Show Me Your Wares

This, I've learned, is "Delurking Day." It's when people who regularly read a blog but don't normally comment (known as "lurkers," "voyeurs" or "glue huffers") are supposed to finally show their cybergoodies by posting on said blog.

At this blog, those people would include:

• My Love. Though I suspect she sometimes has her admin break down my posts into bullet points for insertion into a PowerPoint presentation she can quickly review between conference calls on weighty subjects such as how to best correlate carbonation levels in fruit-flavored, non-caffeinated beverages featuring artificial sweeteners with Band 10 retirement package for executives in non-G8, non-Democratic but vaguely American leaning global markets with excessive helium reserves.
• The Mortician Babe (who calls My Love to tell her how funny my blog is ... prompting the need for the PowerPoint presentations)
• The 16 people who receive this blog by e-mail. I know all your names and Social Security Numbers. Comment or I start issuing credit cards in your names to the people who do comment here.
• The 163 people who regularly visit my site every month in search of "Kari from 'Mythbusters." This peaks, I recently discovered, every time they re-run the episode where they put Mentos in diet soda. Think about it. Google it. You'll understand.
• The 127 people who visit here every month wanting to know whether the actress who plays the mom on "The Suite Life of Zack & Cody" is pregnant. Wikipedia says she was, squeezing out a little girl in May. Now go buy her a gift. Oh, while you're at the store, get a life. And maybe a dark chocolate Milky Way for the drive home

Even if you do comment here, on occasion or regularly, do so again. My goal is to finally break 50 comments. If I do, I'll be incredibly pumped because I'd finally have achieved a goal!

Then, I'll be incredibly depressed because I would have gotten the most comments ever for writing absolute tripe filler.

Then I'll be incredibly pumped again because that means I have friends out there in the ether!

Then I'll be incredibly depressed again because I know I only got them by begging, pleading and whoring myself.

Then I'll be incredibly pumped again because these moods swings will qualify me for some real sweet prescription meds!

Which, in the blogosphere we know, is a prerequisite for snagging a book deal.

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Voting for me at Humor-Blogs.com will also ease your troubled mind and remove embarrassing stains from your contour sheets.

As The Scalp Itches

"Dad," Thing 2's voice whimpers from the answering machine, "my head is really itchy and it won't stop. Can you come pick me up? Call me back at school."

You, undoubtedly, have read or heard about parents who develop momentary superhuman strength to be able to free their trapped children by dead lifting tractor-trailers or Thomas Pynchon novels. Yet in this instance, I am simply unable to simultaneously grab the receiver before my boy hangs up and Google "lice."

After a good guttural scream normally reserved for Mets' bullpen collapses and phone calls from my Mom (after she's been put on mute, of course), I ring the school. Meanwhile, images like these flood my computer screen:

 

I immediately regret not washing down breakfast with the surplus holiday eggnog I found in the basement fridge.

(Have you developed phantom itches yet? Don't worry, you will. Keep reading.)

The school receptionist says Thing 2 has left the office. Nice. My boy is undoubtedly rubbing his creepy crawly head against every finger painting and essay on Martin Luther King Jr. on display in the hallways at this moment.

Maybe this will make it easier for me to beg out of the spring bake sale?

"Could you track him down and have him call me back. Kinda important," I tell to her.

I run upstairs and strip the sheets off the bed. My bed. The one the little parasite-toter staggered into about 3 a.m. I hope I have bleach. Or a gallon of Tabasco. Could I Ben Gay the bastards?

The phone rings.

"Dad …"

"Little Dude, don't move," I say. "Do. Not. Move. Do not touch anything or anybody. I will be there in five minutes."

When I arrive, he's seated in the front office. He's wearing a Corbin Blue concert T-shirt, coat on his lap, Spider-Man backpack at his feet, his face red and glowing with sweat.

But he's very, deathly, still.

"Grab your stuff. Quickly."

We make it to the Minivan of Manliness, missing the villagers wielding torches and cans of Raid.

"Dad, why is there a garbage bag on my car seat?"

"Hold on," I say, "I've got one for you to slip over your entire body."

Once home, I consider dangling him by the ankles into the icy heap remaining on my porch from other day's snowfall. That is not a recommended treatment for lice, but Thing 2 doesn't know that and it would definitely improve my disposition.

