Friday, October 30, 2009

Women Be Shopping...

"Honey, can you come here?" he heard faintly from beyond the monochromatic layers of overpriced and inconsequential blouses. They hung in a perfect row, flowing gently against the breeze of a nearby department store air conditioner that hummed quietly to ensure a comfortable shopping ambience. He envied the air conditioner, answering only to the predictable, rational demands of electricity and natural physical laws.

Maybe in another time, another place, he could aspire to an existence as purposeful as that of the Haier cooling unit - today he was an indentured shopper.

The voice, though soft and feminine, weighed him down. She was a woman driven by two insatiable desires: to adorn her physique and simultaneously suck the will to live from his body - the latter she accomplished one dollar at a time. He turned slowly and rose from his seat, glazed and tired eyes perceiving the faint outlines of odd, oblong shapes set at strange angles across the jumbled floor. Years ago, he thought, an architect had designed this Filene's edifice with the sole purpose of illuminating and exaggerating the beauty of its merchandise. Lights were hung at the perfect height, mirrors mounted lengthwise along every wall with a reflective marble floor offering a sharp "click, click" as the lioness prowls around in pumps hunting her prey. But his male eyes ignored the bait, impervious to the sinister, careful niche marketing. His mind flitted, instead, back to the tumbling football that glanced off the upright in the afternoon JETS game - wide left - he would have made $20. Oh well.

Plodding along, slow methodical steps navigating clumsily through the crumpled morasse of fashion and fabric, the silhouette of what appeared to be his wife came subtly into focus near an open changing room door. He blinked to clear his blurred vision, then picked his head up slightly and rested his gaze on what appeared to be her feet. He didn't have the energy to straighten his neck and look into her eyes, and he wasn't sure he could peer into them even if he must. His ears strained to listen as he mouth moved rapidly, words flying from her lips as if she were the MicroMachine guy hawking miniature cars:

"...having a hard time deciding blah blah blah... already have a shrug, you know, but it's not blah blah blah... if I were looking for something more formal, then obviously blah blah blah... can always bring it back if blah blah... just to die for blah blah blah!"

What he perceived as a brief pause in her shopping sermon was quickly followed by several moments of silence. Oh no. Small beads of sweat seeped from his forehead and pupils constricted to narrow his vision - silence was never good. He forced the kind of smile a damaged Kirk Gibson feigned for Tommy Lasorda before walking toward the on deck circle in Game 1 - a smile that masks anguish and assures the its recipient that everything is fine - then raised his head to meet her gaze.

"So?" she asked with a tone that left him unsure if the inquisition were rhetorical or desperate for an answer. Hearkening back to a particularly informative episode of the Simpsons he remembered Homer's advice that women always want compliments.

"Looks great!", he blurted, reaching out to touch her shirt. He modified his affect, forcing a semi-furtive smile, and rubbed the fabric gently between his thumb and forefinger. "Very nice, and the shirt looks really good with the pants. I can definitely see you in this." He let his hand drop back to his side, proud of himself for a moment.

Her face was expressionless, her blue eyes a little cold: "These are my clothes - I wore them into the store. You're an idiot."

Sunday, September 20, 2009

"The Garden State"...

may not be the way I would describe Jersey. But perhaps when early colonists settled the banks of the Passaic River all of the good names for Industrial Sepsis were taken. They did name a town Peapack, however.

Anyway, we're settled in Jersey and the wife has hopefully finished buying IKEA furniture to make our rental look like home.

Brady examines a gord at a local farmer's market. "Farmer's Market" is an old Iriquois term meaning "clever ploy to sell unwashed vegetables to yuppy's at above-market prices."

Brooklyn makes nice with a couple of pumpkins, naming them Orangy and Pumpky. Wonder if she'll cry when I slice those beasts open and cut out their guts all over the kitchen table.

Here are a few more pumpkins, unaware of the horrible end they each shall meet.

Kickin' around the Pumpkin Patch. Man, kids are a lot of work.

Brooklyn never smiles when we want her to. I'm told her behavior should improve drastically as she approaches her tween years.

Here's Bear-Bear checking on some produce. He can be pretty intense when he's exploring.

That's about it for us... Nonny & Poppa, welcome to Jersey next week!

Friday, May 22, 2009

Musings from my time as a Stay-at-Home dad...

I don't know where General Mills earned his stripes, but it wasn't in the War on Childhood Obesity. Today's Lucky Charms have WAY more marshmallows than when I was a kid.

If you're a young mother with even the slightest doubt as to the paternity of your child, an appearance on Maury Povich is NOT going to make your life better. An invitation to the Maury Povich show should be accompanied by a carton of Virginia Slims and a Calvin-pissing sticker for adhesion on the busted back window of your Fiero up on cinder blocks in the front yard, patiently awaiting the installation of a new valve cover gasket your baby-daddy lifted from a pick n' pull.

The 1st law of thermodynamics does not apply to babies. An infant may consume a mere 4 oz of milk and 4 oz of rice cereal but still pump out a turd that would alarm an African elephant. Clearly, Sir Isaac Newton never changed a diaper.

If you're at home w/the kids all day they won't care what you wear, or if you choose to shower, or if you have a few large and low-hanging boogs, or whatever. But the outside world is far more judgmental, speaking specifically of the cackling gas station cashiers Chevron employs. Put down the frozen breakfast corn dogs, Gemma, and, Shawlinda, turn off the View blaring in the background so your empty heads can contemplate their own problems for a change.

Discovery Channel is 70% sharks, 20% Man vs. Wild and 10% a reminder from the scientific community to Christians: "Only Retards Believe In Creationism".

