It has been 3 weeks since I moved here to Washington State. I have been a Mr. Mom, essentially, for 2 of those 3 weeks. Let me tell you how that works. I am a full time parent. I am a full time parent when I am working too. This is different, however, as I am doing everything a stay-at-home Mom does. Well, let me rephrase that….THIS LICKS NUTS!
I am grateful to my brother for allowing me, my wife, my two children and my 55-pound English Bulldog to move in with him. I really am. What I say from this point on is simply venting and should not be misconstrued as ungrateful.
Brief synopsis of my brother’s relationship situation. Divorced, has a live in girlfriend who moved here from Portland, OR. She has a son. I would call her a single mother but that would require mothering, so we will just leave the title alone. The son, however, has a title. I call him twat monster.
Yes I just made that up. If you knew what was going on here, you would call him the same thing.
The Second Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary contains full entries for 171,476 words in current use, and 47,156 obsolete words. This kid has a vocabulary of about 9 words, all of them associated with daily faux-gun play in the front yard with the rest of the PWC (panty waste clan). I named their group and am going to order them pink flamingo patches to go on their camouflage shorts. I am getting sidetracked. Here is a list of things he has done to all/some of the members of my family:
1. Burst into the spare bedroom where my kids were watching a movie, and using a scary voice, threatened to kill them while pointing a toy gun at them. Yes, they cried.
2. Emptied a new can of shaving cream into the bathtub while he showered (within the 1st 24 hours of our arrival)
3. Cleaned the toilet with one of our toothbrush heads on our SonicAir toothbrush
4. Spray painted 3 stripes on my English Bulldog
5. Beat my razor against the wall, bending the razor blades. I found this out by shaving my face, wondering why the hell it felt like sandpaper.
These are the things that I can remember or are worth telling. I do not have the time, or the carpal tunnel life to discuss the other things that this kid does. AMAZING! Mom is even worse. Wait, the VH (vaginal host) is even worse. My kids get one warning. If the requested action does not take place, then there is a consequence. After 3 kids, you kind of figure it out. My youngest doesn’t even get a warning anymore, which is probably why he sucks his thumb more than the other two. Fear will do that. Twat monster gets 7 warnings and after the 7th warning, nothing happens. She and my brother go into their bedroom and close the door, leaving me and my wife to tend to our kids, the dog, and IT. How would you handle this scenario?
· Dinner time. I have stayed home all day with the kids. I cook a meal for 4 adults, 3 kids and feed the dog. I take the dog out after eating to do #1, and hopefully #2 before coming in to get dinner on the table. Everyone sits. My kids, eat so-so. Twat monster doesn’t like anything from the ground, green, leafy or well done. This leaves starches and sugars. Twat monster complains about X. My brother tells him to shut up and eat his food. Vaginal host is silent. My kids observe…very focused on twat monster. Twat monster sees this and complains again. Wife cringes. Kids look at me, and smile. They complain. I tell twat monster to shut up and eat. My brother agrees. So do my kids as they have now learned the order of things. Twat monster laughs. Vaginal host still silent. I, at this point, am wondering when THE ONE PERSON WHO HAS THE GENETIC RIGHT TO DISCIPLINE THIS KID WILL ACTUALLY DO IT!??! My brother sucks his food down, begins to then inquire if anyone else is done, when a simple scan of the table will show that all other 6 occupants have just now put their napkins on their lap…except twat monster who is twisting it up to put in his right nostril. My wife tells twat monster to stop, the kids begin putting their napkins in their noses, to which I respond STOP, and then tell Twat monster to stop, causing the vaginal host to pipe in asking what he had done. Don’t look at me, look at Rocky over there clotting his fake hemoglobin. She says stop or he is going to his room. He stops, after laughing, scanning the table for an audience, my kids anxiously waiting for Act II, losing focus on the job at hand, which is eating. My wife’s hair is turning gray just watching vaginal host do nothing to stop her kid from manipulating my kids. My brother is pacing in the kitchen waiting for someone to finish to he can quickly help clean up after dinner and then retire to his room and close the twat