The Modern Age of Youth Baseball

Welcome back to Little League baseball, guys! It’s good to ha–

What’s that, Carl? You want to be called what? Like Casey Stengel, the great baseball manager? No? Like Kacey Musgraves, the great country songstress. Mom and dad on board with that? Cool. Let me grab my clipboard.

All right, let’s try this again.

Welcome back, children, to Little League baseball. OK, so you all have good winter? Play some basketball or hockey, did you? No? Well, what sports did you kids play over the winter?

Fortnite does not count as a sport, Roberto. Neither does Minecraft. I agree, it does help your hand-eye coordination. It also helps prepare your glutes for another three months of riding the pine.

Love in the Time of Coronavirus

My extreme couponing doesn’t seem so insane anymore, does it, Helen?

“Insane.” That was the word you used, wasn’t it? Let’s see if I remember your exact words.

“Nobody needs a hundred cases of pinto beans, Henry. I don’t care if you got them by preying on an acne-scarred cashier who mistakenly honored four competitor’s Sunday inserts and a rebate slip with an illegible expiration date,” you said. “Pallets of tuna fish cans! Pallets! Up to the ceiling. It’s insane, Henry, insane!”

I remember it clearly even though it was years ago. It was an oddly humid winter afternoon when I found you there, rooting around my stacks of Barilla rotini and Jif in search of an exit to the cozy fortification I created to be our apocalyptic escape home. You let out a little victory cry as you squeezed one last time out the steel door, obscured as it was by my towers of Ivory and Charmin.

Well, who wants some soap and TP now, Helen, hmm?

No Thanksgiving for You …

… if you don’t donate to the Movember fight against man cancer! My little friend here needs your help!

His face not blurry. It’s distorted by steam rising from the pot. Turkey chili. With free bread.

Mmm, mmm -- NO SOUP FOR YOU ‘TIL YOU DONATE!

Maybe you get him over the $1,000 mark, he sing Freddie Mercury song for you. He does good “Crazy Little Thing Called Love.”

You want “Bohemian Rhapsody”?

TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS!

Technorati Tags: Movember,health,grooming,Thanksgiving

Upcoming Tweets from @mrskutcher

This all confirms that CBS hired one “half man” to replace another.

Just took some nude photos of myself … with my new Canon PowerShot.

Valuable life lesson: What happens with a blonde tramp in the hot tub, doesn’t stay in either.

Yo @justinbieber! My invitation stands.

@aplusk The million $$ Redford gave me is not part of the pre-nup. It was a movie, moron.

Counseling with rabbi at Kabbalah Centre. Hope I properly used the words “schtup” and “schmuck.”

About last night … the tub shower is warm, wet and waiting for you once again, @RobLowe.

Finally! I can stop explaining how I survived growing up without social media.

# # #

Technorati Tags: demi moore,ashton kutcher,divorce,Twitter,social media,celebrities

The Sky is Still Falling

Latest word is that the satellite will crash sometime today.

Maybe tomorrow.

Somewhere between the Arctic and Antarctic circles.

Gee -- thanks, NASA!

Thanks to my loyal reader, Cheryl of Deckside Thoughts, for this classic Saturday Night Live sketch about Skylab that sorta reinforces the point of my last post.

Unfortunately, just not the point about sexy multi-boobed space aliens.

Have a safe weekend, friends.

No ‘White Collar’ Crime to Give You Free DVDs

Good news today – no disasters, thefts or near poisonings. Murphy even got a paws up from the doggie dermatologist.

Let’s celebrate, doggie style, with another giveaway of one of Murphy’s favorite TV shows.

The fine folks of Fox Home Video found out I have a thing for many of the original series on the USA Network, so they asked me to give one of you a 4-DVD set of White Collar: The Complete Second Season, a show about a former con man helping the FBI in New York City.

White Collar has a little bit of everything.

Good guy crime fighter Peter Burke (Tim DeKay) with a sense of humor and, for one glorious episode, a bad-ass mustache.

Suave ex-art forger Neal Caffrey (Matt Bomer) with a penchant for retro clothing and a quest. He must balance the moral dilemma of wanting justice to avenge the death of his ex-girlfriend while also contemplating making one last big score. I can neither confirm nor deny that he is loosely modeled on another Neil from New York.

Goofy and lovable sidekick Mozzie (Willie Garson) who practices Zen and the art of the con. Definitely based on a lawyer I know.

