WAAAAAAAAASAAAAAAAP?!
Yesterday, my daughter took her first steps. She’s just turning seven.
Ha ha, no, that’s not true. She’s totally eight.
Now the truth — the objective truth, if you want to call it that — is that she’s a few days shy of ten months old. But I want to start practicing this ruse now so that when she’s fifteen and some dick with legs and a torso wrapped around it shows up at our front door to take her to a dance, I’ll make him think twice about trying to have sex with someone who wore a diaper until junior high and may or may not still store Jelly Bellies in her vagina.
You have to watch out for these kids today, even if it means defaming them in the eyes of their peers and ruining their chances at a normal social life.
Now that I’m on the verge of having two who are mobile, it’s beginning to hit home that neither of these two smaller individuals in the house are actually pets. One day, they will become full-fledged people who can read Doonesbury and register software and operate a clock radio. Before I know it, they’ll be using Lucigraph and photostat machines and pursuing their many adult hobbies like calling customer service. The days of innocence will soon be over.
Yeah, not cool. My son comes into my office in the morning now and sits on my lap and is all sleepy and cute and I’ve heard that when this happens with an eighteen year-old, it’s considered creepy. And if it happens outside of Kentucky, it’s considered illegal. I want my kids to grow up because some of the shit they do today is so obnoxious that it makes me want to punch nuns, but… hell.
I also really like them how they are now. Full of stupid nuggets of wisdom.
The other day, I was giving Austin a bath and he looked up at me and said, “Daddy?”
“Yeah, kiddo.”
“You’re fatter in the winter.”
And I’m like, What a dick.
And earlier this winter he told me that I was a bad driver and that I had poop on my head and that the Easter Bunny doesn’t hop very much. As if he knows every move the Easter Bunny makes.
My daughter doesn’t say much yet. She can manage da-da but she says it when looking at me, Robin, the dogs, toys, her fingers, CDs, the toilet, and that picture of Darren Rowse at the very bottom of Problogger. We’re trying to work it out so that her first word is “WAAAAASAAAAP?!” and it’s actually going pretty well, and that’s good because I think it would be really badass if we were to call one of the grandmothers on the phone and she was like WAAAASAAAAP?!” and grandma was like “WASAAAAAAAAAAAP?!” and then Sydney was like “WAAAAA-SSSSAAAAAAAAP???” and then we called some random black guys on 3-way and Syd was like “WAAAAAAAAAAASSAAAAAAAAAAAP!!!!” and then the black guys were like “Who the fuck is this?”
Austin’s first word was “ball.” How is he supposed to connect to random black guys that way? He won’t, that’s how. Something had to be done.
And here it is. Yeah, you’ll want to be sure to watch the entire video.
These kids, they grow up faster than you think and start acting like dumbasses like the rest of us.
True, true.
You fail, Family Living
It’s that time of year again in Ohio, when the snow starts to melt and we see the grass a bit more and sometimes, you can hear the birds and detect the musty odor of something that smells like cheese.
And everywhere you go, teenage girls are carrying robot babies given to them by Family Living class, to learn what it’s like to be a real mother.
Robobabies are cool. They cry when they’re hungry. They crap in their diapers. They have sensors that detect rough treatment or shaking. But they have one shortcoming, and it’s that the Flesh Mommies still know they’re not real. You need to feed Robobaby to get your grade, but you also know that if you want, you can hang the baby sling (including Robobaby) from a coat hook when you come back drunk from Veronica’s party. You know that you can set Robobaby on top of the cable box to improve reception. You know you can wedge Robobaby under the short leg of the coffee table to keep it from wobbling.
So it may look like you’re raising Small Wonder, but what I call “the plastic factor” ends up meaning that it’s just not the same at all.
Example.
Let’s go back in time four years. Austin is just a baby, maybe six or seven months old. We go out for Chinese food. Austin doesn’t have any lo mein, but he gets into the spirit anyway by taking a massive antigravity dump that floats up his back and into his shirt. We discover this when putting him into the car seat, after the car-seat-related damage has been done.
“I think this happened in the restaurant,” I say, noting that a brown smear has appeared on my hands.
“Yes, that seems probable,” Robin says.
“And I’d say it’s likely that it’s still happening in the restaurant, all over the high chair he was sitting in,” I add.
