let me know what you think. I'm not guilt-ridden over stealing something, because I haven't. Maybe I'm just nervous because I have to report for my make-up jury duty service next week.

Hiding the Salami

Time to add one more thing to my growing list of concerns regarding raising daughters. Actually, this has been on my list for quite some time, but I was hoping that it was just a phase and that the girls would grow out of it. No such luck. This one has me scared out of my mind and I don't quite know what to do. How do I put this in a way that doesn't sound really bad? I don't think there is one, so here it goes: it seems as though my daughters have an infatuation with seeing male genitalia, and more specifically, my genitalia. I'm completely freaked.

They enjoy playing a game I call "I Saw Your Pee-Pee" where they burst into the bathroom whenever I'm taking a shower or going to the bathroom. I do my best to cover myself, but they still cackle "I SAW YOUR PEE-PEE!" before fleeing the room. This is disturbing on so many levels, not least of which is having your manhood called a "pee-pee". OK, so maybe the water to the shower was still a little nippy when I stepped in. Cut me some slack! Having a female, regardless of age, point at your package and laugh is never a good thing.

Even more disturbing is the fact that one look doesn't send them running for the hills screaming at the top of their lungs and clawing at their eyes. This is the desired response, at least from my point of view. I want them completely disgusted by the mere thought of the opposite sex's member.

Lately I've been ascribing to the "out of sight, out of mind" philosophy. I lock the door while going to the bathroom or taking a shower hoping against hope that if they don't have access to see "it", then they'll forget about "it". I don't think it's working...my philosophy, I mean. This morning I forgot to lock the bathroom door while taking my shower, and in burst Kailey to tell me something about her socks not fitting right. I immediately covered myself and huddled into the corner of the shower. "Does it look like I'm in any position to help you with your socks?" I asked over my shoulder.

"No."

"So where do you think you should go to get new socks?"

"To my drawer?"

"Exactly."

"OK." She turned and started to close the door behind her, then turned back and added, "I saw your pee-pee."

I spent the rest of my shower beating my forehead against the tiled wall. Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if she had told me she saw my one-eyed Gila Monster, but I doubt it.

Revenge, Montezuma-Style

We had Thai for dinner tonight, and I really need to use the facilities right now. The problem is that each of our two bathroom's bathtubs are currently occupied by little girls playing with various toys and supposedly washing their bodies. So while I sit here and suffer, writing furiously in a vain attempt to take my mind off of the attack storming the sphincter gates, the girls are splish-splashing and having the time of their lives. If they don't hurry up, there'll be a whole 'nother kind of splish-splashing going on.

Then it occurred to me, "Just go...they do it to you ALL THE TIME!"

Yeah, they do, don't they.

It's true. Whenever I'm in the bathroom getting ready, one of the girls will come storming in and, in one fluid motion, the lid goes up, the pants hit the floor, and they plop down on the pot.

"Why don't you go use the other bathroom? You know, the one that I'm not in?"

"But Daaa-aad, I like this bathroom."

"You're not going to poop, are you?"

"No, I don't think so."

Fart noises echo in pot.

"OK, maybe I do need to go poop."

I then let out an exasperated cry and flee for my life. It happens all the time and it doesn't matter which daughter. They are both equally oblivious.

So maybe tonight I'll teach them a little lesson in bathroom etiquette. See how they like it when their old man comes in during bath-time and takes a Thai-laden dump mere inches away from where they're bathing. Perhaps after tonight the other bathroom won't look so bad.

Oops. Gotta go.

I Hope This Isn't A Sign

Who can it BE no-ow...da da da DA da da...
Who can it BE no-ow...da da da DA da da...

I grabbed my cell phone and saw that it was Diane calling from home. As soon as I answered the phone, I heard it.

beep

I immediately detected the frustration in Diane's voice. "OK, now the smoke detector in OUR bedroom is beeping." She was in the process of the girls' bedtime routine, and I, of course, was at work. Like our living room, our bedroom also has vaulted ceilings, and Diane was a little befuddled as to how to work my collapsible, extendable Gorilla ladder. I started to talk her through it when work suddenly required my immediate attention. I told her I'd call back in five minutes.

