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?

That Was Just A Dream, Just a Dream...

Breaking news: North By God Carolina blogger had a dream last night...and feels the need to share it.

So, I was transported back in time. I was 16, and for some reason, I lived in a house that we shared with another family. The family had three daughters. The oldest daughter had great legs--fantastic legs, long, shapely, tan, smooth, silky, shiny...I know this because this is the only thing I ever saw of her. She stayed in her room all the time and draped them over the arm of her couch while she watched television. The youngest girl was like ten or twelve or something, but the middle girl was my age.
For some reason, I went in their half of the house, I think to ask the middle girl a question. It was an actual serious question, but I ended up forgetting what it was I was going to ask, and then, shrugging, I asked her if she wanted to go to my school dance with me. She agreed readily, and then that's when I threw in the hook: it was a costume party dance. She still agreed, and so I went back to my half of the house to get ready.

I dressed up as Darth Vader. Except, it wasn't really Darth Vader...more like "albino" Darth Vader. Yeah, my costume was all white. Cape. Pants. T-shirt. Helmet. Oh, I was stylin'.

I got in the car and drove to the other side of the house to pick the girl up. I don't remember much about her costume other than she was wearing red flip flops, but I do know that she had beautiful, long, blonde hair and I have no idea what her name was. So, you know, it was like a perfect date. Nothing like sharing a house with someone and not knowing their name, but dating them nonetheless. Awesome.

So, we're driving to the dance, and I'm headed down the street that goes past Notre Dame stadium. At this moment, there's a pep rally going for a football game. Only problem was, there were some fans from other schools. Like, there was a small cadre of Boston College fans there (Candy, I blame you for this unsightly smear on my otherwise unsullied dream) and there were some people from the University of Pittsburgh. It was an older man and woman, and they had one of those huge, fake, plastic bullhorns and they're lobbing insults on the Irish. I know they're from Pittsburgh because they have the blue and yellow outfits on, but the kicker is they have "Pitt" scrawled across their chest. I'm still wearing my white Darth Vader suit. My date is still in the car.
How dare they! I think and I stop the car, get out, rip the bullhorn from the man's grasp and I decide, then and there, that these two need a lesson taught to them. I go into full crowd-incitement mode, using the bullhorn to call attention down on these people and to get the crowd to turn against them. All while wearing my white Darth Vader outfit. With the voice modulator in my mouth so that, when roaring into the bullhorn, my voice is threatening to deafen people for miles around.
It works wonders. I whip the crowd into a frenzy, telling them that our space has been invaded by these plebes and that we should do something about it. Even the football team is fired up and ready to crack some skulls, so everyone starts chasing after these two people. I keep inciting the riot until the crowd has chased the people away, and I open up the door to my car, toss the bullhorn in the back seat, and slide into the drivers seat and get ready to go.

That's when my date turns to me and says, in as flat and cold a tone as possible, "You know that was my mom and dad with the bullhorn, right?"

I actually woke up laughing. I laughed so hard, I had to get up and pee for fear of wetting the bed. It took a while to fall back asleep since I kept giggling.

I had another dream after this one and it was about as exceptional as the first, but I've forgotten most of the details and I don't want to tell only half a story. However, this one goes down in the annals of dreams so fabulous they must be told to others.

Things You Don't Want to Hear While on the Phone with Your Mom

The following actually happened to my wife, the Comely and Buxom and Easily Terrified Boudicca the other day while discussing a tea pot or some other Jane Austen shit with my mother-in-law.

TC&B&ETB: "Yeah, mom, I thought you had it in the spare bedroom."

Mother-in-Law: "Oh, you're right! Let me put a shirt on and go look for it."

I came home to find her curled up in the fetal position in the corner of the dining room, rocking back and forth, tears slowly leaking down her cheek, far-and-away distant look in her eye, muttering softly over and over again for the bad man to go away.

So, Here's How It Went

I was out Monday, but I'll write about that later.