Exotic lesbian federal agent Diana (Marsha Thomason) who occasionally has to go undercover as a hetero hooker and/or model. (Really, what mom blogger out hasn’t done all that at one time or another, right? Once? In college?)

Token dude Clinton Jones (Sharif Atkins) who really should have a bigger role in the show but instead spends most of it in the surveillance van. In the above photo, I think he has The Rev. Al Sharpton on the phone.

And Tiffani Thiessen.

Sigh.

Oh, she plays Elizabeth, the FBI’s guy wife, but that’s not important because I’ve had a thing for her since …

… she played goody-two-shoes Kelly Kapowski on all those dreadful Saved by the Bell series. (I was in college with a lot of time between classes, people.)

Then again when she played bad bad girl on Beverly Hills 90210.

Or later as the object of desire of The Ladies Man (a highly underrated SNL movie spinoff, mind you).

The lady is versatile.

And totally smokin’. Almost as much as My Love. I sense a Baby Burke on the way next season.

Oh, why is White Collar Murphy’s favorite show?

Because the Burkes have one lovable bear of a yellow Lab named Satchmo.

Who gets to follow around Tiffani Thiessen like so.

Sigh.

All righty, nearly the same rules as yesterday’s Lake Compounce amusement park ticket giveaway:

• Leave a comment by 8 a.m., Friday, July 15. Any comment will do, but if you have a White Collar crush, confess!
• Include a working email address when you fill out the comment form so I can contact you if you win.
• Be a citizen of Earth. I’m in a better mood today, so even if you are Glenn Beck, you qualify.

One winner to be picked at random. Others will be humped by the dog.

The Uncool Sell Out

After much consideration and consternation, I have decided to sell the massive assets of “Always Home and Uncool.”

This site will now be run by KRP Communications Inc., a Hoboken, N.J.-based public relations firm that in the last several months has won me over with their endless email pitches for life-changing products aimed at you, my 42 semi-loyal readers.

From now on, KRP Communications will pimp their clients’ wares and host giveaways on this site for such amazing items as:

ENVYSPERM - A groundbreaking new nonprescription formula growth and conditioning serum for fuller, longer and stronger little swimmers. Endorsed by Jim Bob Duggar!

MY BEAUTIFUL MOMMIES – The groundbreaking new children’s book on plastic surgery among lesbian parents. “Plastic surgery among married lesbians, especially the lipstick variety, is very popular and becoming a common reality. Cosmetic surgery can be a difficult topic to understand for people who get all their news from Fox, and even more so for children who can’t understand why mom’s fun bags are now the size of basketballs,” said author Dr. Mickey Schlock. “I wanted to provide my female lesbian type patients with a tool, to coin a phrase, that speaks to kids in a kid-friendly way. I kid you not.” 

THE GETTHEE2ABAR METHOD PREGNANCY DVD – Developed and perfected by drunken singles all over the world, the GetThee2ABar Method is the proven way to get knocked up without really trying! Britney Spears and her little sis, Jamie Lynn, swear by it!

Why did I sell my blog? Let me share with you the cunning insight that  KRP CEO, Kathleen R. Plotzwit, recently passed on to me:

“Hi Mr.,

We love your blog! Especially that post about your kids! They say/do the darned things, don’t they? I wouldn’t know – I’m barren.

Would you be interested in running this photo of Cocoon: The Return star Steve Guttenberg standing next to an unidentified dog that is standing next to our client’s product? Let me know if you want me to send you hi-res images and/or Steve Guttenberg in a shiny, short wet suit.”

How can I continue to fight that kind of tenacity, drive and determination to give you what you didn’t even know you needed? I mean, Steve Freakin’ Guttenberg!

Have a nice life, friends! Come visit me on the Riviera!

Technorati Tags: April Fools,blogging,adversiting,media,PR,Steve Guttenberg

Get the whole "Always Home and Uncool" experience: visit the website! Dare to share! Tweet, Facebook this post now.

Gimme 3 Steps (Away from that Crowded Gym)

Time once again for me to put on my imitation doctor’s coat (and maybe some pants) to offer you dear readers a healthy dose of my reality when it comes to your health. Enjoy. – Dr. Uncool, Ph.D., D.V.M., M.I.S.S.I.S.S.I.P.P.I

Resolved to have a healthy 2011? Yeah, yeah, yeah -- get in line, pal.

