Time to Move On

I did something today that I haven't done in...a really long time. In fact, upon racking my brain for all of fifteen seconds, I couldn't think of the last time when I did this.

I didn't try to watch the beginning of the Notre Dame game.

I just couldn't bring myself to it. I worked in the yard early this afternoon, and then I went to get some food for the abbreviated week. On the ride home, I turned the radio on and discovered that ND kicked at 2:30 instead of 3:30 like I thought (you know, like they've done all season). And then when I got home, I put away the groceries and went back outside with the kids. I cleaned up my mess, swept off the driveway, and then we cooked some chicken. Finally, the chicken was done and it was too cold to stay outside, so we came in, about halfway through the third quarter.

I then sat down and watched the rest of what was the perfect topper for this farce of a season. I wish I could say I was upset at the outcome (Connecticut won in double overtime, 33-27), but instead I sat there and watched the final drive with quiet resignation. A season that had me so geeked and excited has turned to sadness and the quiet acceptance of yet another underpreformance. Pretty much the hallmark of Charlie Weis' tenure as the head coach of Notre Dame football.

Anyway...

I did a good deed today. I only say this because it's a bit unusual for me. I went to Target to get the groceries (as I mentioned earlier) and when I loaded them and the kids into the car, a woman approached me and asked if I could give her a ride to the north side of town. She gave me some sad story about having to buy a shirt and that she didn't have money for bus fare and she didn't want to walk.

And as my mind churned over all the excuses I could give her as to why I couldn't give her a ride, in my mind's eye I saw her walking up the rather busy road that takes you to Duke's stadia (football and basketball). And then I thought of my wife's friend Eric who was killed a month and a half ago trying to cross a busy road, and all I could see was this young woman lying in the middle of one of the roads with her life cut tragically, violently short as well. My heart broke and I relented.

Well, she was very nice. She talked to my kids, she told me I had a very nice car, that I seemed like a very nice person, that she wouldn't have asked but she knew I was a good person because of the way I acted with my kids. It all made me feel good...in a Becky the Usurper sort of way. I took her to her place of work and let her out and wished her a Happy Thanksgiving. She smiled and thanked me and wished me the same.


I won't lie. It was probably a very irresponsible thing to do, and I was a little nervous to do it. But, when she got to work safely and, more importantly, my kids and I left the parking lot, I felt a lot better.

And then I kind of hated myself for assuming she was going to slit my throat while we were driving.

Oh well. I'm alive and she's alive and my conscience is a whole lot lighter because I actually helped someone out who was in need of some assistance. It's a far cry from Batman, but then I'm also not the head of a mutli-billion dollar industry.

Now, on to more important issues: anyone know if the tuna up there can coach football?

D is for Cross-Dressing...Apparently

This is my five hundredth post. I was going to write something pithy and brilliant centered on the number five hundred...but, since today is my son's fifth birthday, you're getting this instead. Nothing says "Happy Birthday, Son of Mine" like being publicly mocked and humiliated on the internet!

Yesterday, my daughter was being a snot. Cookie (as I've designated her on this here corner of the innerwebs) decided she wanted to have a tea party...an all girl tea party. My son, Tank, wanted to go to the tea party, too, but since he's not a girl, Cookie wouldn't let him.

My wife, the Comely and Buxom and Ailurophobic Bouddica, tried to talk Cookie into letting Tank come to her tea party, but she'd have none of that shit. Tired of arguing, my wife went to take a shower.

When she emerged from the shower, there was Cookie standing by the door to our closet, giggling. Tank was nowhere to be seen.

"Where is [name redacted] Tank?" my wife asked.

"He's in the closet," Cookie responded.

"Tank, come out of the closet," my wife said.

"I can't," he giggled. "It's too embarrassing."

This went on for a few minutes until finally the closet door creaked open and, well, this emerged:
The thing on top of his head is a scarf that has been cleverly tied up to resemble a wig. The clothes are Cookie's, but I think the shoes are Bouddica's. It's nice to see the boy can accessorize. Just notice how striking that red belt is with the black ensemble.

*sigh*

The problem is, he didn't want to change out of his clothes. He liked dressing up in girls' clothes. He claimed it was more fun to be a girl. In lieu of a tea party, they decided to have a fashion show. Oh, those plucky children of mine.

My wife is distraught. She wants me to take him and do manly things with him. At a loss, I didn't know what to do. Teach him how to piss in the stream out back? Download some videos of other guys getting kicked in the nuts and laugh at their pain and suffering? Take him to the joint down the street with the signs out front proudly proclaiming they boast an "All Girl Staff"? Blow some shit up? Vegas?

So, I sat down and pondered this situation in the only way I knew how: by asking myself "What Would Homer Simpson Do?" I immediately went home and fell asleep on the couch, ignoring my children. When I took them outside after my nap, Tank was climbing to the top of the swingset and hurtling himself off it. I figured there was no activity that was more "little boy" than a possible shattered pelvis and thusly patted myself on the back for another parenting job well done.

Oh Homer, you never fail me.