I didn't get back to the lab until Tuesday, and then we had a lecture to attend yesterday morning, so I didn't get the poop until yesterday afternoon. As my computer at home (the one built during the Clinton Administration...I shit you not) is slowly but surely gasping it's final breaths, I didn't write this up last night (I did something else on it last night, but I'll write about that later, as well, and no, it wasn't what you're thinking, pervert). This morning was dominated by attending safety meetings followed by a good bout of herding cats rounding up the lunch bunch (I'm a natural born leader), so that's why you're not getting this until now. That's right, I have altered the deal. Pray I don't alter it any further.

Apparently, Friday night went alright. They had dinner and some drinks, generally had a good time, laughed, joked, punched each other in the face...you know, typical first date stuff. Saturday, the guy (henceforth known as Pepe) texted my friend (whom I was going to refer to as "the black cat with the white stripe painted down her back", but felt that was a mouthful), but she had other plans for that night already, so she declined his offer to go out again.

Sunday afternoon, my friend is doing her typical Sunday routine of laundry, sweeping, delousing and crack when she receives a frantic phone call (might have been a text...that was lost in the subsequent gales of laughter that spilled forth from my torso as more of the story was revealed unto me) and the conversation went something like this:

Pepe: You can cook, right? You said you can cook.

TBCWTWSPDHB: Yeah, I can cook.

Pepe: Okay. Good. I need help. I have a friend coming over and I have a turkey I'm trying to cook and, uh...INEEDHELP!!!

TBCWTWSPDHB: What's wrong?

Pepe: Well, the guy at the store said that I needed to thaw the turkey out for a day before I tried to cook it and that I couldn't cook it frozen, but I thought I'd prove him wrong. But...my friend will be here in a while AND the turkey's not looking so good and I need help. Pleaseohpleaseohpleaseohpleaseohplease with sugar and honey and crushed up almonds on top?

TBCWTWSPDHB: *sigh* Fine. But if this is just some lame excuse to lure me over to your place, it won't end well for you.

My friend, who is a very accommodating personality (in case you couldn't tell), went over to help this guy out. She walked in and, sure enough, there were candles everywhere and Barry White was crooning something fabulously sexy. And by candles everywhere, I mean that there was smoke billowing from the oven and by Barry White crooning, I mean that there was a moron running around in the middle of the apartment screaming "Ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod ohmigod..." over and over again. So, my friend opens the oven up to assess the situation and finds an 18 pound turkey shoved into a brownie pan sitting in the middle of the oven, the outermost layer of the bird charring and crackling. My friend looks over her shoulder and the following took place:

TBCWTWSPDHB: Have you basted this thing?

Pepe: Uh...what's that mean?

*friend pulls the turkey from the oven and inserts a knife into the carcass; the outermost layer of char peels back instantly and falls away, revealing the frozen inner shell of the turkey*

TBCWTWSPDHB: I'll take that as a 'no.' Hey, where's the pop-up timer?

Pepe: The what now?

TBCWTWSPDHB: The pop-up timer. They put the timer in the turkey so that when it gets done the red button pops up and tells you it's safe to eat.

Pepe: Oh. That thing. I took it out. I didn't know what it was, so I thought I didn't need it.

TBCWTWSPDHB: *vein throbs in forehead; left eye twitches furiously* I...see.

At this point, my friend digs through the remains of the turkey, carefully slicing away the parts that seem salvageable, using the one small knife that Pepe owns to do the cleaning, mangling and slicing of the uncharred remains of the turkey. She then puts whatever pieces make the cut down in the pan and opens the cupboard, hoping to find some broth or some soup or something. Instead, much like the barren wastelands of the tundra, she finds nothing. No food stuffs. No Les Stroud. Not even mammoth bones. Nothing.

TBCWTWSPDHB: Do you have any chicken broth or bouillon or anything like that?

Pepe: Uh, why would I need that?

*my friend spends five minutes bashing her head against the nearest appliance, hoping that one of the blows would end her misery then and there*

She drains what little juice is left in the brownie pan along with the hunks of turkey that haven't been tanned into leather yet and pops them back in the oven.

TBCWTWSPDHB: Okay, how much time do we have?

Pepe: Well, my friend Louis (not his real name, but, shit, why not?) will be here in two hours.

TBCWTWSPDHB: I guess that gives us some time. What else are you having?

Pepe: I have this box of instant mashed potatoes.

TBCWTWSPDHB: *sigh* Okay. What do you have to cook them in?