I lied. It was about fifteen minutes later when I called and Kailey answered the phone. "Daddy, I showed Mommy how to use the ladder!" I about fell off my chair laughing. The girls have been present for several of my home improvement projects that required the use of the Gorilla ladder, and it makes me extremely proud to know that that knowledge stuck. My girls will be able to change smoke detector batteries, hang Christmas lights, and the like. That's pretty cool. Tomorrow I think I'll teach them how to change a tire.

I still had to talk Diane through the actual battery replacement process. "It takes a 9 volt battery...it's in the top desk drawer by the computer...there's a compartment on the side of the detector that slides out..." Diane then handed the phone to Kyra while she climbed the ladder and finished the task. Kyra spent several minutes pouting about how she only got to help Mommy with one thing while Kailey got to help her with TWO things. Typical Kyra. I tried to explain that sometimes the biggest help a little girl can give is by getting out of the way and not pouting, but she wasn't buying.

When satisfied that Diane had the situation under control, I hung up the phone and returned to my work. That's when the little voice began talking. What if it's a sign? The little voice talks to me more often than I'd like to admit. What's worse is that I talk back.

What if what's a sign?

C'mon, two beeping smoke detectors in one week?

The batteries were probably all installed at the same time and are now going bad, that's all.

Sure, sure, you're probably right. You shouldn't worry about anything. I'm sorry I even brought it up. Still, I'd probably sleep with one eye open 'cause you ne-ver kno-ow.

Thanks. Thanks a lot for that, you stupid, STUPID little voice. Now I have to see if the extinguisher still works. And find a good shrink.

Mommy's Movie Preferences

Happy Mother's Day, Moms! I hope you had a great day. This morning, the girls were excited about Mother's Day, and Kailey got up very early, before 6:00, in order to make Diane breakfast in bed, because, in her words, "every Mom should have breakfast in bed on Mother's Day." Breakfast consisted of a cold cinnamon roll, but it's the thought that counts, right?

Later in the morning, we showered Diane with cards and all of the "crafts" the girls made at school in preparation of the momentous occasion that is Mother's Day. One of the last things Diane received was a construction paper flower made by Kyra. The flower consisted of several layers of different colored paper that were folded into "petals", and the whole flower was folded up and held together by a Velcro clasp. When the clasp was opened, the flower unfolded to reveal something about Mommy on each petal. It was actually quite clever. And it's always interesting to see what your young one is going to reveal about you. Here's what Kyra's flower had to say about Diane:

Red Petal #1 had a picture of Diane, Kailey, and Kyra which was taken at a school function.

Red Petal #2: Kyra's response to the phrase, "I love my Mom because..." she loves me. Fair enough.

Red Petal #3: "She is..." 38 years old. One day she'll learn to never reveal a woman's age.

Red Petal #4: "My Mom's Hobby/Favorite thing to do is..." heng out with me! It's true. Diane spends most of her time henging out. Honorable mentions = sleeping, watching reality TV, sunbathing, and drinking margaritas.

Orange Petal #1: "Her job is..." tel peepul whin thay have to go. Though she's been to Diane's workplace hundreds of times, Kyra clearly has no idea what she does. Sounds like she thinks Diane is a bathroom monitor.

Orange Petal #2: "When I am sick my Mom..." give me mesinr. Give her a break. She's six. Besides, given the correct dosage, mesinr can be extremely effective.

Orange Petal #3: "Her favorite food is..." Tie food. Anything that TIES her over till dinner! AR! AR!

Orange Petal #4: "Her eyes are..." brown. Diane has amazing eyes, but they're hard to classify. They're actually a blue-grey.

Which brings us to Yellow Petal #1. Diane opened the flower to Yellow Petal #1. She read it. I read it. We looked at each other and broke out laughing. Here is what it said: "Her favorite TV or movie..." adot movies. No, she's not talking about Arizona Department of Transportation movies...that's ADULT movies. Now Kyra's idea of adult movies are completely different from an adult's. But our thoughts quickly turned to Kyra's teacher who clearly had to do a double take when reading her response. The joke of the day quickly became how Diane likes adult movies, and I tried to cash in on her newfound pleasure, but she wasn't biting. Kyra, being ever the sensitive soul, thought we were making fun of her and ran away crying every time we brought it up, so we had to nip that fun in the bud.

Yellow Petals 2-4...oh, who even cares. Nothing matters after you find out your wife of nearly sixteen years has a newfound appreciation for adult movies! Looks like Father's Day came early this year!