No, not that line six-deep for the elliptical.

Gyms crowded with the jiggling masses of resolute resolution-makers are the unhealthiest places to be in January.

Cardio equipment drenched in Staphylococcus-infested sweat!

Barbells bathed in rhinovirus-tinged mucous flakes!

Air heavy with guilt over the 17 pounds of homemade peppermint bark wolfed down during the annual New Year's Day Twilight Zone marathon on SyFy!

January should be all about making a better you, but within the safe confines of your own home. Considering the shape you're in, do you really want to wear those booty-hugging workout shorts in a public setting?

Thought not. So, don't worry -- I got your back.

And your ample backside.

STEP 1: EAT WRITE

You could start with the latest fad diet. (What is it these days? The Cookie Diet? The Cookie Puss Diet? The Cokie Roberts Diet?) However, the words "latest" and "fad" should clue you in that these are temporary solutions that will soon leave you in the McFatburger drive-thru lane off life’s highway.

Your best approach to reforming your gluttonous ways and developing better habits, at least according to all the chick magazines my wife subscribes to, is by keeping a food journal.

(Aside: You women do realize these magazines just present new combinations of the same 23 tips about sex, diet and fashion every few months, right? The most groundbreaking thing in each article is usually the level of hyperbole in each headline like "Learn the Naughty Skill to Dress Thinner! So You Can Powerfood Your Way to a Tighter Tush!! That He'll Love to Discuss with Sensitively!!! FAT-FREE!!!!")

How does writing down every little sweet, salty, fat-enhanced calorie make you lose weight? I'm guessing self-induced embarrassment.

When you write down the fact that the half a box of Entenmanns's Rich Frosted Chocolate Donuts you devoured for breakfast meant you crammed 1,200 calories and 80 grams of fat down your gullet, you naturally start to re-evaluate your food choices. Gorging on a half box of Entenmanns's Crumb Donuts would have saved you 200 calories and 32 grams of fat, Porky! I just saved you like 6 sit-ups!

You may be tempted to share your food journal, thinking you'll get much needed support and admiration from others. Maybe. Or maybe it'll be like that time Arbitron sent you two shiny quarters to record your radio listening habits for two weeks and you somehow kept misspelling "Howard Stern" as "NPR."

STEP 2: CLEAN UP YOUR ACT

You'd be surprised how much heart-healthy, calorie-burning exercise you can get just by doing the housework you've been neglecting or hiring others to do for you, you lazy elitist slob.

Let's start in the kitchen. When was the last time you:

• Moved your refrigerator and swept out of the three feet of dust bunnies, lost takeout menus and fallen magnets from defunct dry cleaners?
• Defrosted your freezer using only ball bearings and old toothbrush?
• Scoured the burnt stuff off from under each and every pan with just elbow grease, a waffle and three jiggers of Nutella??

I thought so. Now, c’mon and get dirty so later you and your loved one can, you know, get dirty together.

STEP 3: LAY ABOUT

Stress is the No. 1 silent killer in most U.S. households (though in ours, dried apricots hold a distinctive “Silent but Deadly” title of their own). The best thing you can do to relieve stress, you can do lying down. And by yourself!

That's right -- sleep.

A long-term lack of regular sleep has been linked to all sorts of evils, such as obesity, diabetes – even making out with Snooki from Jersey Shore. To prevent this, you should aim to get a minimum of seven solid hours of ZZZZZs a day, and yes -- you can count any time you spent catatonic from the mindlessness of watching TMZ, infomercials or any movie featuring Ashton Kutcher.

Follow these three steps and by Valentine's Day, you'll be rested, revved and raring to re-hire your cleaning service. Then, head to the nearest gym which should be fairly deserted because the other resolution makers have already given up, opting to burn calories through a Necco Sweethearts sugar frenzy.

Technorati Tags: health,exercise

Farewell, Sweet Nectar of the Season

Thing 2 spit out the last of it, expelling the hazy liquid with a whooshing rush of haste back into the glass from which it came.

The boy then appeared to do his best to swallow his own face.

When this proved futile (but entertaining), he resorted to more tried and true methods. He yelled at one of us.

“YEEEEEEEEEECH! Mooooom! That’s DIS-GUSSSS-TING!” he said, franticly pawing his lips to alleviate the citrus sting. 

“What? Too sour? I can add more sugar into it.”