“Yes, I think it’s safe to say we’re no longer welcome here,” Robin agrees.
We have no replacement clothes. We have diapers and wipes, but we’re not exactly going to go back into the restaurant and ask to use their bathroom. And I’m sure as hell not laying him on the seat of my car.
The car seat is already fucked, so we buckle him in and head across to Starbucks. Robin takes him into the bathroom, holding him the way you’d hold a bomb. I notice that the room is one of those big open spaces with a hard tile floor, with no baby changer or surface on which to work. As the door closes, I see her lay out this small mat that came with the diaper bag onto the floor.
Screaming commences. Foul odors linger in the air. I wait my turn to wash the rest of the crap off of my hands. And it’s at this moment that three teen girls walk up to the counter and order lattes, each with a robobaby wedged under her arm like an ugly Trapper Keeper.
A metallic noise comes from one of the robobabies.
“Ooh, mine’s hungry,” says the girl.
Her friend says, “Should I get caramel on my latte?” And giggles.
Screams are still coming from the Starbucks bathroom. I hear Robin say, “Eeeeeeewwww.”
Robobaby continues to whine. “Ugh,” says the girl. These are so annoying.”
“At least you like babies,” says the third.
Girl #1 smiles. “I totally love babies. I rule at this.”
And the girl at the register says, “Oooh, give me the shaved white chocolate on top. I’ll do Pilates later.”
Robobaby increases in pitch. He’s getting pissed.
“What does that take,” I ask, indicating Robobaby’s stoic face. “Formula? Or just water?”
She looks at me and I hide my shit-hands.
“Formula,” she says. “They’re kind of cool. Just like having a real baby.”
Her friend mutters, “Jackson is texting me. He’s such a jerk.”
The girls get their drinks and trundle off to a corner table, at which point they prop the babies against their backpacks on the floor and start to giggle loudly. Some time later, Robin emerges. Austin’s clothes are wet and wiped, but still not totally clean. He’s going to have to smell for the ride home, which hardly matters because the car seat has taken its abuse and is ready to dole out some olfactory abuse in return.
She says, “That was fun.”
I wash my hands and when I come out, Robin and Austin are watching the girls with the robobabies. One girl is texting on her cell phone while holding the robobaby upside-down under her arm, its head in her crotch.
“Those things are just like having a real baby,” I tell Robin.
She nods. “Just.”
Robobabies may be cool and all, but it took everything I had not to tell Girl #1 that if she wanted a glimpse of real motherhood, she could check out what was happening up to the elbows in crap on the tile floor of the bathroom.
Parenthood is gross. Good thing it comes with tax benefits.
Apparently my baby is having a stroke
So I’ve discovered this really awesome thing recently where it’s impossible to take a picture of my daughter without it looking like she’s having a stroke. It’s just one more irritating thing about digital cameras, the prime one being the way they take photos of action after it’s completed. I think I have a hundred shots of my son after he’s shot a basketball through a hoop and has stooped down to pick it up.
Like everything else about her, this characteristic seems to be growing with time. Here’s one from a few months back:
So not terrible, except that this isn’t what she actually looks like. I promise. She’s actually very cute most of the time. So I tried again:
And right about now, you’re thinking there’s a reason that my avatar has an apple over my face.
Here’s Halloween:
Better, right? And sort of moving in the right direction. Here she just looks kind of drunk, which is probably not even the case.
But then I took this one to show off her new hoodie…
…and it’s apparent she’s been hanging out with those Grateful Dead fans again.
I kind of figured I’m just not trying hard enough. She was eating a marker (great parenting, huh?) and I thought it was cute, so I figured I’d just keep taking shots until I got a good one.
Here’s what I got:
So at this point, it’s pretty clear that she’s fucking with me. I strode forth with bold new determination.
“Hey! Hey, you! What are you hiding?”
And she was like, “Dude, where’s the weed at?”
I’m thinking of starting an album. Maybe submitting to one of those baby photo contests. She’s totally going to sweep the awards, and then she’s going to take the money and go buy like fifty brownies and some Cheetos.
I’ve sort of given up. In fact, here’s next year’s Christmas card:
The funny thing is that she gets it from her brother. He’s got this cool way of smiling where it honestly looks like he has to be having a stroke.
She’s so going to hate me for this in twelve years.
