Appropriate Tipping

Every once in a while you have one of those moments in your everyday life where someone asks you a simple question and you suddenly realize that you are actually viewed as a real life adult. I don't think I have any sort of Peter Pan complex and I am quite accustomed to carrying around heavy amounts of responsibility, but the first time a friend asked me if I was going to have my son circumcised I felt like a character from Lost, frozen in fear and awaiting the inevitable brain overloaded nose bleed. I quickly snapped back to reality and replied, "Huh, I don't know. I never really thought about it".  And that is the honest truth, I never really thought about it, but at the same I subconsciously probably reeealy never wanted to think about it.

Now the time has come and I must make a super manly man decision for the boy. I did some research on the internet, listened to proponents of both sides (even though the anti-snippers are the only ones who seem to be really "passionate" about their viewpoint) and even got a doctor's advice. I've made my decision, the wife is on board, but I won't tell you what it is. Not because I think it's inappropriate to talk about my unborn child's weiner in a blog, but because I like pushing buttons and know that the mystery is probably eating you up right now. See, that is what learned most from this tip madness, the people that are willing to voice their opinion about the subject aren't really interested a discussion, they are just unrelenting in the passion to have you side with them.

So, from now on when someone asks me what compelled me to make my decision I will simply say, "I love how they look that way, it's glorious". Sure, it's a ridiculous statement, but you have to admit it's a pretty funny go to response, and you can't argue an opinion, but you can argue half-assed mildly scientific knowledge derived from internet sources, talk shows, and skewed statistics.

Father Son Bonding Cycle

I have spent a good portion of my driving career on the four lane highway right along the Pacific Coast known as the 101. Generally this little stretch of road is a kind of refuge for me. Just being able to smell the saltwater and take a peak at the ocean makes any day just a little bit better. Even when you're crammed in rush hour traffic and just crawling along the coast will take you down a notch, make you not take things so seriously, and maybe even put a warm little grin on your face. In a sense the coast is a Hugh Grant movie, minus the forgettable actress du jour. But like any decent Hugh Grant movie there is always the threat of the anti-romantic villain looming nearby, threatening to not let Hugh's charm rule all of humanity .

In this case, the role of actor/actress whose name I don't remember is played by a rare breed known as the cyclist. Too cool to be call bicyclists, these assholes only have two objectives in life, to cut down on wind resistance and ruin everyone's day who decided to not spandex up and ride. I have nothing against bicycles and love riding them myself, but once you make that choice to start shaving your body and wearing figure conforming attire you have changed the whole goddam game. Luckily, I grew up with positive role models that taught me about these upper-middle class grape smugglers. One of my fondest early childhood memories was driving down the coast as my uncle encouraged me to lean out his passenger window and scream "SINGLE FILE!!!" at the packs of idiots in click-in shoes that tried to swarm entire lanes of the 101. Seriously, I was probably 6 years old and I could already see how retarded these middle-aged douche bags were.

Most dads probably dream of having a catch with their firstborn son (also, when the hell did we start calling it having a catch instead of playing catch? and why does this bother me?), which I think will definitely be great. But I cannot wait for the time when I am able to teach the boy the nuances of yelling "single file" at all packs of riders and how adding "Lance" to the end of any sentence is incredibly degrading to any cyclist, even when they aren't doing anything wrong at all ("Easy, Lance"). Then when he asks me why all his educational cartoons and teachers tell him to love everyone and not make fun of people and yet I encourage him to mock this goofy bastards, I will simply tell him that nobody forced these spandex warriors to ride with headphones in, wear yellow rubber bracelets, or generally act like dickheads to anyone that didn't spend $3,000 on a bicycle. Therefore, simply, they earned it.   

It's Been A While

Sorry, no blog posts for a while, but I've been savoring my last holiday season as a sane non-parent as much as possible. What did I do while not writing this adorably irreverent blog you ask? I guess the easiest way to catch you up to speed is by using my words.

I spent a large chunk of my free time debating what to buy a very pregnant wife. This is much harder than it sounds as you must factor into the equation not only size and shape for clothing items that will fit now or after she pushes the litter bugger out, but also things that she will enjoy now and after the aformentioned bugger-pushing. Luckily a large chunk of the best gifts were bought online and I was not forced to murder anyone in the Target Greatland shopping center.

I also watched a ton of movies I have been meaning to catch up on and sports. Sure, I might be able to do this in small doses once the midget is born, but while I'm still able to fall asleep on the couch watching a Charger game or get all excited about seeing Bullit for the first time I am going to do it, dammit.

Lastly, I spent another chunk of my non-blogging time puking my guts out. I'm not sure if it was the flu or food poisoning, but either way it knocked me the fuck out. This doesn't sound like much fun, and it most certainly did suck balls, but I was all alone at home on my hands and knees for the better part of a Sunday just heaving into the toilet. After a while I got a litlle looney and started to yell at myself and the toilet. My favorite line went something like this,  "There's nothing left!!! You took it all, you sunofabitch. There is nothing left for me to give", violent vomiting, "...shit.". I may have to start changing my vomiting curses up when the boy arrives, but I thought I'd go out in glorious fashion. It was really some of my best work.

So that's it. I was sick, shopping, and lounging instead of blogging. Back to it now and hopefully not so much puking in the very near future.

Fell in Love with a Doc

Part 2 of a parenting class went down last night. I didn't actually write about the first session because it was a real snoozer, and the only thing I learned was how to swaddle the teddy bear I brought to class. Actually, that's not entirely true, I also learned that foreigners are completely unihibited in group parenting classes (questions, comments, and goofy accented snickering) and that I should be even less intimitated than I already was about becoming a parent, because that class was geared towards people who have never seen a baby in their life, and there definitely seemed to be a few of them in the crowd. I don't mean they didn't grow up with siblings or weren't around a lot of babies, I seriously think some of them were just born straight into teenhood and were segregated from anyone under the age of 6 years old for the entire sheltered life. Also, everyone in the video watched was 100% creeepy. It's truly a miracle that the hospital's Amber Alert system was not blaring during the entire thing.

Last night was a completely different story. Basically just an open Q&A with a pediatrician. The guy showed up late and cracked a corny joke or two to start and I wasn't exactly loving him. But then he started fielding questions and it was a match made in heaven. When asked why the media and talk shows were so concerned with unsafe vaccinations he responded with 100% sincerity and said, "Because the media is a bunch of retards". The only thing that could have made that response better was if he had said the lady asking the question was a retard for being concerned with why talk shows are talking about something. He went on to calmly and rationally talk everyone off their neurotic ledges and even put a guy in his place who seemed to be qouting Rush Limbaugh verbatim in hopes of a pat on the back.  The back and forth went something like this...

Idiot: "Isn't it kind ridiculous that vaccinations have not evolved in many years. I mean, we are still using the same technology we used since before we went to the moon."

Doctor Amazing: "Actually that statement is completely false", 2 minute explanation of why the guy was totally wrong, "...so, no, you're statement was 100% incorrect".

I love that freaking doctor.

What's Up Doc?

We had to interview a pediatrician today. This was a mindblowing concept for me at first, not only the fact that we would essentially be auditioning a doctor, but also because the doc would be interviewing to treat a patient that can't even crap outside of someone else's body yet. Then throw in the fact that we had no clue what to ask said healthcare professional and the whole thing was just surreal. I won't bore you with the details of the actual interview, but here are some questions I wanted to ask in a total deadpan manner, but completely pussed out on because of doctor's highly professional and efficient manner...

