Sloppy Jimbo

"What's for dinner?"
"Meatless sloppy-joes."
"Wouldn't that be a tomato-paste sandwich?"

Wiping 101

Potty Training: Ok, The Boy finally has it down. We are no longer pooing (and mostly not peeing) in our pants. We get a warning, we rush him to the potty and voila, shazam, presto-chango, abbra-cadabbra, a-la-peanut-butter-sandwiches, by-the-power-of-Greyskull -- however you feel like expressing it -- success!

So, now, here is the part that stumps me:

"Ok, now we wipe."
"Ok, Daddy."
He grabs a few squares of TP, leans to the right like an old man getting his finger pulled, and dabs at his left cheek before jumping off the potty.

"No no. Get back up there. Here's some more toilet paper. Try again. You want to be nice and clean."
He looks at me quizically, then dabs at his wee before dropping the paper in the toilet.
"Your butt, son, wipe your butt." Some more TP.

Clearly, a demonstration is in order. Great idea: I'll show the boy what I mean, and I'll very clinically describe the process.

"You want to really get in there with the toilet paper. Don't be afraid to dig a little bit. And if you need more toilet paper, you've got plenty. Can you reach ok? Give it a try."

And then I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Bent over, grasping my own ass -- digging, if you will -- at the appropriate place in the back of my jeans. The guy in the mirror looking back at me has the audacity to look somewhat shocked and embarrased.

And then that old South Park line runs through my head: "Whoa, this is pretty fucked up right here."

Stinky Cheese

Me, opening the fridge: "AAUUUCCCCGGGHH! What is that smell?"
The Wife, from the living room: "That's the cheese I told you you probably shouldn't eat."
Me: "Well...thank you for not letting me eat it."

Blech

So, I had couscous for the first time ever last night. And as I sat down and saw this gunk on my plate, I thought to myself, "Rad! Cuz with Kit Kat you get, like, four. But this stuff? Four thousand! Whee."

Addendum: I hate couscous. But for the record, I sure do like Kit Kat.

It Ain't Life They're High On

Cats. I think their sole purpose is to mess with our heads.

Clean animals. Forever bathing and preening themselves. Prissy debutantes that never seem to get invited to the ball and have to settle for matting their fur into my pillowcase or barfing in the hall.

Our genius cats have always taken exception to the sand in their litter box. Oh sure, they still use it (well, most of the time -- when it wouldn't be more convenient to use, say, my jacket or The Wife's shoes). Somehow, these cats manage to go in -- paws wedged against the sides of the igloo shaped box -- do their business, and then get out, all without getting their precious feet in the sand.

And right there is a big problem. I had always thought that the desire to cover up waste was a trait ingrained. You know, nature stuff. I'm sure Animal Planet or the Discovery Channel mentioned it at some point.

But then they mock me. After every session, every cat will stand outside the box and dig at the plastic. For ever. Skritch scratch skritch. Skritch scratch skritch. Skritch scratch skritch. What are you doing? Do you have a goal in mind? Is it to make me cry?

Finally, The Big One

We're still in the process of potty training. When I say WE, I think I mean that The Wife and I are actually learning far more than The Boy is. We have gotten surprisingly good at judging the degree to which others need to go. I catch myself doing it at work.

"Tony, do you need to go to the bathroom?"
"Dude!"
"Oh, sorry, man. Habit. You go, I'll wait here."

Well, we finally found our chance. We knew the boy hadn't poo'd in a while, and there were hints that one might just be coming on. Aha! "G, come on, let's go potty real quick."

I managed to get him in there and sit him down...and then came the anxious waiting. Wait. Wait. Hmm...might as well floss while I wait. "No no, you sit there and just relax." Hmm, freshly flossed, I could get a good evening brush in. "It's ok, we're not in any hurry, keep sitting there." Teeth are feeling pretty good. Mouthwash? Why not. "No, it's ok, you just sit." Swish swish spit. Ahhh...refreshing.

And then:
"Daddy, I don't have to poo." Oh, man, just chill.
"Ok, that's fine. No pressure. Just relax." This isn't going to happen.
"But I don't want to sit. I want to play." Dang, ok, I guess I can give up.
"I don't ha- HARRRRUGH. I- HEEEYAAARGHHH. WHOOOAGHHHHHHH." Plop. YES!

Ok, so only a parent could be proud. Some more than others. The Wife came running in with hugs and M&Ms. At least she didn't take a picture.

Winter Wonderland

We've had some interesting weather lately. Snow. Lots of snow. I love it, I want more. I see snow coming down, and I long for the good old days when I could grab my skis and chase down the nearest bus to the slopes.

