OK, I know, it's been a week since my last post. But no need to worry, I'm back. Thanks for your concern.
The last game of the World Series is one of the saddest days of the years for me. Even if the Boys of Bummer (the Dodgers) just so happened to be in the world's series - fat chance the way ownership is running the team (really is Koko the sign-language signing gorilla running the show in Chavez Ravine?) - and they just so happened to win (Louis Anderson-sized fat chance) all the marbles in Major League Baseball land (a dude can dream, can't he?) I think there'd be a little piece that'd be sad on that final day of the baseball season.
However, this year that pain was eased - without the aid of beer, a high ball and an I-10-long line of coke, mind you - for a couple reasons.
First, I watched the Chargers win their third straight. They appeared dominating on offense and defense. And I didn't hear nary a chant for Norv Turner's pocked-mark, wrinkling ass. This is a far different team, I think, from that squad I watched at Qualcomm on Sept. 30 (my birthday if you needed a reminder, and just 335 more shopping days remaining if you're curious). The defense is aggressive and forcing the opposition into bad decisions much like they did last year. Shawne Merriman is getting better in pass defense, turning him into an all around player, which should scare the bejeezus out of everyone else in The League. Matt Wilhelm has shown how much the team actually missed him on the field, which is crazy since this is his first year as a starter. And the secondary is more fly paper than rice paper, taking away the big plays and gluing themselves to receiver routes.
And LT has found room to run. The most beautiful runner (I'm secure enough in my dudeness to say so) in the NFL has been given that space to gallop once more and defenses are playing catch up, remembering "yeah, this guy is good." Nabbing Chris Chambers for a Charger cheerleader blow job from Miami also helped. These guys are fun to watch on the computer.
I say "on the computer" because that's how I had to watch the game this weekend, on the friggin' computer (I could have gone to a bar, but I'm cheap these days and my beer selection is just as good). And not a TV feed like Dodger games. Oh no, the NFL isn't that Net savvy. Really, should I expect anything less from an organization that strives to suck the game dry of fun. So, I watched the game through NFL.com's "game center." It's not much different than playing those video games back in the day that was text based with just enough graphics for you think it was the shit ("Look at what these computer programmers can do.") Nowadays, sport video games put you so much in the action you have to wear a helmet and pads lest you get clobbered diving in the brick fireplace to avoid a Merriman sack.
And why was I forced to an Internet site that updates plays once a beer (that's how I measure time during a football game) because I live in Phoenix and the Chargers are about as relevant hear as ice scrapers for windshields. Nevermind that the two cities are just 200-and-some-odd miles away and the city's team was on the by (saving the Cardinals from another embarassing loss - wow, and I though the Chargers lost in spectacular ways, the Birds are the Van Gogh's of losing) - I was still stuck with only the Aints and 69ers on the NFC channel. Not even a sniff of the AFC. Typically, if the Birds are playing, we get that game, and only that game. I think it's Phoenix's little brainwashing exercise - "conformity breeds peacefulness, so you'll like the Cardinals and not disrupt the city's mojo" - forcing us to either watch their football team or reruns of Dharma and Greg. The latter isn't such a bad choice when considering the former, but I digress.
The second reason the final day of the baseball season wasn't so sad this year is because I believe I turned Wife into a baseball fan. Her diatribe regarding a desire to wipe Boston off the face of the earth as retribution for them knocking out her team, the Cleveland Indians, is pure baseball fandom. I've been saying I'd like to do the same to San Francisco for oh about 30 years, but I'm a product of public schools, so I'm not smart enough to build such a city extinguisher. Wife, on the other hand, went to a pair of Catholic schools, so you know she has the brain power to mix Bisquik with asparagus spears, creating a super weaspon that would shower hell fire on Fenway Park (and if we asked nicely) Foxboro Stadium as well. We're lucky she's on our side, folks.
She has been telling our friends how much she's enjoyed watching the baseball playoffs with moi. I guess, with no real allegiance to any of the suck ass teams in the baseball playoffs this year I actually sit and explain the game to her. Apparently, and this is Wife's words, I'm too intense when the Dodgers are on. Apparently I don't explain why the Dodger hitter chose to strikeout instead of hitting a 3-run homer or why the Dodger pitcher decided to hit the batter with a 1-2 changeup. Apparently, when my team is playing golf in the Bahamas and I'm watching some other squad on my TV, I sit back and analyze the game for her. We rewound some plays, and I told her what would likely happen after the Colorado Rockies bunted a runner over to third with less than two outs against the Diamondbacks.
That was the coolest part. Well, that, and making fun of Asdrubal (Ass dribble) Caberra's first name.
In a few years, Freeloader Melissa will get the same tutorial, likely when I'm watching the playoffs and the Dodgers are playing golf in the Bahamas. (Man, I hope that's like 20 years from now - ha!)
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Smoke on the water
It's 20-something years later so forgive me if my memory is hazier than Southern California's skies right now.
I must have been six or seven and I woke up after one of those kid nightmares that has you calling bloody murder for mommy and daddy. There were firefighters burning, and our house was engulfed in flames. I was following Dear Ma-Ma up the stairs, flames licking at the cuffs of my Superman PJ bottoms. My sister, all of three years old was there, wild-eyed fear twisting her face into a gruesome mask that was illuminated by the flames around us. Then I was screaming, and Ma and Pop were scrambling down the steps to make sure the cat wasn't strangling me (damn cat always had it in for me).
When Ma asked me what my dream was about I talked about the fire raging up the mountain from Palm Desert, east of Idyllwild. I worried about it reaching our house, and I was scared for the firefighters. All these thoughts about the fire were courtesy of TV news wonks and the orange, smoke-smelling hue the sky cast over our little town. At seven years old, when your girls have cooties and the number of Hot Wheels you owned correlated to your popularity in second grade, something so foreign as walking into your back yard to see ash dripping from the sky and the air smelling like God (or your higher power of choice - say Al Pacino) is BBQing a brontosaurus burger is scarier than the six-foot tall cockroach shadow (cast by the Chewbacca cardboard statue) you see when mom and pop turn off the lights for bed.
They didn't shelter me from the bad news that was overplayed by the media. Hell, I remember the Day Counter ABC News ran for the hostages in Iran (I know ... I'm old with a capital O). That's tough shit to digest when you're seven. I kept asking why don't they just sneak out a window when the guards aren't looking. See, I was even a problem solver back then.
I'm not saying Mom and Pop handled that rightly or wrongly - dinner time was news time, that's just how it was back then - it comes down to you can either hide the munchkins in a bomb shelter and let them emerge 18 years later (that works if Alicia Silverstone greets you at the door) or let them face the world's scariness and try to explain what's going on (that's how Wife handles me, so she's set for the Freeloader).
Every time fire season kicks up in SoCal I think back to that night when Mom explained that we were safe because the firefighters were the best in the world and they wouldn't let the fire get to our home. I guess that was good enough for me because I don't remember the rest of the conversation.