• What are your best post-shot sticker options?
• What are the best kind of drugs to, ehh...shut a kid up?
• What would it cost for you to make sure the boy makes all stars? You know, how much to get em started on the juice early?
• What's your best vaccination?
• Why so obsessed with the rectal thermometers?

Slow Child = My Fault

I had the pleasure of eating at PF Chang's last night with the wife and my little brother in law. The food was decent, the atmosphere was poorly lit and very loud, and the bar scene there has to be one of the most consistently hilarious places to people watch ever. Just like the completely contrived atmosphere at every one of these ultra modern chain restaraunts, the people at the Chang bar never fail exude pure "trying too hard" vibes. But while enjoying some very average "infused" menu items and mocking the clientele I had a mior life epiphany.

While our very nice server mixed our dipping sauces at our table and explained how just a dash of oil would help to tone things down if she had dumped too much chili paste in our mix I suddenly realized that I was enthralled the entire time she was spooning flavors together. I wasn't drooling and oohing and ahhing, but I was staring with focus, as I guess I have done everytime I have visited the eatery. When the waitress left I chuckled out loud and explained my realization to the wife and bro. I compared it to my fascination with magic tricks. I don't believe in magic, and generally think all magicians are socially inept dorks who like to wear makeup and throw glitter, but I am still impressed with professional slight of hand and misdirection. I then took a sip of my egg drop soup and almost choked when I burned my mouth and throat on a hot noodle.

Then it hit me. All the indicators were there. I fixate on the simplest in-person demonstration, I always watch those Guinsu knife demo's at the fair, I love a good magic trick, I have a huge head, and I just burned my goddam mouth on hot soup. Holy shit...am I midly retarded?

Maybe I am overreacting, I get throught the day without assistance, am socially compentent, and have a college degree, but then again, our last president also fit all that criteria. Outlook foggy, at best.

God forbid our poor little boy is stricken with any sort of mental shortcoming, but if he is it doesn't look like the wife will have to accept any of the blame. 

Good Sport

I often get annoyed and rant about parents taking kids sports too seriously and ruining it for the kids. And I don't see anything in my behavioral patterns that would make me think I will end up being one of those parents, though I am very childish and will definitely sarcastically mock those type of parents at youth sports events. But for some reason, when it comes to little kids being fans of pro sports teams I can't seem to control my knee jerk reaction to want to mock them. I don't actually ever accost children, but I can't help but think of great ways to steer them from rooting for a-hole teams for the rest of their life.

Case in point, the other day I was at Panera getting a tasty panini. I know that makes me sound cultured or even snobby, but really it's just fancy Subway with classical elevator music playing too loud. As I went out on the patio to find proper seating to effectively demolish my panini and mac and cheese, I noticed a little kid, probably no older than 6 years in age, in a full soccer uniform and Crocs. He wasn't on his way to play in a game, instead he was wearing a replica jersey of a Chelsea FC uniform while wearing the world's gardening shoe gone mainstream. My first instinct, I swear to God, as an ardent Manchseter United fan was to trip the kid and then laugh at him. I didn't of course, but just the fact that it crossed my mind made me laugh out loud. I suddenly realized how pathetic I was for even dreaming up the comical scenario in my head, but was quickly absolved of all sins when I remembered that the kids parents bought him matching Crocs to go with his soccer kit. He needed to be tripped, not only because of his reprehensible choice in sports teams, but also to prevent him from a life full of inappropriate footwear choices. Next thing you know this kid will probably be wearing a Denver Broncos jersey with flip flops, or even worse....a Red Sox jersey with Birkenstocks! So disgusting to draw that mental image.

I did not save that poor kid at Panera that day. My only hope is that he at least has the personality to back up such awful life choices, just like the kid in this video...

Crib Notes

Last night I decided to finish off my weekend with a little hands on pre-dad work. I figured since I was already riding wave of testosterone for the day I might as well finish in grand form. In the span of one Sunday I had already bought a Christmas tree, survived a weekend Target trip, watched gratutious amounts of football, and threw the Nerf football at 2 liter bottles stacked on a ladder (hardcore man stuff). Yes, I am fully domesticated male and this is considered a "full day" for me.

What was my crowning achievement for the night? Building a crib. Actually, that is a bit flattering, more like assembling a crib that was only in 5 pieces and had around 20 screws. But still, I had to use a small Ikea-ish allen wrench and my hands were definitely getting crampy (crampy is a technical man term). I just thought it would feel really cool to put the boy's crib together all by myself, a little daddy ego padding. I thought I might start flashing forward (not a reference to the crap-ass ABC show) about other things I would do with, or for, the boy throught his life. Unfortunately, their were no Hallmark like hallunciations, but it did feel good to see it all put together, even though it really wasn't difficult (I think I only cussed about 3 times, as opposed to my usual profanity fest that accompanies normal furniture assembly) and it definitely makes the guest room seem a lot more like a kid's room now, even though it is huge. Seriously, it's almost as big as my futon in college. Look at that, I'm already pulling the "back in my day.." crap on the little unborn reflection/comparison of myself.

I showed off my hard work to the wife and she loved it, but explained that he wouldn't actually sleep in it for the first few months, he would instead sleep in a bassinet in our room, then eventually migrate to his new mega-crib. So I just spent my Sunday evening working on something that won't be used until maybe late Spring?! That's when I decided I will just pay for assembly for everything else once the little guy arrives. Mostly because then I will have less negative psychological associations with all the cool stuff I buy for him, and more time to just make fun of him. Just like last night, instead of cursing modern power tools for not coming with an allen wrench attachment I could have been tearing into my carne asada burrito and watching Curb Your Enthusiasm.

Sleep Nemesis

Guess who else is thoroughly enjoying the pregnancy sleep pillow...

Weighing in at 22 pounds and measuring a mere 8 inches in height you wouldn't think this little wrinkly keg could take up much space in a queen bed, let alone adversely affect my sleeping habits. But don't be fooled by this pudgey little sausage, once it's time to shut out the lights this bastard turns into a furry sleep wedge. He has always been a minor inconvenience in the past, but it seems like ever since the wife found out she was baking a little one, this goofy idiot decided to make it his personal mission to keep us pinned to opposite sides of the bed.

No matter how small the gap between sleeping bodies is, the pug can find a way to wedge his smushed face between us, then he begins his slow wriggle to fit his entire body between ours. Next he rolls on his side, legs pulled in tight to his body, and with a big sigh he slowly pushes his legs outward with the strength of a hydraulic car lift and pushes each of us towards polar opposite ends of the bed. Mind you, we are usually asleep while this is all taking place, or at least not conscious enough to realize what is slowly taking place. Then it happens, at some ungodly hour you wake up suddenly when you realize that you are teetering on the edge of your mattress. When you look back, you see the pug, sleeping with his head on your pillow, fully stretched lengthwise next to you.

The best part of all this pre-parenting lack of sleep is that our 65 pound pitbull sleeps like a perfect angel, curled up into a tiny ball at the foot of our bed. She may turn herself into an immovable amount of dead weight at times, but for the most part she is content to sleep out of our way, and is glad to share space. That's right, the dog that strikes fear into most of ignorant America is a delicate little flower that sleeps peacefully in our bed, and the adorable little pug is a space-grubbing little a-hole of a sleeper.

Daddy Dedication

People always ask the wife how I am dealing with the pregnancy. This seems like a pretty warm sentiment, until you realize that they are really just asking how much support I am providing for her, which is totally fine by me. I don't handle praise or recognition well for some reason and am much happier to just try and make the wife as comfortable and happy as possible at all times. Don't get me wrong, I'm completely and totally selfish, but I'm smart selfish.