Unfortunately, I live in the desert now, and, well, this city just is not prepared. Yeah, we got a lot, but really not enough to warrant closing down the schools for an entire week (which they did).

We are the only people on the block who own a snowshovel. I know this, because people came over to introduce themselves and put their name down on the waiting list for ours.

Anyway, I got to spend a lot of time over my winter vacation playing outside with The Boy. We made snowmen, and I taught him how to make snow angels, and we did a lot of sledding, etc.

And then I got the great idea to pick him up and toss him, butt first. The snowbank erupted into a misty cloud with a satisfying "wumpf" ... and then all was still. Uh oh. Did I break The Boy's butt? Is he going to one day be laying on a couch explaining an irrational fear of powder.

I did what any father would have: I looked around to make sure The Wife hadn't seen, and then asserted my control of the situation with a solid "Uhhmmm...G?"

Well, it turned out that it was the single most exciting thing of his young life. And he wanted to go again...for the rest of the afternoon. At some point, daddy simply could no longer lift The Boy, and we had to stop. And that's when he cried.

Great, Now I'm a Role Model

I have three cats.

Correction. The Wife has three cats, one of which is always somewhere inconvenient. Sitting in my chair. Laying on my book. Eating food off the counter. Snoozing right in the middle of the hallway, even though they know that my big old clumsy feet are bearing down on them (I've got a few scars from that particular scenario).

So, I am forever pushing cats out of my way, nudging them off the table, yelling at them not to claw my already mangled sofa, etc. And over the years they have become (more or less endearingly) The Goddamned Cats.

Evidently my perceptive Boy has picked up on this, and I got to see first hand how he handles a little thing like a Goddamned Cat laying on his train set. First, he pulls out the warning finger, with a suitable, "Kitty, move!" The response is predictable: one eye comes half open and lazily slides shut.

Now it was time to pull out the big guns. "Kitty, move!" with a swift kick to the butt. Mission accomplished. Atta boy.

But, of course, I can't let that happen. "Hey, that's not nice! We don't kick ..." -- I almost inserted "the Goddamned Cat" here, but then thought better of it -- "...our good friend Kitty. Now, you go hug her and say you're sorry. Go on!"

Hypocrite me.

An Ass of Myself

Mother-In-Law, watching Father-In-Law wipe spilled food off the carpet: "Ever notice how men and women wipe differently?"

Smart-Alec Me: "Back to front?"

Band of ... well, Just Me

Everyone knows that the History Channel loves to play "Band of Brothers." I myself watched about an hour's worth just today.

If there are any other husbands out there like me, they also know that they don't play it nearly enough. Why do I say this?

Because it's such an awesome movie?
No.
Because I'm a history buff?
No.
Because I love the action, adventure, drama, etc?
Nope.
Because I want to watch it over and over again?
Ha. I wish.

Because every time I start to get into it, this-or-that needs to be done, or we have to go to such-and-such, or help with so-and-so.

And so, I never get to see more than a little bit at a time, like today. But today, I heard a new one. "Haven't you seen this movie like a million times?"

No. I've just seen a million little pieces of it, in no particular order. Someday....

Channel Flipage

Like most other people, I occassionally spend an evening flipping repeatedly through channels, most of which I wouldn't normally watch if paid. (Do we really need a network devoted to knives?) And occasionally the split-second that I see of some program will trigger some sort of odd recognition.

Does a certain "News Channel's" quartered screen with four angry baffoons remind anyone else of the old "One of These Things Is Not Like the Others" bits on Sesame Street?

Do You Not Know Me?

The Wife: "What did The Boy eat for dinner?"
"Oh-toe-toes." (Spaghettios. I have to admit, his language is contagious.)
"Did he eat any fruits or vegetables?"
"Umm...no."
"Did he get any dairy?"
"Umm...no."
"Grains?"
"Umm...."

Stop Asking Me!

So, I'm a smart guy. I can answer most questions posed, correct?

"Daddy? Why is Lightning McQueen a race car?"
"Where did the potty come from?"
"Why is Mommy?"

Maybe I'm not so smart.

Translation Required

Ahh, the joy of deciphering Toddlerspeak.

The Boy: "Daddy, I have a new Elmo snot proof grass."
"You have a what?"
"Alpha scot through snatch."
"Huh?"
"Alpo's not boo thrush."
"Er...?"
The wife, coming to my rescue: "He's got an astronaut toothbrush."
"Ah. Uhhh...what the heck is an astronaut toothbrush?"

My Holiday Haircut

Girl at the mall's Cheapo Cut-o-Rama Shop: "Sorry about the hair. We're trying to rush through the crowd, so I didn't sweep up."

Yeah...so, ok...but couldn't you at least brush some of it out of the chair. I did it myself, with my hand, before sitting down. Yummy.