I'm 40 years old today. All week, he kids were asking me, "Are you excited daddy? Are you excited for your birthday daddy? You're gonna be 40 on saturday daddy, are you excited?"
"Yeah, I'm excited." I'd reply eye-rollingly.
Honestly though, I am excited. There a lot of places I expected to be at 40. Dead, drunk, naked, performing in a dive bar in East St. Louis as "Lady Gagguh." So all in all, I'm feeling pretty good about it.
Also, there's this:
So we found this injured bird in the backyard. A grackle. I found it. The poor thing was flopping around on its back and trying to turn upright without success. I got some gloves on and tried setting it upright. It hitched and bobbed and wobbled and flipped back over again.
"Maybe it's shitfaced?" I thought. I smelled it's breath. No such luck. I didn't know what to do with it. I certainly couldn't have the kids finding it.
For more, please go and visit Dadcentric. Thank you and Have a Pleasant weekend.
Have I ever done a weekly wrap-up? No. Can one post a weekly wrap up on a thursday? Depends. Back in my early 20's, my week wrapped up around tuesday, so yes.
I have lost 19 lbs. 19! Had a doctor appointment the other day and I weighed in 19 lbs. less than I did 3 short months ago. That's a whole bra size. How'd I do it? Green tea and positive thinking. And incredible amounts of amphetamines.
I kid of course. That positive thinking crap is ridiculous.
(Recumbent bike and so, SO many low-carb, low-fat veggie wraps. So many. I'l kick a lavash bread in the nuts. But it's working, so I'll continue.)
Also, getting ready for My Wife to have surgery next week. Not to worry. Nothing life threatening. Except for the fucking surgery. Do I seem nervous? Bah.
Once it's all done and she's home safe and sound, I'l let you folks in on the nature of it. Here's a hint: The 6 Million Dollar Man.
Who in this day and age would've cost 450 million dollars and then would've fallen pray to a virus in week 2. Steve Austin, crashing your hard drive.
Finally:
Oy, the yelling. Loud frustrated bursts. Raw throated exhaultations to "pleeease stop!" Red faced, chest-heaving exclamations at triple digit decibel levels. I don't know how the kids stand me.
Hey folks. 1st order, thank you very much to those of you that have read and/or voted for me in the Knucklehead Blog-Off Rd 1. Voting for round one ends tomorrow. I am very grateful. You, on the other hand, are now obligated to continue voting for the rest of the competition. It's in the by-laws or something.
Second, There is this about cats, death, and truth:
Well, the cat's dead. Was she the best cat ever? That is a childish question. And yes. Empirically. If you want, leave a comment and I'll email you the documentation. I'm not here to eulogize the cat though. That's over on Cat Fancy's dead cat of the month page.
The P-Nut turns 4 in April. She's getting pretty hip to what's going on. Including the fact that the cat--Xiu Xiu (zhu-zhu) the Eldest--had disappeared.
We have this Dora doll. It's almost 3 ft tall. The Pumpkin Man is in love with it.
It was cute at first. He'd carry it around everywhere. He'd sing, "Dora, Dora, Dora!" When he dropped her, he'd bellow, "Oh No!" All quite adorable.
Until the make-out sessions began.
Instead of talking and singing to her, he sinks to the floor, hands buried in her polyester filled head, and kisses her. Passionately. Noisily. Right on the mouth
*Smack.* *Smack* *Smack* *Smack* "Oh Dorah!" He breathily exclaims.
He won't let his big sister near her.
That has me imagining this:
Cut to 20 years in the future:
Knock at the door. I open it. It's my son with a woman of what appears to be latin descent.
The P-Man: "Mom, Dad . . . I'd like you to meet my girlfriend, Dora."
Dora: Hi, it's so nice to finally meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Homemaker.
We exchange pleasantries. Move to sit in the living room.
Pman: I'll go get us some drinks. (exits)
Dora: (Whispering) My real name is Louise!
Us: What?
Pman: (from kitchen) Dora honey, what are you saying out there?
Dora: (To Pman) Uh, Backpack, Backpack! ( to us) Help me!
End scene.
In case you're curious how a man who held the record for detentions in his 5th grade is handling his daughter's first foray into the culture of school, you can find out today over at DadCentric.
I've finally made it. The Elysian Fields of small bloggerdom. 100 followers. 10X10.
