My Better Side

This is what happens when you spend too much time at Kappy's...

...and your father-in-law comes over early to fix a gaping hole in your shower wall...

...and your precious 7 year-old runs and grabs the digital camera (I'm so proud I could cry).



Yes, that's my big butt in polka dotted boxer shorts.

Yes, those are genuine, bona fide Camp Rock sheets I'm sleeping on.

Yes, I gave Kyra a thorough beat-down-tickle-torture shortly after discovering this picture on the digital camera. Then I gave her a big hug because, like I said, I was just so proud that her first thought after seeing me in this humiliating position was to go grab the camera. I've created a montsa!

And yes, Kailey's room has since received a top-to-bottom cleaning, compliments of my lovely wife.

Questions?

I didn't think so.

An Olympic Sidenote

My favorite Olympian name?

Dutch swimmer, Pieter Van Den Hoogenband.

Sure, he's been around for awhile (this is probably his last Olympics), but every time the commentators mention his name, I have to repeat it, saying it over and over (and over), much to Diane's chagrin. I just can't help myself. It's like I have Tourette's syndrome or something. The name is just too lyrical...

Pie-ter-Van-Den-Hoo-gen-band...

Pie-ter-Van-Den-Hoo-gen-band...

Pie-ter-Van-Den-Hoo-gen-band...


He he. Now you have Tourette's syndrome too.

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.

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.

Squeezing the Charmin

Last week Kailey waddled into the family room with her pants down around her ankles, bent over and asked me, "Daddy, do I have any toilet paper on my bottom?", giving me yet another reason to hate Charmin toilet paper.

What's to hate about Charmin, you ask? Well, nothing...if you have a home full of adults, or at least older children who are able to economize when it comes to TP usage. You see Charmin likes to boast that their toilet paper is so much thicker and so much more absorbent than their competitors that it requires fewer squares to wipe your tender derrière. See for yourself:



And it's true. Charmin is so thick that, if necessary, a single square would be sufficient to wipe the butts of a family of four for a week. But trying to explain to your kids that they can and should use less is a whole 'nother ball o' wax. Their main concern is not getting the poop off their butts. That's secondary. Their main concern is not getting poop on their hands, and that requires a hell of lot more than three puny squares. To ensure hand cleanliness requires no fewer than twenty, 12-ply squares of Charmin...per wipe, which means:

1. The average spool life of a roll of Charmin in our home is approximately one day, or four bowel movements. Whichever comes first.
   
2. The rubber from my plunger is practically sucked off the wooden handle from overuse. I spend more time in the bathroom unclogging toilets than I spend on the throne catching up on my reading. That's a lot of frickin' time.
3. Our water bill is through the roof from multiple flushes, mainly because I'm too lazy to go get the plunger. I usually have to flush three times, bringing nasty water to the very brim of catastrophe before retrieving the plunger. You'd think I'd learn.

That's my initial reason for hating Charmin toilet paper. Then came the Kailey incident, which I know was incited by yet another Charmin commercial, a commercial that I can't find on You Tube. Perhaps you've seen it. In it star the same cute bears you see in the clip above, but in this one Baby Bear has used a competitors toilet paper, and as a result, has FLECKS OF TOILET PAPER ALL OVER HER ASS. She must have had quite a blow out. Momma Bear tries removing it...with a BRUSH...but those flecks aren't going anywhere. She finally has to get out the vacuum cleaner to rid Baby Bear's bum of that pesky TP. Are you kidding me?

Kailey has never asked me about sticky TP down under. Never. And the fact that she was cackling while she asked me (bear, er, bare bummed) clued me in to her little joke. So now I hate Charmin for putting crappy ideas into my kids' heads. Don't I have enough problems already?

This Time It's Going to Stick...Really

I'm getting organamized for 2008, because this is going to be a freakin' fantastic year. I'm making lists and setting goals, which I tend to do every year only to find them abandoned at the bottom of a pile of unfiled paperwork six months later. I don't know what it is about making New Year's Resolutions. I enjoy the process of creating them, but hate the process of keeping them.

It's like college. I loved getting to the end of the semester when it was time to register for the next term. The challenge was to make the "perfect" schedule, which usually boiled down to no 8:00 am classes. And you could experiment a little bit...schedule all of your classes on Monday/Wednesday/Friday and take Tuesday/Thursday off. Or take all morning classes and have the rest of the day to yourself, or all afternoon classes where you could sleep 'till noon. The sky was the limit and I enjoyed the challenge of filling in those blocks of time. Once the new term rolled around, however, and I had to attend those classes was a whole 'nother ball of yarn. Those classes that I had so strategically and painstakingly researched and scheduled usually lost their luster once I walked through the classroom door.

