Clearly, I Am 'Father of the Year' Material

Did you know kids are impressionable? It's true. Like, if you tell them something, no matter how outrageous it sounds originally, they'll believe you? And someone thought it'd be a good idea to let me raise not one but TWO of them? (Three, if my aim was off the other night...)

The other night, I was out in the yard with the kids. Now, my yard consists mostly of a hill in the front and a floodplain in the back. It's the kind of thing that would make my cities in Civ III rich, but for me, it's a pain in the ass to mow. That's not the point; I just felt like bitching.

There's a stream at the back of my property and woods all around, which means my back yard is cool, sometimes damp, and shaded. This is a perfect mushroom/toadstool growing environment, apparently. To that end, my son, Tank, had discovered a couple of toadstools in one section of the yard, and so he and I went looking for more. We found quite a few in a variety of colors--browns, whites, oranges--but since I'm not a mycologist, I can't really identify any of them. Plus, thanks to Tori Amos, I think mushrooms look like peezers, so I'm not really inclined to study them intensely.

So, there Tank and I am, wandering around the yard, searching for mushrooms, when I'm struck by a bit of inspiration to joke and kid. What can I say? I'm a fun guy! *rimshot*

Ahem.

While I wore a younger man's clothes, I spent, maybe a few hundred hours playing Super Mario Brothers on the original Nintendo system. This, of course, clouded my mind while we were searching for mushrooms and toadstools, and so I turned to Tank and said:

"You know, you really gotta watch out for those mushroom people. If you're not careful, they'll get you."

To this, he responded, wide eyed, with a gasp. "Really, daddy?" he asked.

Because I'm not above lying to a child to amuse myself, I responded with, "Oh yeah, and if they get you, it's all over. They're poisonous, so when the first one hits you, you'll shrink. If the second one gets you, it's game over."

Another gasp. Had I ended it there, things might have been alright.

"Normally, they travel in groups of two or three, so you've always got to watch out." Now he's getting a little frantic, so I figure it's time to tell him how to defend himself. "However, if you just jump on their heads, you'll be fine. They squish down and don't bother you anymore. If there's too many of them, just find some Italian guy to do the job for you. Ask for Mario."

All of this latter bit of advice went sailing over his head. All he took from the lesson was "Mushroom people...attack...poisonous...all over..."

Fast forward a couple of days. My wife is in the backyard with us. Tank finds some mushrooms and is terrified. He climbs into my wife's lap, frantic, telling of how the mushroom people will get him. She looks at me, unadulterated fury seething in her gaze.

"This is your fault, isn't it?" she asked.

Feigning innocence, I splay my fingers across my chest and with an angellically pure voice, I ask "Oh, why would you ever assume that?" A second later, I espy two more mushrooms growing up next to one of his toys.

"Oh no, Tank," I say aloud, "looks like they're going to get your banana car. Look there's two of them there." This sends him in to an apoplectic frenzy of fear. He tries to climb higher on my wife's lap, apparently satisfied to throw her to the ravages of the evil mushroom people in order to save himself (I've taught him well). The mushrooms, as they are wont to do, simply stand there, digesting the organic material at the base of their stems...menacingly!!!

My wife then tries to calm Tank, explaining that I'm being an asshole a jerk. I feel at this point that I should try to rectify the situation, so I walk over to a pair of mushrooms. They continue to do nothing.

"See, Tank, there's nothing wrong here. They're not attacking me. Come on over. You'll be fine." After several minutes of coaxing, he finally climbs down off my wife's lap and timidly crosses the grass, but won't get any closer than two feet away. "No, see, they're fine. They're not moving. They're just sitting here. You'll be okay."

He takes a step toward the mushrooms...and that's when I scream "OH MY GOD, TANK, HERE THEY COME!!!" and I kick the mushrooms at him. Screaming and crying, he dives back onto my wife's lap, climbs up her body, and sits on her head. I am, of course, hysterical with laughter, partly because of his reaction, but mostly because of my wife's reaction to the scene.

