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.

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.

Hey Ump! Where's Yer Glasses!

Kailey and Kyra had their weekly softball double header this morning, meaning that we were up early and at the ballfields at about 7:20. The girls were warming up and Diane and I were setting up our chairs and chatting with another parent when the coach approached me at the fence. "Our umpire didn't show up. Do you want to ump?"

Hmmm. Let me think about that for a millisecond. "Do I WANT to ump? Hell no. Do you NEED me to ump?"

"We need an ump."

I looked down at Diane who was snickering at me from her camping chair. "Can I bring my coffee?" I asked.

"I'll HOLD your coffee for you," he replied.

And so that's how I came to ump my first girls "fastpitch" softball game. And I think I did a pretty darn good job...until Kailey came up to bat. Up to that point, I had established a pretty wide strike zone: literally from the knees to the chest. If the girls got the ball over the plate without putting it in the dirt, I called it a strike. And that didn't happen very often. I had called a few higher pitches for our pitchers and was ready to do the same for the opposing team, but they weren't getting the ball anywhere near the strike zone...until Kailey came up to bat.

After taking the first pitch for a ball, Kailey swung at and missed the second pitch. She took ball two and ball three, then the fifth pitch came in over the plate, chest high. Crap. It was probably a little high, but it was a pitch that I had been giving to our pitchers. "Strike two," I whimpered.

Her coach gave me a good-natured ribbing. "Oh MAN, that's your OWN DAUGHTER!" he yelled from the dugout.

I shrugged and lamely shot back, "Hey, I've been giving you guys that same pitch all morning." He just laughed. I felt sick.

The sixth pitch missed just outside. Ball four, which in this league means that the coach then comes in to pitch. He jogged out the mound to pitch to Kailey with two strikes. She fouled one off before striking out swinging. I felt like a traitor as I watched her walk back to the dugout. I didn't have long to dwell on those feelings because Kyra came up to bat next. The pitcher mercifully threw no strikes and Kyra hit into a fielder's choice to end the inning.

As I was walking back to the dugout to retrieve my coffee (coach must have decided against holding it for me), I ran into Kailey as she was taking the field. "Thanks a lot, DAD," she teased with a big grin across her face.

"Hit the ball," I teased back. "That way you can't blame ME for your strikeouts." She just grunted and jogged out to her position.

The game finished without much incident, but I didn't enjoy umping all that much. I couldn't root for our team and had to keep repressing my excitement over hits and scored runs. So I've come up with a plan. Next week I think I'll intentionally arrive five minutes late to the game so they'll have to ask someone else to do the umping. I think I've fulfilled my softball obligations for the season.

Ask A Stupid Question...

Diane just walked into the room and asked, "You want a margarita?"

Is Britney Spears opening the VMA's a train wreck waiting to happen?

Cheers.

An Old Pueblo Night on the Town

"So how was it?" Kyra popped, coming out a dead sleep and scaring me nearly half to death. I had just settled into bed next to her to wake her up for school when she startled me. She apparently doesn't need as much coaxing to wake up as Kailey.

"How was what?"

"Your DA-ATE!"

Diane and I finally went out the other night to celebrate our anniversary and Kyra wanted the details. So I braced myself for the early morning inquisition.

"It was good. We had fun."

"Did you see a movie?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Which one?"

"It's called Knocked Up."

"What's knocked up mean?"

"It's another way to say that someone is pregnant. The movie was about a lady who was having a baby."

"Oh. Was it a funny movie?"

"Yes. I laughed. A lot."

"What was your favorite part."

"I can't tell you because most of the movie was not at all appropriate for children. It was a movie for adu-, er, grown ups."

"Awwww."

"But there was one part where this guy walked in on the woman while she was having her baby, and she screamed 'GET OUT', and he saw the baby coming out and almost tossed his cookies. That was pretty funny."

"Hee hee hee hee hee...that is funny. Did you go out for dinner?"

"Yes we did."

"Where?"

"Terra Cotta."

"What did you eat?"

"Steak and asparagus and garlic mashed potatoes."

"What did Mommy eat?"

"She got the Mixed Grill which had a little bit of steak, a little bit of salmon, and a little bit of chicken tortilla casserole."

"Was it good?"

"It was delicious."

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Sweetie."

giggle, giggle, giggle "Did you kiss Mommy?"