monster shield, IE door. I look at my wife, whose appetite is coupled with mine in the toilet, wanting desperately for this scene to end. My kids are now trying to figure out which nostril actually requires plugging, to which my wife and I both tell them NEITHER and instruct them to eat or they will get down from the table. Twat monster acts up again, wanting to see actual discipline, my kids respond on cue causing my wife to take their plates away, much to their dismay, and remove them from the table. Twat monster grins. Vaginal host instructs him again that one more time will mean punishment. He grins, looks at his plate and starts playing with his food, calling it every name in the book in a robot voice. Vaginal host finishes her plate and then starts to do the dishes. Meanwhile our kids are crying because they have no idea what just happened. The dog is pacing around wondering where the axe came from that impaled my kids, trying to lick their tears away. My wife yells at the dog to get out of the way, scaring the kids, causing them to cry more. I walk over to help and step on a goat head that was brought in the house by twat monster since he cannot follow rule #1 (remove your shoes before entering the house). This cause me to suddenly grab for the wall to brace myself, which causes the dog to jump thinking he is going to get a beat down. He steps on my wifes foot, who then yells in pain due to the toe nail scratch, which causes my kids to cry more since Mommy yelled…..all because little twat monster was born.
So, yeah. It’s been three weeks. That was just tonight. Get it? I need a job or someone is going to jail.
Wednesday, October 03, 2007
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
I Hate to Say It....::sigh::
He didn't hit them out with a syringe. Say what you will about Barry Bonds and his chemically enhanced assault on the home run record, but keep in mind the cream and the clear and whatever other performance-enhancing drugs he might have used were not some kind of magic potions. He's not at 756 home runs, and counting, just because he found the right pharmacy.
In the endless discussion of all things Bonds -- his personality, his moral code, his legal affairs, his hat size -- the one inarguable fact about the man seems to have become an afterthought: Bonds is an incredible hitter, an absolute virtuoso in the batter's box. If there is to be an asterisk next to his name in the record books, perhaps it should be for that.
* He was a hell of a ballplayer, steroids or not.
Would Bonds have surpassed Hank Aaron as the most prolific power hitter in history without the aid of his friendly neighborhood BALCO lab? Probably not. But even so, good old-fashioned talent and hard work were more responsible for his greatness than anything concocted by renegade chemists. You don't have to give Bonds your adulation, but at least give him his due.
This isn't to say the booing that follows him around the country isn't well-earned. Bonds has brought most of that on himself, with as surly a public persona as any athlete in memory, to go along with the seemingly irrefutable evidence of his steroid guilt. But forget about Bonds the man for a moment and focus on Bonds with a bat in his hands. Those moments he spends in the batter's box should be appreciated, not lost in a shower of animosity.
Consider his remarkable sense of the strike zone, so rare for a power hitter, and the discipline that allows him to resist a fastball that's a millimeter off the plate. Watch the surprisingly compact swing he unleashes when he does get a pitch to his liking and how, even at the age of 43, he always seems to hit it on the sweet spot. The eye, the swing, the timing, the knowledge of the pitchers, all helped him to get to 756 just as much as any drug.
On some level, baseball fans realize this, even if some of them don't want to admit it. If you're not a Giants fan -- and perhaps even if you are -- you have probably booed him from the stands, or shaken your head disapprovingly when you've watched him on TV. But when he strides to the plate from the on-deck circle, you never turn away, do you? When he digs into the batter's box and starts wagging that short bat in preparation for the pitch, you stop what you're doing and give him your full attention, do you not?
When the Giants are on the road, boos invariably thunder down on Bonds when his name is mentioned or when he catches a fly ball, but listen to how silent it gets when he's at the plate and the pitcher goes into his windup. Notice how so many of the boos turn to cheers when he sends one into the stratosphere, even in the stadiums where he's considered the devil incarnate.
