… but I did write this piece “When Husbands Go to the Ends of the Earth for Their Pregnant Wives” for the WhatToExpect.com website about My Love and her completely absurd demands on me, the man who knocked her up.
And, if you clicked that link and read the intro – yes, I am the blog editor for the NYC Dads Group these days. Even though I live in Connecticut. Hey, everybody is outsourcing these days.
Despite my pleas to be their sex slave, they have instead chained me to a Dell and demanded I give them the day off.
Hence, I’m filling in today as their guest advice columnist.
The only way for me to be released so I can return here with a real blog post is for you to read my words on their site about husbands who give lame gifts and their needy spouses.
Hurry! Before they make me do windows, too!
Happy New Year, everyone!
While I’m still digging out our home from My Love’s annual overly ambitious holiday decorating work (I’ve rolled up 56 extension cords and unplugged 29 lighting timers in the two days since I started this project, and those laid-off British Royal Guardsmen she hired as live “nutcrackers” are not taking my pleas to stand down seriously), please take a click over to Kristine’s Wait in the Van blog to read “The Northeasterner’s Guide to Texas” I prepared for her before she heads to the Lone Star State this spring.
Anyone want some leftover candy canes? How about a few hundred white doves of peace?
Mmmm, squaaaaab!
Kids, while I’m finishing up these Sea Breezes and Elmore Leonard novels at Blogger Rehab today, your dear Aunt Becky from Mommy Wants Vodka will be looking after you.
Aunt Becky is the wisest person I know. In fact, just a few weeks ago she shared with me the most profound statement I believe has ever been uttered, or in this case – texted, in the history of mankind:
“Dude. Amazaballs!”
Write hard, Aunt Becky; write hard.
* * *
Last night after my husband, The Daver, and I watched a very nail-biting episode of whatever reality show is currently making me wish I was instead beating myself about the face with a bag of lemons, I sat down nearish to him.
(pat pat pat) "The back of your head is entirely flat at the top."
The Daver (ignoring me entirely)(duh): "Yeah?"
Aunt Becky: "Yeah. And the top kinda makes you look like Predator."
The Daver (still absentmindedly pecking away on his Blackberry): "Yeah?"
Aunt Becky: "I bet your mom dropped you on your head a lot."
The Daver: "That explains a lot."
Aunt Becky (giggles): "You know, we could get you one of those helmets they put kids in now to reshape your skull! Those kids look so CUTE!"
The Daver: "NO."
Aunt Becky (laughing): "Can you IMAGINE walking around with one of those helmets as an adult? I'd decorate it for you! I could write your NAME in glitter! Or put some CHICAGO FIRE emblems on it! You'd look so FANCY going to your Big Boy Job in the Financial District with a helmet on!"
Aunt Becky: *bwahahahahahaha*
The Daver: "I think my skull is done being molded."
Aunt Becky: "Oh."
The Daver: "So don't get any ideas."
Aunt Becky (small voice): "Oh."
The Daver: "Becky? You didn't buy me a helmet, did you?"
Aunt Becky: "....Define BUY."
The Daver: (buries LUMPY head in hands)
Aunt Becky: "It's okay, I'll love you and your misshapen head no matter what! Because THAT'S WHAT I LOVE YOU MEANS. TO HAVE, HOLD, AND OBEY...
(pauses)
....Your lumpy head!"
The Daver: "You made the priest take out the 'obey' part. Remember?"
Aunt Becky: "That's because I never obey you."
The Daver: "That's for DAMN sure."
Now that he's remembered that I never obey him, he won't be as mad when he finds out that I ordered him a plagiocephaly helmet for his birthday.
I think the "I love my wife" decals and hearts will make him change him mind and he'll decide that wearing a helmet 23 hours a day is a very good idea indeed.
* * *
TWO DAYS OF VOTING, LITTLE OF MY SANITY LEFT
We’re Number 1!
No, Number 2.
