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Archive for January, 2010

Lovie played the name game with the trips today. As they sat in their highchairs enjoying lunch, my lovely wife held up random articles of clothing from the pile of clean laundry she was busy folding.

“What’s this,” she asked as she held up…

Pookie pants! all three shouted in unison.

“Good. Who knows what this is?”

Daddy sock!

“Y’all are good. Okay, what about this?”

A, B shirt!

“And this?”

C big girl pants!

“And this?”

A, B big-boy pants!

“Last one,” said Lovie. “What’s this?”

per the Good Spouse Act, panties pictured above are not Lovie's. (hers are hotter. WAY hotter. CALIENTE!)

Mommy BIG BOY pants!

What? Mommy’s big boy pants?? I thought that Lovie was playing The Name Game. But according to the trips, it turns out she’s actually been playing The Crying Game all this time.

Well, I suppose it makes sense. If I truly am One of the Girls, then that would leave Lovie to wear the big boy pants in the relationship.

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Interviewed by Superman

Two things today, my friends.

Number one, I simply CANNOT believe how many of y’all wondered if I was the half-naked clown clutching the pink pillow in the picture featured in yesterday’s post, One of the Girls. I was not said clown. I can assure you.

But secondly, and much more importantly, it’s not everyday you get to be interviewed by Superman. But that’s exactly what happened to me recently. Ron Mattocks, author of the cleverly written and extremely popular blog, Clark Kent’s Lunchbox, is conducting a two part interview with yours truly. Part one was posted yesterday. I’m remiss for not having shared it before now, but I was too busy embarrassing myself with yesterday’s rant.

Not only do I hope you’ll click here to read the interview, but I also hope you’ll take time to read some of his other posts. If you’re looking for suggestions, the one about his recent vasectomy is simply brilliant.

Thanks, Ron! I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it!

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Lovie and I ran into one of her childhood friends at a restaurant this past Sunday–a woman I’ll call Cindy. Though I don’t know her very well, I’m a big fan. So whenever I see her, I always chat her up. The handful of conversations we’ve had have all been pleasant ones, filled with rapid back-and-forths and sprinkled with clever one-liners. Our rapport is excellent.

“You’re a man of mystery,” she said to me, looking lovely in her Sunday best.

“Oh really?” I asked. “How so?”

“My mom is always asking about you. She wants to know what Lovie’s husband is all about. You know what I tell her?”

“What’s that?” I asked, preparing to greet the series of compliments that were sure to follow with the perfect mix of appreciation and modesty.

“I tell her what a girls’ guy you are.”

Record scratch.

“I’m sorry?” I said, wondering if I had misheard, or if she had actually meant ladies man or some other complimentary moniker.

“I tell her how fun you are to talk to,” she explained. “How it’s just like chatting with one of the girls.”

An awkward silence ensued.

“And that you’re, you know, a real girls’ guy.”

Once concerned Cindy’s comments would render me visibly self-smitten, I quickly downshifted into damage control, hoping only that my expression wouldn’t reveal the fact that my engine was revving with disbelief, if not disapproval.

“I would have gone with versatile,” I suggested, wondering if I had come off as rude as I had feared.

But who could have blamed me. Girls’ guy? I wonder if my camping buddies think I’m a girls’ guy. What about my bookie? Or the rough-and-tumble, blue-collar types who work at the countertop shop I co-own? Or how about Chris Chambliss, the close friend I section hike the Appalachian Trail with? During our annual, week-long trips–the ones spent trekking up and down the sides of mountains, carrying forty-pound backpacks eighteen miles a day–I wonder if he ever looks at me and thinks, you know, as much as I love hiking with Osborne, what I’d really like to do is clutch a hot cup of coffee, plop down a fluffy sofa, and watch The View with that son-of-a-bitch.

Cindy's coming over and we're gonna chat!

I have a question. Since when did being unafraid to banter back and forth with one of Lovie’s all-time faves at a cocktail party suddenly turn me into RuPaul? I’m many things. And easy to talk to is one of them. But does that really make me a candidate to tag along on a weekend trip to Atlanta for a two-day Nieman Marcus bender?

As I drove to work on Monday morning, I replayed the conversation in my head. Maybe I was wearing my sensitive panties, I thought. Perhaps I over-reacted. So I asked my co-worker and close friend Shane Rose.

“Now what did she say, again?”

“That I was a real girls’ guy.”

“Was she serious?”

“Yeah, I think.”

“Buddy,” he responded while shaking his head. “That sucks.”

So much for the sensitive-panties theory.

Next time I see Cindy at a party, I’ll remember to stay on the boys’ side of the room and talk about the stock market and auto parts while belching loudly and occasionally readjusting my gigantic package. I’ll only cross over to the girls’ side to inform Lovie that her cowboy needs a drink.

Bourbon, bitch.