I have been able to deduce, after nearly a half decade of marriage, that if the wife is not happy, then I will likely not be happy as well. I'm just taking what I learned from high school and college summer school classes and applying to my current situation. Sure, everyone thought I was a selfless hard worker just trying to be proactive during the dog days of summer, but in reality I was just trying to do a little extra work duing a shortened semester so I could shift into cruise control the rest of the year and not have to stress myself. Same principle, only now my reward is watching Sportscenter in peace instead of doing crossword puzzles during Psychology courses.

This all brings me to the past couple weeks of exceptional "work" that I have put in in order to keep the wife from realizing that the back spasms and bouts of lethargy she is experiencing are all my fault. Over the past fortnight I have not only had to dedicate two sepearate Saturday mornings to the cinematic epics known and New Moon (offensively bad) and The Blind Side (actually good), but I also went so far as to swallow my pride, poop it out and smash it into a million pieces with a jack hammer.

I know exactly what you are thinking, how could a man do anything more sad and pathetic than watching vampires and werewolves in an epic battle against teenage sexual temptation? Well, I took one for the team (wordplay!) and intentionally lost my fantasy football matchup with the wife. Sat my defense at the 11th hour and made sure the wife got into the playoffs. Unless you know the competive spirit that coarses through the wife's side of the family, then you will have no idea how necessary of an action this was in order to ensure a happy house. Sure I could have won, but I would not have enjoyed one second of it and even if she didn't castrate me in my sleep she would have been bummed out all week long. I assume that 7 full days of bummed pregnant woman would only have catastrophic consequences for the boy, something awful like a lisp or a lazy eye. Which obviously would have led him down a long deviant life path, ultimately dumping him headlong into a career as a bathroom attendant.



So that's it. I tanked on purpose, everyone knew it, but nobody argued. Everyone knew it was best for the boy. And for me, considering I was able to eat my pumpkin pie and whip topping in totally peace last Sunday night. Summer school...

Womb Whisperer

Wow, that blog title didn't seem half that creepy when I initially typed it. It was meant to be a play on The Dog Whisperer, which I assume is a play on the Robert Redford movie The Horse Whisperer, which is probably a play on something of greater socio-cultural significance that I am ignorant of. Either way, I just meant to imply that everytime I touch the wife's stomach to feel the boy practicing for World Cup 2028 (fingers crossed) he seems to instantly sense my presence and tranquility takes over her tummy. I'm like the anti-Fonz of pre-natal activity. I touch the jukebox and the music instantly stops.

I figured I could take this one of two ways. Either they boy has already learned to feel a crippling sense of fear everytime his father is near, and thus his legacy as a mutli-talented music megastar is nearly written in stone, or maybe my voice and touch are so soothing that I induce narcolepsy in the boy. I'm really hoping it's the latter, but at the same time it would be cool to see what life in one of those awesome RV's that all the rockstars travel in would be like, except you can't poop in them.

And don't feel too bad for me, he still kicks now and then for me too. So much so that sometimes you can actually see the wife's shirt move from across the room. World Cup 2028 I tell you!

No Football, Only Futbol

Call me overprotective, a socialist, or even just plain un-American, but the boy will not be playing pee wee football. I have nothing against football, and I am big proponent of youth sports in general, but I detest the culture of youth football. I mostly just the hate douchebag coaches who drive bloated SUV's and take out all their own daddy issues on kids that probably still pee the bed. And it always creeps me out when adults who spend the majority of their day around kids insist on wearing a hat and sunglasses at all times. In any other social situation wouldn't this overweight man shrouded in facial mystery be a walking Amber Alert?

Anyway, besides the aformentioned reasons, I don't want to teach the boy hyper aggresive behavior in grade school and don't want to have to watch him getting drilled by other midgets either. Not because I think he'll get killed, little kids are made of rubber, but how could any parent not laugh, even if it was their own child, getting their ass handed to them like the onses in this video...

Name Bar Raised

I was watching football last weekend and I came across what I consider to be the best name in the NFL (and possibly the history of man)...Rock Cartwright. Could any name possibly ooze more masculinity, intimidation, or pure americana? I couldn't think of any name combo that sounded remotely plausible, yet still insanely as over the top solid as damn Rock Cartwright. It's like God himself named the man while setting his personal best bench press record. Please take a moment to imagine a cartoon of God throwing up his personal best on the bench press (he's probably wearing an American Flag bandanay), sitting up and wiping the sweat from his brow with his God gym towel, chuckling to himself and leaning over towards his dry erase board to write out "Rock Cartwright"...then proceeding to whale on his lats. This has to be how this lucky running back obtained his glorious name.

And yes, you should now be scared for the boy, considering the ante has been considerably upped in the name game. All sorts of greatness has come flooding into my brain since the Rock encounter. I'm sure I can do some refining with the help of a thesaurus, but names like Superior, Major, and Rod have now all entered the equation. They will never be rock, but at least the sentiment to overcompensate for all deficiencies in my life will be blatantly obvious for all to see.

Gimme Sympathy

What the hell is going on with my body right now? Everyone asks how the wife is doing, and she's doing just like a pregnant woman should be doing, but what about me? My back aches, I'm not sleeping through the nigh, I can't stop craving goddamn Panda Express, and I swear I'm peeing about 14 times a day. I never believed in sympathy pains, and I still don't, but I do think it's funny that my current lifestyle choices are leading to a series of results that would normally imply a giant jump in estrogen.The funny thing (the previous sentences weren't really funny, but instead stone cold truths) is that now the wife feels like I feel in every normal day of my life.

Here's a quick rundown of our newfound similarities:

• Happy Hours aren't nearly as fun when you're forced to hangout for multiple sober hours and then drive drunk asses home. In fact, 80% of alcohol related social encounters completely blow when you can't drink.
• My back kills from years of athletic overuse and lack of stretching, hers from carrying around life all day.
• Her maternity pants keep sliding off because of their elastic waistbands, mine do because I have a flat ass (or "no-ass-at-all" disease, as it's referred to in medical literature).
• TV's and couch are incredibly alluring when you can't do anything athletic because your body is currently a shell of its former self.
• And sweat pants, sweet sweet sweat pants. There is no further explanation needed.  

My only grave fear is what can I do to compare to her popping out the lil midget? The posibilities are very limited and all equally cringe-inducing.

Dentists Gone Mild

I went to the dentist this week for the first time in a while. I figured I would be berated for missing my last yearly checkup and then forced to endure a half hour's worth of unbridled pain as the hygienist went to town with her evil hook-pick thing during my "cleaning". Has there ever been a general shape or medical implement that exuded more pure evil than that little metal bastard? I dare say not.

Anyway, I was pleasantly surprised by how nice everyone was at the dentist's office, including a total lack of harsh lecturing. In fact, even the x-rays aren't so bad anymore. I distinctly remember tearing up and gagging every time a small rectangle of the world's sharpest cardboard was hatefully lodged into the back recesses of my mouth in previous visits, but not these days. Then the true turning point came when the hygienist asked if was allergic to anything and I replied, "Only dentist offices", she laughed and I apologized for not coming in regularly and told her it was ok to now proceed to induce tears because of my mouth transgressions. She then shook my foundations by telling offering me numbing gel for my gums, handing me headphones and a remote for the DirecTv above my head, and turning on the massage chair. I didn't feel a thing (other than the soothing massage chair) and watched sports the entire time. What in the...

I know what you're saying, "what the hell does any of this have to do with being an expectant father?". Everything, impatient reader. Everything.