No, no. We’re Number 1
Wait. We’re back at 2.
That’s how it’s been since Friday in Cure JM’s effort to win a $250,000 Pepsi Refresh grant. Either spot will win the money providing we don’t get lazy and get overtaken by another group come Sept. 1. That’s why we’re not taking chances.
My Love has been working the phones nonstop horse-trading votes.
I gave out voting cards to poop-bag toting patrons at a dog show yesterday.
Father and Sister of the Uncool stuffed random mailboxes around our town.
Even The Mother of All Uncoolness – she who only plugs in the microwave when she needs to defrost green beans and still has me program her answering machine for her -- learned to text message! It’s PANDAMONIUM!!
Please continue to vote today and Tuesday then convince a friend or eight dozen to do the same. Here are the three magic ways to help us each day:
1. Text 100850 to Pepsi (73774) via a cell phone Your cell phone, your kids’, that pony-tailed faux hipster at the coffe shop. Just grab a cell and text.
2. Use the Facebook app: http://tinyurl.com/25ls7f8
3. Vote directly from the Pepsi site for our entire Kids to Win team. You will need to set up a Pepsi Refresh account -- takes a minute and allows you to vote for many great organizations we are partnering with: http://tinyurl.com/27o7239
And to those of you voting, Tweeting, reTweeting, Facebooking, blogging and selling your vital organs for our cause, thank you for holding on to your big kind hearts.
Boys and girls, settle down please. While I’m buried in martinis and David Sedaris essays during my self-imposed Blogger Rehab today, everyone’s favorite alcohol-swilling kindergarten teacher, Deb of Vodkamom, will be substituting.
She was supposed to be here last week, but she had to make an appearance in her local newspaper, then on the Today Show blog and … well, I’ll let her explain the other reasons for her tardiness.
* * *
Top 5 Reasons Vodkamom Did NOT Finish This Post
5. I was busy e-mailing my bloggy friends, aunts, uncles, brother, sister, teacher friends and some of my enemies to beg them to vote for Cure JM to win a $250,000 grant over at the Pepsi site. While most of them said they’d be glad to, they also felt the need to tell me that they were sick and tired of my e-mails begging and pleading to vote for things. Then when they realized I
didn’t want them to vote for ME - they said OK. Then they proceeded to block anymore e-mails coming from me. I’ve been spammed.
4. I was busy fighting with Bitchy and Sassy over buying EVERYTHING that wasn’t nailed down at Target and Wal-Mart, and packing them off to COLLEGE, and forgot I had promised Kevin I would guest post. Then the ensuing
sobbing caused such a FLOOD that my keyboard wouldn’t work for three days. Honest.
3. I was traumatized over offending one anonymous commenter when I blogged my crazy two weeks of worrying about FATTY lipoma – and forced myself to stay away from the computer.
2. After realizing that we hadn’t requested enough financial aid for Bitchy AND Sassy to attend college, I have been spending the last three days e-mailing everyone and their brother who might have any ties to the financial aid office at BOTH universities. It’s on days like these that I regret being Polish.
1. While preparing for the news that I MIGHT have cancer (sorry, Anonymous, for sharing my real true life) I was busy eating 12 pints of various flavors of Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream. Then, upon hearing the news that I would in FACT live, albeit with a FATTY LIPOMA attached to a chest muscle, I ate even MORE ice cream in CELEBRATION of my prognosis of life.
Now, I’d like to write an even MORE incredible post, but I have to go workout like a madwoman to try and negate the 12 BAZILLION calories I shoved in my mouth over the weekend.
* * *
Keep voting every day through the end of the month to help Cure JM win a $250,000 Pepsi Refresh grant. We need to hold on to the No. 2 spot until Sept. 1 to win the money. If you can, also vote for these other great kids’ causes we are supporting.
You can also text your vote once a day – text 100850 to PEPSI (73774)!
While I’m knocking back mojitos and Carl Hiaasen novels in Blogger Rehab this week, a few friends will stopping by to keep you entertained.