"Yes I did."

"Where?"

"Time to get ready for school!"

The Joys of Dog-Sitting

I was rudely awakened by a pointy-elbowed jab to the ribs at about 4:30 yesterday morning. "Honey? Honey!"

Don't you "Honey" me...I was in the middle of a deep satisfying sleep, and I'm pretty sure I was having a good dream to boot. Was I snoring too loud? Humping her leg in my sleep? Humping HER in my sleep? "What?" I growled.

"Would you go tell Rex to be quiet? He's been barking and crying for the past hour."

I love being a sound sleeper, and, no, it isn't just an act to avoid middle-of-the-night parental duties. I've blissfully slept through dozens of nightmares and peed and barfed beds, although I was usually awakened for peed/barf bed duty. I'll get up in the morning with absolutely no idea that Diane spent the night in one of the girls room because they were freaked out. Oops...hee, hee, hee. I hadn't heard Rex at all that morning. "Why can't YOU go tell him to be quiet?" I groused.

"Because he doesn't listen to me."

I know this defense well. It's the same reason I refuse to learn how to braid the girls' hair: if I learn how to do it, then I'll have to do it EVERY DAY. And I simply don't have that kind of time. This way, whenever the girls ask me to braid their hair like Mommy does, I reply as sweetly as possible, "I'm sorry, Sweetie, I'm just not as good at braiding as Mommy is." I guess what goes around comes around.

I pulled myself out of bed and stumbled to the laundry room where we had Rex penned. We've been dog-sitting for my in-laws the past few days, so far without incident. But this barking-in-the-middle-of-the-night nonsense needed to stop, and I was ready to play the role of alpha male to put the kibosh on it. I rounded the corner where I met Rex's sad, defeated eyes waiting for me at the gate, and discovered what was agitating him: three large piles of puke. Fan-TAS-tic! Being the amazing husband I am, I did not rouse Diane for barf duty, and began the cleanup process. Being the more amazing wife that she is, Diane got up anyway and offered moral support. She doesn't handle barf duty too well. I don't either for that matter, but sometimes you just do whatcha gotta do. I took Rex outside, cleaned up the mess, returned him to his room, and went back to bed.

I woke up again at 6:30 to get Kailey ready for school and found a couple of bile-puddles on the floor in Rex's room. Houston, we have a problem. All morning long, Rex just lazed around, completely lethargic and not at all interested in food, water or play. And when I let him outside to do his business, he'd pick a spot in the yard and strike a pose where his body became tense and rigid, convulsing to produce a half-dollar sized puddle of sludge. As I watched him struggle through his bowel movements, I thought, been there, done that. Buddy, I can FEEL your pain.

I called my in-laws to inform them of the situation as well as to get the number of their vet. Golden Retriever pups are notorious for eating crap they shouldn't, then having near death experiences. And Rex has already gone through this process once. I called the vet and they told me to bring him in, along with a "fresh stool sample". Come again? "A fresh stool sample; the fresher, the better." And how do you suggest...oh, never mind.

So thirty minutes before our appointment, armed with a gallon-sized ziplock freezer bag, I followed Rex into the backyard and waited for him to go through his spastic fece-squeeze routine. I started out with a sandwich baggie, which would easily have handled the volume of Rex's BM. But then I had second thoughts. What if I misjudged the trajectory of the discharge? I envisioned the neighbors calling 911 as they watched me run screaming across my backyard, wildly flailing at my hands while being chased by an 80 pound dog. Gallon-sized...that's the way to go. Rex sniffed around the lawn for a minute, found an acceptable spot, circled and assumed the position. I snuck up behind him and, gulp, slid the bag underneath him. I must have been too aggressive though, and he felt the bag. He twirled around with a "What-the-Hell-are-YOU-doing?" expression on his face. Seriously. "Sorry buddy," was all I could muster.

Rex, looking completely annoyed, moved over to the rocks and, again, squatted. I followed, this time being careful NOT to brush his ass with my oversized bag. That sounded really bad and should probably be rephrased. Anyway, he let loose and I collected every last disgusting, gloopy drop. Then I sealed the bag and ran inside to freak out the girls.

