Midnight Snack

My wife and I were up in the middle of the night, being dragged from our bed by that screaming creature we call our daughter. She definitely likes to keep us on our toes.

Since my wife is breastfeeding our baby, there is really no “your turn” to our middle-of-the-night routine. Since I am such a kick-ass husband, I do what I can to help out by dragging my groggy ass out of bed and change her diaper before handing my daughter off to my wife’s anxiously awaiting boob. It’s the least I can do, since I can’t seem to lactate even a little bit, even if I squeeze really hard.

Changing diapers in a very poorly lit room, while still half asleep is always a challenge. If he’s not paying particularly close attention in the dim light, Daddy’s phalanges can end up with a little bit of mustard spread on them. Ughh… Mustard-fingers in the middle of the night is always a certain recipe for a lesson in egregious swearing for my daughter. It’s a treat to try to open the wipes, not spread the wealth of poopy to other objects and clothes around and keep the binkie in Katie’s mouth while trying to get the Gulden’s off my fingers. I digress…

On a normal weeknight, when I have to get up for work, I hand my baby off to find comfort in my wife’s bra, throw a jealous look over my shoulder at someone else enjoying time with my wife's fun areas, and it’s back to bed for Daddy. On the weekends, however, I will often keep my wife company during feeding times and then will take the baby from her so that she can get a little more rest.

It is on the weekends, when we are up together and absolutely punch-drunk giddy in the middle of the night, when we have some of the funniest conversations. Here’s a peek into one of our late night conversations:

Often, even if it is only an hour after we went to bed and we both had 5-scoop ice cream Sundays, a sleeve of Oreos and a side of beef right before bed, we feel like we are stah-vin. This is why my wife keeps a little stash of graham crackers in the little drawer next to her rocker/glider thingy. Graham crackers rarely cut it for this man, though.

I decide that I am starving for something sweet, so I say, “Man, I am all sorts of hankerin for some Fun Dip.” My wife says, “Shut up. Now I’m stahvin for Fun Dip.”

Fun Dip? Where did that come from? So our conversation turned to childhood snacks and the “What the hell were our parents thinking letting us eat that stuff?” topics.

Look at the packaging. Those kids are lovin’ them some Fun Dip.

Seriously. Fun Dip had to be the most insane snack that our parents ever let us have. Just take a second to think about what Fun Dip (aka Lik-M-Aid) actually was…

- 3 packets of Kool Aid drink mix in 3 different flavors to eat. There was a reason it was called Lik-M-Aid. If you took each flavor packet and dumped it into water, you would have a glass of Kool-Aid.

- If it wasn’t bad enough that we were given three small bags of flavored sugar to eat, the fine makers of Fun Dip had to figure out a way to eat the Kool-Aid most effectively.

- Did they give us a spoon? Hell no. The fine inventors at Lik-M-Aid said, “If we’re going to do this right, what could we use as the vehicle to deliver the sugary goodness of drink mix to the mouths of little diabetics in wait? We need to go all out. We’ll make a stick out of compressed sugar that they will have to lick to get the flavored sugar out of the bag. I mean, what else could you use?”

When I ate Fun Dip as a kid, those sugar sticks NEVER EVER made it to the end of the three pouches of Kool Aid mix. I was like that stupid little owl in the Tootsie Pop commercials, making it through about three licks before laying into that stick of sugary health. I have vivid memories of wetting my finger to dig out every last bit of sugar powder from the corners of each of the pouches, in lieu of the sugarstick. When I had gotten every possible bit of sugar out of those pouches, it was time to rip the bag open along the seams and lick the last bit out of the bag. What a rush!

And my parents wondered where I ever got the idea to simply open the canisters of Kool Aid and Quik and simply eat them out of the containers with a slightly wet finger. Disgusting, I know. Have I been known to do the same thing now that I’m a so-called “adult”? You betcha.

Pixie Stix

The kissing cousin to Fun Dip was most assuredly Pixie Stix. The inventors of Pixie Stix were all like, “Screw the sugar stick. Screw making drinks from it. We need a way to get Kool-Aid drink mix into kids quicker. We need to find a way to let them dump it straight into their stomachs so it can get into their blood stream even quicker.” There is a rumor on the internet that the Kool Aid Man filed an application with the FDA to sell an injectable version, but it was never approved.

