Does This Mean I Get to Hit Someone With A Chair?

(clink)

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(twist twist twist)

(glunk glunk glunk)

Oh, who am I kidding? Make it a double.

(glunk glunk glunk)

Hello, everyone. I hope you don’t mind if I drink while I blog today. I don’t condone drinking alone, but since you’re all gathered around for this little fire side chat, in a manner of speaking, I’ll consider that my own private loophole.

I’m beginning to be horrified by dinner. And no, it’s not because of my wife’s cooking. Quite the contrary, that’s the one part of the meal I enjoy, even when it’s Tuesday Night Dinner – a random “eff it, I’m tired so here’s dinner” concoction of meat, soup and vegetables brought to a boil in the same pan and then served. Sometimes with rice.

Dinner is supposed to be where the family gathers to set aside the stresses of their day and share pleasantries while basking in the warmth of one another’s company.

Not at my house.

No, dinner at my house is like walking through one of those haunted houses that pop up every fall (sans the double-negative spewing white trash and annoying teenage girls).  It’s like an ulcer-inducing stumble through a thickly veiled corridor of dread, perilously unaware of when some jackass is going to thrust forth from compartments unseen in the fog to distribute some genre of horrifying ”gotcha.” 

Unlike said haunted house attractions, however, instead of paying $8 to have that one girl no one likes and you don’t know why she was invited in the first place annoy the shit out of you while vigorously clutching your jacket in a white-knuckled death grip, and simultaneously climbing your back and dry-humping your ass, this journey thru Unpleasantville begins with one innocent question:

“How was your day?”

Now, I’m trying to play the role of good dad. I know that by being involved in my kids’ lives they are less apt to boot black tar heroin, run guns to Canada or be Yankee fans, but really, After School Special? Do I really have to open myself up to this ongoing tenure as the emotional gimp to Weirdo’s life-and-times Zed? That’s just effed up. Can’t I just catch her rolling a joint only to find out she learned it from watching me?

TANGENT: I don’t do drugs have never done drugs (Hi, kids!). And is it just me or does the guy in the commercial referenced above come across as the Hedgehog’s older brother the accountant?

Getting back to my no doubt enthralling yarn, in response to my query, Weirdo drops her head into one hand, rolls her eyes and laments, “Some of the boys in my class always want to wrestle with me.”

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(gulp)

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(glunk glunk glunk glunk glunk glunk)

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(sip)

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Well if it’s on then it’s muthaeffin’ on, G.

I know that drill! I know it all too well. I pulled similar crap back in the day too. You tease the girls you like. You say you’re afraid of their Cooties. You give them stupid nicknames like Dog-Face, Alien Baby or Beotch (ok, maybe the latter one introduces itself into your vernacular later in life). Maybe you pull their ponytail.

Maybe.

But wrestling? Is that how it’s going to be? Does that mean I can stand in the corner like some ex-urbanite (albeit more subdued in fashion) version of Jimmy “the Mouth of the South” Hart? Am I able to drill these kids with bean bags chairs (because folding ones would be a little extreme, i.e. illegal) when the Kindergarten teacher isn’t looking?

To Weirdo’s credit, she can be a bit of scrapper. In the absence of a son, I’ve got to rough house with someone. Can’t be my wife because when I wrestle with her, I end up having more kids to blog about (bow-wicka-chicka- bow-wow). If Weirdo is wrestling, she can throw down.

But as I reflect on this, is Weirdo being a good wrestling buddy the best course either? Hardly. I don’t exactly want to encourage boys to wrestle with her. I don’t think is serves my insominia well to know my daugther is the undisputed King of the Playground, and everyday a new challenger will throw down the gauntlet (or mitten, I suppose) for the right to heft the proverbial championship belt over their shoulder.

Hmmm. Right now I need to jog my memory and remember if a glancing blow to “the twins” affected me at 6 as much as it did when I was older. Might be time to introduce effective use of knees to Weirdo in our next rough housing session.

Guest blogging on What’s the DIFF blog

Hey kids!

I am guest blogging again today on the DIFF blog, found at www.WhatsTheDIFF.com. This is a unique blog I am a fervent follower of that is dedicated to “exposing the gap between average and excellent.”