Today it was in the forefront of my bean more than other years because Wife, Freeloader and I had our second doc appointment - the heart beat visit. After the doc yanked away the microphone from my Mick Jagger grip as I karaoked "I can't get no satisfaction" she pressed it to Wife's belly and a few seconds later there was that rat-a-tat-tat of the Freeloader's heart beat ("Watch out Ringo, I think my Fish will kick your ass on the skins!"). Hearing that sound - that healthy sound - brought the reality of parenthood that little closer to home, too. It made me think, what would I tell my freeloader if it saw hell closing in on where grandma and grandpa and the aunts and uncles live? Would I mislead and lie, or straight shoot it as much as a four-year-old can take?
One of my favorite blog authors - Dad Gone Mad - gave me a hint on how to handle things, but I'm not sure if it's the right way. What do younguns (under 6) gain from not hearing the truth? Obviously not the whole "truth" handed to us by TV news, but I also believe they have a right to know that something dangerous is out there and we have to be careful. And with that said, the people working on controlling these bastard fires (oh, c'mon, the kid is going to hear bad words sooner or later ) are doing the best they can to keep everyone safe - yes, even Mr. Woofy the stuffed orange dog. Here's what Dad Gone Mad said, "It's hard to keep the kids from being scared, but the best way is to shield them from the televised images of crying people, burning homes and flummoxed public figures trying to be helpful. We rented Cheaper By The Dozen 2. The kids have watched it nine times."
TV news is to intense, and muddied by station managers' political ties, and like he says the images don't help calming the kids down. That job has to fall on the parent. Me and Wife ... well Wife, because I'll be running around the house screaming, "They're all going to burn. Why have you forsaken them Al Pacino?"
Hmmm, on second thought, that might not help. This Father shit is hard.
Stay safe friends and relatives, we're thinking of you guys and we're a phone call away if you need anything.
I must have been six or seven and I woke up after one of those kid nightmares that has you calling bloody murder for mommy and daddy. There were firefighters burning, and our house was engulfed in flames. I was following Dear Ma-Ma up the stairs, flames licking at the cuffs of my Superman PJ bottoms. My sister, all of three years old was there, wild-eyed fear twisting her face into a gruesome mask that was illuminated by the flames around us. Then I was screaming, and Ma and Pop were scrambling down the steps to make sure the cat wasn't strangling me (damn cat always had it in for me).
When Ma asked me what my dream was about I talked about the fire raging up the mountain from Palm Desert, east of Idyllwild. I worried about it reaching our house, and I was scared for the firefighters. All these thoughts about the fire were courtesy of TV news wonks and the orange, smoke-smelling hue the sky cast over our little town. At seven years old, when your girls have cooties and the number of Hot Wheels you owned correlated to your popularity in second grade, something so foreign as walking into your back yard to see ash dripping from the sky and the air smelling like God (or your higher power of choice - say Al Pacino) is BBQing a brontosaurus burger is scarier than the six-foot tall cockroach shadow (cast by the Chewbacca cardboard statue) you see when mom and pop turn off the lights for bed.
They didn't shelter me from the bad news that was overplayed by the media. Hell, I remember the Day Counter ABC News ran for the hostages in Iran (I know ... I'm old with a capital O). That's tough shit to digest when you're seven. I kept asking why don't they just sneak out a window when the guards aren't looking. See, I was even a problem solver back then.
I'm not saying Mom and Pop handled that rightly or wrongly - dinner time was news time, that's just how it was back then - it comes down to you can either hide the munchkins in a bomb shelter and let them emerge 18 years later (that works if Alicia Silverstone greets you at the door) or let them face the world's scariness and try to explain what's going on (that's how Wife handles me, so she's set for the Freeloader).
Every time fire season kicks up in SoCal I think back to that night when Mom explained that we were safe because the firefighters were the best in the world and they wouldn't let the fire get to our home. I guess that was good enough for me because I don't remember the rest of the conversation.
Today it was in the forefront of my bean more than other years because Wife, Freeloader and I had our second doc appointment - the heart beat visit. After the doc yanked away the microphone from my Mick Jagger grip as I karaoked "I can't get no satisfaction" she pressed it to Wife's belly and a few seconds later there was that rat-a-tat-tat of the Freeloader's heart beat ("Watch out Ringo, I think my Fish will kick your ass on the skins!"). Hearing that sound - that healthy sound - brought the reality of parenthood that little closer to home, too. It made me think, what would I tell my freeloader if it saw hell closing in on where grandma and grandpa and the aunts and uncles live? Would I mislead and lie, or straight shoot it as much as a four-year-old can take?
One of my favorite blog authors - Dad Gone Mad - gave me a hint on how to handle things, but I'm not sure if it's the right way. What do younguns (under 6) gain from not hearing the truth? Obviously not the whole "truth" handed to us by TV news, but I also believe they have a right to know that something dangerous is out there and we have to be careful. And with that said, the people working on controlling these bastard fires (oh, c'mon, the kid is going to hear bad words sooner or later ) are doing the best they can to keep everyone safe - yes, even Mr. Woofy the stuffed orange dog. Here's what Dad Gone Mad said, "It's hard to keep the kids from being scared, but the best way is to shield them from the televised images of crying people, burning homes and flummoxed public figures trying to be helpful. We rented Cheaper By The Dozen 2. The kids have watched it nine times."
TV news is to intense, and muddied by station managers' political ties, and like he says the images don't help calming the kids down. That job has to fall on the parent. Me and Wife ... well Wife, because I'll be running around the house screaming, "They're all going to burn. Why have you forsaken them Al Pacino?"
Hmmm, on second thought, that might not help. This Father shit is hard.
Stay safe friends and relatives, we're thinking of you guys and we're a phone call away if you need anything.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
I'm gonna rock this town
The prison work camp gave me a week furlough and I've used it to do one thing ... work.
Nothing like getting away from work to work.
What happened to vacations? They used to be cool. I remember those days when the parental units would pose our yearly vacation to Lil' Sis and I. We'd hover over the dinner table like rabid hyenas as ma threw down three McDonald's burgers - to say they were little cheap is like saying Nathan Lane is just a little gay; and these were not the Big Macs mind you, just those asphalt-flavored cardboard-thin patties - and the four of us would battle, the last two losers having to share the third burger (and you wonder why my competitive spirit goes into overdrive when I'm playing Sorry!). Then Pop would drain his Old Milwaukee, clank the side of it with the plastic spork Ma stole from Mickey Ds and belch to get our attention (it's a pretty officious burp, if I may say so, and I aspire to teach my soon-to-be-here youngun to deliver with the same gusto).
"This year, whelps, we're going to..." Ma would drum on her two empty Boons bottles to gather excitement. Sis and I would bounc like baby kangaroos after a half dozen Red Bulls, "Mono Lake, California. We're camping."
"Again? Do we have to catch our own food again while you and Ma head into town?"