Today welcome The Holmes, a colleague from DadCentric and one of my true favorites in the blogosphere. He has illustrated chats with his testicles about his vasectomy, even stranger human encounters when he has to provide a follow up sperm sample and, as you shall read, a chicken fetish that would make Gonzo from The Muppet Show blush.
* * *
“Those two are Spanish, that one is British, that one is American, and those three, I think, are Australian.”
I listened a little closer, but I couldn’t detect any accents.
“Like, that’s where they all came from?” I asked.
“Like, that’s where they’re all descended from. I’m pretty sure they all came from here.”
“Ah, so that’s why all their clucks sound the same.”
My wife knows a lot more about all this chicken stuff than I do. She should. I’m just the insanely handsome muscle. This whole chicken-and-egg project was her idea. Which came first? Who gives a flying cluck, they’re both plenty tasty if prepared properly.
Ever grilled something dead while the live version of it was clucking around at your feet? That’s a weird feeling.
Does anyone remember that cartoon Chicken Boo? It was one of the features on Animaniacs. It portrayed this human-size chicken that people kept mistaking for a real person in spite of the fact that the only sounds to come out of his beak were clucks and ba-goks.
Anyone remember this? Anyone?
My wife doesn’t believe me that this show ever actually existed. I sing the theme song at her and she just looks at me like I laid an egg:
“You wear a disguise to look like human guys, but you’re not a man, you’re a chicken, Boo.”
Dude, I couldn’t have made that up! Look, here’s a picture even:
We don’t live on a farm or anything. This is chicken husbandry of the urban variety. Step out our back door, and right there off of the end of our deck is a real live honest-to-hen chicken coop. The enclosed house portion stands eight feet tall, is painted bright green, and is topped with a slanted metal roof that I imagine sounds plenty hellacious when it rains. Chickens are sound sleepers, my wife tells me. Good for them.
Because they could, you know?
Aside from being sources of fresh eggs and free entertainment, these chickens that we’ve taken under our wings are in possession of full-blown personalities. They’ve got swagger. Attitude. Sass. In fact, as they’ve grown out of their chickhood into full-fledged chickens, the ladies have become much sassier toward us, their human protectors.
For example, time was, herding them back into their coop was as simple as walking up behind them and just keeping on walking in the direction you wanted them to go. These days, they scatter in five, six, seven different directions. You get one in the coop only to have it come right back out again. Every other cluck sounds like a “f**k you, buddy.” They’re like children in that way, except they pop out an egg every so often. Children only pop out non-edible items.
So the image of a chicken sashaying about in say, some designer silks wrapped around its neck like some sort of anti-chopping block talisman, maybe a jaunty little hat over its comb, yes, it all seems rather plausible. True, their vocabulary is limited, but since when do we let limited vocabulary act as a barrier to becoming a full-fledged human being?
And we didn’t go to all the trouble of raising these chickens only to have them escape, cause a commotion, and then get run out of town. I don’t care where these chickens came from. We want our free eggs, dammit.
* * *
Don’t forget to vote today and every day through the end of the month to help Cure JM win a $250,000 Pepsi Refresh grant. We need to be No. 1 or No. 2 by Sept. 1 to win the grant. If you can, also vote for these other great kids’ causes we are supporting.
Kevin Uncool can’t come to the blog right now, so fellow at-home dad Ron Mattocks (the Clark Kent’s Lunchbox blog, the hilarious book Sugar Milk) will be subbing today with a probing tale about the probing of his tail. Maybe.
Beeeeeeeeep.
* * *
This week I had a checkup with my gastroenterologist. It’s been several years and I figured it was time. Or, in other words, he shut off my prescription refills until I scheduled an appointment.
As we headed out to the his office, my 8-year-old stepdaughter, Allie, asks me, “So, Ron, is the doctor going to give you the finger test?”