Crack open a stick, pour it in your mouth and feel the diabetic shock kick in. Sweet!
I mean, were these people serious, giving this crystalline crack to kids? Of course, there would be that insane kid on your Little League team who tried to be cool and snort the Pixie Stix. Then, he would end up falling on the ground, barely able to breathe, coughing and blowing his nose, while everyone stood around him and laughed. Good times.

Pez.

I never understood how anyone could make the package of Pez last any longer than 1 minute 24 seconds. If I even took the time to load the stupid candy into the Pez dispenser, I was pumping those bad boys out of the front of the giant Mighty Mouse head like the cowboys cocking their six-shooters in old westerns. I would scoff at all the kids who would eat one of those Pez candies at a time. Are you kidding me? That is a tease. One Pez. Pshhhh. Gets to steppin’

I would just about slap anyone who would offer me a single Pez, because they should know that I was going to knock them on their ass and eat whatever they had left in that dispenser. I didn’t give a rat’s ass about the stupid dispensers. The dispensers were for girls and girly boys to collect. The dispenser was only a slight deterrent to not putting the whole package of Pez into my mouth at once. (Believe me, it’s been done… and not in the too distant past.

Pop Rocks

Oh good God.

The strange feeling on your tongue.

The rumors: Mikey from the Life commercials died by eating Pop Rocks and drinking Pepsi. Birds would explode and fall from the sky from eating Pop Rocks.

Flavored Sugar that exploded. I don’t think that there has ever been a more brilliant idea. Ever. With all of the rumors about Pop Rocks, there was always the air of excitement when you ate them.

Who doesn’t remember putting Pop Rocks on your tongue and sticking it out for the whole world to hear? Didn’t you feel like the coolest kid around when you had some Pop Rocks playing a concert on your tongue? Those little nuggets never lasted long enough, though.

I need Pop Rocks right now.

Big League Chew

Has there ever been a more-wrong marketing campaign in the history of the world? (I mean except for the Just Say No campaign that I wrote about)

This is a gum that comes in shredded form so that young children could feel like the tobaccey-chewin’ baseball player that they idolized. It even came in a pouch. Although I can’t find any evidence, I swear that Philip-Morris had a hand in this product. I can’t believe that no parents objected to this product. Not that I’m complaining, because damn did I feel cool eating gum that was like chewin-tobbacey. I’d have that crap wadded in my cheek, drooling on myself because I couldn’t even close my mouth from all of the gum in my cheek. If someone introduced this product today, I can’t even imagine the uproar that would be stirred up. Oy Vay.

I sit here typing, wondering why I could never sit still in school and now have adult ADD.

What was I saying again?

Oh yeah. Poopy diapers…

4:01 p.m. - 2004-07-30

I LUHUHUHUVE Yard Work.

Anyone who says that they really enjoy yardwork is either lying, psychotic or has such a miserable life that busting their ass in the yard is more fun than anything else they have going on.

That said, I kicked some major yard ass this weekend. Cut it, trimmed it, whacked it (weed-whacked it you perverts), weeded it, blew up parts of it and ripped shit out of it. Mr. Miyagi wouldn’t have even been able to come up with anything else for me to do.

Miyagi, “Chris-san, paint the fence”

Me-san, “Done that, bitch.”

Miyagi, “Chris-san, weed that grass.”

Me-san, “Done too.”

Miyagi, “Chris-san, wax that car.”

Me-san, “Hey, we’re talking about yard work here. If you are going to offer me a pimped out classic car and Elizabeth Shue with her little knee-highs, maybe I’ll consider it. Talk to me about ripping bushes out.”

Miyagi, “Chris-san, rip out bushes.”

Me-san, “You think I didn’t get to that? I did that one-legged bird kick and booted some bushes all the way to Camden. Now, go back to Al’s and tell the Fonz that my jukebox isn’t working.”

Miyagi, “Aye”

I hate doing this crap. I really do. But when I get off my ass and do some real work, even my wife is all sorts of impressed. Of course, she gets a big kick out of seeing me in my “Beer Me” T-Shirt, short-shorts (New Jersey Devils shorts, circa 1990, when I weighed slightly less than the Bigpimp that you behold in 2004) and Viagra racing hat (Bought for a Halloween party that we went as white trash to).

