Magnet

We were on line at the store the other day and it happened again – a completely unbalanced and borderline insane person struck up a conversation with me. She did the same with the cashier, my children and my wife, but she focused most of her attention on me. I must admit, I am a crazy magnet. I have suffered this affliction all my life. Put it this way: a crazy person metaphorically parks their car in your spot every once in a while, they move into my house, eat all my food, use up all my toilet paper and sleep on my pillow…and that’s just for starters.

This one was a real trip. She wasn’t as interesting as that guy on the train when I was in high school who was trying to get to the VA in Peekskill (which I think was shut down by then) who described plucking out another man’s eye and mushing it on his forehead. It wasn’t a particularly vioent or menacing manner with which he told the story, and he actually chuckled when he said the guy’s eye continued to stare at him.

And then there was Billy. He was using the “home’s” community bike for a ride through the park the day I picnicked with Carol. Weird, but at least we have a hell of a first date story.

This woman on line was particularly off. Despite her stylish green eye makeup and 1988-style sunglasses, wrinkle removers or age-defying cream of some sort might have been in order. Particularly as she went on and on about being almost finished with her degree in Child Psychology.

This from a woman who thought my 11th month old daughter in pink with pink accents and an extra bit of pink garnishment was a boy. She also told me a joke that I think was supposed to be a dirty joke, involving a blond and a dozen cops. I didn’t hear her all that clearly, but even if I had, I don’t think the punchline would have, you know, delivered.

The freaky part of the joke was that she actually named 12 cops. She had their names and ranks, some were detectives, and she kept saying things like “Do you know Detective So and So,” and “Ooooh, Sergeant Blank is really handsome.”

I said, “I wouldn’t know” and wished she would stop saying how handsome my baby girl is.

Still worked up

I have to say, I’m still really pissed about the whole Japanese Fighting Dog thing. Am I taking crazy pills or is this totally outrageous? To me, a pet store owner who keeps a wild animal as an ersatz pet in the store is not unlike a Wine Boutique owner pouring Cisco at a wine tasting.

Abbie, my Mom and Aunt’s poor maltese is suffering horribly. Never a pup that would require apidexin or anything, she now has barely eaten in two days. Since teeny tiny lampshades are not a great idea, she is now sporting a toddler’s turtle neck to keep her from chewing the open wounds on her neck.

And they shaved her. How much more wrong could it get? I mean, frou frou dogs are all about their frou frou haircuts and tartan winter coats. With her shaved neck and turtleneck she looks more like Knight Rider era David Hasselhoff then a delicate little purebred pup. And that’s just wrong. So wrong.

Dog Days

I’m not sure if this is a legitimate legal issue with precedent and all that, I don’t know if this shows up during lsat prep or anything, but I’m pretty sure it should… When big crazy dogs that are known as ‘[insert country] fighting dogs’ bite small, innocent, domestic pet dogs, they should be punished.

No lie. A pet shop owner (PET SHOP OWNER!!!) with multiple ‘exotic’ dogs had in her brood what she referred to as a Japanese Fighting Dog. Said fighting dog has been known to bite other dogs in the past. Yup, there are witnesses. So whenever my Mom or Aunt approach this pet shop, they actually pick up their dog, a teeny maltese, and carry her safely past. Just in case the Fighter, or one of the other exotic canine miscreants, gets out.

A couple of days ago, before my Mom could lift her pup to safety, the Fighter slinked out of the store and attacked. She bit the maltese ten times (the tenth bite was not discovered for 2 days because the other woulds were so fierce) and my mother at least once. The dog is massively traumatized and my Mom needed a tetanus shot.

You know what the worst part of this unnecessary tragedy was? The next day, the pet shop owner had the dog tied up outside where it was nipping at other dogs as they were walked by.

Have you ever seen one of those shows where a dirty cop goes before a judge and the judge says he should be punished especially severely because he’s a cop? Don’t you think a pet store owner should have extra culpability?