That's because fans can't help but admire when the game is played so well, when a hitter executes so flawlessly. And that is as it should be. For those milliseconds when Bonds uncoils that simple-yet-awesome swing, everything else should fall away -- the suspicions, the accusations, the investigations, all of it -- and we should marvel at the purity of his art. Watching Barry Bonds hit is one of sports' most beautiful sights. You don't have to love him, or even respect him, but don't cheat yourself.
Appreciate him.
In the endless discussion of all things Bonds -- his personality, his moral code, his legal affairs, his hat size -- the one inarguable fact about the man seems to have become an afterthought: Bonds is an incredible hitter, an absolute virtuoso in the batter's box. If there is to be an asterisk next to his name in the record books, perhaps it should be for that.
* He was a hell of a ballplayer, steroids or not.
Would Bonds have surpassed Hank Aaron as the most prolific power hitter in history without the aid of his friendly neighborhood BALCO lab? Probably not. But even so, good old-fashioned talent and hard work were more responsible for his greatness than anything concocted by renegade chemists. You don't have to give Bonds your adulation, but at least give him his due.
This isn't to say the booing that follows him around the country isn't well-earned. Bonds has brought most of that on himself, with as surly a public persona as any athlete in memory, to go along with the seemingly irrefutable evidence of his steroid guilt. But forget about Bonds the man for a moment and focus on Bonds with a bat in his hands. Those moments he spends in the batter's box should be appreciated, not lost in a shower of animosity.
Consider his remarkable sense of the strike zone, so rare for a power hitter, and the discipline that allows him to resist a fastball that's a millimeter off the plate. Watch the surprisingly compact swing he unleashes when he does get a pitch to his liking and how, even at the age of 43, he always seems to hit it on the sweet spot. The eye, the swing, the timing, the knowledge of the pitchers, all helped him to get to 756 just as much as any drug.
On some level, baseball fans realize this, even if some of them don't want to admit it. If you're not a Giants fan -- and perhaps even if you are -- you have probably booed him from the stands, or shaken your head disapprovingly when you've watched him on TV. But when he strides to the plate from the on-deck circle, you never turn away, do you? When he digs into the batter's box and starts wagging that short bat in preparation for the pitch, you stop what you're doing and give him your full attention, do you not?
When the Giants are on the road, boos invariably thunder down on Bonds when his name is mentioned or when he catches a fly ball, but listen to how silent it gets when he's at the plate and the pitcher goes into his windup. Notice how so many of the boos turn to cheers when he sends one into the stratosphere, even in the stadiums where he's considered the devil incarnate.
That's because fans can't help but admire when the game is played so well, when a hitter executes so flawlessly. And that is as it should be. For those milliseconds when Bonds uncoils that simple-yet-awesome swing, everything else should fall away -- the suspicions, the accusations, the investigations, all of it -- and we should marvel at the purity of his art. Watching Barry Bonds hit is one of sports' most beautiful sights. You don't have to love him, or even respect him, but don't cheat yourself.
Appreciate him.
Friday, June 15, 2007
Bulldogs
If you visit http://www.akc.com/ (or whatever the American Kennel Club is located on the world wide web), there is a section on every type of pedigree canine known to man. I have owned many animals in my life, a few of them being dogs. When I was a kid, I had a black Labrador. He was the most gentle of dogs I have ever been around to this point. I later owned a golden lab because I wanted the same type of animal I had when I was a kid. She was great. Of course, that is the last dog I owned in which the objective in purchasing the animal had any sense whatsoever.
I bought a Weimaraner a couple of years ago. Talk about wiry. This dog required marathons....DAILY. Of course, I read up on the breed and knew that, but in my mind I felt I that having that dog around would induce some exercise in my own life. This dog couldn't sit still. It was like having Tom Arnold living in my house, strung out on a cocaine binge. To be fair to the animal, I placed an advertisement in the classifieds, hopefully to spark an interest from someone who owned a race track on 100 acres. Luckily, I found someone who had 10 acres and was looking for something just like my dog. To date, he is happily running all over the countryside.