Let's play Mad Libs
I like this idea in principle, and the question is going to be whether I can convert on the idea and make it actually funny. I really have no idea if that will happen or if this will turn into my blog’s many “WTF was he thinking?” moments.
Here’s how we play:
This will be a 2-day affair. I’ll write the Mad Lib today and will leave some blanks for you to fill in. I’ll number the blanks, and you fill them in within 24 hours by leaving your numbered responses in the comments section. Then, tomorrow, I’ll sort through your responses, note the good ones, and make fun of the bad ones.
For those of you reading this on Facebook, don’t reply there. Instead, just hop over to my blog and leave your answers there so that they’re all together for everyone to see.
Got it? This will either be really funny or it will suck nuts.
—-
Saturday was Valentine’s Day. My wife and I have two kids, so it’s not like we were going to get any _____________(1) with which to get all ________(2) and _________(3), but we also haven’t yet totally given up on the ___________(4) as both of our respective ___________(5) seem to have. This makes for a __________ ____________(6). Nothing spells ___________(7) like __________(8) at your son to ________(9) his damn __________(10) while your wife ignores you to _______(11) food into the ___________(12).
And what’s more, we no longer have any real idea how to __________________(13). The kids have so accustomed us to having a ________(14) of _________(15) during a meal that when we’re alone, it’s totally awkward like when you go out alone with __________(16) who you actually only know through ________(17), and without that other person there, you’re both all like, “Do you like cheese? Because I think it’s awesome. [Heavy silence.] So, clubbing seals is a bummer, huh?”
So we did the ____________(18) thing. We sent Austin off to stay with ___________(19) for the night, because he wasn’t going to dramatically alter the _____________(20) she was going to have with ____________(21) at Bob Evans. We had to keep the baby. Then we made chicken parmesan, opened a bottle of _____________(22), and ate it while watching Borat after she was asleep.
All in all, I’d have to say that ____________________(23).
I'm a little bit blocked
I was on a call the other day listening to Havi Brooks, and she proposed that many of us are stuck where we are due to blocks that interfere with the flow of energy through our bodies and beings. Blocks whisper in our ears, casting doubt. Havi said that if we take the time, we can find these blocks, talk to them, and get them to move along and unblock our Chi. (I don’t know that she used the word “Chi,” but I think that’s what she means and if not, it will work as my homage to Chi-Chi’s restaurant, may it rest in peace.)
And by the way, I know what some of you are thinking about all of this. But let me explain.
I’ve gotten more open-minded as I’ve gotten older. I’ve gotten into spirituality and meditation and general weirdness. But really, I didn’t used to be this way. Back in high school, I had this teacher who was all hippied out, and on her vacations she’d go and chain herself to new nuclear plants, and sometimes in class, she’d tell us about guided meditations she called “journeying,” where she’d mentally crawl through tunnels in the earth and talk with mind chipmunks and thought gophers and there’d be gremlins and leprechauns who’d try to stop her and we’d be all like, I’m totally not listening to anything she says today because she’s high on acid or glue or something.
So you can see just how far I’ve come, that I was willing to listen to a Yoga woman — whose business partner is a rubber duck — while she guided us through this little exploration.
I’m no good at group calls, mainly because I use the phone like a normal person. So I’m in my office, holding the phone to my ear, and Havi says, “Put your hands over your eyes, and make a tight seal so that if you were to open your eyes, you wouldn’t be able to see anything.”
I wedged the phone between my ear and my shoulder. Propped my elbows on my desk, laid my eyes over my hands. Squeezed. And the phone fell to the floor.
“Try to see what shapes or images are in the darkness, as if they’re on the insides of your eyelids,” Havi said.
The phone fell again. So I replaced it between ear and shoulder, squeezed it harder, and contorted so that most of my bodyweight was pressing my eyes down into my hands. And still I could see light. So I squeezed harder.
“Don’t be afraid to move if this becomes uncomfortable. You should be relaxing into this.”
“Becomes” uncomfortable.
What. The. Fuck.
Fortunately, there was a live chat going on at the same time. So I wrote:
JOHNNY_TRUANT: Are the rest of you finding it hard to hold the phone while doing this?
But there was no answer, because everyone else was following the visualization. Where would the block be? What would it look like? Try to talk to it. What is it saying?
JOHNNY_TRUANT: Anyone?