The Bottom Bunk

Speaking of comfort on the ol’ ship, how did I forget to mention the sleeping arrangements? On the lower deck of the ship we found our beds…and I use that word loosely. Our group occupied several sections you might loosely call rooms. Each room had between 4 and 6 sets of bunks. Each bunk was 4 high. Yup. 4.

The bunks were two metal poles attached to the wall and two chains hanging from the ceiling with strategically placed hooks that would support 4 metal frames. A piece of canvas was attached with wound rope to the metal frame. And yes, they were 4 high. My second grader, of course, wanted the top bunk. I opted to be on the bottom (I’ve never minded sleeping close to the ground) and there was another father and son pair between us.

Honestly, the canvas hammock effect wasn’t bad. I have definitely been more uncomfortable trying to get to sleep in my life. The biggest problem for me was that the bedframe was about six feet long, so when you figured in the tubular metal frame and the inches of rope, the actual canvas was only about five and a half feet long.

It meant that some part of me was always touching the metal. It was either my gangling ankles or my calf. Or, when I tried to get a fetal curl on my side, my knee laid against the metal frame on the side. Still, I was pretty exhausted after a day of chasing after 7 and 8 year olds, and I eventually did fall asleep.

The biggest problem, actually, was the noise. Chains rattled, pipes squeaked and tubular metal frames groaned if you took a deep breath. Forget about rolling over. I may have escaped without severe joint pain, but the bunks surely did not. To hear their moaning protestations whenever a body tried to resettle itself, you probably would have shared this thought of mine: maybe the bed needs oil.

Sailor Man

I’ve heard people argue about the best acne treatment. I’ve heard that salt water air is good. I’ve heard you should put toothpaste on big zits. I’ve even heard of people spreading mashed potatoes on their faces. This last one is probably not advisable unless you’ve got a lot of potatoes, they’re not particularly hot, and you left off the gravy.

Speaking of potatoes, I have to mention the food on the battleship when we were ship-sleeping. The whole battleship operation was run by civilians, but the young Portuguese girls from Fall River made the chow line experience memorable. The food was good and the mood was pretty authentic. They were not rude. They were, for the most part, exceptionally polite. But they ran, without a doubt, a no nonsense operation. You grabbed a tray and cutlery, they plunked down your loaded plate, your milk and your extras.

The dinner we had on the ship was actually pretty darn good, especially considering that they ran some 600 people through the line in a little over an hour. Breaded chicken cutlet with mashed potatoes and gravy. Corn and a buttered roll. Even chocolate pudding for dessert. And it really wasn’t bad.

Sure, there were plenty among the 600 who griped. I suppose it is to be expected when you cram that many people together at close quarters, far from their comfort zone. To me, though, the point of the adventure was to try and get a sense of what it would be like to live on the ship. Yeah, it might not have been the most comfortable experience at all times, but…well, like I said, wasn’t that the point?

where’s the love?

The other day I was in Target with a kid in the cart and exactly two big packages of toilet paper. I know you think I’m a total poop machine, but that’s not it. Well, that’s not totally it. See, they had this deal if you bought two megapacks you’d get a $5 gift card. I mean, even if I’m not a total poop machine I’m going to eventually use the toilet paper (or rather, my family of 5 will share in the joy of using that toilet paper). I figured 5 bucks is 5 bucks, why not take advantage.

Anyway, I was cruising into a pay aisle, and it was Saturday, so the inevitable happened. Before I go on I should mention that I rarely go out in public on Saturday or Sunday after 11 am. The whole consumer thing is just awful, and awkward teenagers make me physically ill. I mean, they made me ill when I was a teenager, so it’s not just my advanced age at play.

Anyway, I had already made the mistake of entering Target on a Saturday afternoon, so I really can’t blame anyone but myself for the pain. But there I was, heading for an aisle with my 4 year old and 48 rolls of TP. And just as I started arcing my cart toward aisle #9 behind the lady with socks and Doritos and the guy who was already paying, this large woman with a family of 7 in tow cut me off.