I have been afraid of the dentist for a solid 29 years. Not just afraid, but as soon as you get me in that seat I expect the worst, usually get something even worse than my terrible expectations, and as I moved into adulthood was forced to pay money out of my own pocket for all this fascist torture. The only good thing about my childhood dentist was the free Frogger game in the lobby, which was freaking awesome, but didn't help much once you got pulled back into The Chair. Surely this was at least a partial cause of my ulcers (that, and room fulls of inflated balloons. cringe...). But now there is hope for a new generation of youngins. My boy shall go to this wonderland of dental professionals I have found less than a block from the beach. He will not be afraid, as I was, instead he will glide through a world of gum-numbing gel and DirecTv, with his only concern being whether to set the massage chair to stationary or rolling.

Now if you're like one of my closest friends who shall rename nameless, you would probably think this is all a bunch of horseshit. Why should my kid get off so easy? I will tell you exactly why, it's one less thing I will be forced to bargain, plead, and coerce him into doing in his young life. It not only makes my dentist woes easier now, it will make my parenting experience easier and if I'm lucky I can even surf while he's getting his cleaning. Suck it, parenting!

Goooal!!!

I have a feeling, due to all the hype around me and the wife's general athletic proficiencies, that the cosmos will play a hilarious joke on us and the boy will probably end up being this kind of child athelete...

Registry and Breasts

Last week we went baby shower registry shopping at Target (not exactly a Top 5 on most guys' lists of awesome things to do on your lunchbreak) . This trip consisted of the wife making mostly prudent and responsible choices regarding baby gear, with a few pregnancy mania-induced overshopping crazes sprinkled in. My only role was to approve or deny her choices and hold the lazer scanner gun while shooting everything in sight. My inner dialogue during the hour long shopping/zapping fest consisted entirely of futuristic space ray gun sounds: zap, peeoow, ziing! I was able to resist the urge to scan the wife's boobs, but only after she saw me lining the gun up and then told me not too.

The only item that I really dug in on was a 3 piece San Diego Charger warm up set. He's a boy, it will look adorable, and even though I never played football I do love me a pair of comfy sweat pants. When he's old enough the boy can make his own sporting and clothing decsions, but for now I get to live out my little fairy tale sports dreams through his infancy.

The only weird part about registry shopping, other than the fact that we were buying clothes for someone that still lives in a giant liquid pouch, was when we were shopping for bottles and a nice young lady asked if she could give us some good advice. I thought she was going to recommend one brand or style of bottle over another, instead she went on a probably 5 minute run of how you must time "pulling the baby off the boob" at exactly the right time. Otherwise the kid will either become boob dependent (uh, he is a guy) or bottle dependent. I know she was trying to be helpful and share her experience, but the whole thing felt really odd. Especially when you're like me and can't stop overthinking every situation and you realize that this girl is not only talking about my wife's breasts, but also giving us pretty intimate details about her own chest situation. It was a man test of will and I would like to think I passed without cracking up or telling her to mind her own business. I hope to not have any future boob-based conversations with strangers at Target, but if I do at least I know I'm battle tested now.    

Name Suggesting: The Ancient Art of Awkward

If you have a name suggestion for the boy, please feel free to post it in the comment section of this blog. That way we can avoid that awkward moment of silence that occurs in face to face and phone conversations where you suggest a name or two that you think would be great for our new child and we desperately struggle to figure out how to politely lie and tell you that we will consider it.

This might be the weirdest social aspect of being an expectant parent. I respect your opinion, and you might even suggest a name we love, but I'd say roughly 98% of the time it ends in fake laughter or prolonged staring, instead of high fives and excessive rejoicing. It's kind of like when an elderly person farts in public. Nobody wants to be rude, but is it ruder to completely change the subject and pretend like nothing happened? There is no comfortable way out of this situation.

Also, please stop suggesting I name the kid after myself. Surprisingly, during the first 6 months of the wife's pregnancy I have already contemplated this option (for roughly all of 5 seconds). And though I do not wish to pass my name along to the boy, I don't actually have anything against juniors, I just figure why make the kid's social life more confusing then it needs to be. He is already going to have my last name, why add any more expectations that will likely come back to bite me in the ass when junior begins "figuring where things went wrong" in therapy. Besides, I don't want mini-me getting into trouble and somehow blaming that crap on me!

Man Lessons Revisited

I fear that I have already failed in my pre-fatherhood journey. It's completely unacceptable, neigh, unconscionable that I made mention of Terminator in my "Man Lessons" post about movies that taught me life lessons and yet I somehow omitted T2: Judgement Day. We are talking about a movie that is arguably the most awesome adolescent blockbuster ever made! Even more impressive, it's epic awesomeness is not even slightly hindered by its complete and total lack of boobs (some would argue it even completely lacked a female character...ouch). I know that there is still plenty of time before the boy is born, let alone before he reaches proper viewing age, but I still feel as though my lack of proper fathering skills have been exposed.

A quick rundown of a few of the important lessons garnered by young boys from T2:

-Flat tops will never die. You're probably thinking that I'm referring to the fact that Arnold's character is still rocking the same symmetrical hairstyle after his inital experience traveling through time to kill a member of the Connor family in 1984. What you're missing is the fact that Arnold's presence in the past only confirms the haircut's popularity nearly a half century into the future (2029). Mindblowing!

-Semi trucks filled with gas make a totally sweet pingy sound right before they explode into tsunami's of fire. What could make a massive explosion of gas and future cyborg assasins even cooler...ping-KABOOM!!!

-Operating lever-action shotguns while riding Harley Davidon motorcyles is not only feasible, but it's also just plain badass.  I would never have believed it if I hadn't seen it on the big screen with my own eyes. Who would have thought that these two seemingly opposing activities could work out as well as an Austrian bodybuilding actor trying his hand at state politics.....ahh shit.

-The key to real comic genius is merely asking a foreigner to mesh English with some sort of Spanish slang... and then blowing something or someone up! I bet Steve Martin feels soo stupid for wasting his time "thinking" about all those jokes!

Constant Cravings

So far cravings have not been a part of the wife's pregnancy. Please note that in the previous sentence I refrained from taking partial posession of the wife's 40 week physical marathon by referring to this experience as "our pregnancy". I am here to do everything I can to make this process as comfortable as possible for her, but at the end of the day I don't have to carry around a medicine ball in my gut, I can lay flat on a surfboard, and am still able to make it through the night without waking up multiple times to pee. Sorry, rant digression, back to the food. Far from craving any random food, the wife is actually experiencing stronger than normal aversions to many foods she already didn't love, and is unable to eat many foods she would like to eat because of "what I did to her". The only thing even slightly resembling a craving she has experienced is a desire for soda. But this makes sense when you realize that something had to take the place of any and all previously enjoyable Happy Hour beverages.

I on the other hand appear to be experiencing some sort of inexplicable sympathy cravings. I probably completely made that term up, but we have noticed a trend ever since we found out a little one was on the way. Probably 3-4 times a week I absolutely lust after Panda Express. Why do I crave hastily made semi-cultural fast food? I have no damn clue. In high school I had a solid relationship with the take out specialists and bi-racial bear enthusiasts, but by the time I made it to college I realized that we were just going our seperate ways. I thought I had completley kicked the habit. Sure, I would grab some orange chicken if I was desperate for a quick hit of sweet and ethnic, but I always felt a little depressed after eating there. Now, for the past 20+ weeks I have been all over that damn place like... .

Anyway, I don't know what the deal is or when it will stop, but I literally had to sit in a chair for 10 minutes tonight and convince myself that I would be happier without orange chicken. I ended up getting some of the best Mexican chicken soup around and it was delicious. I've been feeling like I was catching a cold all day, so the soup was the perfect meal. Yes, I am still completely pissed I didn't go to Panda. WTF?!