She especially got a kick out of when I finally was able to get one bush out of the ground after a bitter fight and I held it aloft while screaming, “FREEDOM!” My neighbors live in fear, especially after my insane dog yelling episode.

Also adding to my yard-work insanity is Miss Pitty Patt. "What the F is a Miss Pitty Patt?", you might ask. Miss Pitty Patt (or Pity for short) is a disturbed Jack Russell Terrier that lives behind us with her equally disturbed owners. She sits there and BARK-BARK-BARK-BARK-BARKS (you get the point) the whole time I cut the back lawn.

I usually start off calmly, ignoring the Pattster. That wears off pretty quickly, though. I start by making a couple of remarks quietly to her…

“Pitty, aren’t you a little tired of barking yet?” and other such questions/ remarks.
Then, I can’t help getting a little louder, “WHAT’S UP PITSTER? YOU WANT A PIECE OF ME?” which is often accompanied with me trying to fake the dog out by pretending to throw a ball. This only works once or twice, though.

It isn’t long before it turns into an all out, “PITTY.... FOR THE LOVE. OF GOD. WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP THE GODDAM HAMMERING!?!?”. She never seems to understand my obscure references to “A Christmas Carol” with Bill Murray.

And I wonder why my neighbors never like to make direct eye contact.

There are two things that I really hate about cutting the grass: Edging and Weed-Wacking. I don’t understand how these functions can’t be somehow incorporated into the lawnmower. We live in the year 2004. We were supposed to be riding around in flying cars and being transported with transponders and crap. You’re telling me that our civilization (If that’s what we want to call it) hasn’t found a way to cut out a lot of this mundane work that pisses me off.

Of course, I start envisioning how the lawnmower would have spikes or rotary saws coming out of the sides of it to take care of the Weed-Wacking and edging while I’m cutting my grass. Then, all of the sudden, a little bird runs by me saying, “Beep! Beep!” and I’m on the phone to ACME products, ordering all sorts of explosives.

A little voice in my head says, “BIGPIMPIN BURGER, SUPER GENIUS.” I’m going to get the business cards and everything.

Just wait until I invent my Road Warrior looking lawn mower. It will probably end up looking more like a backhoe, which will simply tear my lawn apart, so I won’t have to deal with it anymore. Of course, then the weeds will just fill in, pissing me off even more. Will the annoyance never end? On second thought, I think I’ll simply reserve myself to a life of annoying yardwork.

Feel free to stop by and lend a hand. Or better yet, bring lots of beer, so we can hang out at my bar, watch football and get wasted and I’ll just blow off the grass for another week.

10:22 a.m. - 2004-07-27

Superbaby!

Super baby

My daughter has super-powers that scare the living crap out of me.

She has the power to drive you insane with how loud she can scream. I say this to lots of parents and they are always like, “Yeah, isn’t it amazing how loud a newborn can be.” Then, my daughter gets tired or pissed for some reason and really lays it on. Those same parents look at me like, “Oh. My. God. I had no idea. I thought I knew what screaming was, but I obviously didn’t until now.”

I’m afraid that she is training herself to be able to scream so loud and in such a high pitch that she will be able to blow people’s heads up like in Scanners. Either that or she is planning on enrolling in the Darth Vader mind-control clinic. I’m thinking that she has a good shot at being a Jedi, since she already has mind-control over my wife and I. We will do whatever she asks of us, as long as she will stop screaming.

She must also have access somehow to a Playstation 2 with WWF Royal Rumble on it. Somehow, she has perfected the art of head-butting at the exact right time to disable her victim. One second, you are holding her on your shoulder, trying to burp her. Whether she is completely serene or screaming bloody murder, if you turn your face toward her, even for an instant, you’re in for a world of shit. If you show even one second of weakness, she will finish you with a swift head-butt to the bridge of your nose or, if you are quick enough to react and get your nose out of the way, your cheekbone.

It’s like the spirit of Rowdy Roddy Piper has been channeled into my baby, who obviously thinks that I am Jimmy Snuka, coming off the top turnbucle. Remarkably, no matter how hard she slams her head into you, she always comes through these events unscathed. Then she just looks at you, like, “You want some more of this, tough guy?” while you plead for mercy. I defy any of you tough guys to subject yourself to one of my daughter’s head-butts and tell me you aren’t on the verge of tears.