Finally, I talk him down and I find another pair of mushrooms, which I stomp. "See, that's how easy it is to take care of these things!" We spent another ten minutes stomping everything even remotely fungal.

After having rid the yard of those dastardly mushrooms, I sat back down, Tank on my lap now, my wife in the chair beside me. "See Tank," she says, "you don't need to be afraid of the mushrooms. They can't move."

"Yeah," I agreed, "you shouldn't be afraid of the mushrooms. However, you've really got to watch out for slime molds."

Does anyone know if the health care reform covers therapy for traumatic childhood experiences?

Constant Vigilance!

Remember back when I told you about going to see Miss Saigon in Raleigh? One of the things--aside from all the mostly-nekkid chicks grinding in front of me--that made me love the show was that it reminded me just how much I missed being on the stage. From my senior year in high school on through the end of my college career, I had been fairly active in pulling off live productions on the stage. Whether it was plays, musicals, one-acts or doing improv work--or even the time spent doing student-run television shows--I've had an active career in the dramatic arts.

And, now that I'm out of it, I miss it.

So, I've found a way to get past this: reading to my children.

Shortly after the Miss Saigon viewing, I started reading The Tale of Despereaux to my kids. The good thing about Despereaux (the book, not the movie--the movie is an abortion of the story) is that most of the characters (since it's written for kids) are achetypes. So, it was pretty easy to get into character by varying my voices. And once I started getting into character, well, then I felt like that piece of me that void in my life that had formed since I left the stage had been partially filled.

And, honestly, it was fun. The voices were easy to create: Miggory Sow had a heavy, gravelly, cockney accent; Roscuro had a slimy, evil, plotting voice dripping with vile and revenge; Despereaux had a soft English accent; Despereaux's brother had a bit heavier English accent; Despereaux's father had an even heavier English accent; Despereaux's mother had an over-the-top dramatic French accent. And so on.

Well, we finished Despereaux months ago, and, well, I've had to find other ways to work this stage-presence-cum-narrator persona. For some reason, the same Thomas the Tank Engine books over and over again don't work quite as well, though my son has decided to begin with the Magic Treehouse Books. Again, the characters are largely the same, and therefore don't really offer much of a creative outlet.

Fortunately, my daughter is having me read her the Harry Potter books.

Since most of you are familiar, I won't have to rehash the wide variety and depth of characters here. A lot of the characters are easier to do than others: Hagrid's part is written for him; McGonagall's voice is slightly lilting with her words clipped; and Snape I try to do my best Alan Rickman because, seriously, it's Alan Fucking Rickman.

So, we're currently working our way through Goblet of Fire, and last night we got through the first Defense Against the Dark Arts class. In case you've forgotten, this is where Mad-Eye Moody shows the class the Unforgivable Curses and how to prepare for them. The best preparation for the Unforgivable Curses? CONSTANT VIGILANCE!

Now, when I do Moody's voice, I give him a gravelly sort of voice, lower and rougher than my normal reading voice. It's not quite Christian Bale doing Batman, but it does convey a bit of the crotchety old man that is Mad-Eye Moody.

So, last night, I'm going along, reading away and my daughter is flipping through an American Girl magazine looking at the pictures. She's listening, but she doesn't know what to expect. When we get to the proper place, I fire off a loud, booming "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" I thought she would jump out of her skin! It was so entertaining to have her jump, catch her breath, and then stare at me with those big, blue eyes that convey the question "What the fuck was that?" oh so well.

We continue reading, and she lets her guard down and goes back to flipping through her magazine (she's a multi-tasker, that one). We come to it again. "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" I roar. Again, the same satisfying jump, the same satisfying "What the fuck was that?" stare.

Finally, we come to a break, and I close up the book and she's like, "Is there going to be much more of that, with Moody shouting and all?" she asks as I'm tucking her in.