What the—
“What’s the finger test, Allie?” I asked as if it were no big deal.
“You know,” she responded. “When they take your finger and prick it to make blood come out.”
I chuckled both out of amusement and relief.
“No, sweetie. Not today.” At least I didn’t anticipate one. Still, it wasn’t out of the question either, and I shuddered at the image of my doctor spreading lubricant along his extended pointer finger as if he were squeezing the contents of a ketchup packet onto a hotdog.
At this point you’re either laughing to yourself, screaming, “TMI, TMI,” or shaking your head in disgust over the relative ease with which I willing to divulged the gory details of my partially defunct digestive track. Incidentally, in case you’re curious, no finger tests of any kind were preformed on me; however, it was the physician’s opinion that I needed a colonoscopy.
And there I go again.
* * *
The vast majority of you have no clue who I am and yet here I am guest posting with my proverbial pants around my ankles. Not exactly a great first impression, I agree, but then again first impressions aren’t exactly my forte, something Mr. Home and Uncool himself will attest to after we had the opportunity to meet this past February during CureJM’s participation in the Austin Marathon.
There we sat at a late lunch — his wife, charismatic, personable; his kids, adorable, funny; and Mr. Uncool, witty, intelligent, there in support of a cause bigger than himself. And then there’s me — stilted and awkward, the greasy juices of a hamburger streaking from the corner of my mouth. In fact, were it not for my lovely wife who balanced the conversation out with her natural charm, I not so sure Mr. Uncool would’ve excused himself as soon as the moment presented itself.
This ranks among a litany of occasions where my better half has bailed me out when meeting other bloggers like The Stiletto Mom, and Mr Lady who claimed to “orgasm slightly” after being introduced to the piano bench autographed by Tori Amos for my wife. I couldn’t make a mangy, starving dog come using a dumbbell-size Milk Bone, and yet my wife can induce that special tingly feeling in another woman merely by showing off a few of her prized possessions.
Yes, cool I am not. As alluded to earlier, even furniture retains more points in this category than I do. Want more? I like Coldplay. Not cool. I’m a faithful fan of America’s Next Top Model. So not cool. I got all teary-eyed watching Ghosts of Girlfriends Past. Matthew McConaughey might be cool, but the premise of the movie may have you wondering why I haven’t made an appointment to have my estrogen levels checked.
Thus, I consider it a dual irony that I, an uncool person, am guest posting on a blog advertised as “uncool” by an owner who is so not uncool. It baffles me further to be invited to guest post after my latest bout of uncoolness.
A few weeks ago, Mr. Uncool e-mailed a bunch of us dad bloggers, questioning the validity of a Top Dad Blog award we had all been informed we had won. The catch to such an accolade: the organization bestowing this great honor was a medical transcription service. Exactly. This minor detail obviously warranted suspicion, and thus Mr. Uncool’s e-mail wasn’t so much of a, “is this legit,” as it was a “who do these cats think they’re fooling.”
I was already familiar with this scam. I had posted the award’s badge on my site, not suspecting anything until later noticing a line in its HTML coding directing people to an online MBA program. Further investigation revealed this coding gets your site flagged by Google as a spam site.
So, wanting to earn some “street cred” with the other dads on the e-mail, I responded with these details. Ah, acceptance at last.
Nope. A few moments later an e-mail comes back: “What did Google flag you for? Gullibility?”
Reading this, I envisioned these guys hanging out behind the school doing what cool kids do – laughing their asses off at me. Yeah, you got flagged for gullibility. Ha, ha! Good one dude.
I suppose the lesson in all of this, if there is one at all, is that the worst thing I can do is try to be something other than myself. Admitting to everything above or the unabashed way in which I portray myself in this other thing I wrote (no, no, scroll to the bottom of that post—not the crap at the top), doesn’t concern me. My hope is that if my kids can see how comfortable I am with myself, they will one day reach a point when they shrug off the futility in trying to be what the world says they need to be, and instead, they tackle life as the person they really are.