I came across a really inspiring story of selflessness that to me exemplifies what it is to be “the DIFF.” I hope you’ll click over and check it out. Subscribe to the DIFF’s RSS feed too – you won’t be disappointed.

Warning: This guest post is a little different from my normal fare being that it is devoid of the sarcasm, mockery and withering self-hatred we all know and love. My reason for this is that I truly think this is an amazing story. I’m sure you will enjoy it, however.

No worries though. I have a trio of ire-inspiring events to share with you…so sit tight and come back tomorrow!

I am the Paul Coffey of Parenting

My readers from the D or who are sports fans have seen the title of this post and have a pretty good idea what’s coming. Others of you are completely confused (I’m looking at you, hon). Stick with me. You know I’m always happy to spell out whatever convoluted analogy caroms around in my complicated grey matter.

Way back in the days of yore, 1996, when I had not yet graduated to scotch and Gentleman Jack (and since I was not a dad yet, didn’t need too – plus I was broke so I was probably drunk on Natty Ice), Hockeytown’s own Red Wings were squaring off in the Stanley Cup Finals against the hated Colorado Avalanche.

Future Hall of Famer defenseman Paul Coffey, draped in the Winged Wheel, found himself caught between two Avalanche skaters driving toward the Red Wing net, so he flipped the puck to his goaltender. Only problem is, the puck went past his goaltender. The error has forever ensconced Coffey into the hockey blooper Hall of Fame as well.

Folks, I pulled a Paul Coffey last week. I put the puck in my own net, so to speak.

(Tangent: Reader adawg has already twisted the preceding statement into something vile and illegal)

I took the family to Disney World and while we were there both Weirdo and Crazy had appointments at the Bippity Boppity Boutique. That is the place where they take your beautiful, innocent, princess-loving daughters and whore them all up like a Vegas Jon Benet Ramsey look-alike burlesque show.

Now, this is a BIG DEAL to a lot of little girls. Appointments are hard to get and must be made well in advance…kind of like getting a table at the Ivy, but without Leonardo DiCaprio and his pretentious electric car bullshit.

In true Disney fashion, they go to great lengths to make a true atmospheric event. You get an appointment card with Princess Weirdo or Princess Crazy on it. Everyone calls you “princess.” The employees are in Renaissance dress. A photographer takes photos during the appointment and offers (to sell) you a professional photo shoot afterward. You get to pick your hairstyle, color of the weave (yes, your little girl gets a big ol’ hunk of horse hair), the color of their make-up and nail polish. You can even pick out a princess dress, shoes and wand. They end it all by giving you a sash and sprinkling magic dust (a.k.a. glitter, a.k.a. stripper dandruff) over the girls’ heads with a magic wand.

Here is the result:

 

Now, I admit I love Disney. I get caught up in all of it. So I’m right there taking photos. And when the stylist asks me what my girls can get, I quickly tell her they can have whatever they want.

I have gone from overbearing, neurotic overshadower to gross enabler akin to that drunk friend at a kegger telling you that lying on the floor while the guy pounding Kamikaze shots juggles Ginsu knives over you is a great idea (true story!).

Remember that time you got really hammered and took a shit on the engine of someone’s station wagon? No? Just me? Hmmm. Well, humor me. At the time you were kinda caught up in the moment because everyone else was doing it? But when you sobered up you realized what you had done and quickly tried to fix it before more harm was done? (Or not, in the interest of truth)

Yeah, well kinda like that, once we got back to the hotel room and I’m staring at my girls all hussied up, it was quickly bath time where I scrubbed them back to purity.

Well, going back to Paul Coffey, he scored both of the Red Wings’ goals in that fateful game as well. So I didn’t let my “team” down either. You see, the Bippity Boppity Boutique lets the princesses take their make-up home with them. It became my mission to hide the make-up somewhere in that tiny boxy hotel room and, should it be found, bar the door so that none may exit without a proper inspection of lips, eyelids and cheeks.

This was a tad more challenging with Weirdo, as she actually knows how to put on make-up (yay!). Crazy, on the other hand, applies lip gloss to her chin and eye shadow to her forehead, so…kind of a gimme, if you will.

So there you have it. That is why I am the Paul Coffey on parenting.

Hey, didn’t the Wings still lose that game 3-2 in OT despite Coffey redeeming himself by scoring two goals for his team? So, basically, no matter what you do…

Shit.