"There might be," I said, bending down to kiss her pure, sweet, angelic forehead. "You know what the best way to prepare for the yelling is, though, right?" I ask her.

"What?" she says, her face the very picture of angelic charm.

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" I roar once more.

I thought sure she was going to wet herself the third time.

Parenting skillz: I has 'em.

Things I Learned This Weekend

I learned a couple of things this weekend. I thought I would share them with you.

• Trying to remove a tick from your body with Vicks VapoRub doesn't really work. Last week, I told you about how I forever forsook the possession of Vaseline. Without a viable petroleum-jelly-based product in the house, I had to opt for the second best thing I could find. I thought VapoRub would work, though. I mean, it's basically petroleum jelly infused with some menthol. Not only would it suffocate the little fucker, but the vapors should irritate and annoy it so that it would want to leave my body. No dice.


• The idea that you can cause the little bloodsucking bastard to back out of the hole he's pierced in your flesh by touching his ass with a hot match is a lie. I lit a match, blew it out, and managed to burn myself while trying to lightly touch the tick's ass with the blackened end of the match. My wife ended up heating up a pair of tweezers and singeing my flesh trying to induce the little cocksucker vampire to leave. Again, no dice. She ended up pulling it out.


• My son is a fucking man. In case there were doubts after he dressed up in his sister's clothes, he put those fears to rest this weekend. I saw the offending spot on my ankle yesterday morning and as he was playing near my feet, I asked him to brush it off. He said he couldn't. He then informed me that he had "a spot like that", but he pulled it off. "Where was this spot?" I asked. He then proceeded to pull up his shorts and show me where the tick had lodged itself into his flesh. It was in his groin. In that sort, tender area where his left leg joins with the trunk of his body.

Now that's a fucking man for you. Next, I can only assume that he'll be felling trees with on swing of his mighty axe. And then he'll shave with a knife that he sharpened on the sun-bleached bones of his fallen enemies. Or maybe he'll just do the ultimate in manliness, and kick a cat.

The Burger Wars Claim Another

When it comes to fast food, my choice is usually Wendy's, if I'm in the mood for processed, square-shaped patties. Chick Fil-A is usually my top choice all around, but they're a little lean on the burgers, so if it's beef I'm craving, then Wendy's is the place for me.

Having two small children, I, of course, frequent McDonald's. The "Happy Toys", as the kids call them, are the reasons for McDonald's being number one on the kids' list, though my daughter is slowly joining my wife and me in the Wendy's camp.

There's another option, of course. We don't eat at Burger King. When I was at Notre Dame, there was a Burger King in the student center. The student center was located conveniently right behind the chemistry building. I think you can see where the rub is here. Convenience--especially when your day is wrapped around being in the lab from at least seven in the morning until at least seven at night--is the name of the game, and, sadly Burger King was convenient. So, I ate there. A lot.
The thing about Burger King, though, is that, while their burgers can be good, they also make me violently ill. All the time. A couple of years ago--again, for convenience sake--we hit the local Burger King and that night I spent doubled over in agony, swearing off the BK once and for all. Now, I love the King mascot. He's just a perfect mixture of creepy and funny...kind of like me, but with a crown on his head and some mad dance moves in the endzone. My problems pretty much revolve solely around the fact that my tender innards can't handle the food.

Even when I was at ND, I would feel as dirty as a meth whore on the nights that I suffered through a Burger King lunch. I was sure that the little old woman who ran the cash register--Thelma--was shitting under the cheese on my Whopper when no one was looking. Or even while people looked on, because she was an old woman, and old people can get away with that shit. Sure, they tilt their head back and stare through the bottom of their lenses, acting all confused and stuff while hastily searching for the 'Double Whopper' button on the cash register, but really they're plotting your demise, one shat upon Whopper at a time. I'm onto you, Thelma, and the other goons in your blue-hair mafia. You might have been a riveter in your day, but now I know you take devious pride and amusement in how many college kids you can sicken with the contents of your colostomy bag.

