Being the better dad

I’ll get it out of the way right now – we watched “My Dad is Better than Your Dad” last night.

I feel dirty admitting to the lack of television viewing judgment. I’d be better off admitting I watch midget ménage a trois on hotshortysex.com. Worse yet, I kind of enjoyed the show. In fact, I thought it was entertaining, and I’d watch again. Of course, I watch NASCAR not for the wrecks and TiVo “Dirty Jobs” to watch a dude root around in pig shit and bat vomit (folks I’m a UNLV grad, I can’t make that stuff up – seriously bat vomit! And I complain about letters discussing dog poo at the prison work camp). So, I may not be the best barometer for what makes good TV.

First off, Dan Cortese hosts the show. The last time I saw this dude he was Elaine Benes’ mimbo and was falling off a rock because George Costanza forgot to secure his rope (to George’s defense, he was fishing through his pack for the tuna sandwiches he promised – hunger over safety has always been my motto, too). He’s hyper, he’s annoying, he’s a little Jeff Probstish, and I think I’d rather shove golf tees into my ears than listen to him ask eight year olds how they feel after blowing their family’s chance at $50 Gs. I was waiting for the little girl, eyes welling with floppy tears, to tell Cortese to shove that microphone up his ass sideways and twist, but she took the safe way and said “I’m just glad I can do this with my daddy.”

Puke.

If my kid said that on the show, I’d disown Freeloader on the spot. When the munchkin is old enough to speak, I’ll sit the little bugger down to review our post game interview answers in case such an instance arises, like us being on an idiotic game show.

Cortese: “How do you feel Freeloader?”

Freeloader: “Well, Dan, it sucks donkey balls. What else can I say? It makes me want to crap my pants.”

Cortese: “Dad?”

Me: “Don’t look at me, Dan. He gets that competitive edge from his mother. If you don't watch out, (he/she) will take that mic, fart on it, and then shove it in your mouth.”

Did you watch “Double Dare” as a kid (or as an adult for my older reader(s))? That’s this show in a nutsack, without the green goop. The first event had the pops swinging sledgehammers on particleboard desks. The dads had to smash the desks, collect the bits and deposit it all in a clear tank. The team with the most weight in their tank wins. Never mind that the dads were all Mike Brady clones (well, except for the fact that they all appeared straight, evidence being that their wives were in the crowd) who didn’t know a sledge hammer from a drummel, they swung the hammers like they were John Henry.

Second up, and my favorite, was human dartboard. The gist was to hurl your kid at a dartboard painted on a Velcro wall while the kid tried to stick an arrow within a point circle. Nothing says fatherly love like sailing your spawn as if he/she was a 40-pound paper airplane. But all the kids wore smiles as wide as the Grand Canyon, so they must have been having fun. It prompted me to do the same in the nursery, and once Freeloader gets a few months old, we’ll practice on being accomplished human darts. Tiger Woods started golfing at 2, my kids will learn to stick to walls in half that time.

With the field whittled down to two teams, the final event is a mix of speed, agility and dexterity. The two dads competing were 0-for-3 on that mixture. The object was to fire tightly rolled newspapers at the opponent who was tasked with guarding three windows sectioned off into scoring squares. The opponent is armed with a tennis racket, a frying pan and looks like a SWAT team barfed its entire body armor cache onto the hapless dad. We have paper delivery people in Arizona, but never have I felt the need to grab a pan and a racket to protect the Compound. If we were under attack by a pissed off paperboy, I can guarantee you Mr. Louisville Slugger would be in my hand, not Mr. Faberware. That might just be me, though.

In the end, the dad had to answer questions about their son or daughter. The dunce up there last night missed two despite his little whelp standing across from him, able to give eye signals as the old man talked out his reasoning for his guess (why must they waste time talking through the question? What happened to the day when if you said anything other than the answer Alex Trabek would jab you in the eye with the clicker?).

But watching the show got me to thinking about our soon-to-be new arrival. Is this how kids act on the school yard? Do they taunt each other by comparing what their dads can do? If that’s the case, I best start kicking ass at something.

I think guzzling a six-pack of Natural Light in less than two minutes could earn the Freeloader some street cred at Montissori School.

“Who cares if your dad will pilot a rocket ship to Mars … my dad can drink him under the table and then will barf in his shoes.”

Yeah, I can see the kid propping his dad for that ability.

Birth plan

I took a peak at the Dodgers’ opening month for their 2008 World Title season.

And then I had a discussion with the uterus-stationed Freeloader, because the two of us had to hammer out some arrival details.

This is how my luck would run. You see, the Dodgers open the season at home against San Francisco March 31 on ESPN. That same day I fully expect the munchkin to be knock-knock-knocking at mommy’s door. So, there I’ll be, in the birthing room with Wife screaming at me and me screaming at Torre to yank Scott Proctor because the ass schmuck just walked the bases loaded. The game will be tied in the ninth inning, and that’s when the baby catcher (aka the Doc) will come in, shut off the TV as Russell Martin steps to the plate in the bottom of the ninth and announce it was time to drag this kid out of the oven.