Her third super-power is something that only parents will understand. She has the power to bust out of any swaddling. (For you non-parents, swaddling is when you wrap a baby in a blanket very tightly in order for the baby to feel constricted, like when they were in the womb.) I am the acknowledged super-swaddling king of my house. I would venture to say that I may be the super-swaddling king of the universe because people who have seen me swaddle my daughter are always amazed at how tight I wrap that blanket around her. It’s basically like a little straight jacket.

Here’s Katie looking all sweet and innocent, but we know better.

No matter how tight I wrap that blanket around her, she will wiggle her way out of the blanket. In addition to having access to Playstation, she has obviously been watching old Lethal Weapon movies because she is apparently dislocating certain appendages in order to break herself free. Once in a while, she will let me win and stay swaddled for a few minutes before faking sleep. But she always gives me that look like, “You’re lucky I’m a little tired, old man or I’d break your confidence again. Don’t mess with me. I’ll go to sleep now, but when I wake up, it’s more Jedi-scream-mind-control practice. Then we’ll see who’s won.” Scary.

In spite of all of these horrifying superpowers, her greatest power is her ability to melt my heart with just a smile.

Being a parent, especially of a newborn, can be very difficult, extremely frustrating, and unbelievably tiring. You basically lose your social life as you knew it. You lose a tremendous amount of sleep.

But then she smiles at me.

Once in a while, she’ll throw in a little coo just to say, “You’re mine, pal. You’re my Daddy and I’m glad you’re here to take care of me. I’m going to cause you a lot of pain, but I’ll bring you more than your share of joy. Prepare to be wrapped around my pinkie.”

I’m not prepared.

Never will be.

I don’t care about going out on the weekends or missing some sleep anymore. I’ve got two great kids and a great wife.

I love my kids. Being a Dad/ Parent can be one of the hardest things anyone can do.
But…

When I get that smile…

When I tuck my little man into bed, and he says, “I wuyou Da-e”…

When my little guy kisses my little girl Good Night…

These are the things I live for and I wouldn’t trade them for anything.

Good Night, Katie.

Good Night, Christopher.

Daddy loves you.

3:56 p.m. - 2004-07-23

I'm a wife beater

I am a wife beater.

The other night, I must have been a bit out of it when I was going to bed. I set the alarm as usual and went to sleep sometime around 11:00. Next thing I know, the alarm is going off. Apparently my first instinct was to slap my wife in the face.

Then, she didn't stop beeping. So I slapped her again.

Needless to say, my wife was none too pleased with my actions. Either time. Then I shut off the alarm and went back to sleep.

I had apparently made an error when I set my new-fangled alarm clock. It is one of those very fancy clocks with two alarms on it. I normally use Alarm 1, while Alarm 2 has never been set and remains at 12:00 AM. I must have put the alarm setting to BOTH instead of Alarm 1 only. So, in my confused state of being woken up so shortly after falling fast asleep, I woke up and slapped my wife. I mean, who wouldn’t. That’s what she is there for.

I don’t remember much of this happening until my wife relayed the story the next morning. Of course, this caused me to just about pee myself while laughing.

Upon hearing the news that I an am awesome wife beater, I immediately mailed in my application for my NASCAR ultimate fan wife-beater t-shirt. I relayed the preceding story and included the following pictures of my son and daughter as proof of my family’s trashy-ness and why we should be fast-tracked to “Wife with two black eyes for not getting me a beer when I told her to” status, surpassing “Shooting Gun in the air for no apparent reason” status.

Christopher is white-trash stylin in his boots and onesie while Ol' Blue is looking on. Our double-wide looks really big in this picture.

Katie drinkin’ like a cheap redneck with our dog Blue (AKA Phoebe)

To our surprise, we were bumped up to, “Domestic battery charges filed – TV Show COPS is on its way” status. Do we totally kick ass or what? My wife-beater with a “#3 Lives” slogan is on its way! Yeeeeeehah.

5:21 p.m. - 2004-07-21

A Day at the Park - Look Out!