I bring all this up because Burger King is currently running with this iDog thing with their kids meals. Yesterday, my daughter and her friends got out of school early--on the first Friday of every month, they have a half day--and so they went to Burger King to eat lunch and get their iDog toys. Yippee fucking skippy. And then they played like lunatics in the playland, which was apparently pretty good. Whatever, the judge says I'm not allowed to hang out in those places anymore, so I get my playland updates second-hand.
The problem was that, a little before six this morning, my daughter was up puking. Yeah, it was hours after she had eaten at Burger King, and she had had dinner, as well. But, she claimed that no one else at school was sick, and a bunch of what she brought up was mucus, but still, there can't be a mere coincidence between her eating at Burger King for the first time and puking within the same 24 hour period, right? My point, exactly.

I wonder if Thelma shit under the cheese on her burger, too.

The Apple Hasn't Fallen Far

Okay, enough with insulting arrogant fat men for a while. In case anyone needs further explanation of the previous two posts, I'm a little pissed at Fat Charlie, the head coach at Notre Dame, who continues to not coach his team and live up to the standards he set for himself. Losing the Syracuse, which has been and still is one of the worst teams in all Division 1A college football (and has been in a close race with Duke for worst in the BCS schools), was inexcusable. I began to fall off the Charlie Bandwagon after he failed to make any adjustments at halftime during the UNC game and then backed that up by doing the exact same fucking thing during the Pitt game. I didn't get to see the Navy game, otherwise these posts might have popped up earlier. So, what you have read the past two days has been me striking out with as much fanatic vitriol as possible, but at the same time, I tried to make it funny. In Monday's post, the "interview" with Weis was me asking questions and him responding entirely in quotations by Patrick Star from Spongebob Squarepants. Yesterday's post was a recreation of the scenes where Luke Skywalker goes to rescue Han, Leia and the droids from Jabba the Hutt in Return of the Jedi, but Charlie played the part of Jabba and Jack Swarbrick--the new Athletic Director at Notre Dame--played the roll of Luke. Again, I thought it was amusing and I knew only a small subset of you loyal readers would probably enjoy it and/or even get what I was talking about. My aim was for a little jockularity.

So, there. That's what I was aiming for. I was trying to bitch and moan about the lack of results on the field (again) in a way that people who don't follow college football would still find amusing. I'm just pleased that I didn't get the half-dozen requisite "I don't like sports blogs" whines. It probably helped that this is Thanksgiving week.

Anyway, let's go with something less fat...er...sporty...shall we?

If you've read this blog for long, or you've seen my comments on your blogs, you might know that I'm a big fan of the pun. It's a beautiful thing that we in the English-speaking world have to add to our comedy repertoire. No other languages utilize the pun quite like we do, whether for clever advertisements or jokes that make you groan and roll your eyes when you finally get them. I mean, in French, you'd have to sit there and stew for a few minutes wondering which word ending in "ay" did he just say and how is it to be construed and what the hell was he even talking about. But not English. Which is probably why more and more places are moving to speak it, not so much for its simplicity, but just for the ability to make puns in your speeches.

Where the fuck was I? Oh, right. I was talking about how much I love the pun. In all the twists and turns of prose writing, I believe the pun (for me at least) to be the busty red-head sitting at the end of the bar wearing her fishnets and fuck-me boots--I love it just that much. Whenever my wife tells a story, I always try to work in a pun as a response. She does the same to me. We both have the same response in that we try to refuse to acknowledge the other's comment.

So, the other night at the dinner table, my wife was telling about how the new manager at the Ampersand (it's British Guy, you know, the one who writes in the log mimicking classic pieces of literature and who, inexplicably, loves Notre Dame football and college basketball) sent around a little memo asking for people's staff recommendations for the holidays. The hing was, he added a bunch of questions to it to get people to think about their picks so that they could pick books that would really suck the reader in and avoid Twilight, which would just suck for the reader.