Those were vacations - if you call setting up tents, fighting off the kamikaze bugs intent on sucking the last vile of blood from my left calf and starting fires to stay warm a vacation (all that was missing on these camping trips was Jeff Probst telling us "in this game fire represents life"). This, working like a Arizona Department of Transportation road construction hump, is not.
Take yesterday, for example. Because I'm a cheap bastard not willing to shell out a few bones for new ones, I moved some dirty pink rock from my back yard to fill gaps in my front yard rocks. It didn't dawn on me that maybe the rocks from the back were dirty and lost their vibrancy years ago compared to the bright hue of those stones up front. As I began to desegregate the rock colors, mixing in the old with the old, I noticed the color became a muddy shade of pink rather than a stream of muted rose-petal pink (damn right, I know my pinks and I'm OK with that, so back off homophobes). I thought the dirty rocks from the back were claiming pockets of land for themselves rather than playing nicely and melding in with the others. The plan worked about as well as a castrated dude in a sperm bank, I took three loads from the back to the front and was still left with gaping space of dirt among pink rocks. Either way you cut it, I'm going to be cutting a check for more rock. That hurts. If there's one thing I'm morally opposed to, besides the Chicago Cubs winning the World Series (baseball is better with them always losing, everything needs a whipping boy), it's buying something that is everywhere. Hell, if you live out here and have pink rock, I might just pack up the Green Machine and swipe your stones for my yard. Consider yourself warned.
I get that from Pop (cheapness, not stealing rocks), I think, along with this desire for yard work. As I was wheeling out that last load of stone I realized this project wasn't any different than when he wanted to level our basement floor. Most homes in Idyllwild were built up with foundations comprised of cement blocks and mortar leveling the home from there, not on cement pads as in the city. This often meant sloping dirt basements. That's what we had a half-level dirt basement, with other the half creating a crevice wide enough to hide a buffalo. His bright idea was to fill that slope with dirt so our basement would be level, and even create a room of which I could move into (his real feelings revealed if you ask me - just hide me away like Sloth from "The Goonies", and also a plan that never materialized).
It was a weekend project that took two weeks and a lot of swearing. I owe my colorful vocabulary to those two weeks. With Pop wielding the pick axe like he was John Henry the steel driving man and me throwing endless shovel fulls of dirt into the hole, we moved like hunting team consisting of a platypus and a mountain lion. He only caught me a dozen times playing tic-tac-toe in the dirt with the toe of my Traxx.
Dude even had a level so he could tell me how far we were from being done. And believe me, I tried to cheat that shit.
"Come here Pop, I think we're done. That bubble's ass is sitting dead-on balls center," I said, not telling him that I had shoved a stick under one side and covered the said implement with dirt to camouflage my sneakiness.
"Uh-huh," he said, downing another Old Milwaukee. "Let's see what happens when I shove this stick here up your nose?"
I did my share of complaining then, as I do now, but when I get out there and the sweats running down my ass and my hands are dirtier than proctologists I can't help but find myself enjoying the work. Back then, behind the veneer of kid anger for being forced to work on a weekend while my friends were running through town looting gift shops, I think I enjoyed that time with Pop. And now, as I gear up for some more landscaping detail tomorrow, I can see my own freeloader playing on grounds I groomed for it and hope to one day shove a pick in his or her hand and yell, "get to work, whelp! I got beer to drink."
Ah, such fond memories.
Nothing like getting away from work to work.
What happened to vacations? They used to be cool. I remember those days when the parental units would pose our yearly vacation to Lil' Sis and I. We'd hover over the dinner table like rabid hyenas as ma threw down three McDonald's burgers - to say they were little cheap is like saying Nathan Lane is just a little gay; and these were not the Big Macs mind you, just those asphalt-flavored cardboard-thin patties - and the four of us would battle, the last two losers having to share the third burger (and you wonder why my competitive spirit goes into overdrive when I'm playing Sorry!). Then Pop would drain his Old Milwaukee, clank the side of it with the plastic spork Ma stole from Mickey Ds and belch to get our attention (it's a pretty officious burp, if I may say so, and I aspire to teach my soon-to-be-here youngun to deliver with the same gusto).
"This year, whelps, we're going to..." Ma would drum on her two empty Boons bottles to gather excitement. Sis and I would bounc like baby kangaroos after a half dozen Red Bulls, "Mono Lake, California. We're camping."
"Again? Do we have to catch our own food again while you and Ma head into town?"
Those were vacations - if you call setting up tents, fighting off the kamikaze bugs intent on sucking the last vile of blood from my left calf and starting fires to stay warm a vacation (all that was missing on these camping trips was Jeff Probst telling us "in this game fire represents life"). This, working like a Arizona Department of Transportation road construction hump, is not.
Take yesterday, for example. Because I'm a cheap bastard not willing to shell out a few bones for new ones, I moved some dirty pink rock from my back yard to fill gaps in my front yard rocks. It didn't dawn on me that maybe the rocks from the back were dirty and lost their vibrancy years ago compared to the bright hue of those stones up front. As I began to desegregate the rock colors, mixing in the old with the old, I noticed the color became a muddy shade of pink rather than a stream of muted rose-petal pink (damn right, I know my pinks and I'm OK with that, so back off homophobes). I thought the dirty rocks from the back were claiming pockets of land for themselves rather than playing nicely and melding in with the others. The plan worked about as well as a castrated dude in a sperm bank, I took three loads from the back to the front and was still left with gaping space of dirt among pink rocks. Either way you cut it, I'm going to be cutting a check for more rock. That hurts. If there's one thing I'm morally opposed to, besides the Chicago Cubs winning the World Series (baseball is better with them always losing, everything needs a whipping boy), it's buying something that is everywhere. Hell, if you live out here and have pink rock, I might just pack up the Green Machine and swipe your stones for my yard. Consider yourself warned.
I get that from Pop (cheapness, not stealing rocks), I think, along with this desire for yard work. As I was wheeling out that last load of stone I realized this project wasn't any different than when he wanted to level our basement floor. Most homes in Idyllwild were built up with foundations comprised of cement blocks and mortar leveling the home from there, not on cement pads as in the city. This often meant sloping dirt basements. That's what we had a half-level dirt basement, with other the half creating a crevice wide enough to hide a buffalo. His bright idea was to fill that slope with dirt so our basement would be level, and even create a room of which I could move into (his real feelings revealed if you ask me - just hide me away like Sloth from "The Goonies", and also a plan that never materialized).
It was a weekend project that took two weeks and a lot of swearing. I owe my colorful vocabulary to those two weeks. With Pop wielding the pick axe like he was John Henry the steel driving man and me throwing endless shovel fulls of dirt into the hole, we moved like hunting team consisting of a platypus and a mountain lion. He only caught me a dozen times playing tic-tac-toe in the dirt with the toe of my Traxx.
Dude even had a level so he could tell me how far we were from being done. And believe me, I tried to cheat that shit.
"Come here Pop, I think we're done. That bubble's ass is sitting dead-on balls center," I said, not telling him that I had shoved a stick under one side and covered the said implement with dirt to camouflage my sneakiness.