So, I wanted to make sure the kid and I had an agreement.

Me: “Now, you know the Dodgers open on March 31 at home against the Gnats (that’s Dodger fan shorthand for the San Francisco Giants).”

Wife: “It’s listening. The kid just rolled toward your voice.”

Me: “Well, March 31 is out for undocking from the mother ship.”

Wife: “It’s kicking at the door.”

I’d explain what door that is, but after the videos I watched in our first birthing class Saturday I don’t think reader(s) need the visuals. Just picture the blast doors from Star Wars and you’ll have a damn good idea.

Me: “Now, the Dodgers’ first off day is April 3, a Thursday. That would be a fine day to come out. The next series kicks off their first road trip of the season, starting in San Diego. Not a bad start to your Dodger Fan Career.”

Wife: “Nothing on that one.”

Me: “OK, well you can’t come out on April 7. The Dodgers are coming to Arizona – yeah, that’s where you live, too – for the Diamondbacks’ season home opener and Mommy really wants to see the Big Blue Wrecking Crew live. Plus, I promised her an aisle seat field level. Now, you don’t want to disappoint Mommy, do you? She’ll get all weepy and cry and probably pollute your milk supply by drinking a shot of jager and chasing it with a gallon of irrigation. She’s vindictive that way. Believe you me.

Wife (glaring for some unknown reason – must be the “pregnancy thing”): “Yeah, you just gave it the hiccups.”

Me: “After that three game series – that’s just a bad time to come all around as mommy wants catch all three games live – they are off April 10. I think that’s really your best day to arrive, kid. This way we can open then next home stand watching the Dodgers play the Padres. The benefit is that you can hear Vin Scully call a game. It really is something magical when you hear him call the action. Your mind is a sponge at your age, so you’ll learn bucket fulls earlier than your old man did.”

Wife: “It just punched to the right.”

Me: “Get the freeloader to use its left hand more. We need that lefty pitcher, so it can care for us in our diaper-wearing years. OK, pal, if those days don’t work the next week is really wide open. The best day is April 17, which is another off day. However, if you want to check out from Hotel Uterus before that day, it’s cool, they’re just playing Pittsburgh.”

So, for those of you thinking about joining the baby pool (or considering a second pick - it's just another $2, folks) – at http://www.wheredidweparkthecamel.com/ - that’s a little inside information to help you out.

Do you want fries with your gun?

“Tombstone” is one of my favorite movies. I’m a sucker for westerns to begin with, and couple that with Kurt Russell’s overall coolness and you have fine cinema right there, my friends.

The quick and dirty synopsis of the flick is the Earps – that would be famed lawman Wyatt and his bros (along with their hoes) – move to Tombstone, Arizona, after fighting bad guys in black hats in Dodge City, Kansas. Within minutes of stepping off the coach in Tombstone, the Earps witness a shootout on main street.

Welcome to Arizona, Mr. and Mrs. Earp.

It’s no secret, the Grand Canyon state is one of those states that earned its wild west reputation. However, I thought that aura had long blown away with the wind like a tumbling tumbleweed. We’re in the 21st century for Gods sake, the cowboys and Indians of the 1880s are now home developers and casino moguls.

Then I read this story:

PHOENIX — With the state's restaurants no longer opposed, a Senate panel agreed Wednesday to let Arizonans carry their pistols into places where they eat lunch, even if liquor is sold there.

The 4-2 vote by the Senate Committee on Commerce and Economic Development came after the bill was written so weapons would be allowed only in restaurants where the owner or manager first posts a sign specifically permitting patrons to be armed.

Also, the scope of the allowable weapons was narrowed to sidearms, eliminating the possibility that diners could bring in their rifles and shotguns.

No word on where Arizonans can hitch their horses. I guess the legislature didn’t get that far.

So, let me get this straight, in the near future I can pack heat when ordering a chimichanga at Macayo’s? This has bad news written all over it, folks.

Diner to waitress, “Excuse me, we’ve been waiting for our meal for 20 minutes.”

Waitress: “Well, sir, we’re extremely busy tonight. But I’ll personally check with the cook and let you know how much longer.”

Diner: “No need, ma’am, I’ll just mosey on back and put a cap in your cook’s ass with my handy-dandy glock. That’ll speed him up.”

The best part of this bill is that Arizona’s lawmakers – my lawmakers – eliminated the opportunity for patrons to bring in shotguns and rifles, which means they initially included that nugget in the bill. Can you imagine sitting down with the family for a nice Italian dinner Olive Garden, meanwhile the couple next to you has a pair of sawed-off double barrel shotguns sitting on and empty seat – within arms reach, of course.

Seriously, they had to discuss whether to include shotguns and rifles in this bill? You ask me whether Joe Schmoe Arizonan should be toting a bazooka inside a favorite eatery and there's no discussion. What kind of trouble are you expecting that you need a deer rifle strapped to your back while choosing between a scoop cookie dough and mint chocolate chip ice cream at Baskin-Robbins?