Instead, I sit him down at the kitchen counter, fire up a 500-watt halogen light from my workshop and start scrutinizing every strand of hair on his oversize blond head.

Nothing.

Not a flake of dandruff nor even a stray green clover or blue moon marshmallow from breakfast.

"Does your head itch anymore?"

"No. It feels fine."

"What the Donavon Frankenreiter? Was this all a scam so you could come home early and play more Nintendo DS?"

"Noooo!"

Then it hits me.

"When was the last time you showered?"

"I don't know."

"Were you at recess right before your head started itching?"

"Yes."

I take him upstairs and start the shower. While I fetch the shampoo and conditioner, Mr. Monk will fill you in:

Now, smelling of coconut Sauvé, I help Thing 2 towel dry. I kneel and look him squarely in the eye.

"Dude, I don't want you to be the stinky kid at school that no one plays with and everyone makes fun of. You need to shower at least twice a week. And, for crying out loud, we've had this talk before, put on clean underwear and socks every morning. Recycling is not an option for underclothes."

"OK, Dad. I love you."

He didn't say the last three words. But I'm hoping he'll realize the need to someday.

Turn It Up or Turn It Off

I'm not on an extended spiritual quest. Not yet, at least. I've just been busy.

Make-a-Wish trip to DisneyWorld.

Lice scares.

Building the strengh and volume of my thinning hair.

Oh, yeah, and a deluge of actual paying work. Crazy times.

Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, I'm over at DadCentric today. It's about how Thing 2 helped me overcome yet another crushing defeat in my life. Go have a look. Have a giggle at my expense. Leave a comment so I don't suffer alone.

Speaking of clicking links, by doing so a few weeks back to read my column in the latest Aetherial Relaxation Spa newsletter you helped raise another $200 to support research into curing juvenile dermatomyositis and all its evil relatives.

Did I mention generosity looks stunning on you? It's so slimming. Especially in that back pocket area.

Your assistance with that, plus a few added helpings from other friends and some of My Love's co-workers, puts us less than $2,500 short of our $25,000 goal with two weeks to go. If you are waiting to make that heroic donation -- big or small -- to put us over the top, now is the time.

Please. I really want to stop sounding like a public radio pledge drive.



Video: "Turn It Up or Turn It Off," Kevn Kinney (the original hard rockin' version by his band, Drivin' N' Cryin', is on YouTube.

Resolving to Wake Up

When it comes to New Year's resolutions, I usually keep it simple.

Try more new things.

Floss more often.

Avoid plotting the downfall and misery of others who have achieved far greater, yet undeserved, success.

But I've been kind of stumped for 2009.

Prevent myself from becoming a fashion intervention victim on "What Not to Wear"? (Luckily, Stacey and Clinton don't seem to bother with guys much any more.)

Re-learn my signature so something beyond the first initial is legible? (I blame those scan and sign credit card readers at the checkout for this development over the years.)

Master "Louie, Louie" on as many instruments as possible? (That'll teach you for never giving me proper music lessons, Mom!)

I'm open to suggestions.

However, there is one thing I need to do.

I'm half way past 40 and a day hardly goes by that I don't wonder who I am and what I'm doing with myself. My life is good in many, many ways -- I can count at least four of them that live under this roof with me -- but admit to not thinking beyond the next morning, beer or paragraph most times.

No one's ever accused me of being a strategic thinker and I've been fine with that. I've always been one who prefers to do more than devise a master plan, a fact My Love can verify based on my attempts at home repair. But I think I've reached that point where, unless I unlock what I've got hiding inside somewhere and follow it, I'm just going to continue to be rather than live.

So, in 2009, someway, somehow, I need to uncover what's sleeping in my soul.

I just hope it's not a bear.

Or a pissed Gallagher brother.

Take me home, boys.


Video: "Acquiesce," Oasis

Game Boy

The note from Santa was printed, signed and ready for hand delivery, but not a peep was raised about puppies, turtles or anything else that did NOT appear under the Christmas tree. After two days, I finally fed it to the shredder.

Lesson learned: Giving eight Nintendo DS games to two kids can save a life ... or at least this Dad's sanity. But I am worried about Thing 2's.