"Uh-huh," he said, downing another Old Milwaukee. "Let's see what happens when I shove this stick here up your nose?"
I did my share of complaining then, as I do now, but when I get out there and the sweats running down my ass and my hands are dirtier than proctologists I can't help but find myself enjoying the work. Back then, behind the veneer of kid anger for being forced to work on a weekend while my friends were running through town looting gift shops, I think I enjoyed that time with Pop. And now, as I gear up for some more landscaping detail tomorrow, I can see my own freeloader playing on grounds I groomed for it and hope to one day shove a pick in his or her hand and yell, "get to work, whelp! I got beer to drink."
Ah, such fond memories.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Charged up ... but I'm not watching
Maybe the pressure got them on Sept. 30.
With a sell out crowd and everyone from Bob Costas to the hooker on Van Buren Street in Phoenix who flashes her hoo-hoo at every passing driver while simultaneously pulling her found leaopard-print g-string out of her crack picking the Chargers to beat the K.C. Chefs in San Diego, the Bolts laid an egg the size of a hemorrhoid found on Rosie O'Donnell's ass.
31-16. SIXTEEN! At home, against an team that, through the first three weeks, scored a whopping 23 points. It was a pathetic display of football, and I've seen plenty of bad football - I've been a Charger fan since the 1981-82 season, it's doesn't take the dude from "A Beautiful Mind" to do the math here. Hell, I fully admit to joining the chorus of "Marty" chants near the end of the game before changing my tune and chanting "Ronny," the linebacker coach - Ron Rivera - who the Chargers landed after interviewing him for the head coaching spot that went to Nerv Turner.
I watched the first four games this season: the opener at home in full Charger gear (a win), the second at home in full Charger gear (an embarrasing loss to a cheat-free New England squad), the third at a "Charger bar" (a loss to Green friggin' Bay, which is not even close talent wise to the Chargers. Oh, and memo to other Phoenix Bolf fans, just because the bar franchise says its from San Diego doesn't make it a Charger bar since I was the only Bolt fan in the joint), and finished September with that razor-blade enema in San Diego.
After Week 3, I said I'd give Nerv the benefit of the doubt for six weeks. After Week 4, I vowed to not watch the Chargers the next week. No bar, no searching on the radio, no month-long Internet purchase. I might check on their progress, but I wasn't going to sit down and watch. That must have taken the pressure off.
The result: 41-3 Bolts, over the Donkeys, in Denver.
They never win in Denver. I wore my LT T-shirt and SD hat, but I didn't give the game half a glance. In fact, I took Wife to the movies during the first half. Why tempt myself, I figured, get out of the house and let the boys do the work stress free.
Rejuvenated, re-energized, re-invigorated with optimism I internally debated on whether to stop at a bar to catch the Bolts-Raiders yesterday. What could it hurt? The Raiders were not a "real" first place team and the Chargers were playing better based on last week's performance. Oh no, I told myself, we've seen this before. Just when they start playing well, the Bolts revert to form and find more ways to lose than the Arizona Cardinals.
So, I stayed away. Caught another movie ("3:10 to Yuma" is worth your $10, by-the-by) and wandered by the computer to check the Chargers progress around 3 p.m. By that point, the score was 21-7 and the Chargers were playing like the Chargers we've come to expect.
What I didn't know is that I wield so much power. Word gets back to LT and Phillip and Gatesyand Shawne and Shaun that I'm not looking and they start playing like Superbowl champs. I start watching and they clench up tighter 16-year-old virgin boy about to lose his flower (not speaking from experience, really, I'm not, really, really, really). So, where does that leave me? The Chargers are my outlet for the winter. If I can't watch them on Sundays, that will leave me with afternoons of Lifetime channel movies and honestly, I'd rather skewer my eyeballs, roast 'em over the grill and douse them with Tabasco than watch Meredith Baxter Birney and Tracy Gold weep their way through two hours of melodrama. Either that or I watch extreme kickball on ESPN 8 "the Ocho." That's doable, I suppose.
Then again, if that's what it takes for the Bolts to bring home a title, maybe I should suck it up and stay away. "If you love something set it free," that's what my Pop said as I left for college. Maybe I should let the Bolts go free. That would be fair for the rest of Charger fans, who the players obviously don't care about because they don't freeze up like Angela's cat (if you don't know that reference, start watching The Office NOW! No excuses! If you don't have a TV, I'll come to your house and act out all the parts because this show is that important to pop culture ... and then I'll steal your valuable and rape your cat inside your home). They played hard and smart yesterday, for 60-something-thousand fans and umpteen thousands on television, but one of which was not me. I was the difference. I am the reason for the win (cue the evil laugh).
There's precedence for such extreme measures. Last year (2006), I proclaimed the Dodgers dead in late July and didn't watch for a week. They started a stretch where they won 16 of their next 17 and went on to earn a wild card berth in the playoffs (they finished tied for first with the Padres). I take credit for that late season Charge. Of course, I tried that this year and where did it land me? Gnashing my teeth as I watch two fellow N.L. West squads squaring off in the National League Championship Series.
As fortune has it, they have a bye week Sunday, so this "what is best for the group?" question won't plague me. After that I could foresee the next few games being on television out this way (Houston, Minnesota and Indianapolis). I just hope there are reruns of "The Cosby Show" or "Sanford and Son" on somewhere so I'm not subjected to MBB parading around the screen in a nighty that would look better on a 20-something-year-old Jessica Alba instead of the 50-something-year-old ma from "Family Ties."
Then again, I thought she was hot back then...
With a sell out crowd and everyone from Bob Costas to the hooker on Van Buren Street in Phoenix who flashes her hoo-hoo at every passing driver while simultaneously pulling her found leaopard-print g-string out of her crack picking the Chargers to beat the K.C. Chefs in San Diego, the Bolts laid an egg the size of a hemorrhoid found on Rosie O'Donnell's ass.
31-16. SIXTEEN! At home, against an team that, through the first three weeks, scored a whopping 23 points. It was a pathetic display of football, and I've seen plenty of bad football - I've been a Charger fan since the 1981-82 season, it's doesn't take the dude from "A Beautiful Mind" to do the math here. Hell, I fully admit to joining the chorus of "Marty" chants near the end of the game before changing my tune and chanting "Ronny," the linebacker coach - Ron Rivera - who the Chargers landed after interviewing him for the head coaching spot that went to Nerv Turner.
I watched the first four games this season: the opener at home in full Charger gear (a win), the second at home in full Charger gear (an embarrasing loss to a cheat-free New England squad), the third at a "Charger bar" (a loss to Green friggin' Bay, which is not even close talent wise to the Chargers. Oh, and memo to other Phoenix Bolf fans, just because the bar franchise says its from San Diego doesn't make it a Charger bar since I was the only Bolt fan in the joint), and finished September with that razor-blade enema in San Diego.
After Week 3, I said I'd give Nerv the benefit of the doubt for six weeks. After Week 4, I vowed to not watch the Chargers the next week. No bar, no searching on the radio, no month-long Internet purchase. I might check on their progress, but I wasn't going to sit down and watch. That must have taken the pressure off.