We arrived at the animal clinic where I handed the receptionist what I determined to be the most disgusting fecal sample ever collected. She grabbed the bag without comment or hesitation, albeit by the side rather than the top. She apparently had seen worse. The vet ran a bunch of tests, all of which were negative, and poked and prodded poor Rex. He could find no obstruction in his bowels, but couldn't rule out a bowel obstruction with any certainty without x-rays. He suggested two possible courses of action: an aggressive one which included the x-rays and intravenous fluids, or a conservative approach which included some medication, fluids and a mild diet. Ummm...conservative please. If we need to, we'll cross the aggressive bridge when we get to it.

I'm happy to report that the conservative approach seemed to work. This morning Rex was back to his nosey, playful self. And I'm even happier that he didn't die on my watch. In five days, I'll be even happier still, when Rex goes home. Grammy & Papa, I'm thankful that you let us stay in your home for two weeks while our water situation was being worked out, but now we are even!

On second thought, you never had to chase any of us around with a baggie, waiting for us to take a dump, so I think we may be due some weekend childcare.

Game Day II...The Mouth Heard 'Round the World

You know how at every kids sporting event there seems to be some obnoxious, loud-mouthed a-hole that spends the whole game razzing the officials and blurting out rude comments to no one's delight but his own? Yeah, well that guy has a daughter on Kailey's softball team. And remember when I wrote about how nice and refreshing it was to have all of the parents cheering for all of the kids? I spoke too soon. That utopian ideal of unbiased parental support during children's sporting events has been shot straight to hell.

Kailey's game was Monday night. It was a cold, cloudy, windy, miserable night for softball, so nobody was in a particularly good mood to begin with. Then Mouth began his taunting. First, it was directed at the umpire, who had made a couple of bad calls, calling balls strikes. But understand, being an umpire in an 8 and Under softball league has to be the most BORING job in the world. The girls pitch until they've thrown four balls, then the coach takes over. As you can imagine, probably fewer than 10% of the balls pitched by the girls are strikes. If you're an ump, you're probably going to make a couple of questionable calls out of sheer boredom. I'm not saying that it's right...I'm just saying.

So loud-mouth dad, who, incidentally, is always decked out in St. Louis Cardinal's attire which further draws my ire as a Cub fan, starts in on the ump. At first he drew a few snickers from the parents, but as he continued, an awkward silence descended on the crowd. Then, it got worse the next inning as his daughter took the mound. He turned his taunting from the umpire to THE EIGHT YEAR-OLD GIRLS ON THE OTHER TEAM!! When one of the girls would strike out, he'd yell, "RING 'ER UP!" I was mortified and getting really pissed off. Finally, his wife, bless her heart, turned around and laid into him for being a complete ass. He had a couple of things to say back to her, but eventually relented. I swear I heard a mental cheer erupt from the parents.

I just don't understand people like this. Did he think he was funny? Did he have a few too many at the local pub before heading to the game? Or is he just the world's biggest jerk? I don't know. But what I do know is that his behavior is horribly inappropriate at this age level, hell, at ANY age level. It teaches young kids that it's OK and even expected to disrespect game officials and to ridicule your opponent. So much for sportsmanship.

I can understand the competitive spirit. I played organized sports through high school, college and beyond. I've experienced the thrill of getting the game-winning hit, of hitting the jumper in the face of a trash-talking opponent, and of gunning down the runner at the plate. I get it. There's no feeling in the world like it. But I believe that healthy competition should build people up rather than tear down. When my opponent robs me of a base hit with an amazing diving catch, or drains a three-pointer with my hand in his face, he deserves praise for a great performance regardless of the color of his jersey. It just seems that tearing down your opponent has become an ugly part of competition in our present day society, and I hate it.

Jumping down off my soapbox and into more important news, Kailey had a great game in a 3-2 Blue Balls Bandit loss. She went 1 for 1 at the plate with a run scored. She also had two plays on the field, one from third base and one from shortstop, where she cleanly fielded the ball and made strong throws to first. The runners were safe on both occasions, but that's typical at this level: anything hit left of second base is going to be a hit. Most importantly, she didn't freeze to death during the game.

The Blue Balls play next on Saturday and we'll see if obnoxious dad can keep his trap shut. My money is on no.