I love to take my son to the park. He loves to go down the slides, get pushed on the swings, climb on the jungle gyms, pretty much doing what all 2 ½ year olds like to do at the park. I basically run around and act like a complete idiot with him, pretending he is Buzz Lightyear or Shrek, while I pretend to be another corresponding character. Other parents look at me like I’m on crack, but their kids usually look at me and wonder why their parents aren’t quite as fun as I am.

So there is a whole lot of stupidity happening on my part while pushing my son on the swing and this little boy comes up and hands me an acorn, which I proceed throw back in his face because – really - you don’t know what the little bastard could be trying to do to you. You can’t be too careful these days. He could be some sort of Palestinian suicide bomber or something. Sure, he looks all cute and stuff and you take his acorn and then he sees that you are a gullible infidel that will accept any package from a cute kid. That’s when he is ready to blow himself up so that he can live life with 19 virgins, while I get to die with an acorn in my pocket.

OK, so I took the acorn. And proceed to pretend to eat it in front of his 8-year-old sister, who is looking at me like I’m insane. This further encourages her brother to give me another acorn, which I also pretend to eat. All the while, their mother isn’t really watching until her little daughter goes to put the acorn in her mouth and eat it because of how much I am obviously enjoying the acorn M&M’s.

Disclaimer – I actually did not see the little girl putting the acorn in her mouth. I wouldn’t let her eat an acorn any more than I’d want my kid eating an acorn. I was actually looking at my son when she decided to have her little taste.

This is when Mommy quickly slaps the acorn out of her daughter's hand and tells her daughter not to eat the acorn and looks at me with an appalled look that I haven’t seen since I inadvertently walked into that lesbian bar in Key West. Mommy gathers her children and proceeds to tell them that it is time to go.

I show the little girl that I had the acorns in my hand the whole time and didn’t really eat them and apologize to the Mommy for my not-well-thought-out actions. I tell her that my wife is always a little reluctant to let me go out in public without her just because of occasions such as this. The Mommy gives me an obligatory little laugh, although a little nervously, and takes her children to get some ice cream or to get a police officer. Some people have no sense of humor.

Next, I take my son over to the little jungle gym-thingy that he likes to play on. There are a few children in the 1 ½ to 3 year old range playing very nicely. They have one of those shaky bridges that kids like, but terrify parents (My son calls it the Shrek bridge), a tunnel and a few small slides.

Until.

Vincent and Isabella come to “play”.

The word “play” is in quotes for a reason. Because I don’t think that these kids really knew the meaning of the word play. To little Vinny and Bella, “playing” means pushing all of the smaller kids out of the way and recklessly jumping on the shaky bridge while all of the smaller kids are being tossed around like Quint at the end of Jaws. Only there was nobody there to shoot the barrel of compressed gas out of Vinny or Bella’s mouth, blowing pieces of their snot-nosed selves all over the monkey bars.

Here is Christopher hiding in the tunnel from his new friends, Vincent and Isabella. As can be seen, he would rather hang out with the disturbed-looking kid in the tunnel behind him than take his chances with good old Vinny.

Thank God, these wonderful children had such amazing parents, who showed their exceptional parenting skills by telling their pride (Vincent) and joy (Isabella) to “Be Careful”. As if these kids had something to worry about. Vincent was at least a year older than any other kid there and Isabella was probably 2 years older. Good thing they were being careful. I suppose that their parents were worried that the children screaming in horror would damage Vinny's hearing or Isabella may get run over by the stampede of terror, fleeing the runaway train that was the V&I Express.

Here is Christopher running away from Vincent and Isabella in horror.

Here is the topper of parenting skills… As Vincent is pushing a helpless 1 ½ year old aside to get to the slide first, Vincent’s mom says, “He pushes everyone aside. There is no stopping him.” Are you FREAKING KIDDING ME? That’s how you apologize to all of the children and parents that your kids just terrorized? Have you ever thought of taking your kid aside and not letting him or her "play" until they are ready to not harm innocent bystanders? What ever happened to a nice swat on the keester?

I’m no longer so pissed at V&I because I see where they are getting their invaluable parenting. Luckily, Little C did not bear the brunt of any assault from Vincent nor Isabella or I might have had to turn all sorts of Juddhole with Tiger Balm smeared on my sack and beat on them.(The parents... not my sack)

Luckily, however, there was one shred of reasoning in my head and that was, “These kids have names Vincent and Isabella. I live in New Jersey. There is a slim chance that Vinny’s Dad has a .45 and a dead body in the back of his car. Perhaps messing with Vinny’s Dad isn’t a good idea.”
After having the thought of Big Pussy waiting for me at my car, I decided that leaving the park before I lost my temper was probably the best idea I’d had in a while. Luckily, my little man was ready to go too. Somebody was looking out for us.