Thing 2 didn’t answer because he was too busy attempting to yank his embittered tongue from out of his mouth.

“What happened?” I asked My Love. “Did you mix up a bad batch of lemonade?”

“No. I poured him a glass from the one that was in the refrigerator,” she replied.

“Um, dear … that wasn’t lemonade,” I said. “It was a pitcher of mojitos I made for us to celebrate the last weekend of summer.”

* * *

For more sad finishes, read my stab at a short story that concludes the latest round of writings on Polite Fictions.

Our theme this time: “what happens after a major life event.” Some of the gang’s offerings this summer’s entries are a true hoot. Some are hauntingly poetic. Some are all too recognizable.

Mine, “What Happens After Summers End,” is at least as depressing as an 8-year-old’s backwash in your cocktail.

And you, my friend, what did you accomplish/not accomplish this summer?

Video: Summer, I Pissed You Away by Michael Shelly

Furry Vengeance!

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I promised you a post about my brush with the rock 'n' roll lifestyle. Ain't happening today.

Why?

Murphy woke up at 3 a.m. violently shaking his head like a bobblehead doll in an earthquake. My Love guessed it was an allergy-related ear infection, gave the poor dog a Claritin and stuffed her head back under the pillow.

I slept through it all.

My brain must have automatically shut itself down to rest up after deducing that my waking day would be spent leaving a trail of cotton balls and tea tree oil around the house as I tried to corner a veterinarian-hating, 75-pound Labrador retriever whipping his long floppies from side to side like a hula dancer on crystal meth.

Or maybe I knowingly ignored all the wee-hour commotion. Maybe I was exacting revenge for the countless early mornings past on which I answered someone's needy barks to go outside. And for the six months spent picking up someone's parasite-laced intestinal explosions around the yard. And all the many power-washings and disinfections needed to remove unplanned detonations from someone's kennel, an activity done while I repeatedly muttered "crap in a wrap, what died up inside you, dog!" and wondered if certain student loans really, truly needed to be repaid given this unpaid, full-time job they had netted me.

Nah.

Must have just been my subconscious just trying to help stockpile needed energy. My brain is a far more complex beast than I am.


Video:"All Men are Liars," Nick Lowe

Yes, I Know 'No' and Yes, That's Not 'No'

UNCOOL: Do you need anything from the store?

MY LOVE: No. I just need some new underwear.

UNCOOL: So, yes, you need something from the store.

MY LOVE: Yes.

UNCOOL: Then why did you say "no."

MY LOVE: I didn't. I just said I need new underwear.

UNCOOL: No, you said "no" then you said you needed something. The correct answer to my question was, "Yes, I need some new underwear."

MY LOVE: That's what I said.

UNCOOL: No, it wasn't.

MY LOVE: You know when I said "no" I meant "yes."

UNCOOL: So when I ask you for something-something later and you say "no," I should just interpret that as "yes."

MY LOVE: No.

UNCOOL: You mean "yes."

MY LOVE: No. I mean "no."

UNCOOL: C'mon. If I don't buy you underwear, you'll already be half way there.

MY LOVE: But you're going to buy me new underwear.

UNCOOL: Yes. I'm not.

MY LOVE: So, are you buying me underwear?

UNCOOL: Oh, yes, you know I'm not.

MY LOVE: We'll see.

UNCOOL: So, can I buy you something from the store?

MY LOVE: Yes. Buy me some underwear.

UNCOOL: Thank you.

MY LOVE: You won't tonight.

UNCOOL: I expect nothing less.

* * *

Seriously, you have yet to enter my drawing to win a year's supply of Hillshire Farm meat products? The contest ends Thursday night! All you have do is go to this post and leave a comment.

Shopping with Father

The Things found themselves clothing-challenged when global warming relocated southern New England’s normally wet and chilly first week of April into the steam room of mid-August.

Thing 1 dripped about the house in one of her many pink sweat jackets.

Thing 2 sweltered in a dual-layer football jersey, leaving behind a trail of his own brine.

“I know what the calendar says, my little ones, but please dig into your drawers! (No, Thing 2, not THOSE drawers! Get your hand out of there this instant!) Delve into the deepest recesses of your closets! Shorts, T-shirts, flip flops! Chop chop! Vamos! Stat and hang a bag of Ringer’s lactate!”