This year's going to be different, though. I can feel it in my bones. Just that gut feeling that defies explanation. You know, the way I felt that Illinois was going to destroy USC. The way that people truly believed the Titanic was unsinkable. But this year I have a plan. And in that plan I've got goals and aspirations. I've even got frickin' categories, from health to finances to family and relationships to career. And I have subcategories for personal wellness as I look at my mental, emotional, physical, and spiritual wellbeing. I have series' of small goals that will lead me to achieve my large ones. I have time lines and pie graphs and flow charts and electronic planners and support software. I have Microsoft Outlook.

Wow. Now that I look at this, not just this post but all these papers spread out, it's a little overwhelming. What am I thinking? I can't do all this. There's no way in hell I can keep all of these resolutions. And in trying to achieve all 167 of them, I'll end up accomplishing none. Why do I do this to myself? One of these years I'll finally grow the balls to stick to my ultimate resolution: don't waste time making resolutions! I'll start that next year.

2007...Final Indignities

Thought I'd try to get one more post in for 2007, you know, just to wrap things up before the new year ('cause I know you were concerned):

Garage Door Opener Installation...

...went off without a hitch. Literally. They didn't include the hitch. So we put it up without one. Seems to work fine without it.

One On One With Aunt Debbie

My sister-in-law is in town for the Holidays, and late last week decided to give each of the girls a one-on-one day with her where they would go and do whatever they wanted. Over the course of those two days Kyra got locked in a gas station bathroom and Kailey made her first visit to a bar where she played pool. Merry Christmas Aunt Debbie. Paybacks are hell.

The Girls are Headed to Disneyland...

...and I'm stuck at home. With Rex, the super-hyper-active-hundred-pound-year-old Golden Retriever. My in-laws are taking my brother-in-law and his family for my nephew's 5th birthday, and the girls are tagging along. We, in turn, get to watch their dog. Oh well, it's the least that we can do seeing as how my father-in-law has spent the past two months breaking his back installing our flagstone patio. Paybacks are hell.

And Finally...

...a sincere wish for a great 2008. Happy New Year!

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.

DoWiNaBloPoMo

I have fought the fight.

I have finished the race.

Though I wavered for a couple of days, I never said, "You know what? This is a stupid waste of time," and gave up.

Thirty days. Thirty posts.

I am Done With National Blog Posting Month.

It's kind of like dropping your kid off at college for the first time, although I've never done that before. I have been the drop-ee, so I have experienced the feelings of parental abandonment, of watching them plod back to the car, then busying myself in my dorm room, trying not to think about the fact that I have NO friends in this strange new town. OK, now that I think about it, this is nothing like that. Sorry.

It's kind of like giving birth, again an experience I have next to no idea of what the hell I'm talking about. I mean, I was there for both of the girls births, but I can only imagine what it feels like to give birth. It looks really, really painful, and I was marginally freaked out by my wife's psychotic behavior before the epidural kicked in. But I was a natural at holding hands and saying "push" over and over and over again with greater and greater intensity as the head emerged a little bit, then disappeared, then emerged a little bit more. Alright, so maybe I shouldn't talk about childbirth either.

Large bowel movements? Now there's something I can talk about! I've experienced a butt-load of those, but I probably shouldn't talk about that because, well, that's gross.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that writing a post a day was hard. Maybe not in the same category as dropping off your kids at college or giving birth, but quite possibly in the same category as grunting one out on the throne after all-you-can-eat night at the Sizzler. And hopefully you won't stand back to admire your Sizzler-work the same way you might with the body of work produced during NaBloPoMo, although there was this one time...oh, never mind.

I set out to produce a month of quality posts, without doing a lot of complaining about it (I did subject myself to this torture, after all), and I think I did a pretty good job, until today. Overall, I'm satisfied. And I'm done.

Don't I win a prize or something?

The satisfaction of a job well done?

Bah!


The Grand Finale

Here's a funny birthday pic of my father-in-law trying to get out of the way before Kyra goes all Jedi on him...and the piñata.



Happy Friday.