Aside:

As I am typing this, I need to tell you that I’ve had a terrible hankerin’ for doughnuts all day. I just went over for a cup of coffee. Guess what? I just wished Munchkins ™ into existence right next to the coffee pot. I’m betting Vinny’s Dad is glad he didn’t mess with me.

4:45 p.m. - 2004-07-19

Crazy, Old Man Burger

I’m not sure if this is a good thing or not, but this is a story that my wife seems to love telling people about me. You may find it amusing or you may immediately file a restraining order against me, but that’s your decision.

A few weeks ago, at an ungodly hour, between times when my infant daughter is screaming for some reason or other, my neighbor’s dogs decide that they are going to host Barkingpaloozastock in the yard behind us. (Their dogs are hunting dogs that live outside 100% of the time) Now, my wife and I are absolutely sleep deprived because our daughter seems to think that when she is not sleeping, she should try to yell as loud as she can at us. And she seemed to think that ½ hour to 1 hour was an appropriate length of time to go between scream-sessions. Good times.
As could be imagined, during the time when she is sleeping, and, therefore, not yelling at us, we need to sleep. The dogs in the yard behind us, however, have different plans. These dogs were apparently raised in some sort of Saddam Hussein torture camp to bark as loud as they can whenever they see or sense any sleep-deprived person trying to catch a few Z's.

I attended college and lived in Newark, NJ, where gunshots rang out at least once a night and I slept like a rock. (I can’t say “slept like a baby”, because, with my newborn, I see how babies really sleep) I can usually block the barking bastards out of my mind and fall asleep, but this was a special night, where my mind would do nothing but focus on these dogs and their annoying attempt at a lullaby.

I have two dogs that also like to bark their heads off at something/ anything/ nothing when they are outside. However, when I hear them barking for any real period of time, I make sure to bring them in or get them to "SHADDAPP". So, you could imagine that I don’t think too kindly of inconsiderate jackasses who let their dogs bark unabated for any period of time.

This led me to do the only thing that a reasonable person would do…

I stuck my head out of the window and screamed at the top of my lungs for my very considerate neighbors to kindly “SHUTYOURGODDAMDOGSUP!!!” while my wife first stared with mouth agape and then laughed uncontrollably at my temporary insanity. I’m normally a pretty level-headed, laid back person who abhors confrontation, but make me into a sleep-deprived suburban freak and look what happens. I think that Judge Judy will probably see it my way when I present my case.

Of course, I then had to wait to see if there was any reaction. Apparently, the owners of the dogs knew exactly who the maniac was screaming at, because their house was probably the only house on the block where not a single light turned on to see whatinthehell was happening. Wusses.

The next time the dogs started barking, I heard a loud SHHHH! come from the house with no lights on and the dogs stopped barking, at least until I fell asleep.

Ahhh… You’ve got to love peaceful life in the suburbs.

The legend of “Crazy Old Man Burger” has begun.

12:04 p.m. - 2004-07-13

Anti-Drug potty humor

Is there anything on earth funnier than going to the urinal and looking down to see the urinal-attempt-to-hide-the-smell-of-pee-thingy inscribed with the words, “Say no to drugs”? I stand there wondering if anyone has really looked down and read those words while relieving themselves and thought, “You know, maybe this urinal is right. I should have said “No” all of these times. If I only would have used this urinal 10 years, two marriages, and three stints in rehab ago. All I had to do was say No all this time? It was that simple? Thanks for the advice, Mr. Urinal!”

I would have loved to be in on the “Just Say No” marketing campaign meeting when they were trying to decide where they should place the slogan for maximum effect.

Bob: “Hey Ted, what do you think about placement for our ‘Just Say No’ banners? I was thinking college campuses, high schools, billboards, sports arenas, and during Sponge Bob Square Pants. What are your ideas.”