“Oh, but father! My Hannah Montana shorts and High School Musical T-shirts are soooo outdated!” declared Thing 1. “My classmates shall make a mockery of me!”

“Yeah, Pops. And my butt and belly are too big for mine,” piped in Thing 2. “Yo, yo, yo – pass the chips!”

A silence followed filled with the ticks that our digital clocks would make if only they understood artistic license.

“To the mall! To the mall!” the Things cried in unison.

I scratched my thinning grays then pinched my thinner wallet.

Lord, oh, Lord – to the mall, forsooth.

The discount admirals of Old Navy were most kind to the boy: three pairs of shorts, one shirt the color of a Hawaiian sunset luau, pre-stained with dribbled poi.

The girl, though, the girl.

“Old Navy, pish posh. No self-respecting Diva-in-Training would stoop so low, father,” said the Thing known as 1. 

She wanted justice.

Sorry, that’s Justice. With a capital “J.” And ubiquitous peace signs. And many items in Paradise Green, Real Purple and Fuchsia Rose.

"I don’t like these shorts. They stop above my knee and that means too much sunscreen to slather below,” she said after trying six pairs of varying hue but, alas, the same style.

We browse. We disrupt neat stacks in search of sizes. We re-fold poorly but sincerely.

“I like those but I know you, father,” she said. “You won’t let me wear them because they are too short.”

I’m taken aback with confused anger.

“This is the second time in memory I have heard you express this opinion of me, daughter, and I must ask, when have I ever objected to your clothing because of its length?”

“Then how about these,” she said, holding a tattered washcloth that had apparently been barfed up by an anemic rainbow.

“Too short.”

“Faaaaaaaaaaaaaa-theeeeeeeer!

“What? You were the one complaining five minutes ago that the other shorts didn’t go past your knees!”

Thirteen pairs of discards later, we stood in the checkout line. Thing 1, feeling full of femininity and high on retail ecstasy, browsed a perfume display close at hand.

“Mmmm, smell this. I like it so, father!”

“Sweet Thing,” I said, ripping the strip from the tester pad, “you need to first spray the perfume on the paper before you smell it. All you are inhaling are dust mites and cotton fiber.”

I grabbed a bottle, squirted, then waved it under her eager nose.

“Mmm mmm mmm! Oh, father! This is the scent I like best of all,” she said. “What’s it called, father dear?”

My fingers rotated the glass bottle until its name snickered to me.

“Sweet Thing,” I said, “it’s called, ‘Bright.’ ”

* * *

Today’s post is brought to you by “Fatherhood Fridays” at Dad Blogs. Visit, click, show them your bare bodkin:

Doin’ It Doggy Style

Our final guest in this week’s series, “When ‘Always Home’ Leaves His Home,” is the dynamic darling of the Great Plains, the acronymish FADKOG of For a Different Kind of Girl.

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!

robot chicken - clifford the big red dog - Watch more Funny Videos

+ + +

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!

Grand Theft Zamboni

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.

I drive a Zamboni, you see. Or, I did.

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.

Privates of the Caribbean

The first guest in this week’s “When ‘Always Home’ Leaves His Home” series is the woman who will tickle you with more than just her mustache. She is writer/comedian/California-girl-and-three-quarters Anna Lefler (or Anna LeStache as she’s know on Urban Dictionary) from Life Just Keeps Getting Weirder.

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!

Listen, just wanted to drop you a line to say we hope you and Maude had a smooth trip home from Miami. It was such a scene there in the cruise ship terminal when everyone disembarked; we wanted to give you guys one last grizzly-bear hug, but I swear it was like you disappeared or something!

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.

Wayward Passengers, Please Report to the Gate

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.

Then, while stepping out of the airport shuttle van, the computer bag on her shoulder swung forward. And the momentum took her with it.

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:

• I expound on the ups and downs of at-home dadness over at DiPaola Momma’s Chicken Nuggets of Wisdom
• My short story at Polite Fictions dispels the common belief that airports are hell.

+ + +

THING 1 FUND UPDATE
$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.

Anatomy of A Christmas Card

Merry Christmas, all! Enjoy your ‘elves!

Technorati Tags: Christmas,Christmas cards,holiday cards,humor

Bloody I

My eye is extremely bloody in this photo because I:

• Got hit by some glass fragments when Tiger Woods' wife broke me out of the Escalade.
• Am still half in the bag from drinking with the local bloggers last night.
• Am testing a new reverse method of preventing holiday photo red eye for Adobe.
  