But I guess you never know what’s about to go down while you lapping a bowl of Pasta Fagioli, your personal arsenal must be near your person. Woe to the person who backs into you on those Olive Garden rolling chairs. If it’s me, I’ll go John McClain on their ass and unload both barrels.

And after the smoke settles and I clean the linguini and clam sauce off Wife’s shirt, I’ll tell the hapless wild west victim: “Welcome to Arizona, pardner.”

Snotty attitude

My nose is a giant snot bubble.

My throat feels like I’ve swallowed 40-grit sandpaper.

My joints are creaking and my head is awash in mucoussy fuzziness.

I’m sick, and no amount of Kleenex (Ultra Soft because Wife care’s about my delicate sniffer) will soak up the liquefied boogers leaking from my schnoz. Believe me, I’m trying to evacuate the backup with blows that would shatter windows but all I get is a meager trace and the sensation of more junk filling in the empty sinus cavities.

I hate colds. Give me a good case of the flu that keeps me in bed, sweating and shivering while nausea racks my insides. I’ll take that over the need to blow my nose every two minutes.

It was 50 degrees Sunday morning, but that didn’t stop me or a few others from hitting the field for a little pre-Super Bowl football. My uniform, however, wasn’t conducive to the Green Bay-like conditions in the Valley of the “Sun.” When Wife asked me to throw on pants, I shrugged her off with my handy refrain, “Woman, I’ll work myself up into a froth in no time. Shorts will be fine.”

I’ve used that answer before – re: hiking in Flagstaff – with similar results: a head full of snot that hangs around for a week.

At least she’s not the type of spouse to say, “I told you so.”

In fact, she likes to remind me of that attribute, “Aren’t you glad I’m not the kind of wife to say ‘I told you so?’”

“Yes dear,” is all I can say. Being run down from the cold coupled with her pregnancy, I’m not on my game enough to argue. So, I slink back to the sick wing of the Compound, where Wife stores me and my gaggle of germs.

It wouldn’t be so bad down there either if Wife didn’t cellophane the door to keep the snot cells from mutating and parading down the hall to “her” bedroom.

I have feeling she’ll come home today and ask, “Come to the car dear, I have a present for you,” and there will be my new home – a plastic bubble with two holes at the bottom for my legs.
That would be a gift of love.

Motivation my ass

These thoughts come to me every few months, notably when the Prison Work Camp shits on my last nerve, and I realize there’s more to life than working for the man to pay the man.

I head into the thinking room (stall No. 1 in the Prison Work Camp crapper) and ponder life. I’m sure Nietchze did his best thinking in the can as well.

And on those days when I realize I am meant for bigger and better things than reading the editorial ramblings of dementia-eroded seniors, I screw up the shreds of motivation within my five-foot-five frame and tell myself I have to get working.

But telling and doing are two different things.

I can talk to myself until I’m blue in the balls, but until my ass hits the office chair and I click off the newest midget porn video writing only gets done in theory. Professors and teachers said we had to work to get results. That’s for humps, I told myself. And then I’d find myself punching keys at 3 a.m. the night before deadline, hoping to pass off a half-ass clean copy and pray for a B.

From grade school to this very day I could find a distraction. My head would say write, my ass, however, would say one more cartoon, one more inning, one more comic book, one more game of Strato-matic, one more chapter of this fantasy novel, one more video game, one more Web site, one more online image of a chick blowing a … you get the idea. I’m sure you get the idea, as I’ve only blogged twice over the past two weeks. Hell, I'm most motivated to clean when I know there's writing to be done.

So here I am, today, realizing that with a Freeloader less than 3 months away my goal of being a published author still remains out of reach. At this point, that goal might as well be out of reach like being an all-star second baseman for the Los Angeles Dodgers.

Don’t get me wrong, I know this sounds like I’m a depressed schmuck looking for a) sympathy; b) pity; c) affirmation that it’s OK not write everyday; d) all of the above; but let me assure you I couldn’t be more satisfied with life. I married my best friend who supports me even when I fart on her in bed (on accident – mind you) and turn our groove den (the bedroom) into an olfactory jihad thanks to that third chili dog she warned me against. And we’re bringing a future Dodger/Charger fan into the world, to boot. How can I be disappointed with life?

No, my lack of motivation has nothing to do with depression. It’s about time and not wanting to waste it. We are raised to strive for our dreams, to work for them. But those butt heads who told us that forgot to mention how much hard work really is involved. Oh, they allude to it, but they don’t convince us. They didn’t convince me, until now.

So here’s my promise to myself, and the four or five readers who check out this site, I’m going to write more – try every day in some capacity, Captain Slacker – even if the words rival nothing more than a four-year-olds letter to Santa Claus. That’s an attainable goal, isn’t it?

Whew! Now I’m bushed. It’s time to waste some time.