Pepe: I have this bowl...

*my friend fights the urge to rip the hair from her scalp and instead decides to help the guy with the presentation of the "dinner", such as it was*

My friend then discovers that Pepe owns all of four plates, and all of his "silverware" is of the camping variety: aluminum, flimsy, holes drilled in the handles. He had a couple of bowls, which she used for whatever side items she had managed to cobble together for Pepe's meal with Louis. Finally, at the end of the ordeal, my friend is trying to excuse herself so that she could get back to her laundry and crack, but Pepe's trying to let my friend know how much he appreciated her help by pouring on the pathetic telling her how he really needs someone because he can't cook. This revolves around the afternoon of her ducking and weaving out of the way of his clumsy attempts to kiss her, because we all know how romantic raw poultry is. I mean, yeah, I understand, some people like to work food into their *ahem* extracurricular activities, and I know that certain parts of the male anatomy have that "last chicken in the shop" look to them. Seriously, though. Raw turkey is not a turn on.

Needless to say, my friend has decided to let this one go. And by "let this one go", I mean that she's decided to run fast and furious for the hills and avoid him like a plague-ridden, diseased rat carcass.

As my boss pointed out, though, she doesn't need to worry because he'll be dead in a few days from poisoned turkey.

So, thanks to everyone who helped out with the fashion advice. I'll call on you all again if needed. And I'll be sure to tell more happy dating stories as they come to me (and I get permission to recount them here).

My Band Name: Seized Chorizo

With Stephanie, the substitute teacher over at Rider's Block, searching for a new band name, I inadvertently stumbled upon one of my own (though, I do like Stephanie's idea of Sara's Gone Rogue). That would be Seized Chorizo.

The source is this article:

McALLEN, Texas — Customs inspectors scored the makings of a barbecue when a 21-year-old South Texas woman declared several soiled baby diapers at a U.S.-Mexico border crossing.

Suspicious of the chunky diapers, inspectors with U.S. Customs and Border Protection at the international bridge in Hidalgo found several links of spicy pork sausage, or chorizo, inside. The diapers had been folded to look soiled, according to a customs agency statement.

The Mission resident, who was not identified after the Friday night incident, was fined $300 and her chorizo was seized.

Being that I'm not much of an international traveler, I wonder, is it absolutely necessary to declare soiled diapers at the border? I thought it was birds and plants (and, apparently, sausage), but then, I'm not sure since the only foreign land I've ventured to is Ohio. I've never had chorizo, but since I celebrate the pig and all its deliciousness here quite often, I have to say that anything that can be described as "spicy pork sausage" is well worth the effort of folding a half-dozen diapers over themselves in order to look used. Although, I do wonder how much chorizo $300 would have garnered at the local Piggly Wiggly.

Just so you know, my daughter's godmother is from Mission, TX. The next time I talk to her, in between questions about chupacabras attacks, I'll have to ask her about the chorizo from Hidalgo and whether it's worth soiling my diapers over.

Is There a Copy Editor in the House?

Being a man of larger proportions, I appreciate it when people of considerable size and girth overcome their physical limitations and rise up to greatness.

Imagine the smile it brought to my face this morning when I was perusing the Indianapolis Star website and saw this headline right here.

I'm guessing the rewards snacks after the game were cupcakes. Lots and lots of cupcakes. And after that, snu-snu. Lots and lots of snu-snu.

And how funny would it have been if the other mascot was something other than Titans...although Titans is pretty funny. Are there any Indianapolis-based teams with "Pelvis" for a mascot name? Too bad they weren't playing Frankfort High School, home of the Hot Dogs. Hilarity would have ensued...further.

I suggest a rewrite for the headline: "Husky girls crush stereotypes, score often".

Again, Indiana, I'm looking out for you. You're welcome.

EDIT: Sorry, all. I had to dash off this morning to hang with my friend Joe during a two and a half hour meeting, thus leaving this post only partially finished. I mistakenly pushed "publish" instead of save. I apologize for any inconveniences or complete and total lack of hilarity (as opposed to the simple lack of hilarity that I usually bring you). Also, I misspelled "snu-snu". Send your complaints along to Wizard Cat.