In the words of cartoon legend, Popeye “I yam who I yam, and that’s all that I yam.” Profound indeed.
Epilogue
As I was finishing this post, Allie walked into the office and sat down. “Hey, Ron, have you ever read the book, The Golden Finger?”
I ignored the question. If her mother was behind this, I didn’t care. My head was still throbbing as a consequence of pounding, Lord only knows how many Zima’s the night before at the happy hour party celebrating my recent promotion to Content and Social Media Director at Clark Kent’s Lunchbox. There might have been karaoke? I may have sung “Dancing Queen” … shirtless.
* * *
Want to do something totally cool? Go here and vote for Cure JM to receive a $250K grant to be used in the fight against Juvenile Myositis. We finally reached second place, now we need to hold this position until Sept. 1!
FADKOG and I share many things that even the best antibiotics won’t cure. A love of ‘80s music. A lust for Dairy Queen sundaes. Past lives as small-town journalists. And part-time jobs in the book-selling industry, though my sentence was commuted many, many years ago.
I paid her a surprise visit at her workplace just the other week …
+ + +
Being a bookseller is as glamorous as you imagine it to be. The constant stream of party invitations, photo shoots, and charity events on the calendar? Exhausting!
Then there's all the club openings and dodging the paparazzi as they jump out from between the shelves. It's a wonder I get anything done.
Oh sure, it sounds like fun, but it's also a lot of hard work. You don't just wake up one day and become someone like me. Oh no. You have to log a lot of hours behind a cash register before graduating to the sales floor and shifts filled with bright smiles plastered on your face even though every conversation you have in a six to eight-hour shift begins with the phrase, "I'm looking for a book."
However, you don't officially make it to celebrity bookseller status until you can cast aside your humility and don a giant animal costume for story time like I got to do last week when I was made to wear a Clifford the Big Red Dog costume. Only then will it feel like you've reached the summit and gotten that belly scratch from management that will make your back paws whip like a propeller, and all for less than $10 an hour!
And even though you're a glamorous bookseller, you won't pitch a diva fit when you pull that giant red fur rag out of its travel casket and suddenly imagine the many times it's been worn by other people. Other people who have christened it with their sweat and added to the fur-trapped funk cocktail so heady it can't even be described despite the fact I've been told many times I should write books rather than sell them, so I should have the proper adjectives, but no, I don't, because I still have a headache from the weight of Clifford's giant head pressing on my cranium. Thank heaven for that, really, because it forces me not to dwell on the idea that, while I hope it's not true, you know you'd fart in one of these big furry costumes, so I have to assume someone at some time has tested the acoustics by beeping their ass horn while in it. Sadly, I'm going on the assumption it's been everyone up to, but excluding, me.
Of course, you'll also have to endure the snickering of your fellow booksellers (who actually are laughing with you because you're such a hilarious star) and compel toddlers and preschoolers to pee their pants in either fear or mad lust as you lumber toward them with your giant red paw stretched out as though you wish to crush their tiny toddler heads. Better yet if you can get them to soil themselves in some combination of the two emotions. While crying. Or screaming. Or humping your fake fur covered leg, because I promise you, that's going to end up happening.
After wooing the young crowd with my animal magnetism, my team of assistants (remember ... we're glamorous!) packed the costume back up. Inside the shipping container, we found a little photo album in which previous Cliffords had documented their visits to other bookstores in the chain via Polaroid photos and notes. Many included lovely photos of them hugging young fans. Yawn. I suggested we include a vicious homage depicting Clifford, paws up, with a fake tire mark across his gut. Or a hand holding up Clifford's head only, two black X's over the dog's eyes. Or perhaps Clifford lounging in one of the comfy chairs set up around the store, one paw holding a tattered copy of Dog Fancy, the other holding...well, yeah. Where my dogs at, y'all! You can clearly see why management doesn't want to lose an employee like me!