The result: 41-3 Bolts, over the Donkeys, in Denver.
They never win in Denver. I wore my LT T-shirt and SD hat, but I didn't give the game half a glance. In fact, I took Wife to the movies during the first half. Why tempt myself, I figured, get out of the house and let the boys do the work stress free.
Rejuvenated, re-energized, re-invigorated with optimism I internally debated on whether to stop at a bar to catch the Bolts-Raiders yesterday. What could it hurt? The Raiders were not a "real" first place team and the Chargers were playing better based on last week's performance. Oh no, I told myself, we've seen this before. Just when they start playing well, the Bolts revert to form and find more ways to lose than the Arizona Cardinals.
So, I stayed away. Caught another movie ("3:10 to Yuma" is worth your $10, by-the-by) and wandered by the computer to check the Chargers progress around 3 p.m. By that point, the score was 21-7 and the Chargers were playing like the Chargers we've come to expect.
What I didn't know is that I wield so much power. Word gets back to LT and Phillip and Gatesyand Shawne and Shaun that I'm not looking and they start playing like Superbowl champs. I start watching and they clench up tighter 16-year-old virgin boy about to lose his flower (not speaking from experience, really, I'm not, really, really, really). So, where does that leave me? The Chargers are my outlet for the winter. If I can't watch them on Sundays, that will leave me with afternoons of Lifetime channel movies and honestly, I'd rather skewer my eyeballs, roast 'em over the grill and douse them with Tabasco than watch Meredith Baxter Birney and Tracy Gold weep their way through two hours of melodrama. Either that or I watch extreme kickball on ESPN 8 "the Ocho." That's doable, I suppose.
Then again, if that's what it takes for the Bolts to bring home a title, maybe I should suck it up and stay away. "If you love something set it free," that's what my Pop said as I left for college. Maybe I should let the Bolts go free. That would be fair for the rest of Charger fans, who the players obviously don't care about because they don't freeze up like Angela's cat (if you don't know that reference, start watching The Office NOW! No excuses! If you don't have a TV, I'll come to your house and act out all the parts because this show is that important to pop culture ... and then I'll steal your valuable and rape your cat inside your home). They played hard and smart yesterday, for 60-something-thousand fans and umpteen thousands on television, but one of which was not me. I was the difference. I am the reason for the win (cue the evil laugh).
There's precedence for such extreme measures. Last year (2006), I proclaimed the Dodgers dead in late July and didn't watch for a week. They started a stretch where they won 16 of their next 17 and went on to earn a wild card berth in the playoffs (they finished tied for first with the Padres). I take credit for that late season Charge. Of course, I tried that this year and where did it land me? Gnashing my teeth as I watch two fellow N.L. West squads squaring off in the National League Championship Series.
As fortune has it, they have a bye week Sunday, so this "what is best for the group?" question won't plague me. After that I could foresee the next few games being on television out this way (Houston, Minnesota and Indianapolis). I just hope there are reruns of "The Cosby Show" or "Sanford and Son" on somewhere so I'm not subjected to MBB parading around the screen in a nighty that would look better on a 20-something-year-old Jessica Alba instead of the 50-something-year-old ma from "Family Ties."
Then again, I thought she was hot back then...
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Eating for two
I’ve matured as a wedding goer.
I’m 35. I don’t turn the radio up too loud any more and would much rather shoot the shit with friends at a bar than mosh with younguns to music that would make my ears bleed and split my skull. If that’s what getting older is, then I’ve jumped into the pool head first.
And now, age is affecting my wedding habits, as well. First, it was about tearing up the suit mom and dad bought you a week before by playing hide and seek with other 8-year-old parental hostages. Then, it was about finding the single bridesmaids who were looking to hitch up just like their newlywed friend, making them easy marks for a roll in the back seat of a 1976 Nova (don’t laugh, that Nova was very-VERY good to me – OK, so my line “you’re the prettiest girl here, wanna hump like bunnies?” didn’t get me much tail, but it wasn’t for a lack of trying). Next, when Wife dragged me away from Dodger and Charger games for unionization ceremonies, it was all about free booze. Now, it’s free food. “What are they serving?” Is my only question. If it’s plain chicken and veggies, I’m apt to visit an infectious disease ward at the hospital hoping to catch a little something to get me out of the shindig, but throw in a slab of beef, a nice glaze for the chicken and some mouth watering sides and I’m sleeping in my suit three days before the gig. I don’t want to miss the good chow because I don’t know when I’ll eat that well again. Wife’s a good cook and all, but airplaning veggies and rice into my gullet gets old after a while. A little variety and exoticness makes dinner (among other things) exciting.
Wife’s cousin unionized during the week and were kind enough to shove free chow in our face and get us liquored up halfway across the state – east of east Mesa. Hey, when the drive is an hour and a half, it might as well have been in New Mexico.
We’ve become sort of wedding experts this year (or snobs depending on who you talk to) since this is our sixth or sixteenth wedding this year (I lost count after April). I’m a notebook and stat sheet shy of scoring each reception and developing a ranking system similar to college football. Lobster with 18-ounce prime rib and after dinner drinks of 45-year-old cognac would be the LSU (No. 1 in college football polls) of wedding receptions. Burgers BBQ’d by a drunk uncle who looks like Cousin Eddie from the Vacation movies, a flat keg of Natural Light and bluegrass music playing off a tape from an 8-track player inside a beater El Camino would be the Northern Arizona University of receptions.
This one was like an Ohio State (No. 4) or Cal Bears (No. 2).
The ceremony was a splendid gig atop a burgundy-adobe roof flanked by wood lattice overhangs at a tony Mesa country club – I fought to bring my golf clubs because I knew there’d be a break between the service and reception where I could molest a few holes but Wife poo-poo’d that thought (I think since she can’t have any fun, going through that “pregnancy thing” and all, I’m banned from fun as well … just kidding sweetie (my you look lovely today, you’re positively glowing)). We were surrounded by Arizona foothills to the north and east, and a southwest sunset bathed the sky in oranges and purples and reds. I couldn’t have painted a better scene, even if I chopped off my ear and spent some time in a booby hatch.
But that was all just foreplay to the tummy sex we had at the reception. The bar was open, and the bartender knew how to mix more drinks than Judy Garland. I downplayed my intake and stuck with Coors Lights, but when my table buddy next to me returned with a Lynchburg Lemonade, well, let me just say that drink is a little slice of heaven in your mouth. I ordered one after my second dinner plate.
That’s right, second dinner plate.
Our table sat nine, but when the serving crew started schlepping the courses out, we were seven. And Gold bless those two empty spots. As me and my new buddy (we had many things in common – we enjoy making fun of the Cardinals (easy target, I suppose), we like to drink and we like to eat our weight in free wedding grub – slowly chewed through our first plate, we eyed the door like wary vultures searching for predators that might rip our legs from their sockets. No sign of our 8 or 9.