Ted: “Bob, those all sound like pretty good ideas, but wait till you hear this: Bathroom urinals. There is no better place to grab someone’s attention than the little spot on the smell-goody-thing in the urinal.”

Bob: “That’s brilliant! I’ve always thought that the Urinal Mint was an underutilized asset.”
I often wonder what Tina thought about during this meeting. Did she come up with anything for the ladies room? I don’t visit women’s restrooms too often, so I can’t really comment on if there is “Just Say No” advertising in some random spot in the women’s restroom. Maybe some fine ladies could let us know about the advertising campaigns of the women’s restrooms.

9:37 a.m. - 2004-07-02

Depeche Mode... What the?

I’ve been in a bit of a nostalgic mood recently. I think that reading all of the single people’s diaries has me pining on some level for times as a single person. So, I’ve been doing the only thing I can do (since I’m very happy in my marriage and I’m not about to become single anytime soon). I’ve dug up my old albums and started listening to them. OK you young Diarylanders… don’t make too much fun of me for still calling it an album.

However, I seem to have skipped over the times when I was single and in college, when some females (mostly those just released into society in a work-study program run by the local mental ward) actually seemed to care that I existed. I went straight back to the very dangerous world of late-80’s high school music.

It started yesterday with some old New Order. I realized that their Substance (disk 1) album still holds up relatively well. I only felt like somewhat of a tool singing along to Bizarre Love Triangle with the windows down at the top of my lungs. Some of the women in my age group actually recognized the song and did some minor head-bobbing and lip-synching. However, some of the younger lads and lassies were all like, “What the hell with all of the synthesizer crap?” and I was all like, “It’s a mid-life crisis balding guy thing. You certainly wouldn’t understand. The synthesizer was the tool of my generation’s revolution” Maybe if New Order had a number in their name, like Blink 183123 or Sum1043821, the young bucs would have thought that NewOrder2831 was cool. OK, so the bands with number thing is stolen straight from Porktornado’s column a few weeks ago, but something I had been thinking about way before he so eloquently put it into words.

Anyway, my nostalgia took a turn for the worse this morning as I was driving in to work. I was listening to my old Depeche Mode albums. Dear God, those certainly were some gay fellows. I really must have had my head up my butt in high school to not realize that the music I was listening to was dripping with references to non-straight activity. I’m not going into details, but the words “Slave”, “Feel”, “Touch”, “Skin”, “Ecstacy” made quite a few too many appearances for my sphincter to feel comfortable with. I mean, I actually went to see these guys in concert. Twice! I’m beginning to think that the uncomfortable groping that I got at the urinal may not have been an accident because he was pushed into me by the crowd. Things that make you go… . Alright that’s enough of that bad 80’s flashback, Arsenio.

Seriously, though. How could I have been so blind to not see that all the leather-clad men at the concert weren’t just cool biker guys? I really should have been listening to the lyrics a little more closely and not throwing on the proverbial blinders to the fact that my boys of Depeche were really singing about hairy man-love. I’m lucky to have made it out of Giants Stadium with my back-door virginity in-tact.

And, by the way, I won't even listen to anyone's suggestions that I'm a homophobe. I wont justify it by saying things like, “I’ve got gay friends” or whatever. If you knew me, you'd know. It’s just funny to look back to see how I didn’t realize how much the Depeche Mode music/ crowd was gay.

And I also used to think that Elton’s sunglasses and clothes were just a little strange, but nothing was different otherwise. It wasn’t until Freddy Mercury died of aids that I realized that the band name for Queen had a duplicitous meaning. I am absolutely clueless.

By the way… As Juddhole (I don’t know html, so I can’t put the link in) reminded me yesterday, singing anything in Scooby voice is high comedy. The lyrics of Depeche and New Order are no exception.

8:28 a.m. - 2004-07-02

Baby Learning

You learn all sorts of new stuff when you have kids.

Terms that are commonly thrown around the Burger residence:

“Peed-out” – When the diaper doesn’t quite have enough of that superabsorbentNASApellets in it to handle the volume of liquid being pumped into it.

“Peed-out” is followed closely by… “Pooped-out” – Said diaper doesn’t contain #2 because the volume of #2 was simply too much for the diaper to handle or the diaper wasn’t quite positioned correctly. If the cause of the “pooping out” is because of negligence on the part of the diaper installer (typically Daddy), said installer will end up getting a whole bunch of #2 for the error from the person changing the “pooped out” diaper. Pooped-out diapers are very often accompanied by a session where there is much swearing and our Lord’s name is taken in vain far too often.