JOHNNY_TRUANT: My block is telling me that the rest of you are actually journeying through the earth, talking to leprechauns. And they’re all like, “Get away from me Lucky Charms!”
No bites. Apparently I was the only one who was teleclass retarded.
“Sometimes it will look like an actual block, like a cube. Sometimes a blob,” Havi said. “Let whatever comes, come. Do you see it?”
I ignored my discomfort and tried to relax, drifting into the darkness. Everyone else was well into it now, having considered the concept of a block, having felt for its location, having considered its message, and so on. I was way behind and willed myself to focus.
It was still. Quiet. And then I saw something inside, moving around. It was white and geometric-looking, pulsing with energy.
I asked it, Are you my block?
It became orange and changed shape as it said, YES.
My eyes opened. I looked at the chat window:
PERSON_A: I think my block is a big wedge.
PERSON_B: Mine is a big blue cube.
I added:
JOHNNY_TRUANT: My block is totally the “Bit” from Tron that kept floating around Jeff Bridges’ head while he was flying that thing that looked like a giant staple remover.
If you haven’t seen Tron, you’re really going to need the visual on this one. So here’s a really short scene from the movie so that you can catch up.
This was freaking me out. Because it was definitely in my head the same as those chipmunks were in the earth while my high school English teacher was doing a guided meditation and listening to Journey. When she wouldn’t stop believing because some day love will find you, break those chains that bind you.
JOHNNY_TRUANT: Do you think it’s all like light cycles and shit in there too? Because that would be a problem.
PERSON_B: Now my cube is smoking. It looks really pissed.
Everyone who knew better was wearing headphones, happily inside their own heads. I was missing out, losing all of the benefit of the exercise. I wedged the phone against my shoulder again, pressed my hands into my eyes, and tried to drift into the darkness.
Eventually, I saw it again.
I asked: Really, are you my block?
YES.
Are you keeping me stuck? Preventing me from achieving the success I’m looking for?
YES.
Why?
YES.
JOHNNY_TRUANT: My block is fucking with me.
PERSON_B: My cube is all silent now as it smokes its cigarette. I’m afraid to take my eyes off of it.
I tried to remember what Havi had said at the beginning, about blocks sticking us in place and feeding us doubt. She said that they weren’t there to shackle us, though. They just wanted to be heard. Like they thought they were keeping us safe. Tough love from the blocks. So I thought about what its purpose might be and closed my eyes.
Sometimes I don’t act when I think I should, I know I should do something but don’t. Is that you stopping me?
It flashed orange. YES.
Are you threatened by the thought of moving off in new, unexplored directions?
Red and spiky now: NO.
Then what is it? Why are you here?
YES.
Can we talk about it?
YES.
Is it fear of failure? Fear of success, even? What is it you’re here to tell me?
NO.
Did it ever strike you as obvious that all of the good programs were blue and that all of the bad ones were red, like Sark and the MCP were red and Tron was blue? Maybe a bit of a cliche?
YES.
It would probably be hard for spies to work there. You’d try to infiltrate the bad guys and they’d be like, “Fuck off; you’re blue.”
YES.
Who wrote that script, anyway?
NO.
The phone fell again, but by now, Havi was asking us to write about the block with our eyes open, to draw it, to keep the pen moving. Write about anything that popped into our heads; don’t censor. Unfortunately, I had been so uncomfortable during the process and so unnerved by my block’s cheekiness that I really hadn’t learned anything. At the end I had a bunch of bad drawings of the block and punch-up notes to improve the Tron script.
JOHNNY_TRUANT: My block bested me because I was so uncomfortable holding the phone during the process.
PERSON_A: Use a headset.
PERSON_B: Headset
PERSON_C: Use Skype and headphones.
PERSON_D: Don’t you have a headset?
JOHNNY_TRUANT: So I’m the only idiot here, looks like.
PERSON_B: If I disappear, I want everyone here to know that my block is a blue cube and is about five feet across.
I plan on searching for my block later on, without a phone wedged against my neck, while possibly listening to Journey. I’m going to ask it who was behind Tron 2.0, which was really terrible. I want to know who green-lighted that project. I’ll bet it knows the answer. I’ll bet it’s yes. Damn stupid yes, soiling the memory an iconic movie with oversold CGI and shitty writing.