The chicken with mango salsa – Yum – went down. Still empty. One shrimp in. No one. Two shrimp down. Nada. Third shrimp and my new buddy and I almost did a victory dance around the tabled, all set to bow down to the empty seats. We still had to throw down the pasta. We couldn’t wait anymore, the shrimp was positively orgasmic, and swirled the pasta into one humongous bite – so big I thought I’d need a forklift to get up to my pasta-hole – and downed it all in one gulp. Still vacant, we accepted our bounty with smiles big enough to slide an apple pie through.
What were we supposed to do? I’m eating for two these days, and the other dude was getting married, he had to try the dinner to see if it would work for his shindig in a few months. And the dinner was just as good the second time around. Chicken with mango salsa, shrimp scampi over fettucini alfredo and a petite fillet (I only had one as I gave my first fillet to Wife in exchange for her shrimp and pasta, fair enough I thought especially since she she can’t have seafood – yes, that “pregnancy thing” again), it all spelled tasty and made Mikey’s stomach extremely happy, content, post coitalish.
So, if you’re inviting Wife and I to your unionizing, where do you want to rank? Do you want your party to be like exciting football powerhouse Oklahoma University or crummy University of Nevada Reno? If you need help, my taste buds can be hired out.
I’m 35. I don’t turn the radio up too loud any more and would much rather shoot the shit with friends at a bar than mosh with younguns to music that would make my ears bleed and split my skull. If that’s what getting older is, then I’ve jumped into the pool head first.
And now, age is affecting my wedding habits, as well. First, it was about tearing up the suit mom and dad bought you a week before by playing hide and seek with other 8-year-old parental hostages. Then, it was about finding the single bridesmaids who were looking to hitch up just like their newlywed friend, making them easy marks for a roll in the back seat of a 1976 Nova (don’t laugh, that Nova was very-VERY good to me – OK, so my line “you’re the prettiest girl here, wanna hump like bunnies?” didn’t get me much tail, but it wasn’t for a lack of trying). Next, when Wife dragged me away from Dodger and Charger games for unionization ceremonies, it was all about free booze. Now, it’s free food. “What are they serving?” Is my only question. If it’s plain chicken and veggies, I’m apt to visit an infectious disease ward at the hospital hoping to catch a little something to get me out of the shindig, but throw in a slab of beef, a nice glaze for the chicken and some mouth watering sides and I’m sleeping in my suit three days before the gig. I don’t want to miss the good chow because I don’t know when I’ll eat that well again. Wife’s a good cook and all, but airplaning veggies and rice into my gullet gets old after a while. A little variety and exoticness makes dinner (among other things) exciting.
Wife’s cousin unionized during the week and were kind enough to shove free chow in our face and get us liquored up halfway across the state – east of east Mesa. Hey, when the drive is an hour and a half, it might as well have been in New Mexico.
We’ve become sort of wedding experts this year (or snobs depending on who you talk to) since this is our sixth or sixteenth wedding this year (I lost count after April). I’m a notebook and stat sheet shy of scoring each reception and developing a ranking system similar to college football. Lobster with 18-ounce prime rib and after dinner drinks of 45-year-old cognac would be the LSU (No. 1 in college football polls) of wedding receptions. Burgers BBQ’d by a drunk uncle who looks like Cousin Eddie from the Vacation movies, a flat keg of Natural Light and bluegrass music playing off a tape from an 8-track player inside a beater El Camino would be the Northern Arizona University of receptions.
This one was like an Ohio State (No. 4) or Cal Bears (No. 2).
The ceremony was a splendid gig atop a burgundy-adobe roof flanked by wood lattice overhangs at a tony Mesa country club – I fought to bring my golf clubs because I knew there’d be a break between the service and reception where I could molest a few holes but Wife poo-poo’d that thought (I think since she can’t have any fun, going through that “pregnancy thing” and all, I’m banned from fun as well … just kidding sweetie (my you look lovely today, you’re positively glowing)). We were surrounded by Arizona foothills to the north and east, and a southwest sunset bathed the sky in oranges and purples and reds. I couldn’t have painted a better scene, even if I chopped off my ear and spent some time in a booby hatch.
But that was all just foreplay to the tummy sex we had at the reception. The bar was open, and the bartender knew how to mix more drinks than Judy Garland. I downplayed my intake and stuck with Coors Lights, but when my table buddy next to me returned with a Lynchburg Lemonade, well, let me just say that drink is a little slice of heaven in your mouth. I ordered one after my second dinner plate.
That’s right, second dinner plate.
Our table sat nine, but when the serving crew started schlepping the courses out, we were seven. And Gold bless those two empty spots. As me and my new buddy (we had many things in common – we enjoy making fun of the Cardinals (easy target, I suppose), we like to drink and we like to eat our weight in free wedding grub – slowly chewed through our first plate, we eyed the door like wary vultures searching for predators that might rip our legs from their sockets. No sign of our 8 or 9.
The chicken with mango salsa – Yum – went down. Still empty. One shrimp in. No one. Two shrimp down. Nada. Third shrimp and my new buddy and I almost did a victory dance around the tabled, all set to bow down to the empty seats. We still had to throw down the pasta. We couldn’t wait anymore, the shrimp was positively orgasmic, and swirled the pasta into one humongous bite – so big I thought I’d need a forklift to get up to my pasta-hole – and downed it all in one gulp. Still vacant, we accepted our bounty with smiles big enough to slide an apple pie through.
What were we supposed to do? I’m eating for two these days, and the other dude was getting married, he had to try the dinner to see if it would work for his shindig in a few months. And the dinner was just as good the second time around. Chicken with mango salsa, shrimp scampi over fettucini alfredo and a petite fillet (I only had one as I gave my first fillet to Wife in exchange for her shrimp and pasta, fair enough I thought especially since she she can’t have seafood – yes, that “pregnancy thing” again), it all spelled tasty and made Mikey’s stomach extremely happy, content, post coitalish.
So, if you’re inviting Wife and I to your unionizing, where do you want to rank? Do you want your party to be like exciting football powerhouse Oklahoma University or crummy University of Nevada Reno? If you need help, my taste buds can be hired out.
Monday, October 08, 2007
Carpet munchers
When the wardens at the prison work camp said they were doling out cash to have the walls painted and the carpets replaced one thought came to all the inmates' heads:
Why don't you just give us that extra cash. We can live with the seven-mile long hash mark leading into the men's bathroom, the blood stains in the reporter's cage and barf streaks by the copy editors (some of them can't hold their liquor so well). Hell, just hire an extra body or two with the dough.
Of course, that logic didn't fall on the wardens and they went ahead with their beautification project. You can spit shine, Turtle wax and bleach a turd all you want, wardens, but when it comes back from the cleaners it's still a steamin' hunk of dung.