Onesie- (Pronounced “Won-Zee” for those that don’t know) I never thought that a word that sounds so inherently effeminate could really become such a prevalent part of a heterosexual male’s vocabulary. Just in case you don’t know what a Onesie is, it’s basically a little undershirt that buttons in the crotch and is typically worn under other clothes, but can be worn by itself in 2 situations:

1) First scenario – It is a warm night – Onesies are perfectly acceptable as pajamas in this case.

2) Second scenario - Daddy is watching (insert sporting event or Discovery Channel show here) and is just too damn lazy to pick out an “outfit” or change the child. At this point, the child can simply be labeled “White Trash Baby” or “NASCAR Baby”, especially when said child makes an appearance outside of the house in aforementioned onesie. This scenario is most often followed by a verbal barrage from Mommy, who doesn’t like to be associated with NASCAR or trailer parks so much. (That’s when Mommy gets a black eye and remembers that she should just get Daddy a beer)

When you have a newborn, you learn about the effects that breast milk and formula have on the baby’s poop. I won’t go into details, but the words “mustard-y”, “loose” and “seedy” are tossed around like we are placing our lunch order with Fat Sal at the deli.

For the sake of my readers, (That’s me right now) I’m not even getting into the whole umbilical cord deal except the midwife kept commenting on what a really nice umbilical cord my baby/wife had. I have no idea what this meant, but it is apparently a good thing.
My boss had some advice for me before we gave birth to our first child. He said that to be prepared, “You should watch the first 15 minutes of Saving Private Ryan about 73 times in a row and then watch Fear Factor marathons. Then you still won’t be prepared.” It is one thing to watch these things on television with a distance between yourself and the television screen, but to watch your wife going through birth and seeing the things you end up seeing really is taking it to another level. Don’t get me wrong… Childbirth is probably the single most emotional and beautiful thing I’ve ever gone through, but it really isn’t for the faint of heart. Thank God I have a Van Deferens and will never be subjected to having any of my openings stretched to 20 times its normal diameter to pass a bowling ball through that opening. It is really amazing how attracted I still am to my wife after what I have witnessed.

We get to learn all of these great things from a small creature that really seems to get a kick out of scaring me out of my sleep by screaming at me at obscene hours of the night that I haven’t seen since college. Good times.

11:58 a.m. - 2004-06-18

My poor kids

My newborn baby girl yells at me a whole lot. That seems to happen a lot when they are 3 weeks old.

In about 15 years, (I hope it is at least that long) I’ll be wishing she was only yelling at me like she does now instead of how she'll be yelling at me as a teenager. I cringe when I think about the things that will come out of her mouth then:

“You never let me do anything!”

“Get out of my room!”

“I hate you!”

“Can’t you just be a normal Dad?”

Can’t say that I’m not prepared. I’ve got all my typical Dad-isms lined up…

“Because I told you so”

“My house/ My rules”

“I think you need a little sweater over that, don’t you?”

…and the rest of the typical Dad crap.

I can’t wait to be the Dad that absolutely tortures my kids. When they are asking to be dropped off a block away from where they are going so nobody sees them with their Dad, that is when I’ll be pulling up right in front of their friends in my 1980 Chevy station wagon with the wood siding. I don’t actually own this car and I don’t actually intend on driving it anywhere else except when I am dropping off my teenage kids. I think a horn that sounds like the General Lee from Dukes of Hazard may also be apropos. Blasting “Mandy” by Barry Manilow at full volume is a no-brainer when picking them up.

God bless my daughter’s boyfriends. They better be able to laugh or they are in for some serious shit.

I think I want to be the guy on the block that the really young kids call “Old Man Burger down the block”. That would be funny. I’m already yelling at people that drive too fast in front of my house. I’m a step away from yelling at kids to “Stay off my lawn” and calling them “Rascals” or “Varmints”. I talk to my wife about these things. She rolls her eyes and mutters things under her breath. I know better than to ask her what she is muttering about, so you'll have to guess for yourself.

Pity my children. They know not what they are in for.

1:42 p.m. - 2004-06-15