Feeling Like a Fool

I walked into the men's room at work to find the solitary urinal occupied by one of the account executives who works upstairs. We've seen each other on occasion and have exchanged pleasantries, but that's about the extent of our relationship. I gave him a "How goes?" (no pun intended) and made my way to one of the stalls, not expecting a reply.

"So, do you think I need to stop at the store to pick up something for dinner?" he asked, still facing the wall.

I stopped dead in my tracks and did a quick scan of the men's room. No one else was there. I looked back at him...one hand rested on his hip while the other, well, you know, WASN'T holding a cell phone, so I decided he must be talking to me. "Ummm, I don't know...I guess it depends on what you want," I offered, a little unnerved and still unsure of why in the world he would ask me such a question.

He wasn't talking to me. He turned his head toward me (his body was still engaged) to reveal a wireless Bluetooth receiver in his left ear. Darn you, modern technology! Dude was apparently making dinner plans with wifey-poo while taking a leak. Talk about multitasking. He shot me a quick grin then turned back to continue his conversation and finish the job. I felt like a big dork (pun again not intended), and walked swiftly into the nearest stall where I conducted my business while waiting patiently for him to exit the men's room.

Thank goodness I don't see him that often, but I'm not going to avoid him. Next time I see him I'm going to ask him what they had for dinner. He'll probably have no idea of what I'm talking about and I'll look like a dork again...what's new.

A Retraction

Decrees are stupid. I mean, seriously, who makes them anymore. And besides, if I have the power to issue a decree, certainly I retain the power to rescind it. I don't even think that a decree is binding if issued while under the influence...of body paint fumes. Not to mention the fact that the Bears didn't play well enough for me to actually carry it through. And this morning I noticed that the pesky eyebrow hair has returned. So decree over. Now hand me those tweezers and my razor...and the nose-hair trimmers.

ARE YOU READY FOR SOME FOOTBALL!

Kickoff for Super Bowl XLI is less that two hours away, and we're getting ready to head over to the in-laws for the big game. GO BEARS!!

Before we go, though, I feel compelled to issue a decree: that not a hair shall be shorn from my body until the Chicago Bears win a Super Bowl. That's right...no razor shall touch my face, back or ears (entering mid-life sucks); no shear shall cut my hair; not even shall that pesky left eyebrow hair that pops out of nowhere every couple of months shall be plucked until the Bears win a title. Plush forests of hair shall be allowed to grow freely across head, face, ears, back, chest, stomach, legs, buttocks, and...um...other places, until the Lombardi trophy finds its home in Chicago...

...or until the Cubs win the Series.

I Am Not a Happy Camper

Two weeks ago, I traveled back to Illinois to attend my grandpa's funeral. I had to buy my plane ticket at the last minute and I paid nearly $700 for it. As I boarded the plane I found a man sitting in my seat. Normally this isn't too unusual. You simply point out the error and the person moves. This wasn't your normal case. In this case, the man was sitting in his seat AS WELL AS my seat. My heart dropped (I think my jaw might have as well). He was a very large fellow.

I indicated that the middle seat was mine and he let me into the row. I sat down, scootched as far to the right as I possibly could and braced myself. He slid in and scootched as far as he could to his left, and he still took up half of my seat. He was pressed up against me and practically sitting on me. It was more than a little awkward.

In a vain attempt to break the ice, he says, "Why do these flights always have to be full!" Like he's being inconvenienced.

A host of answers fill my mind. Well, first of all, this is a business, nimrod. They WANT their flights to be full. That's how they make their money. That's what I wanted to say, but I didn't. Instead, I merely countered, "It's Christmas." We didn't talk the rest of the flight.

The window seat was occupied by a ten year-old boy traveling alone. This was somewhat of a life-saver except for the fact that he was sick and spent the entire flight hacking up a lung. I could envision all of the spit particles infecting the entire plane with every cough and sneeze. I was the only filter. Just thinking about it makes me want to take a shower.

I should have gotten off the plane and filed a complaint, but I was on a schedule with the funeral and I didn't want to cause a ruckus on the plane. Instead, I decided to suck it up, make my trip to Illinois, and file a complaint with the airline upon my return, which I did. The airline will remain anonymous for now, depending on how this situation is resolved.