An infant should never, under any circumstance, be fed prunes. Why such parental excitement over periodic irregularity? It's better your little guy be slightly constipated, mildly plugged, than movin' it like a pastry bag of melted ice cream squeezed by the Incredible Hulk.
If you're out and about with the kids and nature calls, it might seem like a time-saver to take them into the restroom stall whilst you stand there and relieve yourself. Not a good idea, as any toddler will eventually succumb to the temptation to touch your pee stream. Apparently curiosity killed the cat and still found time to spray a toddler with urine.

The Baby Bjorn was invented by a woman, for no man would design a way to suspend a kid at the perfect height to repeatedly mule-kick him in the balls.

It's nice to be needed, even if only to rinse "puke up" from your daughter's hair at 3am while your wife pretends to sleep soundly through the mêlée. It has been said "life is what happens when you're making plans", and since I surely didn't plan to clean up a Hansel & Gretel-like barf trail between my daughter's bed, garbage can and two separate toilets, I'd have to agree.

Sunday, March 29, 2009

"Hola, soy Vince con Shamwow..."

ShamWow commercial in Vince's broken Spanish. A must see for the whole family:


Friday, March 20, 2009

When animals attack...

Trolling the Net awhile back I came across an awesome site I wish I had discovered years ago. It answers all of the burning questions. Absent any "what is the meaning of life"-type quandaries, this website is left to explore really important questions, to wit:

"What if a Siberian Tiger and a Gorilla got in a fight... who would win?"
"What if a Polar Bear and a Kodiak Bear got in a fight... who would win?"
"What if a Mountain Lion and Geraldo's mustache got in a fight... who would win?"

I know, if you're a guy you've lost sleep on some of these very questions; hours you could have been watching re-runs of Small Wonder on TVLand but instead were left to the machinations of a mind occupied by unlikely animal brawls. Well, Wild Animal Fight Club attempts to end these sleepless nights. Here are a few highlights:

Gorilla vs. Tiger
"If a Silverback Gorilla were to ever be pitted against a Siberian Tiger, both animals would be cautious in making the first move. The Gorilla would try to stand as large as possible, pound its chest, and yell as loud as it could in order to try and scare off the Tiger. This plan would backfire and insight the cautious tiger into attacking. The huge cat would pounce straight for the Ape's throat. With the Gorilla caught off guard the Tiger is able to avoid the Gorilla's powerful arms and get inside. The Gorilla ferociously tries to bite at the Tiger, but its too late. The Tiger sticks its four inch canine teeth through the neck of the Gorilla and the fight is over."

One could mull over a pithier question: how could a Tiger from Siberia fight a Gorilla from Africa? Perhaps the two meet due to a freak gorilla-cage & tiger-enclosure malfunction at the San Diego Zoo. Or they are unknowingly dating the same Gazelle and she gets her days confused, fatally inviting them both over for movie-night.

Also, I love how the author predicts the Gorilla's "plan would backfire", as if the Gorilla had thought about the possibility it might one day have to fight a tiger and formulated a defense plan. Seriously, I've been to Hogle Zoo enough to know Gorilla's basically sit around and pick at their butts all day. I doubt their colons contain any "Operation Siberian Tiger" contingencies.

Lion vs. Tiger
"First of all for this fight we will use the Bengal Tiger, instead of the much larger Siberian Tiger, so we can give the poor Lion a chance. The fact is that the Lion still would have no shot. The Tiger is just a far superior animal. It is stronger and faster. It hunts bigger prey and doesn't need the help of something called a pride. Pride? The Lion should be ashamed."

The author doesn't know the difference between incite and insight, but he can differentiate prey from pray.

And conspicuously absent: A Shark riding on an Elephant's back.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Brookers wakes up to say to me this morning...

"Daddy... why did Nonny and Poppa have to stay in San Diego? I wanta go ta see Nonny and Poppa wight now. I pwomise I will be weally good dis time."

We drove to San Diego this last weekend to spend time with the Gpa's. Friday night we stayed in a nasty downtown hotel:

Saturday we upgraded to the Navy Lodge on Coronado Island:

Okay, so none of the above pics is actually ours. We forgot our cameras. Oh well. It was still fun to dink around Balboa Park, driving around in circles for hours fighting with Californians for parking spots while Brooklyn yelled at Poppa: "Dere is one wight dere, Poppa! Jus' pahk the cahr wight dere!"

Sunday, March 01, 2009

Brittiny was teaching her 3 year-olds at church today...

and mentioned that "Heavenly Father can see us, He knows all."
Brooklyn said: "How's that, Mommy?"
"He lives in heaven and watches us from heaven."
"You mean, with his binoculars?"

Brooklyn proudly displaying her cupcakes. She took these around the neighborhood and gave them to her friends. Well, those that her dad didn't scarf.

These are the ladybug cookies that Brittiny made for Brookers' tea party. The large bug heads are actually milk duds.

Brooklyn enjoying dusk on the beach at Coronado's North Island, San Diego. Little turd refused to open her eyes for any pictures. 50 shots of her with closed eyes.

"Daddy, I have sand in my shoes. Just wait a minute."

Hanging out at a park in Temecula, CA. Brady stole his little hat from a Newsie.

Brady Bear does his version of the Robot.

Another pic of the little guy from Coronado.

Thursday, January 29, 2009

"Brooklyn, what are you going to do when you grow up?"...

"I am going to kick my daddy in the balls."


Then tonight I was telling Brooklyn a bedtime story, but all of the classics escaped me: Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, The Pit and the Pendulum. So I resorted to telling her a magical tale about Super Mario Brothers & Princess Toadstool. As I described the "mean, ugly, self-loathing King Bowser" who had imprisoned the Princess, Brooklyn stopped me.

"Is it you, Daddy? Are you da Bowser?"

What a little hoser. From now on bedtime stories will be confined to readings from the Wall Street Journal.