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...