Harsh? Maybe, but I have to be careful not to use too many words or else I might come off all chatty. Wouldn’t wanna give anyone the wrong idea.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go. The Bachelor just started.

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Yesterday was a big day for Pookie. Her second grade class was holding a special event–Donuts With Dads. It’s an annual thing, so I’ve known about it for a while, and I gotta say, I was more than a little curious about how it would go down. After all, her real dad lives right here in town, so his attendance was a given. But what about mine? I would have been okay if I’d been left out of the mix. Being a stepdad can be tough. And so can being a stepdaughter. Accordingly, I figured that on some level, this would be a difficult decision for her.

On Monday, Lovie broke the great news. Pookie wanted “both of her dads” to go. (Insert your California joke here.) I was obviously thrilled, but also knew that a certain degree of awkwardness would likely ensue. But as Pookie led her father and me around the classroom on the “scavenger hunt,” I was pleasantly surprised by how skillfully she was navigating the situation. It wasn’t awkward at all.

Until we went to the far wall to admire the cute drawings the class had made of their dads and I saw this soon-to-be-classic staring right back at me:

Egads! My eyes quickly scanned the entire wall until I found the drawing she had made of her biological father, and, well, it’s safe to say that I got the short end of the crayon.

Forget, for a moment, that the left side of my face is bulging out as if experiencing the gravitational pull of a large planet. And forget the fact fact, if you will, that there is a certain, though difficult-to-pinpoint, alien element to the depiction. And forget, also, the zipper on my fleece (I’m reasonably sure that’s what she was drawing) looks like Uncle Jed’s shotgun.

Take a gander at my head, more specifically my hair–and disregard the fact that I don’t have a crew cut and that my real hair is not six inches off my ears. Focus, instead at the very, very top of my hair.

There are only a handful of explanations.

  1. To enhance the aforementioned alien theme, Pookie has drawn a flying saucer which has landed on my head.
  2. I’m sporting a flesh-toned yamaka.
  3. Pookie believes that I’m actually a volcano.
  4. Pookie’s imagining that I’ve recently endured a lobotomy.
  5. The circle is actually a halo, a symbolic representation of the angelic role I’ve played in Pookie’s life.
  6. Or, most likely, that skin-toned circle that is surrounded by hair is Pookie’s artistic rendering of my bald spot.

I suppose that’s how she sees me. And I’m okay with that. Especially given the fact that her insistence that I be a part of the festivities tells me something else about how she sees me.

As her dad.

I love you, Pook.

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I usually get home from work at around six o’clock. And at our house, that can only mean one thing.

There’s a potty goin’ on.

For by that time, our triplets have finished their dinner and are required to take a turn on the potty before their bath. “You have a new and important role,” Lovie casually informed me the other night. “I’ve officially appointed you our Bathroom Attendant.”

Sounds good to me. I’ve been dealing with shit at work all day long. I guess it only makes sense that I should do the same at home.

Our potty-training initiatives have actually gone pretty well. So well that our toddlers wear their big boy and big girl pants every waking moment, only donning the diapers whenever it’s time for nite-nite. To get them to this point, we had to employ a reward system. They get one M&M whenever they go pee pee, and if they “make it happen,” they receive a cookie.

Recently, however, they discovered a pee-pee loophole. Since said discovery, whenever even a drop of urine hits their potty, they feel entitled to some candy. We reluctantly rewarded them with an M&M the first few times until we finally realized that they were doing nothing more than intentionally time-releasing microscopic amounts of pee every five minutes just so they could quadruple their chocolate intake. Our trio, it seemed, were turning into little sugar junkies. And speaking of junkies, if the trend continued, we feared their candy-coated teeth would eventually look like they belonged to two-year-old meth addicts.

Even worse than the candy pandering were the fights that ensued over who got the honor of flushing. Initially, the two non-flushers were content with the default honor of being an integral part of the pee-pee/poo-poo send-off committee. While the flusher flushed, they would energetically bid their bodily waste a cheery farewell.

“Bye bye, pee pee! Bye bye, poo poo!”

But when the fighting for the handle began, we decided to let each of them flush their own. Until we started adding up our water bill, that is, which prompted us to once again combine all of their efforts into the big potty and return to the single-flush policy. The resulting mad dashes to the magic handle resembled three hardcore gambling addicts wrestling for the lever of the lone, unoccupied slot machine at the Bellagio.

Funny. I thought their game was craps.

Whenever they jockey for pole position next to the handle, one of them often brushes against the open seat, inadvertently sending it hurtling downward toward the porcelain with alarming velocity, like a guillotine screeching down from above. We feared it was only a matter of time before one of the boys got beheaded. (sorry)

When they weren’t fighting over flushing, they were busy opening and shutting the bathroom door. It was actually quite cute. For the first four thousand times. But not only did the slamming grow old, so, too, did the shouting matches that went down by the bathroom door.