Man Lessons for The Boy

Nearly all of my childhood lessons in machismo and comedy were garnered through my exposure to R-rated movies at a young age. As bad as that sounds it really was a very progressive parenting step employed by my mom. I wasn't ever allowed to watch any horror movies (which is probably why I curled up in a ball and whimpered endlessly in the theater when I tried to sit through "The Ring"...as the wife sat there completely unphased) and I had to close my eyes during all gratuitous sex scenes. I was also never allowed to cuss or play with guns when I was a kid, so it was sort of an agreement between my mom and I that I was allowed to be exposed to more mature content as long as I carried myself in a mature manner. When you think about it, it was actually a great life lesson about responsibility and earned trust and respect. Also, I did occasionally not completely close my eyes and was able to peek at a boobie now and again, so it was a win-win all around.

Fast forward to the present day and I am faced with the fact that in the near future I will be able teach the boy all the great things about being a man. Unfortunately, the only instructional man video I currently own on DVD is Footloose. This sweeping epic (shut up) taught me about the dangers of religious fervor, how to dance my anger out in warehouses, and how perfectly cute high school chicks can grow up to be skeletal caricatures of themselves (Sarah Jessica Parker). It also taught me to always fear John Lithgow and, perhaps most importantly, how sometimes a soundtrack can really outshine a film. So, as you can see 90 minutes of viewing could really save me endless hours of parenting talks, and really free up more time for me to surf and watch recorded English soccer matches on my DVR.

 If one movie could have so much influence, imagine how much free time I could take back by merely purchasing Road House, Lethal Weapon 1 & 2, Eddie Murphy: Raw, Eddie Murphy: Delirious, Bill Cosby: Himself, Major League, Commando, Victory, Terminator, Brewster's Millions, and Die Hard. Not only would I enjoy experiencing these movies again with my son, but I would also save myself tons of awkward conversations and end up with a kid light years ahead of his peers in so many facets of life. And with today's awful fashion trends boomeranging right back in our face from the 80's, it would be the smoothest of transitions possible.

Did I mention that my mom and dad both used to work at Video Library (before the evil Blockbuster empire took it over) and I had Beta and VHS versions of nearly all of the aformentintioned movies? I bet this entire blog (and my personality in general) makes a lot more sense now.

I Have Been Replaced

That's right, the other day a giant box from diapers.com showed up on our doorstop, and what was inside was truly shocking. A giant u-shaped pillow known as a Back 'N Belly Pregnancy Pillow. Like all things baby related you could guarantee it would be 100% cutesy wootsie because this product's makers flagrantly disregarded the use of the word "and" or  an ampersand. Instead they opted for the apostophre and single letter combo, the universal mark for everything overpriced and targeted towards vulnerable parents. Dammit, these blood thirsty capitalists really know how to play their target demo.

Now just take a good long look at those images. If anyone woman was exposed to this product prior to their baby baking situation do you think guys would have half a chance at conning them into sex? Look at that thing, it's the perfect spouse. It provides women with some very "intimate" positions, it will allow you to snuggle late into the light, and in the end it won't tell you how mind-numbingly awful all your reality tv shows are! It's a freaking Stepford Husband.

Maybe I just have a natural aversion to all things pillow related, because once you are married all husbands are subjected years of world's most ridiculous product...the decorative pillow. I can't get started on these poofy little squares, circles, and cylinders of retardedness, because if I do I won't stop typing until after the boy arrives. Just know this, they suck and are never actually used for anything other than to drive tassled wedges into otherwise healty relationships. That's why when the wife goes out of town me and dogs regularly sleep on them, just out of principle.

Back to the body pillow. My main concern was that this rowboat-sized pillow would now force me to sleep on couch since we are already sort of scrunched in our queen bed with two dogs and a wife that likes to roll and twitch in her sleep (she says she's sleeping when she pops me in the throat at 3 in the morning, but I think I'm going to set up a nanny cam on her ass.). But against all logic it turns out that this stuffed arch ended up giving me more space and comfort for sleeping. It provides borders to limit the wild pregnancy flails at night and the dogs love to snuggle on and inside of it. So now I have more room, and less stress at night (nanny cam still not out of the question).

I really couldn't be more thrilled with how this whole thing worked out. The wife is much more comfortable and ergonomically supported at night, I don't have to worry about endless shoving matches with the pug and pitbull for bed real estate, and since the thing is so huge the wife probably won't notice when I start hucking decorative pillows into our neighbors' backyards and blaming the losses on her pregnancy brain. Booyah!

Name Game

Before I drop a few solid macho nombres for the boy, please allow me to apologize for slacking lately on the semi-humorous blogging. When the time change hits it completely throws my life out of whack. I'm sleeping fine, waking up fine, but it gets dark so damn early it turns my auto-pilot lazy mode switch on way ahead of time. The sweat pants come out and the only thing I might accomplish besides working on the house is massive snacking and television consumption. Thanks for your patience.

And now back to your regularly scheduled unborn baby exploitation, also knowns as the name game:

Thunder - lightning is for those who have to show off, thunder is just a hint of power and flash to come. Maybe I'm overcompensating with all these hyper-masculine names, but I like to apply all of them to various stages of the boy's life and then chuckle at how great these situations could end up being for everyone. Just imagine me taking a young toddler to the park in his overalls, meeting the other dads at the jungle gym, and then someone asks what the boy's name is. Now try to imagine the expression of confusion, humor, and flat out envy on his face when he realizes he wasted his one opportunity in his life to give his kid the gift of lifelong aweseomeness. Huzzah!

Buster - not only was this the name of my first dog as a child, but it's just plain cute in a manly way. It's non-threatening, yet unmistakeably manly. I also like names that always lead people to underestimate you. The only downside I see to this is once the boy enters the world of dating there is a neverending list of crude combinations that people will come up with for his success with girls. Just think about the possibilities for a minute, you will probably offend yourself.

What's up, Doc?

So, apparently expectant parents are supposed to choose a pediatrician before their child is born. Something about the baby doctor coming to the hospital when the boy is born. I guess this actually a regular thing, but it seems like such an odd, conterintuitive concept to me. I guess it's one of those things in life that sound bass ackwards at first, but really shows a lot of foresight and planning. Just like drinking diet soda when you are going to eat a huge meal. Oh...wait, that is actually just plain retarded. I'm sure there are some other valid analogies out there, but I really just wanted to make fun of people who drink diet sodas.

Back to the pediatrician selection. At first I thought this would not be a very complicated task. Find a competent doctor who doesn't immediately creep me out. I went to a great pediatrics office, with a some awesome doctors, and a few that I remember seeing on the local news for the books they wrote or just sharing their expertise in certain areas. I of course remembered the cool pediatrician that used to juggle to distract the kids and make them feel comfortable, and always seemed a little cooler than the other doctors because of his foreign accent. But now that I'm nearing my third decade in life the juggling didn't seem so cute, it almost seemed creepy. Not to mention that this was 25 years ago, and now this same doctor would now also probably be more concerned with crossing items off his bucket list rather than giving booster shots. Do I really want some of the boy's first memories in life to be a of an aging European juggler sticking needles in him? That's the type of crap that could cost me thousands of dollars in therapy in his teen years...err, I mean could really make the boy unhappy.