Outside of a few potty breaks and my convincing him to play a dozen rounds of Lazer Tag around the yard with me Christmas afternoon, this is all anyone has seen of our beloved 6-year-old since he ripped through all the paper and ribbons on Thursday morning:


In fact, My Love pointed out this morning that he is still wearing the same clothes he put on to play Lazer Tag ... three days ago.

The longest "conversation" he has held with us in that time was about how good Santa is at "Super Mario Bros."

"The box was open and I put the game in and it was already saved to Level 8! I've never gotten that high! Santa got it to Level 8 for me!" he said.

This is because Santa buys good little boys Nintendo DS games through Amazon.com -- used .

But I think I'll let the jolly ol' elf maintain his street cred with the boy. 'Tis the season.

Speaking of which, every time you vote for me at Humor-Blogs.com, an angel gets some.

Let 'Em Down Easy, Santa

It is a few minutes past midnight as I start this, meaning I have at least 17 more hours to keep the kids away from any wayward white-bearded fat men in red suits.

Oh, I know what they want. I don't need chubby's help there. I just know he ain't bringing it.

Thing 1, my precious little girl who can't spell her way out of … well, anything that requires the spelling of "exit," has been banging at the computer since September. She typed up a meticulous Times Roman listing of the last three American Girl catalogs. Her ongoing Word document, at last glance, was up to 16 pages.

The other day, after finding a print out, I asked her to get a calculator. Add up the price of each item (which she dutifully listed, I should note) and let me know the total, I told her.

Her digits gave out by the third page.

Thing 2 took a simpler approach this year. (Normally, he takes scissors to any mail-order catalog or Sunday advertisements that feature toys that he sees and starts cutting ragged circles around indiscriminate items he "wants." The mounds of clippings are then stuffed into a manila envelope and tossed aside. One of us usually discovers it during spring-cleaning. )

This year, though, he declared all he wanted was a Target gift card.

For $100.

No, $200.

Uh-uh, $1,000.

It's all blurry now, but I think his last bid was $5,000.

Then there is the special request. The one the Things will make if they pay their annual homage to the Toy Dude.

"I need to tell him we want two turtles and a puppy," Thing 1 said to me as I stared vacantly into another simmering pot of rice pilaf for dinner.

It's not that don't sympathize. From preadolescence upward, I begged my parents for only two things every Christmas and every birthday: a 10-speed bike and a dog.

"You get a bike and next thing, you'll want a car" was my mom's standard reply to Option 1. Even after I got my first car.

Her message was usually less subtle, and much shorter, when the canine issue was raised. I always thought the look in her eyes was something akin to what men saw shortly before Medusa turned them to stone.

Needless to say, I ended up buying my own 10-speed when I was 22. I finally got a dog when I was married. Eight years later. And living in a different time zone.

Precious Things, it therefore tears me in so many different ways to read this note I found next to the stockings that you hung with care:

"Dear Little Uncools,

Even though you didn't come see me, don't think I haven't forgotten about you! I know you have your hearts set on me bringing your dog, Murphy, a blushing puppy bride and yourselves a little green floatable friend each.

You have both tried to be good. But trying isn't enough when it comes to pets. You both need to show you can take care of yourselves before you can take care of another life. For example, Thing 2, you'd be well advised to heed your father's words about brushing, wiping, showering and so on.

Thing 1, wipe off that smile, you can't remember to make your bed even though you have been offered cold, hard cash to do so. And I know you are all about the Benjamins.

It would help if you cared more for the pet you already have. Telling your father he needs to brush Murphy's fur, clean his teeth and the like, while showing you have management potential, is not actually caring for your dog.

Thing 1 -- feed him in the morning as well as at night. Take him out to play ball once in a while instead of watching another re-run of "Jon & Kate Plus 8." Thing 2 -- you gained valuable experience picking up after the horses and sheep in camp this past summer. Apply it daily in your own yard.

I'll be checking in on your progress in a few months. Meanwhile, please accept and enjoy these Nintendo DS games.

Your Friend,

Santa

P.S.: Mmmm - love those Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pies!

P.P.S. : If you think you got screwed, check out these bozos on my naughty list."