I'm a third of the way to being able to nobly defend Sparta. Airbrush me some abs. And some pecs. And shoulder muscles. And biceps. And 200 more stalwart followers. And a fancy accent. Then let me at those Persian hordes.
I could do a five-part "greatest" show on VH1.
I got 99 problems but followers ain't one.
A hundred. It's the largest number the P-Nut knows. 1st day of school:
"There are alot alot of kids in my class, daddy?"
"Oh yeah? How many?
"20."
Hey, she's not an idiot.
My 100th follower's name is Catherine and she's a senior in college. She's got a blog and also she has excellent taste in reading materials.
Of course, as the 100th follower, Catherine should--and will-- receive a prize. She will be getting Carl Kasell's voice on her home answering machine. And 47 individual cigarettes she can use to trade for favors at her "college." Congrats, Catherine!
When my wife was showering this morning, I happened to open the basement door and hear the sound of water pouring on to the floor. My first thought was, "Ooooh, waterfall."
Turns out we had a big ol' clog right near where our pipes leave the house to hook up with the main line. It cost us $215 to find and fix this problem.
The culprit. Wipes. Hold on judgy-judgers. They were flushable wipes. Did not disintegrate one iota. Now that I have a hundred followers, I've got to be careful not to publicly besmirch any one company. Let me just say, the brand name rhymed with Bottenelle.
After a little googling we came to find out that those things never work.
And corporate America was always so straight forward with us before.
Today was the P-nut's first day of pre-school. She did great. There were no tears. From her. My wife and I did slightly worse. But not until we got to the car.
It doesn't help that after we sent her in, my brain decided I needed to listen to a loop of "Welcome To The Jungle" for the next 45 minutes. Especially the "you're gonna diiiIIIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEe," part.
Add that to the two donuts I demolished for breakfast, and I'd say I'm coping quite well, really.
My wife had to go back to work today too. So now it's just the Pumpkin Man and me staring at each other and going, "Whaddya wanna do?"
"I don't know. Whaddya you wanna do?"
We'll figure it out in short order.
The final first that occurred today is, I posted my first piece at DadCentric as an official Dadcentrician. I am proud and humbled. They are a group of really good writers but even better than that, they're a group of really good dads.
I think. I've never actually met any of them in person. This is the internet.
Anyway, if any of you who are still reading have a chance, please go and check it out and tell me what you think unless you hate it.
The Peanut was running around this morning--to and fro, even--jumping and hanging off furniture and screeching, "I'm a monkey, daddy. Look! I'm a monkey! Daddy look!"
I'm still trying to perfect that believable parent tone of voice where you say you're looking but you really don't but your kids believe you are anyway. So, I actually have to look every time.
"Wow, honey. You're a monkey. I'm tickled pink."
Her: "Yeah, daddy."
Cut to 2.75 minutes later:
Her, hanging from a chair: "Hi turtle daddy. Hi! Hi daddy turtle!"
Trying not to consider too deeply the implications of why she's chosen a turtle as my spirit animal, (probably it has something to do with the fact that once a year I lay dozens of eggs in a bed of sand) I answer her:
"Hi, monkey Peanut!"
Her: (annoyed) "Hi, turtle daddy."
Me: "Hi, Peanut Monkey!"
Her: (getting pissed now) No, daddy. No. Hi. Turtle. Daddy.
Me: "Hi . . . Turtle Peanut?"
Her: (tears of frustration in her eyes now. How could she have been burdened with this obtuse, slow moving reptile for a father?) No, daddy no! (whining) I'm not a turtle!
Me: "Hi monk-
Her: (Beside herself now) "NO! I'm NOT a monkey."
Me: (flummoxed) "Well what are you then ?"
Her (with passion she spits) " I'm a SPIDER!"
I should've known that, I guess. This omniscience stuff is hard. Maybe the way she used her fangs to inject venom into the cat so she could then wrap it up in gossamer thin but steel-cable strong webbing was my clue. I'm changing her name to Shelob.
In other news, the nice and talented people over at DadCentric.com have seen fit to allow me to write a guest post for their 30 Days of Dads feature. The regular writers on that site ( not to mention the guest posters) are much better'n me, so it's kind of an honor. If I had any honor. If you have any extra time, swing by and check them (and my post) out. They are worth your while.
This is the best vid I could get. Most of them featuring Shelob have the embedding disabled. I blame Peter Jackson.