So, one of the questions, as she was relating to me, was "If you were stuck on a remote island with cannibals, what piece of literature would you want with you that's not the Bible or Shakespeare?" I mulled this over some wine for a moment. Whilst thinking, my daughter, Cookie, pipes up, "You'd want a book about tv controllers."

My wife and I ignore her and I make some suggestion about a cook book or something, you know, so that you could teach the cannibals to cook food other than you. Unfazed, Cookie again pipes up with "What about a book about tv controllers?"

Again, we ignore her, and my wife offers up some suggestion, and I think it over and nod. Cookie once more says, this time a little more emphatically, "A book about tv controllers!"

Finally, my wife takes the bait. "What are you talking about," the fabulously sexalicious Boudicca asks Cookie.

"It's a remote island."

That's my girl.

Wow.

We all have that person in our office who sends around funny emails to everyone. Sometimes it's a picture, sometimes it's a little movie, sometimes it's a joke. Fortunately for me, the guy in my office who does that has some good taste and so he only sends around the actual funny stuff. Such as today's picture:

Apparently, mommy works at Home Depot, and she's supposedly selling a shovel in this picture. By the looks on everyone's faces, either it's snowed a shit-ton in the past thirty minutes, or mommy sells shovels with her tits hanging out.

Here's a lesson for all the mothers out there: check your child's homework before they trot off to school. Or don't, and be the brunt of internet jokes the world around.

Happy Halloween, Everyone!

And now, for the scary picture:

...ugh...

The First Rider continues his parade through my little family.

While Tank has gotten better (he only now has a very loud cough, wherein he only sometimes remembers to cover his mouth), and Cookie has stopped throwing up liquid of a violent yellow, I know am fully encrusted with the Ick.

It started yesterday simple enough: cough, cough, spit, ewww, that's gross. Last night it spiraled down into a fever. I think I've shaken the fever (Diet Dr. Pepper, panacea for the masses) and I'm not wracked with chills like I was yesterday afternoon.

I initially started out using some 'old home remedies'. Unfortunately, the hen hasn't really been sucking much of the Ick out of my lungs (perhaps I chose poorly in opting for a Rhode Island Red) and drinking my own urine only made my breath smell. Worse. I also went out a punted half a dozen cats--not so much for their ability to heal me, but more for my own personal entertainment. Laughter is the best medicine, so I guess it did serve a purpose. Meow. I also brewed up a tea made from various herbs I found around my yard, but about fifteen minutes after imbibing, I just sat there and giggled while wondering why my fingers don't fing.

Finally, I decided to live life by my second mantra: better living through chemistry. I pounded some mucinex, downed some Day-quil (which promptly knocked me out), and drank lots of water, ginger ale, and the aforementioned panacea for the masses. I repeated the ritual last night before bed, this time adding a healthy slather of Vap-o-rub. My wife looked over and wondered why I was rubbing it there, and when I gave her a knowing, lascivious chuckle, she ran screaming from the room. I haven't seen her since. If anyone sees a large-chested redhead with strained vocal chords and eyes the size of dinner plates, send her back this way, please.

My tour of the pharmaceutical aisle has paid off as I now have broken my fever and I'm coughing up much less phlegm. But that which I do cough up is a lovely shade of orange yellow. Puts me in mind of Play-doh. Guess I know what the kids are getting for Christmas.

Welcome to the Den of Disease

Want a follow-up to the follow up? No? Fuck you, you get one anyway.

Last week, Cookie had the Strep. I went and got her antibiotics and she's been rocking those for a week. She feels much better. Sore throat is gone. Everyone is happy. Hooray.

Over the weekend, Tank got a cold. You might remember him from such descriptions as the "feverish four-year-old who ruined my anniversary plans". Apparently, he also likes to wake his parents up in the middle of the night and tell them not to go walking in the woods, or else you'll get lost. Dosed him with the Zicam Nasal Swabs and the Mucinex and the Ibuprofen. Still coughs, but fever is gone, mucus in chest is breaking up like an Imperial Fleet before making the jump to hyperspace. Sometimes, I have my moments. They're not many, but I have them.