• Was weeping for Alex P. Keaton, knowing he could never handle his mom switching family ties.
• Popped a vessel stifling the laughs while reviewing the new Ray Romano show "Men of a Certain Age" for DadCentric.
• Beat Thing 2 in a Pokemon battle and it degraded into a 'poke my eye' battle.
  
• Thought I needed to experience bloody murder before writing about it in my final entry for Polite Fictions.

C'mon. Your guess is as good as mine.

The Sex Vacuum

I'm firing the people who clean our house. Apparently, they're killing my sex life.

The Wall Street Journal, known internationally as the Masters and Johnson of financial reporting and research, wrote this week about a study that finds the more housework husbands and wives do, the more likely they are to have sex.

Sex with each other, I should note. Cybersex, actual physical affairs and going solo were not mentioned, so I can only assume that when one spouse scrubs the shower grout, even if it is with some Bon Ami, that the other spouse is the sole beneficiary of said scrubbing.

After reading this, I thought back to the time when My Love and I did all the housework. It was when we first moved in together, living in sin and overly indulging in it as young people in the throes of new love tend to do. We spent every weekend at our townhouse dusting away the cobwebs, waxing the linoleum and polishing the knobs …

Then we did the housework.

Sometime after the first month of this cleansing yet apparently dirty bliss, I recall My Love -- the Febreeze blowing through her hair -- moaning longingly into a starlit summer evening, "Oh, baby ... screw this. I'm hiring a service."

Had I known then what I know now!

Was it me that drove her away?

She had always criticized my haphazard folding of the laundry back then, but I laughed at it.

"If you don’t like how I do it, then you can do it yourself," I scoffed.

So she did. For a while.

But we know the pleasure of folding by one's self is fleeting. That's when My Love went outside our relationship.

She hired a 300-pound, cigarette-smoking, former addict and single mom whose beefy biceps could have crushed my windpipe before you said "lemony-fresh Pledge." Every Thursday morning, she came to our condo and every Thursday afternoon, she left the place gleaming and spotless.

And, in retrospect, nookie-free.

Our love life has clearly waned in the quantity department since those lust-filled days of Pine-Sol and Easy Off. My mission, therefore, is clear: 

Every weekend, participate in the dirtiest, wettest ménage à trois ever -- just me, My Love and Mr. Clean.

(Note: Illustration by Michael Witte for the Wall Street Journal)

Libraries Plot Against Our Economy

Our local library recently considered cutting its hours of operation to make up for its success (being our state's second busiest library) and failure (raising barely a whiff of money to supplement the whopping 91 percent of its $7.76 million budget that city taxpayers already shoulder).

I don't know. Shuttering these commie holdovers may have benefits. It could help stimulate the economy.

Think of all the book, newspaper and magazine sales lost to these freeloader paradises. Don't forget the video rentals, iTunes downloads and Internet service fees being stolen from the pockets of those pillars of our nation -- multi-international corporations receiving lucrative tax breaks.

And what about the artists in need of royalties to live? Ann Coulter is looking scraggier than usual these days, I theorize, because libraries are stealing the Freedom Fries from her plate.

My city's libraries obviously have too many users and not enough resources. Therefore, they need to institute better crowd control measures.

The main library branch downtown already achieves this somewhat by not having any free parking. However, it also rents space inside to a Starbucks -- a haven for intellectual moochers. Methinks it's time to institute a tall Macchiato tax.

As for the branches and their liberally paved asphalt lots, I'm thinking that city residents should be required to purchase annual $20 "Park and Read" passes from the city, just as they have to to use the beaches in the summer. Oh, some do-gooders will try to be "green" and take public transportation or walk, but that's just another attempt to undercut our nation's devotion to propping up our floundering domestic car manufacturers. These tree-hugging sneaks will be forced to hand over $5 at the door and wear ankle bracelets for further monitoring.

Key to my plan is the library banning people between the ages of 13 and 21 from using their facilities. These essential cogs to our economic development need to be at the mall racking up expensive text messaging bills on their parents' dime between chugs of Red Bull and purchases at GameStop and abercrombie.

But until our fair city wisely institutes these changes, I'll continue to do my part. So excuse me now -- I'm late returning Thing 1's copy of the movie "Hairspray" for the eighth time this year.