Luckily for my booming career, someone special happened to walk into my store at just the right moment:
So yes, being a bookseller can be rough, but it does have its perks. If you keep your snout clean and have an overwhelming desire to help people who are looking for a book, you, too, could be one of the lucky ones, like me. A celebrity bookseller. Steeped in couture Clifford costumes. Rollin' in the slightly higher than minimum wage kibble. After hours howlin' with the Duke and Snoop (that's Marmaduke and Snoopy to those non-celebs). Yep. Good times.
Woof!
+ + +
My greatest thanks to my great guests and digital friends FADKOG, Homemaker Man and Anna Lefler for filling in for me this week, and thanks to all of you for not mooning them.
I’ll be back next week. Cheers!
Today’s guest in this week’s “When ‘Always Home’ Leaves His Home” series is the mysterious man from the north, Homemaker Man. He writes the fresh guffaw-fest Musings From The Big Pink, which I highly recommend to everyone in this fair land and points elsewhere.
Like me, Homemaker is an at-home dad with two kids and blog. However, he is cooler than me by miles – literally and figuratively -- as he drives a Zamboni.
Well, he used to drive a Zamboni. I’ll let him explain.
+ + +
There is no easy way to put this. The day I met Always Home and Uncool was the day I lost something special.
“Homemaker, I’m gone, it’s all you. Should be a slow night,” my boss yelled as he departed through the throng of arriving hockey parents. Dick.
Zamboni Driver is one part driver, one part night supervisor, one part mechanic and five parts Ice Cowboy. That’s eight parts -- over a whole of seven.
Zamboni driving is hairy. Improper fraction hairy. When I wasn’t whizzing around the ice at top speed, making it possible for youth league skaters to get berated by their lunatic parents, I was cleaning and maintaining the ol’ beauty.
Otherwise, I was (and still am) a stay-at-home-dad. This, of course, is a gateway drug to blogging.
So, I blogged it up a little. No big whoop. Along the way, I met the above mentioned character, A.H.A.U., online.
He’s another stay-at-home-dad. Real amicable, clever sort. Nice wife. Nice kids. Nice guy? Nice try.
He Google Buzzes me late one night, “I’ve always wanted to ride on a Zamboni.”
“Oh yeah?” I type.
“Yeah. I think it’d be awesome!”
“Well, Zambonis are tools, not toys. The things are two tons of moving belts and giant augers. They reach speeds upwards of 10 miles an hour.”
“Yeah, YEAH!” he buzzes back.
“Besides,” I type back, “you’re name is Always Home and blah blah blah. You’ll never come up here.”
“I’ll be there in two hours. Don’t make freakin’ ice with out me.”
“Whoa, watch the language,” I tap in but he never answers back. He’s in the minivan and on the way.
I figured what the hell. I’d take him out to make one ice, he’d be happy, the end. He was pretty amped up. I should’ve known what was coming.
He showed up about 2 hours later. He was wearing baggy cargo shorts, an oversized American Girl T-shirt and a white ball cap. In February. He was shivering, but I don’t think it was the cold. He reeked of hops and barley.
“You ready? “ I said.
“Frickin’ A!” he howled.
“All right, settle down George Carlin.”
We headed out to the Zamboni room. There she stood, silent -- but alert -- like a great cat. A great, rectangular, yellow cat that needs to be charged 3 times a day and runs on hydraulics.
“OmygodOMYGOD,” he said. He immediately stuck his arm in the giant ice-grinding auger and yelled, “Hit it!” I ignored him. I got him safely stowed on board and off we went.
It was on our third loop around the ice. The rink was quiet. All we could hear was the quiet spray of the water, the scraping of the blade against ice, and the 100-decibel growl and whine of two tons of 30-year-old electric ice-making equipment.
“Let’s steal it,” he staged whispered.
“What?” I pretended.
“Let’s steal it!”
Crazy bastard. It can’t be done
“OK!” I agreed.