This whole thing is such a crapshoot. I know we'll probably just end up selecting a pediatrician based on a personal reference or whoever seems least threatening. How the hell will we know if the doctor has any real medical skill or if the boy will be comfortable with the doc? Worst of all, what if the doctor is a fan of Two and a Half Men? God, that show is just awful. I guess you can always switch if you don't like your first choice, but it still seems weird to me that anyone alive in the 80's can now watch Charlie Sheen and an ambiguously gay John Cryer raise a walking warning for Type II Diabetes and still laugh. I do not understand the world we live in.

Cuttin the Cord

I am not the least bit apprehensive about being in the delivery room for the moment the boy decides he wants me to stop enjoying "regular sleep cycles". I was there to see my niece take her first couple breaths and I can honestly say that it is the most amazing thing you can ever experience. I would even venture to declare it more life altering than the moment that you find out that professional wrestling might actually be fake. I say "might be", because there is no way the Ultimate Warrior wasn't giving it 110% every time he stepped into that damn ring with his neon speedo and tassles! I digress.

One question that immediately follows up my confirmation of delivery room presence is the classic dad job of cutting the umbilical cord. I have no problem with the actual act of cutting the cord, but I also am not a big symbol guy, and generally feel that anything medical should be handled by the professionals. I wouldn't be too excited to wrap my own parachute up the first time I went skydiving, even if the pros told me it would be fine. And if it is so easy that I can't screw it up, where is the real meaning in that? If the effects of my snip really amount to a Mission Accomplished banner on an aircraft carrier, it almost devalues it for me. One step further, if the converse is true, I could really destroy my kids entire P.E. and pool/beach-related social life with one slip of the scissors (outie), why the hell would you put that on a jittery first time dad?

I know I'm putting way too much thought into this, and when the time comes I will be probably be thrilled to clip the boy's tether in order to thrust him into the real world, but the whole thing still seems like a set-up to me. If it all works out and the little guy has a normal belly button I will take all the credit in the world, but if he has even a trace of an outie or any other abnormality I'm just going to tell him that the doctor was racist. It's my only hope.     

Natural Instincts

In my daily life I come across many of my natural inclinations that lead me to believe that maybe I shouldn't be allowed to raise a child. Most of them are just random immature things that shouldn't really enteratin me, but absolutely slay me, like any video of a fat kid falling down ( http://www.fatkidsfalling.com/ ) or when my dog farts and scares himself to the point that he freezes, locked in an instense pug stare while he tries to figure out what the hell just happened. I know what you're thinking...and you're right! If I end up with a chubby little flatulent kid, I'm completely screwed. I won't even be able get off the couch without peeing my pants from laughter.

Fast forward to today when I was discussing Halloween plans with a friend and came to the conclusion that I will likely stay home Halloween night and pass out candy to little kids. Unfortunately, I have this terrible knack for trying to make all normally innocent fun events slightly more fun by adding some sort of offensively childish twist to said event, like spinning in circles around a golf club before you hit your tee shot in order to see if you can stay upright, let alone strike the ball in a semi-athletic manner. For Halloween I figured I could buy tons of candy in order to encourage sugar-based behavioral and dental problems for all of my neighborhood kids, but why not also test their intelligence and determination while I'm at it?

I know the wife will disallow me to carry out my plan, but how great would it be to super glue pieces of candy to the sidewalk a few feet away from my house? Then not only could I spread the joy of snack size candy bars, but as the sugar-filled midgets left my residence I could also sit on my porch and watch chubby superheroes and skinny little ghouls attempt to pry up the tiny pieces of temptation. With any luck, the huskies ones will tip over in their sweet-induced rage.

The Name Game

We spent this last weekend camping and fishing with some close friends in the far off land known as "Lakeside". Lakeside is actually very open and green, and is especially cool if you are interested in rodeos or meth! Either way, we had a blast and we don't go camping nearly as much as we want to (as much as we talk about loving it), so I figured why not use it as the inspiration for a couple of name possibilities...

Camper- perhaps a bit too literal, but tell me your heart wouldn't melt if a little toddler in suspenders and bow tie wobbled up to you and introduced himself as Camper. Maybe it wouldn't, but maybe you're also a jerkface for judging my kid's name.

Flicker- not Flicka, like the black horse, Flicker, like the flames of a campfire. Now that I think about it, what could be manlier than naming the boy after a black horse? Flicka is also now an official option.

Steed- this is not at all camping related, but it is horse related. There is a soccer player in England named Steed and everytime I hear his name I think to myself he must have no trouble with the ladies at all. Or maybe he's just a massive dissapointment to the lasses, and has had to battle to overcome the unreal expectations that accompany such an intensely masculine name. Either way, it still makes me giggle with envy everytime I hear that name.

Birth Poses

The first and most likely pose is the standard proud new father pose. This classic is definitely unoriginal, but familiar and warm to all who have seen it and experienced it before. It’s essentially the same posture you would take after dropping a watermelon full of booze and it somehow miraculously did not break. You hold the watermelon/baby back down on your forearm with its head resting against your bicep. Cooing is optional, but glossed over eyes and bedhead hairstyles are mandatory components of this stance. This maximizes not only the cuteness of your father-son bond, but also makes your child look tiny and your biceps 30% larger than normal. This will most likely be my instinctual go-to pose, but if I can pull myself together long enough to realize what is going on , the I am definitely going with one of the next two poses.

This one is a doozy. What could be better than expressing to the world my love of sports, my love for my newborn son, and my general athletic prowess all in one moment as soon as the boy enters the world?
(That was a rhetorical question, please don’t offer me suggestions in the comments about what would actually be better). Therefore, I propose what can only be considered the greatest father-son moment in newborn history…the Heisman. Take the boy under your right arm, raise front knee as if in mid jump-cut, and extend left arm to fend off any would-be tacklers. Helmet optional, spiking not allowed.

Lastly, and perhaps most profoundly, I present a pose that has little meaning to me (I didn’t really care about the movie), but contains so much “in-your-face my kid is king of the world and I made him”-ness that I couldn’t help but consider it. And honestly, if it was sports related it would be the greatest birth pose known to man. In order to maximize drama in this pose you must receive the child and cradle it in your hands. Stare at nothing but the child for a ten Mississippi count or so, and then without speaking a word, turn your back from the crowd in the room and a slowly raise the child up above your head as to say, “Here he is. I made him and he is glorious” (obviously you’re just mentally speaking to the people on the hospital floor above you, bunch of jerks). I present to you…The Lion King.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow.

This really should be a non-issue. I shouldn't be at all concerned with the boy's hairstyles in his formative years. I shouldn't be contemplating letting him make these kind of decisions on his own, but I am, for one reason...fear of the mullet and everything it teaches us about society.

I grew up a relatively normal southern California kid in the 80's. My childhood was all about youth sports, the beach, and offensively bright neon clothing. You couldn't really pick my scrawny ass out of a crowd until the late 80's, when my ideas of a Val Kilmer/Ice Man-inspired flat top was "too military" for my mom's liking. In order for me to get the top of my head carved like a putting green she insisted I leave the back of my head untouched. In hindsight it really does sound like someone should have called Child Protective Services, but bear in mind that at this time in popular culture a Lethal Weapon era Mel Gibson, Patrick Swayze,and MacGyver were the dominant influences in harmless white male culture. Needless to say, the authorities were not called and a mullet was born.

In its time my mullet explored all the various stages of awfulness, especially when it was combined for a short time with a flat top and lines buzzed into the side of my head. Excuse me, I just puked a little in my mouth while typing that last sentence. When I finally was able to shed the Kentucky Waterfall my freshman year of high school I felt like a new man, a normal kid again. Too bad the first thing someone said to me the next day at school when I sat down sporting a new haircut was, "Did they let you keep the bowl?" I sat staring perplexed at the question until it was followed up with, "You know, the one they used to cut your hair with." Sweet, I went from the lamest haircut in contemporay culture to the lamest haircut of a generation previous.