Today, Cookie had a cough. We sent her to school anyway because she was out last week and got a ream of homework. Not wanting to go through that again, we shipped her off to ye olde schoolhouse. Got a call around 10:20 am that she had a 101 degree fever and a racking cough. Wife went to rescue her. Upon arrival, Wife reports that the Cookster looked "like death". They headed over to the doctor where Cookie actually fell asleep during the examination. Unsure of the diagnosis, she had a chest x-ray and was sent home to rest. Doctor called a little while later with the diagnosis: pneumonia. I'm headed out to get her prescription from the pharmacy on my way home.
What's that slight discomfort I'm feeling in my backside? Oh, why, it's the universe, sodomizing my household with disease.

The Follow Up

I know you were all wondering how the...ahem...celebration of our eighth anniversary went last night. However, a gentleman never tells.

I, fortunately for you, am not a gentleman. In fact, I'm all about the gory details, right down the bodily fluids. Strap yourselves in.

So, we planned for a romantic dinner last night. We were going to go get some steak or maybe go to Ted's Montana Grille, because goddammit, buffalo is good meat. However, I ended up swinging by a bar and picking up some pizza. I came home to find my daughter in full-on meltdown drama queen mode because she couldn't find her colored pencils. My son met me at the door, snot running down his face, his cheeks pinked with fever. My wife had the glazed-over look of someone who had just seen a particularly gruesome car wreck...or had just spent the last few hours fighting over the location of a bag of colored pencils, all the while wiping snot from a feverish four-year-old.

We exchanged gifts. This is where it shows that we know each other after eight years of marriage: I got her a gift certificate for coffee and for shoes; she got me a book, a coffee grinder and a gift certificate for video games. We dined upon our pizza...after another fifteen minutes of full-on drama queen meltdown over the now found bag of colored pencils. After dinner, we watched Jeopardy and then it was bath time. My son took his and got tucked into bed, my daughter took her shower, and got tucked into bed. My wife and I hung out in our room for a little bit, she working on a writing project of her own, me flipping back and forth between the Monday Night Football game and this extreme marksmen show on the History Channel.

Finally, at ten o'clock or shortly thereafter, we settled down into bed and, just as I was turning off the light, we heard a blood-curdling scream. Into the room staggered the four year old, delirious with fever, telling of how badly he wanted his medicine. I hauled him into bed, my wife dosed him the appropriate medications, I slathered him down with a little bit of Vick's vaporub, and we settled down once more, four year old firmly (and wiggly) between us. Turning out the light once more, we wished one another a happy anniversary and settled in to sleep. About thirty minutes after turning the light out, the boy decided he wanted to go back to his bed. After tucking him in and telling him it was okay that he dumped out part of his medicine all over my side of the bed (most of it was on his shirt and his bear), I slipped back under the covers in my bed, ready to get down to business.

And by business, I mean laying my head down on a pillow that smelled faintly of spilled grape-flavored ibuprofen solution and falling soundly asleep, which is where my wife already was.

Ah, Parenthood.

Competition

My daughter, Cookie, knows that I've written a book. She asked me today if I was going to make another book. I told her, yes, but that I also need to fix the books I already have. This astounded her.

However, it apparently also seemed to inspire her.

She started making her own books. This is not a new thing. She made a picture book about a year ago about a Princess, and she "read" me the story by describing the action on each page. It was cute and sweet all at once.