This might come as a shock to some, but I'm not the cleanest bloke on the block, not to mention I'm also not the most coordinated or graceful. I know, it's a shock, but the sooner you accept it the easier it is to move on. So, putting new carpet under my ass is equal to putting a fresh diaper on a baby after feeding it a two-pound can of chili (not that I would feed chili to a baby, well, unless doing so meant a Charger/Dodger win, in which case you just have to ride the streak). I've dumped everything from coffee to refried beans to clam chowder soup on my desk and my general vicinity, so imagine my surprise when I didn't see a drop cloth or a biohazzard suit with my name on it.
And just to tempt fate today - because I am a wild child who likes to live on the edge - I brought in a Gladware container of Mexican chow for lunch. Salsa, beans, assorted melted cheeses and chillies all hovering dangerously close to the new carpet. Each bite clinging to a plastic fork with tines as strong as an 80-pound 8th-grader trying to do one pull up (yes, I was that 80-pounder, and my tines couldn't lift a Del Taco burrito back then). I could feel the warden's eyes on me with each scoop. To him, I was sure lunch in my area was in slow motion, waiting to scrub any soiled splotch of new carpet with my cheek. And I'm sure, tucked away in his under ground lair, the supreme chancellor of our prison work camp was watching on his in-camp TV my disaster waiting to happen lunch, prepped to screech out "Swarm! Swarm! Swarm!" to the newly formed carpet police if so much as a rogue leaf of cilantro hit the shit-brown fibers underneath my chair.
I'm sure to the supreme chancellor's dismay, however, there was no accident. My lunch stayed where it belonged - in the Gladware, on the fork or safely tucked away in my gullet. The chancellor and wardens will have to find some other reason to scrub the rug with my cheek. If you see me with a rug-burn tattoo next time, you'll know they found that reason.
Why don't you just give us that extra cash. We can live with the seven-mile long hash mark leading into the men's bathroom, the blood stains in the reporter's cage and barf streaks by the copy editors (some of them can't hold their liquor so well). Hell, just hire an extra body or two with the dough.
Of course, that logic didn't fall on the wardens and they went ahead with their beautification project. You can spit shine, Turtle wax and bleach a turd all you want, wardens, but when it comes back from the cleaners it's still a steamin' hunk of dung.
This might come as a shock to some, but I'm not the cleanest bloke on the block, not to mention I'm also not the most coordinated or graceful. I know, it's a shock, but the sooner you accept it the easier it is to move on. So, putting new carpet under my ass is equal to putting a fresh diaper on a baby after feeding it a two-pound can of chili (not that I would feed chili to a baby, well, unless doing so meant a Charger/Dodger win, in which case you just have to ride the streak). I've dumped everything from coffee to refried beans to clam chowder soup on my desk and my general vicinity, so imagine my surprise when I didn't see a drop cloth or a biohazzard suit with my name on it.
And just to tempt fate today - because I am a wild child who likes to live on the edge - I brought in a Gladware container of Mexican chow for lunch. Salsa, beans, assorted melted cheeses and chillies all hovering dangerously close to the new carpet. Each bite clinging to a plastic fork with tines as strong as an 80-pound 8th-grader trying to do one pull up (yes, I was that 80-pounder, and my tines couldn't lift a Del Taco burrito back then). I could feel the warden's eyes on me with each scoop. To him, I was sure lunch in my area was in slow motion, waiting to scrub any soiled splotch of new carpet with my cheek. And I'm sure, tucked away in his under ground lair, the supreme chancellor of our prison work camp was watching on his in-camp TV my disaster waiting to happen lunch, prepped to screech out "Swarm! Swarm! Swarm!" to the newly formed carpet police if so much as a rogue leaf of cilantro hit the shit-brown fibers underneath my chair.
I'm sure to the supreme chancellor's dismay, however, there was no accident. My lunch stayed where it belonged - in the Gladware, on the fork or safely tucked away in my gullet. The chancellor and wardens will have to find some other reason to scrub the rug with my cheek. If you see me with a rug-burn tattoo next time, you'll know they found that reason.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Secret - strong enough for a man, good enough for a woman
The Beatles song "Do you want to know a secret," holds special meaning now.
You see, for roughly 10 weeks now I've had a secret I've wanted to shout from every corner of the compound. It was one of those secrets that makes you hop up and down like a 3-year-old doing the pee-pee dance in the middle of a grocery store. Every once in a while you begin to blurt out the details, but catch yourself, slapping your hands over your pie hole, catching the words before they prison break through your loose lips.
That was me for those 10-weeks, hands clapped to my trap to keep this big secret from getting out on the World Wide Web.
You see, we're having a freeloader, a moocher, a cash cow, a munchkin, a fish (as my cousin called it when seeing our ultrasound pic this weekend), a runt, all better known as a baby.
That's right, folks, we finally decided we were mature enough to handle raising a kid ... if you define mature as likely to give a baby a fifth of Cuervo chased by a cup of Benedryl so us parental units can go watch the latest Judd Apatow movie without the moving paper weight, then, yeah, we feel mature enough to mold someone's mind.
This info is likely about as new as Member's Only jackets and bell bottoms since Wife and I have already told some of you, or you've spoken to my Pop who kept this secret for all of two weeks. Thanks Pop, I bet on you lasting all 8 weeks. Those loose lips cost me an extra week of changing diapers - the loaded ones if you catch my drift (come by after a dinner of mushed peas and apricots, you'll get a heckuva drift, I'm sure). You win again, Wife, enjoy y0ur week off from doing diapers. At least it's just one week of diaper duty (dooty), then Wife reclaims her job. Right?
We debated when to tell folks, since we both read that the first trimester - see, I know my baby shit and I'll take this time to thank the book "The Expectant Father," which has taught me many other things that dudes really shouldn't know about (skip the pictorial on c-sections guys, you'll thank me later) - was the touchiest. So our first inkling was to wait before delivering our news. After receiving advice some advice, Wife and I decided to let our parental units and siblings in on our secret with one caveat, they couldn't tell a soul unless we gave them express permission. To my units, express permission means tell folks up in Idyllwild; a cousin in Cleveland who was sworn to secrecy and didn't let our news out, not even to her daughters, mother, brother or even husband; his brothers (my uncles); and their neighbors. If you ask me, it appears two people are extremely excited to be grandparents, and I can't blame them. But we'll see how excited they are when we dump the moocher off with them and continue on to Vegas. Don't doubt us folks, we'll do it. So if you don't want a screaming 3-month-old for four or five days, don't cross us. We play as dirty as the diapers you'll be change during that span.