But you know what I learned from having multi-generational shame heaped down upon me? I learned that kids are assholes and moms shouldn't be allowed to help with hairstyles. But I also learned that if I could overcome the hair equivalent of crapping my pants everyday of my youth, and still lead a semi-normal life, then there was really no reason to be ashamed of anything about my physical self. That's actually kind of a load of crap, I'm still ashamed about plenty, but at least I know none of it will kill me, and I have no problem making fun of myself for anything. And that's why I need to make sure the boy has some sort of funky hairdo for at least a short time. It will be like naming him Sue, but only temporarily.

Jiggly Junior?

Once upon a time, the wife and I were actually pretty decent high school atheletes. I was no by no means the Big Man On Campus and the wife wasn't planning on a career rooted heavily in corn rows and a general lack of repsect (WNBA), but we both owned letterman's jackets and are pretty proficient in nearly every sport. In the years since our days as student atheletes we have kept ourselves active by pursuing the always elusive Recreation League Champions T-Shirts. These crappy oversized cotton shirts are enough to keep you paying $50 every 4 months to be frustrated, injured, and stressed out once a week. Luckily, all those years of wasting our summers and weekends in far off places, being yelled at by mustachioed coaches finally paid off in the form of neutral colored victory clothes. It may hurt everytime I try to bend down and tie my shoes, but at least we still got it...at least enough of it to beat other desk jockeys at recreation sports.

Because of our active lifestyles and athletic endeavors, many of our friends are convinced that the wife will soon give birth to some sort of hyper-athletic robo-baby. I would love it if the boy wants to spend all his free time playing and watching sports with pops, but I also must face the very real possibility that my child might not have any interest in sports at all. Even more ironic, what if we end up with a pudgey little bugger? It's not likely, but I still have to wonder how I would react to such a situation (besides the obligatory "We're still not sure who the father is" jokes). I honestly don't care whether the boy is fit as fiddle or has to wear husky size Huggies, as long as he is healthy and happy I will love him just the same...I will just have way more comic ammunition if he's happily plump.

One thing I will definitely not do is force the boy to be something he is not, as many of my friends had to suffer through some very uncomfortable childhoods in order to try and meet family expectations. One of my best friends had a sadly hilarious incident when his uncle tried to intervene in his video game-based sedentary lifestyle. Out of respect for my buddy, and for insurance reasons I won't divulge his real name, so let's just refer to him as "Pameron" in order to protect his identity. Apparently one of Pameron's uncles did not feel that assiting Lara Croft raid tombs did not qualify as "exercise". It seems that he felt the only way to nudge Pameron down a more cardio-friendly path was to drag him to a local park and make him run laps around the park...in a wetsuit. Take a moment and marinate in that delightful imagery. An already lumpy young boy showing up to the park and being forced by his "caring" uncle to perform calisthenics, all while wearing a thick layer of neoprene. Either the man is was a terribly insenstive relative or just had the greatest sense of humor in human history. Either way, I can't wait to see what shape my little bundle of joy arrives in.

Bon Jovi wouldn't be my first choice...

But I can only hope that the boy will someday have a chance to rain down upon a sporting event with such unparalleled awesomeness...

amazing...

No Facebook for My Boy

If you know me at all you know that I am not a fan of social networking websites. I'm all for staying in touch with good friends, finding old friends, and generally messing with any current friends in a public arena, but after about a week of Myspace I had fulfilled both those needs and the thing just became dangerous. Not dangerous like this (fyi, the following video is not creepy, but is absolutely hillarious)...


But more dangerous in a tequila sort of way. Mysterious and intriguing at first, pure hedonistic fun for a brief time, and then ultimately puking followed by the runs. Allow me a quick juxtaposition (I hope that means what I think it does):

Shot #1: Logging on and creating a profile you are a little apprehensive at first, then once you realize that it's very easy to do and all your other friends have already done it without any hugely negative results you figure why not just give it a chance. It wasn't that great and you may have a dirty taste in your mouth, but screw it, you just want to have some fun with your friends.

Shot #2: You realize that your cyber self allows you to express who you really are. You feel the shackles of a dorm room or an entry-level corporate job slowly start to crumble away and really set you free. You're responsible all the time, why not have just a little "me time" and have fun with some old friends tonight? Besides, this is just the real you coming out, you're not acting like anyone else but you, the social panther that you really are.

Shots #3-4: You don't even know what happened here, it was so much fun you don't know why it took you so long to embrace it. This timeframe was a blur, but apparently you posting all sorts of "hillarious" photos of yourself and friends, and leaving inside jokes on other people's pages. Also, at some point you really start craving mexican food.

 Shot #5: You begin thinking, "What did people do before Myspace/Facebook?" and you start asking your friends to Myspace/Facebook you instead of actually talking to them in person or on the phone. You can't imagine why you don't drink tequila all the time. You are invincible!!!

Shots 6-??? At some point you start spinning and realize that maybe you weren't as cautious as you thought you were. It's too late now, the damage has been done and it's only a matter of time before everyone sees you blow chunks in specacular fashion...

Click on image to enlarge for comic details.

You were flying so high, but perhaps too close to the sun.

And that, my friends, is why my little guy won't be getting a Facebook page.

Possible Names

Anything ending in -berto: including, but not limited to Roberto, Alberto, Filiberto, Hilberto, Guarberto, Jackberto, Aliberto, etc...

Richard Pryor: purely for street cred.

He-Man: really, am I this brilliant?

Captain: God forbid the boy is an alcholic, but if  he becomes a stinking drunk how goddamn great would this name be? Even if he's normal he ends getting all sorts of tail based purely on his sea-worthy monniker.

A Father-Son Conversation

July, 2014

"Daddy, who is that man on all the movie previews. "

"That's Dane Cook. He is what daddy likes to call an ass-clown."

"Why daddy?"

"Sorry bud, that's just daddy's repressed envy bubbling up to the surface. Basically, Dane Cook is rich and famous because he realized that in order to maximize his success he didn't need work hard at becoming a better comedian or more talented actor, but that if he just walked around playing a caricature of himself and always taking the easy laugh he could make millions of dollars based purely on his looks and his ability to raise his voice when delivering a joke."

"What?"

"Just think of Dane Cook as the Jessica Simpson of comedians or the Larry the Cable Guy of Abercrombie fans. He's mildly talented at his craft, but he has figured out how to work a crowd by exploitin his physical appearance to make it seem like he is unique. In reality he just has more "product" in his hair than any non-ethnic man in America and he works very hard to remain barely unshaven every single day. It's not easy to make yourself look like you spent all night having sex and drinking Jaeger and now refuse to shower, but as a result he gets to star in the worst movies in the world with the most attractive women around."

"I have to poopy."

"Ok, but first tell me why we don't like Dane Cook?"

"Because he's an ass-clown?"

"You got it! If mom asks, you learned that word from the mailman."

I apologize to any Dane Cook fans reading this...I'm sorry you don't have good enough friends to tell you how bad Dane Cook sucks. The truth hurts.

Mister, urine trouble.

I have already accepted the fact that my little guy will eventually wizz on me at some point in his infancy. Anatomically speaking, for practical diaper changing purposes, baby boys are the universe's ultimate design flaw. They are like revolving doors with a "pull" sign (think about it). They seem harmless enough, but if you don't pay close attention at all times someone's probably gonna get it..."pow, right in the kisser".