I probably don’t need to say it, but I will – she was massively overweight, as was her sister and mother. Her children (2 girls and a boy) were only husky at this point, but her husband was registering on the richter scale.

I don’t mention this because she was fat. I mention this because she was a total bitch, and making fun of her absurd weight problem makes me feel a little better about myself. Sorry for being petty.

She had a cart full of bags of orange things and bottles of purple things. I know our Target does not sell produce, but geez, even a carton of milk or a bag of yogurt covered raisins would have made me feel better. And her cart was overloaded. Remember, please, that I had exactly two items.

The cashier looked up over her epson receipt printeras these two parties approached, as the sister of the cart pusher/mom  did a 6 foot sprint (and yes she was winded as a result) to cut in front of me, then saving space for the cart full of heart-lovin’ delights. And then, the whole family gave me dirty looks. Puffy cheeked, squinched fleshy pockets around the eyes, dirty looks.

I did luck out and an aisle to the right opened. I was able to buy my mountain of toilet paper and get my $5 gift card without having to wait for the happy family to buy all 3 tons of Fritos and Fluff.

But here’s the funny part. The woman who cut me off and gave me a dirty look? She had on a Jesus shirt. Yup. A big honkin’ rainbow encrusted Jesus shirt. Is this your version of the Christian ethic? Making the guy with the 4 year old wait to buy his two packs of toilet paper while you load up on wholesome, American junk food?

God and country, baby. God and country.

Circles

I realize, once again, that the whole point I started off with in the last post, well…it got away from me. Yeah, the denial cum hypocrisy of some parents I’ve known is annoying and worthy of some public mockery, but that wasn’t the original message.

No, I was actually planning to focus on tiredness. Specifically, the tiredness you have when your ten month old will not sleep more than two hours at a stretch and will only do that once or twice before shifting to an “up every 40 minutes” regimen. Yeah, it sucks.

It sucks more for my wife than me, because the baby is nursing, and even if I can comfort her sans magic boob, it only lasts for about 20 minutes. Yeah, I can’t even score the key 40.

So now, as we search for the best eye creams to cover up the dark circles growing beneath our eyes, I wish fervently for the baby to get to her first birthday. After all, both of the boys were a year when they started sleeping through the night. Soon…soon…soon…

And I look at this as paying the price up front, because both boys now give us the whole night. They’re usually in bed before 8, and they sleep until at least 6. Yeah, 6 sounds early, especially considering I used to routinely go to bed around 3 or 4, but at least we get a night out of them. We can actually watch a movie of reasonable length after they go to bed… that’s a good thing.

Yes, I miss rest. And I especially miss a well-rested wife, but we’re going to make it. I know we will!

Baby Love

When my first son was born, I remember one mother who used to always say things like “Don’t you love every minute of it?”

Um. No. Hell no. Do I look like a flippin’ masochist?

Don’t get me wrong, no one on this planet could love their kids more than I love mine, but to pretend they don’t drive me nuts sometimes would be…well something between denial and dishonesty.

I used to joke that it is perfectly normal, after a week of sleepless night with a crying, teething baby, while still attempting to maintain your job, marriage, and general physical health, to consider throwing the child out the window. It is the fact that you don’t give in to that perfectly sensible urge that makes you a good parent.

I know different people react to different things in different ways. Some people question their sanity, or at least their ability to make reasonable decisions, when they become parents. Others take it as an opportunity to earn extra income from home, setting up a day care and absorbing the parental misery of the entire neighborhood. And some become little wholesome Martha Stewart pretenders, loving every minute of it like they’ve got a Loverboy Angel on their shoulder.

Maybe I have the Loverboy devil on my shoulder because when I quietly sing “Lovin’ every minute of it” I do so with sarcasm. Biting, bitter, nasty ass sarcasm.

I easily remember that, overall, I love my three monsters so very much. I really do. They are the most magical little baskets of crazy in the world and there is nothing better than being with them. Usually.

And that mother who used to tell me that every single second was perfect…I notice she stopped at the one kid.

Hmmmmm.