I filed the complaint where I explained that I shouldn't have to pay for a seat that I had to share and that the very least they could do is reimburse me or provide a voucher covering the leg of the flight to Chicago. This morning I received their reply:

Thanks for contacting Customer Relations. Our aim is not simply to provide transportation but to help our customers enjoy a pleasant and satisfying journey along the way. We are very sorry that your experience was disappointing, and I can appreciate how uncomfortable you were as a result of the situation you described.

As more tangible evidence of our concern, we've credited your [frequent flier] account with 5,000 bonus miles. This adjustment should be reflected in your account very soon. You can use the mileage in your account to claim travel awards. We are eager to have another chance to serve you.

In addition to our apology, please be assured that we have conscientiously followed through on your comments in an effort to share your feedback and, where possible, to improve our service. We are working hard to earn your satisfaction.

Wow. 5,000 whole bonus miles. That's worth, what, about $40? That's if you can actually ever use them. I have nearly 50,000 bonus miles, and I've never been able to redeem them on a flight. Needless to say, I was not happy. So I penned a response:

I am incredibly disappointed that you feel 5,000 bonus miles is “more tangible evidence of our concern”. My experience was not merely disappointing, it was unacceptable. I spent a 3 ½ flight with an armrest jammed into my right side and nearly the entire left side of my body pressed up against a complete stranger. I spent nearly $700 of my hard earned money for this experience. What you are offering me in return is roughly $40 in compensation that is extremely difficult to redeem in terms of airfare.

What is at issue here is [your] policy on accommodating overweight passengers. I can understand if your policy is not to discriminate against obese passengers by requiring them to purchase multiple tickets in order to accommodate their size. The question is who is going to offset that cost? If you as a company are not going to charge overweight people for an extra seat, then you should be willing to offset the cost for that extra seat. Instead, it seems that you as a company are content to allow me (or other passengers) to offset the cost by sharing my (our) seat. This is not right and I do not feel like I should have to pay for it.

I am not a nasty person, nor am I an opportunist looking for a chance to get ahead at your expense. But I do believe that I should not be responsible for a seat that I had to share with another passenger. You had an opportunity to make things right, and you missed the mark. Please try again.

I've got one more letter brewing if I don't get my way. It's the one where I DO get nasty and inform them that I work for a television station. Stay tuned.

The Day Rainbow Died

I learned something new yesterday: fish don't necessarily float when they die.

I should have known something was up. A couple of days ago, the girls were freaking out because they thought Rainbow, their blue and red male Beta, was spending a little too much time at the bottom of the bowl. This is not unusual behavior for Betas. They lead pretty uneventful lives (unless you put two males together) and their little fins must get tired from hovering in one spot, so they take a little rest on the rocks. Kailey watched Rainbow as he "rested" and grew concerned that he wasn't just "resting", so she shook the bowl. To her relief, he zipped to the cover of the fake green plant suckered to the bottom of the bowl. She told me she was concerned about Rainbow's health and I told her not to worry. "You'll know when Rainbow dies, because fish float when they die." Little did I know that my words would later serve to save my butt.

Well, Kailey must have taken those words to heart, but they still didn't completely alleviate her fears about Rainbow. As Diane tucked her into bed last night, Kailey asked her to go check on him. I was in Kyra's room telling her a story when Diane walked in, usually the cue for us to switch rooms. She grabbed me and gave me a hug as I headed into Kailey's room. "Oooo...me likey," I thought as she whispered in my ear. But what she whispered in my ear puzzled me. If she's trying to get me into bed, this clearly was not working. I pulled away from her and shared my puzzled look. "What?" I muttered. She pulled me close and whispered again.

"Rainbow's dead."

I sighed and headed to the family room to see for myself. I saw the bowl across the room and immediately scanned the surface for Rainbow's body. I didn't see it. As I drew closer, I could see his little body resting on the rocks. I shook the bowl and he tipped over on his side. He wasn't looking so good. Crap. What are we going to tell the girls?

I returned to Kailey's room and tucked her in, then Diane and I put our heads together to figure out what to do. Problem #1: school. We didn't want to inform the girls of the death of their first pet before bedtime or before Kailey went to school in the morning. We didn't want her to be blubbering at school all day long. Problem #2: we would both be at work after the girls finished school, so we couldn't tell them then, either. Furthermore, we didn't want to tell them and then have to pass any post-mortem grief counseling on to Diane's parents, who would be watching them.