In the grand scheme of things, it is a fair trade. I don't have to worry about paying for a wedding, "talking about feelings", or constantly having to fend off prospective young punk suitors. In exchange, I will likely get peed on (please not the face!) and have to teach the boy how to properly throw a ball. I can do this, but I think I might by a welder's mask to limit my exposure to the golden sprinkler.

Education Gap: The Entire Universe

I recently had a conversation with a good friend of mine. He is a very intelligent college graduate that, for a brief time, was actually majoring in astrophysics and aspiring to be a rocket scientist. We were discussing our shared interest in reading many of  "The Classics" that many people read in junior or high school, but we both missed out on for one reason or another. I told him about my inability to really enjoy The Catcher in the Rye, even after a second reading. He told me how he was truly dissapointed in Moby Dick, but not because of any lack of literary technique or drama. He was let down because he waited with great anticipation throughout the entire story for the main characters to get trapped inside the whale. When I laughed out loud and assumed he confused the story of Jonah and The Whale he took the unitentional comedy to the next level by correcting me...he got Moby Dick confused with the story of Pinnochio. Rocket Science.

I bring this tale up not because I want to shame my friend (even though he knows who he is and will likely read this blog...sucka!), but because there are quite a few areas in which my non-traditional educational background is lacking and I fear that I may pass these intellectual voids on to the boy.

For example, the entire universe. I know nothing about planets, stars, or constellations. Seriously, the other night I guessed that Pluto was the answer to a Jeopardy question in the Planet category. Once she was done laughing, the wife informed me that Pluto was no longer a planet. No longer a planet? How the hell can this crap be considered science?

Regardless, I'm considering just blatanly lying to the boy when he starts asking me all sorts of astrological questions. I will just rent The Last Starfighter, Starman, Enemy Mine, and the original Star Wars trilogy and explain how all the important intergalactic discoveries of our time were recorded for science's sake between 1977 and 1985. Star Trek will be completely omitted because the original series sucked and I don't want my kid's entire social life based on whether or not he can run at "warp speed" to evade alien bullies from the planet Wedgie. Besides, what is the the worst that could happen with a little misinformation regarding outer space...

Witchcraft and Boobs

Exciting blog title, right?

True: My wife will be having a baby before spring arrives.

False: The above truth somehow issues you a moral free pass to begin discussing the future of her chest-related bodily functions and how we "have to" prescribe to your particular superstition regarding infant nutrition.

Hey, Mr. Not-A-Doctor, it's a baby, we are going do to whatever is in it's best interest. We are not cavemen (is that offensive? is cavepeople more approriate?), we are semi-rational young adults that just so happen to dress their dogs up and put them Christmas cards.

It's great that your sister's coworker had a kid whose deviated septum was somehow attributed to breast milk or formula, but why don't you keep that adorable little anecdote to yourself. If that seems like too much to ask (you know, not discussing the most intimate details of a young mother's life) why not just start asking me if my nether-region is still sore from such a valiant effort to create human life. Maybe you're interested in how my urethra will react to having another young buck in the house? Come on, I'm full of "topics" for discussion!

Name of the Day

Chewy- are my Mexican roots bubbling to the surface, am I anticipating the arrival of a morbidly obese child, or am I just a closet Star Wars fan? Wouldn't you like to know, you nosey bastard.

Either way, it is a pretty adorable name for a wee lad. That is, until the year 2022, when I realize that my boy has become a mildy Mexican pudgey little Star Wars dork.

Maybe not the greatest name after all.

Sympathy Pains: Quit Your Jibber Jabber

You know what I assume is the most fun part about being a pregnant woman? I mean, besides crippling morning sickness (which apparently lasts all day and carries on for months at a time, like God is getting back at you all at once for every timne you miraculously escaped a hangover)or the total exhaustion caused by an ever-growing midget trying to steal your life-force. It's the awkwardnes that comes from the non-stop diarrhea of the mouth everyone else has in reaction to your current physical state.

Just think about this for a minute, who is more psychologically vulnerable about their outward appearance than a pregnant woman? The answer is Kanye West, but that's about it. And who has to deal with more unintentionally damaging public commentary and scrutiny on a daily basis? Nobody, that's who. But it's some sort of Pavlovian response for people who encounter a pregnant woman to immediately comment on her current state.

Examples:
"Wow, you look great. My friend Jenny looks like a planet right now, and she's only a month further along then you!"
-Great, as my hormones begin to rage and I get more sensitive I can take comfort in the fact that people will start comparing me to whole other worlds in a few short weeks.

"Are you wearing maternity clothes? Wow, those things cover up so well, let me see!"
-Yes, the items I spent hours of my life and hundreds of dollars on to hide the fact that my body is eeking it's way towards Grimace from McDonald's status, have now been completely validated by you exposing my Houdini-like clothes and pointing out how round my body is truly becoming underneath it all. What a friend.

"You're glowing!"
-In real life we call this sweating. It's the natural human reaction to an alien life form attempting to roundhouse kick his way out of your uterus.

Fear Alert: Red

GINGERVITUS
If you are already a parent, or suffer from this red plague yourself, then you know that this eternal curse will be at the top of nearly all expectant parents' list of fears. I could go on in great details about the adversity that ginger kids face on a daily basis, but any witty prose I could produce would merely pale in comparison to the scientific video presentation found here:



This heavy lifelong burden is only matched by the generally ferocious temperment inherent in the Ginger Nation. Bestowing red hair, freckles, and a skin tone that freakishly toggles between vanilla and strawberry ice cream is not only cruel, it is downright hillarious.

The only upside to this sad disease is the ability for you kid to have hillarious nicknames such as The Ginger Ninja, Ginger Nuts, and Daywalker.

Daddy Fear Factor: The Birth Month

So the boy will be entering the "real world" mid-February. For most this would seem like an innocent detail, but it scares me more than a car full of freshly inflated balloons (shut up, you have issues too).  There are a variety of factors for my apprehension surrounding a February birth, and since I need structure in order to avoid 3 page run-on sentences I will list them henceforth...

1. Wallet Death Blow- My wife's birthday, Valentine's Day, and now my firstborn son's birthday will all come together to create the perfect post-holiday destruction of my personal economics. "What's that buddy? You want a bicycle for your birthday? Well let me tell you what daddy wants, he wants Christmas to be moved to June so he can take a breather from the crushing financial legsweep you and mommy are delivering so early this year!"
2. Enunciation Issues- I've have always dreaded having to say February out loud, ever since my stupid 1st grade teacher told me I could pronounce it with or without the first "R". Sure, I could take the easy way out and ignore that beautifully rugged consanant, but what am I, some sort of fascist alphabetist? I am not. Also, I have large gums and thick lips, thus compounding my inability to pronounce this devil month's name.
3. Leap Year- I still don't understand the phenomenom that most 3rd graders could probably explain to you in three sentences or less. It's not because I have tried and failed, I just think whoever created this abomination of a calendar format should be shunned for such an oddball wildcard day (or lack thereof!). So now I have to try and figure out how to tell my son why is birth month is sooo much cooler than all the other months that every couple of years we have to steal a day from it, to even out the cool factor in fairness to the other months. I don't believe in month socialism and I won't push it on my son!
4. Birthstone- "Hey, little buddy, let's talk about your birthstone. You know, the random sediment associated with the 4 week period in which you decided to be born. It sounds cool, right? A rock that is just for you and the month of your birth. It turns out Ferbruary is for lovers and total froo-froo wussies who love purple stones that would make Elton John blush. Please don't ever ask me to buy you an amethyst piece of jewelry, it might make me cry testosterone tears. Even if you do ask, I will likely just make you sit on the couch and watch Road house on repeat until you denounce your birthstone."