We careened off the ice and made for the doors, digging up an eight-foot-wide swath of rubber skating rink floor as we went and replacing it with a sweet, sweeeeeet quarter-inch layer of ice.
We hit the doors at a full 10 mph. We stopped dead. Her bulk strained; willing, but not quite able.
He jumped off, got the doors open, and off we went.
It was amazing. The breeze tousled our hair as we opened her up full throttle. The blade ripped sparks from the asphalt and we set off to cover my entire city in a thin, glassy-smooth sheet of ice.
We got further than you might think. The cops came after us, but they couldn’t handle the ice. Even at full throttle that machine laid ice so pure and righteous that cop tires couldn’t stick to it.
They finally caught us. Four blocks later. The Zamboni’s charge had run out.
He was still laughing as the cops dragged him away. “It was frickin’ worth it!” He screamed.
Me. I never made ice again. Crazy son-of-a-bitch cost me that.
God, I miss him.
I first met Anna and her hubby, Jon Bon Jovi (not his real name), a while back on what My Love and I thought was a Carnival Cruise to Cozumel and other tropical destinations where the main breakfast food is a delicacy known as “tequila.”
Little did we know.
+ + +
Dear Kevin,
Hi, there! Long time no talk, huh? Ha!
We didn't even get to give you the conch-shell cell phone holders we bought for you in the last port, but no worries. We'll just mail them. I know Maude will be excited when they arrive - you should have seen her face when I told her about them!
Anyway, we had a blast with you both these past two weeks. Who would have thought we'd end up crossing paths on a marriage workshop cruise, of all places? I must have said it to Jon Bon Jovi (there I go with my nicknames again) a dozen times, just like that. "JB," I'd say, "Who would have thought?"
And then to be assigned to the same breakout group every single day – wow! Talk about meant to be!
So, tell us, what did you guys think of the workshop? We thought it was fan-fargin'-tastic! We've been on these relationship workshop cruises before (Floating Encounters '04, Smooth Sailing 2006 and - after a brief separation in 2008 – last year's Hurricane of Harmony), but we both agree that this one was by far the best. You saw for yourself the breakthroughs we had in session, right?
I've got a feeling the results are going to stick this time, too. I'm happy to report that Jon Bon Jovi and I are continuing to honor our on-board "contract of courtesy." I know you know our issues, so I'll just tell you flat out: in the four days since we've been back, I have not used my Neti Pot during "SportsCenter" and he has not referred to my ceramics class as the "crockery coven." Talk about progress!
The thing is, Kevin, Jon Bon Jovi and I are kind of concerned about you and Maude. We couldn't help but notice that Maude started developing "headaches" that would cause her to miss our communal meals, even though she knew we saved her a seat right next to us. We also picked up on the fact that, during your hushed talks at the ship's rail, Maude would often gesture toward us when she wasn't wiping her nose with a soggy tissue.
We just want you to know that we get it. It's hard to be the rookies on the cruise and get paired up with a couple already so far down the road toward their Ultimate Togetherness Destination. In looking back now, we see that what Maude was saying when she was pointing at us was, "Why can't we be like them? How long must we wait before our Marital Feeling Flowers are as perky as theirs?"
Not to worry! Sometimes it takes more than one cruise to shake out all the kinks. Just look at us – four tours under our belts and I still sometimes wonder how it all would have turned out if I'd just slipped out of the Radisson that night and gone on to actuarial school like I'd planned.
So here's what we're thinking: there's another relationship cruise coming up next month out of San Pedro. It's called "Us-ward Bound" and it looks great! A week of counseling during the day, unlimited karaoke at night (see our song below!) and, while we're in Mexico, we can stock up on cheap prescriptions. They even have a rock-climbing wall right on the ship. Talk about trust-building! I've enclosed the brochure, but you should get in there right away while they're still giving the early-bird discount.