Me Me Me Me Meme

Apparently, my Crazy 8's weren't crazy enough, and I've been tagged by Dave at Living in the Now for yet another Meme. He took it easy on me, though. In this meme I need only to reveal "7 weird and/or random facts about yourself." First I need to lay out the ground rules before I get to the dirt:

1. Link to the people that tagged you and post the rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 random and/or weird facts about yourself.
3. Tag 7 random people at the end of your post, and include links to their blogs.
4. Let each person know that they’ve been tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.

My weirdness:

• I made it through the 80's without owning ONE pair of parachute pants, though I desperately wanted them. My mom gave me the choice of owning parachute pants or eating. I chose eating.
  

• I'm a pen fanatic. I love pens and am very particular about the pens I use. My current favorite is the Uniball Signo fine tip. I don't like sharing my pens either. I break out into a cold sweat if someone asks to borrow it, and I pity the fool who tries to run off with my pen.
  

• Even though I don't see it, I've had a LOT of people tell me I look like Nicholas Cage.

• I am afflicted with the same skin disorder that Michael Jackson claims to have. It's called vitiligo, which is a loss of natural pigmentation resulting in white patches of skin. People with vitiligo have no defense against the sun's rays. The patches won't tan, just burn. That's why you see Michael with an umbrella whenever he's outside. Southern AZ is not the best place in the world for me to be. I try to stay in the shade and slather on the sunblock.

• I like Barry Manilow. I can't help it. I blame my Mom because I grew up listening to him. But I liked listening to him. In sixth grade I entered a solo vocal competition where I sang "Even Now". My music teacher wouldn't let me sing it the way I wanted to, like Barry sang it. I had to sing it choral style, with no vibrato and, oh yeah, up one octave. I sounded like I belonged in the frickin' Vienna Boy's Choir. I hated that woman. I only practiced the song twice, won first place, and never entered competition again. Barry would be so proud.

• I am a recovering vandal. I once spray painted my girlfriend's name on the support of a highway overpass. I was in high school and was with two friends who spray painted the names of their girl friends on the same overpass. One day several years later, when I was home from college and my younger brother was now dating one of the girls whose name had been written on the overpass, my Mom burst through the door. "I am going to KILL your brother! I was driving down under the overpass, and there in four-foot tall letters was spray painted, 'I LOVE CHRISSY'. I wondered what the statute of limitations were on punishment for vandalism, but then figured, screw it! I was 21 or 22. I was a man! So I started laughing. Hard. "And if you would've looked ten feet to the right, you would've seen 'I LOVE DIANE' written in five-foot tall letters." I confessed.
  

• I graduated from the University of Illinois at Urbana/Champaign. That is neither weird nor random. Just outside of Champaign, as you drive westbound on I-74, is a sign noting "The Origin of the Kaskaskia River". There is nothing there. No creek. No body of water anywhere. So one night, in the "wee" hours of the morning, my roommates and I decided to drive out there and create an origin of the Kaskaskia. And we weren't even intoxicated. I don't think.

TAG!

• Muddleman at Muddleman
  
• Andie D. at Grumppopotamus
• Kelly at O for Obsessive
• Gunfighter at The View From Here

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!

A Tale of Three Dinners

Diane is in smoldering southern California for her company's annual Holiday Meetings. Her folks are in Illinois visiting their son. I'm at home "batching it" with the girls and my in-law's dog, Rex. I guess that's not technically "batching it", as bachelor's are not usually charged with the responsibility of childcare, but I tried to make the most of it.

Last night the girls had softball practice. It doesn't matter how early I start the process of getting them ready for practice, we ALWAYS end up rushing to get there on time. Their practice is at 6:00, so I started the dinner routine at 4:30. The girls wanted spaghetti leftovers. Great! That's easy enough! I popped two plates in the microwave, steamed some veggies, and PRESTO! Dinner for two. I'd had leftovers for lunch, so I decided to focus on getting this gravy train on its tracks so we could get to practice on time.

I looked down at Rex's bowl and it was still full of food. I had picked him up from my in-law's earlier and brought him and that full bowl of food back to our place. He hadn't eaten all day. I decided to give him a fresh bowl of food because, seriously, who would want to eat anything that had been sitting out for twelve hours? So I mixed half a can of dog food with a cup of Ol' Roy dry, and VOILA! Dinner fit for a king! "Here you go sexy-Rexy," I gushed as I set the bowl down in front of him. He sniffed it for a second, turned up his nose, and walked away. Well if he starves, it's not my fault, I thought.