The Charger fans paid us a visit in late August and didn't catch on when Wife often changed the subject when the baby topic came up. She was so good at turning the question around I thought she was running for office. Hillary couldn't carry Wife's jock in debate now that I've seen her deftly handle our inquiring friends. We gave them the news this past weekend at - appropriately enough - the Charger game. My aunts and uncles heard the news - officially - the night before. We waited until the end of the evening to spill the beans mostly to make my Units squirm with giddy anticipation. To make matters better, Wife ordered a glass of wine with dinner and appeared to drink it so the relatives thought either it was all just one big rumor that we'd be pumping out a fish or Wife was just a lush who needed her vino every night. It was up to me to down her wine, plus mine so things looked natural and would keep the rest of the table guessing. It worked like a charm until Dear Ol' Ma, her voice channeling the devil with throaty growl and venom dripping from her jowls, threatened to stuff my bowl of linguini with clam sauce up my nose if we didn't tell. I had my shot to break the news to the aunts and uncles in early September at another appropriate site, a baseball game, but I held my own as I was badger fodder and kept my trap shut. Wife, incidentally, was didn't make the trip, otherwise we would have broken the news that night, or at the very least dangle enough information for the family to draw their own conclusions because we're mean, sadistic spawns like that (oh, our kid is going to looooove us). We had to give the news to my fantasy football league so the guys didn't think Wife was some evil wench who leaves her husband with his mother in law at the hospital so she can kick back with 10 dudes in her house downing brewskies - my brewskies - and munching on corn nuts- my corn nuts.
But now its out and we're enjoying all the newness something like this brings, i.e. doctor visits where I get to stand back while Wife has all the fun, ice cream cravings at 9 p.m. (if it gets later, or crazier - the craving that is - you'll be the first to know), back rubs, foot rubs and bodily sounds that make me proud (I've taught her well). You also may see more posts as I try to hide from the "fun" of having a pregnant Wife roaming the compound's halls searching out her hapless husband for another beat down because he failed to keep the mint chocolate ice cream stock full.
Believe you me, I'll have plenty to write about now. Less midget porn jokes and more ... oh oh, she just realized there's no ice cream (how do I know? there's an empty, gooey box of mint chocolate chip box shoved down to my eyes).
Oh, and don't bother asking: a) if we'll know what the sex in because we won't (it's the last true surprise in life and we want that feeling); and b) what we'll name it (first off, that's Wife's job for the most part, and secondly we don't want to see scrunched faces when you don't like Mario Melvin Melissa or Alyssa Clarissa Melissa). We're keeping that one a secret too. We got pretty good at keeping 'em.
You see, for roughly 10 weeks now I've had a secret I've wanted to shout from every corner of the compound. It was one of those secrets that makes you hop up and down like a 3-year-old doing the pee-pee dance in the middle of a grocery store. Every once in a while you begin to blurt out the details, but catch yourself, slapping your hands over your pie hole, catching the words before they prison break through your loose lips.
That was me for those 10-weeks, hands clapped to my trap to keep this big secret from getting out on the World Wide Web.
You see, we're having a freeloader, a moocher, a cash cow, a munchkin, a fish (as my cousin called it when seeing our ultrasound pic this weekend), a runt, all better known as a baby.
That's right, folks, we finally decided we were mature enough to handle raising a kid ... if you define mature as likely to give a baby a fifth of Cuervo chased by a cup of Benedryl so us parental units can go watch the latest Judd Apatow movie without the moving paper weight, then, yeah, we feel mature enough to mold someone's mind.
This info is likely about as new as Member's Only jackets and bell bottoms since Wife and I have already told some of you, or you've spoken to my Pop who kept this secret for all of two weeks. Thanks Pop, I bet on you lasting all 8 weeks. Those loose lips cost me an extra week of changing diapers - the loaded ones if you catch my drift (come by after a dinner of mushed peas and apricots, you'll get a heckuva drift, I'm sure). You win again, Wife, enjoy y0ur week off from doing diapers. At least it's just one week of diaper duty (dooty), then Wife reclaims her job. Right?
We debated when to tell folks, since we both read that the first trimester - see, I know my baby shit and I'll take this time to thank the book "The Expectant Father," which has taught me many other things that dudes really shouldn't know about (skip the pictorial on c-sections guys, you'll thank me later) - was the touchiest. So our first inkling was to wait before delivering our news. After receiving advice some advice, Wife and I decided to let our parental units and siblings in on our secret with one caveat, they couldn't tell a soul unless we gave them express permission. To my units, express permission means tell folks up in Idyllwild; a cousin in Cleveland who was sworn to secrecy and didn't let our news out, not even to her daughters, mother, brother or even husband; his brothers (my uncles); and their neighbors. If you ask me, it appears two people are extremely excited to be grandparents, and I can't blame them. But we'll see how excited they are when we dump the moocher off with them and continue on to Vegas. Don't doubt us folks, we'll do it. So if you don't want a screaming 3-month-old for four or five days, don't cross us. We play as dirty as the diapers you'll be change during that span.
The Charger fans paid us a visit in late August and didn't catch on when Wife often changed the subject when the baby topic came up. She was so good at turning the question around I thought she was running for office. Hillary couldn't carry Wife's jock in debate now that I've seen her deftly handle our inquiring friends. We gave them the news this past weekend at - appropriately enough - the Charger game. My aunts and uncles heard the news - officially - the night before. We waited until the end of the evening to spill the beans mostly to make my Units squirm with giddy anticipation. To make matters better, Wife ordered a glass of wine with dinner and appeared to drink it so the relatives thought either it was all just one big rumor that we'd be pumping out a fish or Wife was just a lush who needed her vino every night. It was up to me to down her wine, plus mine so things looked natural and would keep the rest of the table guessing. It worked like a charm until Dear Ol' Ma, her voice channeling the devil with throaty growl and venom dripping from her jowls, threatened to stuff my bowl of linguini with clam sauce up my nose if we didn't tell. I had my shot to break the news to the aunts and uncles in early September at another appropriate site, a baseball game, but I held my own as I was badger fodder and kept my trap shut. Wife, incidentally, was didn't make the trip, otherwise we would have broken the news that night, or at the very least dangle enough information for the family to draw their own conclusions because we're mean, sadistic spawns like that (oh, our kid is going to looooove us). We had to give the news to my fantasy football league so the guys didn't think Wife was some evil wench who leaves her husband with his mother in law at the hospital so she can kick back with 10 dudes in her house downing brewskies - my brewskies - and munching on corn nuts- my corn nuts.
But now its out and we're enjoying all the newness something like this brings, i.e. doctor visits where I get to stand back while Wife has all the fun, ice cream cravings at 9 p.m. (if it gets later, or crazier - the craving that is - you'll be the first to know), back rubs, foot rubs and bodily sounds that make me proud (I've taught her well). You also may see more posts as I try to hide from the "fun" of having a pregnant Wife roaming the compound's halls searching out her hapless husband for another beat down because he failed to keep the mint chocolate ice cream stock full.
Believe you me, I'll have plenty to write about now. Less midget porn jokes and more ... oh oh, she just realized there's no ice cream (how do I know? there's an empty, gooey box of mint chocolate chip box shoved down to my eyes).
Oh, and don't bother asking: a) if we'll know what the sex in because we won't (it's the last true surprise in life and we want that feeling); and b) what we'll name it (first off, that's Wife's job for the most part, and secondly we don't want to see scrunched faces when you don't like Mario Melvin Melissa or Alyssa Clarissa Melissa). We're keeping that one a secret too. We got pretty good at keeping 'em.
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