This is going to be great! We can't wait to hit the high seas with you two again. Oh, and Jon Bon Jovi wanted me to tell you he hasn't forgotten it's his turn to whale on you in the dead-arm contest.
Sugar all around,
Anna
P.S. Now I'm thinking that your wife's name isn't Maude after all. It starts with an "M" though, right? Sorry about that.
As you can imagine based on Monday’s post, it’s been a whirlwind week of projects here at Uncool Estates. Most should be done by Thursday but they would have been done by today if not for my blowing most of Tuesday attending a taping of The Jerry Springer Show.
Just as an audience member.
I swear.
STOP JUDGING ME!
There’ll be more on that adventure next week, I promise. But for now, let me summarize it thus:
Brawls and boobs.
God bless America, every demented nook and cranny of it.
Between all that, shoveling snow and selling some ju— … um, gently used estate pieces on Craigslist, it’s been hectic. However, I do have something to share with you today.
Matt of DC Urban Dad was so desperate for copy the other week that he did his Friday feature “Five Questions with” … on me. Go drop in on Matt to learn about my ultimate iPod playlist, my favorite time of the day (if you guessed “happy hour,” you were wrong) and other sordid details.
One question I answer is about what is the most uncool thing I did that day. Today, it might have been cranking up the Minivan of Manliness’s sound system and singing along to Taylor Swift’s “Hey Stephen” while at a stoplight.
The UPS driver on my right and the three high school girls on my left were not impressed. Convulsed in laughter, yes, but not impressed.
With 200 other channels on satellite radio, I really need to switch off Radio Disney once I jettison the Things off at school.
Video: Steve Earle, “Satellite Radio”
What was the most uncool thing you did lately?
My Love just returned from the annual company physical (perk of being a Globetrotting Executive Goddess), and the news is good.
Even though I – he of imagined heart attacks and actual panic attacks - still hold the family record on that sexist stress test), she is perfectly healthy and able to continue to support me in the manner in which I am accustomed.
BAM!
Two bloody knees and a sore wrist.
So, friends, while I attend to her every need (her need, not mine, gutter-dwellers) (but I appreciate your rooting for me), here are few oddly appropriate items I wrote elsewhere this week for your enjoyment:
+ + +
$18,600 raised; $6,400 to go!
Help the Uncool Family find a cure for Thing 1’s autoimmune disease!
Even if you can only spare $5 or $10, please support us in the Austin Marathon by donating to Cure JM Foundation, the only nonprofit dedicated solely to putting an end to this often painful and potentially deadly disease. Just whip out a credit card and click over to our FirstGiving fundraising page.
My eye is extremely bloody in this photo because I:
While me of the "but the Greeks purposely put mistakes into their great works of art because perfection is reserved only for the gods" school of junior-high philosophy, turns Thing 2's room from this:
(Look closely. See. Pasted a new wallpaper border over the old one.)Finally, super extra non-sarcastic special thanks to Black Hockey Jesus of The Wind in Your Vagina. I goaded him into running the 13-mile half marathon in Carlsbad, Calif., next month on behalf of Thing 1. He responded by getting a mess of his readers -- who I'm sure fought suspicions of a major scam -- to donate more than $1,100 to date to support his fallen arches for the cause. Dude, Thing 1 has a special message for you:
If I failed to mention your generosity, I apologize. Drop me a line and I'll correct the wrong.
Or charge a few more bucks on your credit card at www.firstgiving.com/kmckeever. That'll teach me a lesson I won't forget.
And if you visit Humor-Blogs.com and vote for my posts, I'll untangle those icicle lights for you.
That is until you piss them off. Even the smallest mythical creatures have ego issues from time to time:
Next thing you know, they're organizing unruly "flash" mobs to bring you down:
Then, they really get out of control. They're running wild and causing havoc all over your home and blog:
So, to you, VE at VE's Fantastical Nonsense, to keep all those potentially rebellious gnomes lurking in your site header under control, I give to you this -- the "Gnome-Be-Gone Goodfellas":