The girls finished their dinner, changed clothes, peed, and we headed out to practice. We got there right at 6:00. I guess I need to start dinner at 4:00. After practice, it was baths and bedtime. I gave the girls their final hugs and kisses goodnight, then returned to kitchen. Time for my dinner. I opened the fridge and stood staring. What do I feel like tonight? Nothing jumped out at me, so I opened the freezer door. There staring me right in the face was a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream. Now that's what a bachelor would eat for dinner! So I grabbed the pint and a spoon and plopped down into the big comfy chair that I usually share with Diane.

I downed about a third of the pint before finally coming to my senses. I can't eat this whole thing for dinner! So I put the pint back in the freezer and looked for something else to eat. Since I had already checked out the fridge and freezer, I turned to the pantry. Hmmm...what looks good...POPCORN...AND BEER. Popcorn and beer...works for me! I chucked a bag of Orville Redenbacher into the microwave and popped the top off a bottle of Red Hook ESB. Now THAT'S dinner fit for a king. I looked down at Rex's bowl. Still full. He hadn't touched it.

I had just settled back into the chair when the phone rang. It was Diane checking in from California. We were filling each other in on the happenings of our days when I told her about Rex's apparent hunger strike. "Oh, didn't Mom tell you?" she asked. "You have to put his food in the microwave for one minute or he won't eat it."

Are you frickin' kidding me? I looked at the dog laying in the middle of the floor, then to his bowl, then back at the dog. He sat up wondering what was going on. "You mean I have to nuke his food or this high maintenance animal won't touch it?"

"Yep. I can't believe Mom didn't tell you that."

"I can't believe I'm doing this," I muttered as I got up from the chair and put the bowl of dog food into the microwave. Rex's ears perked up as I closed the door and hit the express cook button. A minute later I placed the bowl of piping-hot dog food at Rex's feet. He devoured the whole bowl of food. It's amazing what people do for their pets. I returned to my chair and finished my beer and popcorn meal as well. And both of us went to bed, satisfied.

The End

There's Never A Hole To Crawl Into When You Need One

Kyra's 1st grade teacher came over for a home visit this afternoon. Now there's kind of a neat/weird tension to the teacher home visit. On the one hand, it's cool that the teachers would want to come over and spend time with your child in their home environment. And on the other, you can't help but feel that they're checking up on you, gaging your competence as a parent, host, housekeeper, and digging for any dirt they can find. Well, with blabber-mouth Kyra around, teachers can leave their shovels at home. She'll gladly volunteer any juicy tidbits of information they might secretly crave.

The home visit started innocently enough. Kyra showed her teacher her room, then brought out a couple of games to play. While they played Disney DVD Bingo, I helped Kailey with her homework. When Kailey finished her homework, I let her join them while I sat down with a book and nervously waited for the visit to end.

Kyra gave her teacher the delayed tour of the house, ending in the den where the computer and my guitars are. "My dad plays the guitar. Sometimes he plays and I sing. We're working on a Hannah Montana song. And this one's a ROCKER guitar!" she explained. "Oooh," her teacher responded, feigning interest. I rolled my eyes and prayed for the visit to end. It didn't.

They sat down to play one last game, and the dam opened up: "My Dad likes beer."

My eyes bulged out of their sockets and I almost dropped my book while I simultaneously choked on my own spit. Now what Kyra said is true: I do, in fact, like beer. But I was concerned by how this information might be misconstrued by her teacher. Some people like beer so much that they drink lots, and lots, and lots of it, sometimes in a single sitting. I'm much more of a moderate, one and done type of beer drinker. Sometimes I'll admittedly go a little crazy though, and have two. My attention was now completely focused on the discussion in the other room.

"Yeah, I try to tell him that beer is AL-CA-HOL, but he just tells me that he has ONLY ONE during dinner. But this one time during dinner he said to Mommy, 'Hey, Hon, grab me another beer!'"

Dear Lord, I promise I'll go to church more often if You'd just MAKE THIS STOP RIGHT NOW!

I looked over into the den where Kyra's back was to me. Her teacher was mercifully sitting across from her and out of my line of site. However, as I stared at Kyra's back and mentally willed her to SHUT UP, I saw her teacher's head slowly leaning in to sneak a peak at me in the other room. Thankfully there was a smile spread across her face, and I knew that everything would be OK. I grinned and gave her a nervous wave before she returned to the game with Kyra.

Now if I could only get her out the door before Kyra tells her I shout "BARKING SPIDERS" when I fart.

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.

Skechers...the Key to Happiness

I bought some new shoes the other day.

I haven't bought shoes in a couple of years.

I hate buying shoes.

I hate shopping.

Period.