OK, maybe we're horrible parents, but this is the best we could come up with. And if there was ever any doubt about where I'll be heading upon my earthly demise, this may serve to clear things up a bit. We left Rainbow in the bowl. If the girls happened to notice his rotting carcass on the bottom of the bowl, then we would deal with the aftermath. If they didn't notice him, then Diane would drop Kyra off at school and make a beeline to the pet store to get another Rainbow. I know, I know...express lane to hell.

Well, the girls must not have been all that concerned about Rainbow because neither of them bothered to check on him. So we executed plan B, full speed ahead. Diane picked out a new fish and I disposed of the evidence. As I cleaned out his bowl I couldn't help but think of all the good times we had: the Pavlovian way he would come to the surface for food whenever I opened the lid to the bowl; the way he liked to lay in the blue rocks lining the bottom; the way he, um, well, that's pretty much it. There wasn't too much more to his life. I'd like to think that he's now in a better place, but I know better, since I wrapped his body in a paper towel and flushed him down the toilet. I can only hope that all pipes really do lead to the sea. Sorry buddy.

Diane returned home with Rainbow II (Electric Boogaloo) and we introduced him to his new home. He's much more active than Rainbow was, and that's not just because he happens to be alive. Like I've said earlier, Rainbow liked to lie around a lot.

Diane later discovered that at some point before bedtime on that fateful evening, Kailey apparently shook the bowl and got no response from Rainbow, which prompted her to ask Diane to check on him. Now I don't know this for sure, but I think that since Kailey saw Rainbow on the bottom of the bowl, not floating, she didn't believe he was dead. So, in essence, my ignorance bought enough time for us to perpetuate a lie to our children. Merry Christmas. The girls are SO going to need therapy. That's OK. They can join me. Maybe we'll get a group rate.

You Can't Shelter Them Forever

"Someone wrote a word in the girls bathroom," Kailey nonchalantly offered between bites of pizza.

It was dinner-time. Diane was working late (which she doesn't really do that often...it just seems that way in my writings) and we were on the tail-end of one of our hectic Mondays. Fortunately for me, my sister-in-law, Debbie, is in town for Thanksgiving and was there to help take up the slack.

We turned our full attention toward Kailey, our curiosity suddenly aroused by her statement. A pregnant silence filled room around us. Something deep inside me did not want to know what was written on the wall of the girls bathroom of CW elementary school. I fought the question inside me that begged to be asked. Debbie asked it for me.

"What word did they write, Sweetie?"

I don't think I will ever forget the image of my oldest daughter in that moment: sitting perfectly erect in her chair, head slightly cocked, eyes sparkling with confidence as though she was the only one in the world who knew the right answer. She looked completely innocent, though much older and more mature than her seven years. I've noticed recently that those glimpses of maturity are coming with greater regularity. My little girl is growing up more quickly than I would like. I braced myself.

"Fuck you."

Her delivery was quick, clear, and crisp. Her manner, matter-of-fact. She didn't move. She didn't giggle or laugh like she delivered the punch line to a great joke. She didn't scan our faces to try to gauge whether or not it was wrong for her to say those words. She simply told us what was written on the wall of the girls bathroom. Then she sat there.

So did we. A small smirk emerged on my face as I slowly turned my gaze from my precious little girl to Aunt Debbie. The look on her face was an odd mix of amusement and horror. YOU NEVER ASK WHAT IS WRITTEN ON THE WALL OF THE GIRLS BATHROOM! It's like the U.S. Military...don't ask, don't tell, and all will be fine. I took a deep breath and turned back to Kailey. We're venturing out into uncharted territory here.

"Do you know that that's a bad word?" I asked.

"No."

"OK. Well, it is. You're not in trouble and I'm not mad at you. That's a bad word and I don't want you to ever say it again, OK?"

"OK," she replied. "But what does it mean?"

Kailey obviously witnessed a great ruckus in the girls bathroom over those two little words, and she didn't get it. Curiosity fueled our dinner-time chat. But a full explanation would open about ten more cans of worms. And I'm not opening one of those cans without Diane. In fact, I might let Diane handle ALL of those cans. She's definitely in charge of the can opener. I told Kailey that I couldn't fully explain what it meant, but that it was just a very mean thing to say to someone. Thank goodness she seemed to accept that.

For now...