Fighting over flushing? Shouting over slamming? Such affairs were so foreign to us, that we decided it was time to implement a concept of foreign affairs. That’s right. We busted out our own Open Door Policy. All doors remain open. Period. It doesn’t matter who’s “making it happen.” And Lovie has designated me to enforce this policy and restore order to their bathroom endeavors. I am now the keeper of the door, the judge of which efforts warrant rewards, as well as the designated flusher.

So every day when I return from work, I take my seat on top of the closed toilet lid while my little guys hunker down on the three plastic potties immediately in front of me. They contort their tiny bodies while pushing for all they’re worth til their innocent faces turn red and the veins in their neck stand at attention, all in the name of frosted animal cookies.

Yep. That qualifies. Would you like a red or green M&M?

I offer words of encouragement during their valiant efforts and they respond with quizzical expressions, much like the ones I used to give those clowns who offered me a stick of gum or imitation Drakkar cologne as I washed my hands in the bathroom of a downtown Seattle hot spot.

I’m re-learning something I first learned when I was a twenty-something club-hopper. Being a Bathroom Attendant is a thankless job.

Only now that I’m forty, I’m wise enough to know that I’m the luckiest man in the world to have it. In fact, I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

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Click below for my five-star, can’t-miss, NFL playoff locks. Okay, fine. They’re not mine. The triplets picked ’em. But the triplets are mine, so that kinda makes their picks mine, too, doesn’t it?

That faint smell in the air? Straight cash, homey.

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I’m in a sports slump. It’s that simple. Why? Because most of the big-time games I wanna watch go down on weekend afternoons. And around my house, that’s a serious conflict of interest. As a result, the only blitzes I’m privy to are the ones executed by our tiny threesome as they bull-rush our domestic quarterback (Lovie), while this lineman helplessly tries to prevent them from knocking her out of the game. Instead of rooting for my favorite team to get a first down, I’m left assisting Lovie until we get a third down. In bed that is. And by that time, most of the action is over.

When Lovie and I discovered that she was pregnant with triplets, I (jokingly) told her that if they were all girls, Briggs (my faithful hound) and I were packin’ up and leaving. After all, the last thing we needed was the estrogen fest that would ensue with a household of five females compared to just one (human) male. So you can imagine my relief when we welcomed two boys and one girl into the world. At long last, I’d finally have some testosterone on my side.

But I soon realized that sharing a house with a mommy, a little girl, and three babies is far from a Harley Davidsion convention. Two years later, not much has changed. This past weekend was one of the biggest sporting weekends of the year, but no one that I lived with seemed to care–not even my boys. NFL playoffs? Un uh. The only thing they wanted to watch was an animated nursery rhyme. Which brings me back to the first sentence of this post. I’m in a sports slump.

On Friday night, after we got the kiddos down, Lovie, Pookie, and I watched a movie called Imagine That. A single dad (Eddie Murphy) discovers that with the help of his daughter (Yara Shahidi) and her magic blanket, he’s able to pick stocks that are destined to soar in value, thus helping him further his career in finance.

I quickly realized that Imagine That contained the elusive solution to my sports slump. You see, without my usual high dosage of sports, I’m not as well versed in the ways of football as I once was, an unfortunate fact that has led to a slump within a slump–namely that of accurately forcasting which teams will prevail each and every weekend. Thanks to Eddie Murphy, I had a feeling that was about to change. After all, if his kid could pick stocks, surely the triplets could pick winners.

So on Saturday morning, I put two stickie notes in front of A. He passed over the one that read Bengals, instead picking the one that said New York. Apparently, my little guy was down with the Jets catching three and a hook on the road against Cincy. I repeated the selection process for the three remaining NFL matchups and logged his selections before bringing B, and C into the mix. Ten minutes later, I had my plays.

A is FIRED UP about his picks.

In addition to the Jets, A also liked:

Dallas -3-1/2 over the Eagles,

Baltimore +3-1/2 over the Pats, and

Green Bay -3 over Arizona.

He was a smoking hot 3-1 for the weekend.

B flashes a confident smile before disclosing his selections.

B chose

Philly,

Cincy,

Baltimore, and

Arizona.

He wound up 2-2 and was the only one to correctly pick the Cards.

C's picture may be out of focus, but her selections were anything but.

C liked

the Jets,

Philly,

New England (she thinks Tom Brady’s hot), and

Green Bay.

She started off well, but fizzled, going 1-3 for the weekend.

I played the teams which got the majority backing from the trips (New York, Philly, Baltimore, and Green Bay). Oddly, all four were on the road, which any seasoned gamer will tell you is a Wildcard Weekend no-no. Still, I ended up 2-2. And as the old adage goes, a push is a win, right? So I was thrilled.

Only one problem.

I still didn’t get to watch.

Stay tuned for how they do throughout the playoffs.

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