Well, now she's moved on to chapter books. She spent most of the day drawing and coloring the covers for her books, which is, naturally, the most important part. She has a whole series--I believe nine in all--of books, revolving around fairies and horses. Throw in basketball and Nancy Drew, and you've got a few of her favorite things.This evening, after she took her shower, she spent a good 30 - 45 minutes wrestling with MS Word trying to get her story just perfect. The major problem was, she didn't have titles for her chapters, so she worked on those, all the while mastering the art of changing the colors of the fonts as well as the sizes. For good measure, she's also now familiar with centering text. Being the good father that I am *stifles laughter*, I tried to be as supportive and helpful as possible. At times, she was getting very frustrated with the program as she was trying to type. Me saying "Welcome to the world of computers, kiddo" didn't help the situation much. In fact, it seemed to worsen it. Fancy that. I also broke it to her that most authors have a notebook where they write down important things, like the names of their chapter titles. So, now there's a spiral bound notebook with two of her chapter titles jotted in them. I should follow Cookie's lead here...

So yes, now I have some competition in the family. It's not just me writing (the buxom and comely Boudicca will also, from time to time, work on a book as well), but it's also Cookie. For reference, I didn't start seriously writing books and stories until the third grade (where I started adapting and expanding upon Greek mythological stories...I remember Orion and Perseus figuring heavily into my tales). Cookie is about to finish the first grade. Nothing like getting a jump on prodigy, eh?

Continuing the Path toward Enlightenment

I spent this weekend corrupting my children, my daughter moreso than my son, though he did get himself a little taste. Let's fill in the back story first, and then we can sally forth into the wilds of the tale which I am about to craft.

Remember last weekend, when I flipped back and forth between the Star Wars prequels and the Lord of the Rings movies? And then sprinkled in a little bit of UNC getting their asses handed to them by Kansas? Right, well, there were a lot fewer North Carolina beat-downs this weekend, but the original three Star Wars movies were on Spike TV or whatever it is (I think the Lord of the Rings movies were on, too, but I resisted that temptation). And, if Star Wars is on, I've got to watch.

But this time, I had a little friend.

Yes, I let my daughter stay up Friday and Saturday night to watch Episodes IV and V. Being as today was a school day (though she's home sick), I didn't let her stay up to watch Return of the Jedi. I have it on tape, anyway, so I can complete her training at some point. The little boy, however, got really sleepy and really pissy toward nine pm, and thus he had to retire for the evenings.

Now, my daughter liked the original movie plenty. It captivated her and kept her interest. However, it was hilarious watching her get all fired up and worried toward the end of The Empire Strikes Back when Luke is facing off against Vader and Han gets frozen in carbonite. She was yelling at the television, "No Luke! Don't go in there!" and "Oh, is he going to be okay?". It was marvelous. But, somehow, we had kept the big secret from her and she was like, "What? That's his father?!?" Classic stuff.

Anyway, my wife had a friend over last night, and after her friend left, we watched the very end of Return of the Jedi (since there was nothing else on). This was the remade version, where there was that awkward, strange ending that no longer featured the Ewoks' celebration music. I'm not saying it was better; I'm not saying it was worse. I'm just saying it was awkward. My wife didn't like this new ending one bit, and she voiced her opinion as such (she loves her some Ewoks). Then she said, "You know, you should get Silent Bob [Kevin Smith] to redo these movies."

My mind went blank for a moment. And then it began to imagine the possibilities. And then I had to excuse myself from the room so I could clean up the mess in my pants. What a brilliant idea! I thought Kevin could sit down with George Lucas and be like "Look, you can do the special effects and help with the directing and you also get all the licensing and marketing. I just want to make good movies." And the fantasy was good. Very, very good.

She wondered who might be cast as the various roles. We tossed around a few names for various roles and I offered up a few story corrections that needed to take place. And then my wife suggested getting Leelee Sobieski to play the role of Padma/Amidala. And then I had to reexcuse myself from the room so I could clean up the new mess in my pants.

Yes, that's right. I have a crush on both Kevin Smith and Leelee Sobieski. Sue me.

Personal Hamster Huey

I am convinced that Bill Watterson was prescient and somehow had the ability to peer into the future and watch my life unfold before his very eyes. Upon seeing these visions, he set pen to paper and drew some of the most masterful comics the world has ever known. Copies of said comic follow.