I took the information I learned from owning my Weim, and found a dog perfect for my personality and lifestyle. I found an English Bulldog. Owning an English bulldog is like owning a brick with legs. I feed him and water him. I let him outside to go to the bathroom. Its almost like owning a Chia pet, minus the excrement. Yes, they are expensive, mostly because of the cost of birthing one of these puppies. The mother essentially has to pass a globe through a marble sized birth canal. That tends to be expensive, or so I have learned. But it is worth the investment, in my mind, because of the low-maintenance care required after the fact. Of course, that was what I thought until I began to read about common problems associated with this breed. Eye problems, breathing problems, hip issues...the same problems that occur often at the Happy Valley Convalescent Home. The difference is these problems occur at an early age of a bulldog's life.
At 6 months of age, my little Gus weighs approximately 45 pounds. At one year, I project he will weigh close to 375 pounds and will most likely have college scouts salivating over him. I should have named him "tank," or sent out profile pages to local law enforcement offering his bulldozing services to local drug agencies. If it is in his way, he just keeps on moving through it. He only stands about 11 inches at the shoulder but nothing seems to phase his progression forward. Oddly enough, he is very gentle with my kids, just not my couch. He is more compact than tamped earth. He has more leaks in his mouth than the CIA. Drinking water for him is a lot like Starr Jones at the local buffet. Whatever goes in his mouth is often left dripping all over the floor.
With all over his flaws, both now and down the road, my bulldog Gus has all the personality that my other dogs had combined, and then some. I couldn't imagine owning another animal in my life that was not a bulldog. Unless of course it is one of those miniature donkeys. That, however is another story all together.
I bought a Weimaraner a couple of years ago. Talk about wiry. This dog required marathons....DAILY. Of course, I read up on the breed and knew that, but in my mind I felt I that having that dog around would induce some exercise in my own life. This dog couldn't sit still. It was like having Tom Arnold living in my house, strung out on a cocaine binge. To be fair to the animal, I placed an advertisement in the classifieds, hopefully to spark an interest from someone who owned a race track on 100 acres. Luckily, I found someone who had 10 acres and was looking for something just like my dog. To date, he is happily running all over the countryside.
I took the information I learned from owning my Weim, and found a dog perfect for my personality and lifestyle. I found an English Bulldog. Owning an English bulldog is like owning a brick with legs. I feed him and water him. I let him outside to go to the bathroom. Its almost like owning a Chia pet, minus the excrement. Yes, they are expensive, mostly because of the cost of birthing one of these puppies. The mother essentially has to pass a globe through a marble sized birth canal. That tends to be expensive, or so I have learned. But it is worth the investment, in my mind, because of the low-maintenance care required after the fact. Of course, that was what I thought until I began to read about common problems associated with this breed. Eye problems, breathing problems, hip issues...the same problems that occur often at the Happy Valley Convalescent Home. The difference is these problems occur at an early age of a bulldog's life.
At 6 months of age, my little Gus weighs approximately 45 pounds. At one year, I project he will weigh close to 375 pounds and will most likely have college scouts salivating over him. I should have named him "tank," or sent out profile pages to local law enforcement offering his bulldozing services to local drug agencies. If it is in his way, he just keeps on moving through it. He only stands about 11 inches at the shoulder but nothing seems to phase his progression forward. Oddly enough, he is very gentle with my kids, just not my couch. He is more compact than tamped earth. He has more leaks in his mouth than the CIA. Drinking water for him is a lot like Starr Jones at the local buffet. Whatever goes in his mouth is often left dripping all over the floor.
With all over his flaws, both now and down the road, my bulldog Gus has all the personality that my other dogs had combined, and then some. I couldn't imagine owning another animal in my life that was not a bulldog. Unless of course it is one of those miniature donkeys. That, however is another story all together.
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