Which is why I haven't bought shoes in a couple of years.

I went to Kohl's to buy a new pair of running/athletic shoes.

But I couldn't find any I liked.

I saw these on my way out of the store.

They're Skechers.

They looked cool.

I liked the stitching...

...and the little nubby things on the bottom.

Even though you can't see them, I know they're there.

I tried them on.

They looked even better on my feet.

They felt good, too.

Good and comfy.

So I bought them.

They make me happy.

I'm smiling.

If I'd have known that these shoes were the key to happiness, I'd have bought them a long time ago.

If only my meds had the same effect.

You Know You're Out of Shape When...

Last week the girls started practices for Fall Softball, aka Fall Ball. They practice twice a week, one practice focusing on defense, the other, on offense. Tuesday night was an offensive practice, and I decided to lend a hand. One of the coaches was pitching for batting practice, the other coach and a dad were working with pitchers, and they had set up a batting net in order conduct soft toss drills. In soft toss, the batter faces the net while a coach softly tosses the ball just slightly in front of the batter. The batter then drives the ball into the net. The drill teaches batters to maintain balance, to keep their eyes on the ball, and to reinforce proper swing mechanics. I decided to be the soft toss guy for the evening.

One by one the girls came to me to work on their swing. I would ask them what their name was, then introduced myself as Kailey and Kyra's dad, and briefly explained to them what we were going to do. I had three balls to work with. I dropped to my left knee and held up the first ball while the batter crouched into her batting stance. Then I tossed the ball, allowed the batter a few seconds to reset her stance, tossed the next ball, etc. When I had exhausted my limited supply of balls, I stood up, collected them and resumed my position on my left knee. I repeated this routine, the equivalent of a right leg lunge (that IS me in the pic, BTW), roughly one million times. By the end of practice, my shirt was soaked with sweat and I was in desperate need of a beer, er, water. It was completely insane!

Yesterday morning I almost fell to the floor while getting out of bed as my thighs and my, umm, gluteus maximus, screamed out in pain. How pathetic is that? And today the pain isn't much better. I'm a little paranoid because I think I'm walking kinda...funny, which doesn't help the situation either because in my attempt to avoid using the muscles that are hurting, I'm using OTHER muscles that I don't normally use for walking which causes THEM to hurt as well. I'm a frickin' mess! Methinks this is a bit of a wakeup call. No, not to exercise. That's too much work. I think I need to let the more in-shape mommies and daddies help out at softball practice from now on. Sorry girls.

'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.

General Foo

I've experienced a lull of "blogging inspiration" this week. Sometimes you just need to take a bit of a breather. And sometimes life is just plain boring. I think this week was a mixture of the two. In an attempt to write myself out of this funk, some random snippets:


C'MON CUBBIES!!

OK. I admit it. My last public rant against my beloved Cubs two-and-a-half months ago was a little premature. They are the hottest team in baseball over the past month and are now only 2 1/2 games behind the Brewers in the NL Central. They've lost two straight though, and while I know it's not time to panic, I'd much prefer them not to do that anymore. They just need to keep winning series to keep pressure on the young Brewers. Hopefully, we'll get a shot at the post-season.

I hope I didn't jinx them with this post.

GO CUBS!


Rub-A-Dub-Dub

The monsoon unleashed its full fury on Tucson today. Of course it waited until I was on my way into work, where I discovered that if it rains hard enough, the roof of my convertible leaks! Right into the driver's seat! My ass was soaked before I even got to work! Monsoon storms are usually 10-15 minute downpours that clear up shortly thereafter. It's been raining for 3 hours straight with no relief in sight. Tucson is going to get washed off the map.

I arrived at work in about the fifteenth minute of the storm. A couple more minutes and this'll be over, I thought. After sitting in my wet seat for another five minutes, I came to the realization that it wasn't going to let up anytime soon. So I made a break for it. It wouldn't have been so bad had there not been a raging river running through the middle of the parking lot. And it was too wide to jump. So I stood there in the pouring rain measuring where the best place to jump might be. There was none. My best hope was to plant one foot in the middle of the river and clear the rest. Better to enter into work with one soaker than two (that's what I always say), so that's what I did.

When I finally got through the door, I looked like I had run through a waterfall: a waterfall that concentrated all of its natural force on my ass and right foot. And now I get to sit in a control room where the climate is a carefully-monitored and balmy 68 degrees. I should be experiencing full-blown pneumonia by the 5:00 newscast.

I hope you're having a good Saturday.