Here's a refresher course, in case you've forgotten:


Calvin's dad and I have a lot in common. For instance, we're both stuck reading the same story every night. For me, I have to deal with this particular gem:
The sad thing is, this is just a part of the story (in book form) of that cinematographic masterpiece, Thomas and the Magic Railroad. I guess it wouldn't be so bad reading this book, but my little boy, Tank, has it memorized and breaks into the story to tell me who all the characters are. However, there's another book that goes with it that is the print version of the other half of Thomas and the Magic Railroad, which is just as scintillating a read.

Calvin's dad pretty much sums it up right here:
Yup.

A Tale of True Heroism

I've been childless for something like three weeks now. At the beginning of June, on my daughter's last day of school, we took them up to Marietta, OH and met my mother-in-law there for dinner (at the Marietta Brewing Company, by the way) where she took the kids and we headed back down the road to North By God Carolina. Mother-in-law and children went north and west, ending up in South Bend eventually, where they hung out for a couple of weeks. While there, my children had some swimming lessons where my daughter (who will be six on Friday) learned how to swim underwater, without floatation devices, how to dive, all that good stuff. My son, who will be three in July, learned how to not be afraid of the water. I suspect he was easily coaxed into the water by Miss Abby, his swim instructor.

Anyway, for the past few days, my children have been in Oklahoma, visiting their great-grandparents (my wife's grandparents through her mom's side). The great-grandparents have a pool, which is one of the main reasons why the kids went through swim lessons, so that they could swim safely in the pool.

This sets the scene. And now for the action.

I came home on Friday and sat in my chair, and my wife came over and sat near me. If you've ever seen Knute Rockne: All American (and if you haven't, I only ask, why haven't you subjected yourself to this fine piece of American film???) there's a scene at the end where Knute's wife has a chill about the same time that Knute's plane goes down in a Kansas farmer's field. That's kind of the look my wife had as she approached me. She worried that the little boy would fall into the pool and no one would know and then we'd have no more little boy. I told my wife not to worry as our daughter would watch over him, and she asked what she could do, and I told her that she could scream for help.

I think you see where this is going. But I'll finish the story.

We call the kids later that night, and my wife talks to my daughter and nothing big happens. Then she talks to the little boy and he says "Sissy saved me." To which my wife responded "What?" And he follows up with "My life. Sissy saved my life."

At this point, my wife says, "That's nice honey...could you please put Grandmommy on the phone?"

My mother-in-law quickly starts to explain.

Apparently, after dinner, people weren't really paying attention to the little boy and he decided he wanted to go swimming, so he just walked down the steps and into the pool. Without floatation devices. A few seconds later, my mother-in-law hears my daughter yelling "Grandmommy, help me. I need help. Help me." My mother-in-law looks over and sees my daughter in the pool with my son. She has her arm wrapped around her chest and is holding his head above water so that he can breathe, and she is back kicking toward the side so that they can get out.

Well.

The only thing I could take from this was that I could tell my wife that I was right. Fortunately, my daughter was more proactive than just yelling for help. She apparently dove in, went underwater to get him, and dragged him back to the side like a lifeguard. I don't know if she was taught this during her swim classes or not, or if she just acted on instinct alone. Either way, it was pretty fucking amazing for a five-year-old to do. I'm guessing not a lot of twenty-five year olds would do that.

If it seems like I'm bragging, you're damned right I am. This is one of those things that I felt I should write down, lest my memory fail me later in life. Also, my daughter will someday be able to read AND work the internet (she does both now, but not together), and I don't want her to think that her father is just some fat, drunken lout who tries to poison his lab mates with toxic gas and has issues with HR and uses the F-word way too much. I mean, she knows that anyway. This way she can know that I really do pay attention and can be proud of her. Plus, this is another way of reminding my son that he owes his life to his sister, and being a Catholic family, you can bet this will come up time and time again as both children age.

All comments relating to Pamela Anderson and slow-running will result in a healthy ass-kicking from a father who is already a tad overprotective. You've been warned. Punk.