Eternally Disgusting

I managed to horrify even myself this year.  In all it's shocking glory, I present the annual list of everything I ate at the Los Angeles County Fair:

Brick o' Curly Fries.
Deed Fried Strawberry Cream Cheese Wonton
Fried Spam
3 Beers
Trio of Street Tacos
Trio of Sliders
Pressure Cooked Fried Chicken
Deep Fried Cookie Dough
Deep Fried Trix Cereal
Deep Fried Klondike Bar
Cheesy Garlic Bread
Homemade Potato Chips
Deep Fried Hot Dog
Apple Pulled Pork Grilled Cheese
Traditional Grilled Cheese
Hot Fudge Brownie Sundae
Deep Fried Watermelon
Deep Fried Red Velvet Cake
Soft Pretzel


(Amazingly, no bacon this year.)

Kiss Ass

Sprout was being stubborn, her default position, and refusing to brush her teeth.  The Bean was in the bathroom already, his vigorous scrubbing and foam covered mouth giving him the appearance of a rabid animal.  It had been an extraordinarily hot day in the Valley, as they tend to be in August, and reserves of patience were in limited supply. 

Sprout sat on edge of the tub with the grin of a girl who thought she was being cute.  I started with the calm approach but gradually worked my way up to full fledged angry.  She was deliberately stalling and being cocky about it, a move that pushes nearly all of my buttons.  Yelling soon gave way to a threat—the loss of one of her prized toys.  That snapped her into action and soon she too had a mouth full of foam.

Meanwhile the Bean finished up his brushing, smiling the smile of a boy who was glad not to be in Dad’s line of fire.  On the way out of the bathroom, he stopped to give me a hug.

“I love you, Daddy,” he said, drawing out the “love” in a sugary sweet tone.  “When it’s my birthday, I don’t even need a present because I have you as my dad!”

He stood there, waiting for me to respond, waiting for me to praise him for his compliment.  The sounds of Sprout’s sporadic teeth brushing were all too present amongst the silence.

“Thank you,” I said after a deep breath.  “Any chance you’re telling me this because I’m yelling at your sister?”

“Uh huh,” he said as he practically skipped down the hall into his bedroom.

Juvenile Guy Bonding

July was a cruel month for the Geek Boy family, resulting in me seeing the rest of the brood for literally three hours over the course of three weeks. At the end of it all, WonderWife™ needed some solitude and sanity and I desperately needed to reconnect with the kids. Thus the plans for a road trip were hatched. I loaded the kids into the ol’ Family Truckster* and we headed south to the San Diego Zoo.

It was a great whirlwind of a weekend that involved sightseeing, junk food, laughter, room service, swimming and inexplicably waking Daddy up at 5:45am. It was such a jam-packed outing that it took approximately 10 minutes into the drive home for both kids to pass out in the back seat.

The Bean began to stir 45 minutes later.

I was excited.  "Buddy…Buddy,” I whispered trying to roust him out of his groggy state.

“What?”

“Look.” I pointed to a sight just over the horizon. “Keep watching that as we get closer.”

He leaned forward as much as his seat belt would allow and squinted. In a few minutes he smiled and suppressed a quiet giggle.

“Should we wake Sprout to see?” he asked.

“No. Let her sleep. This one’s just for you.”

This is what he saw**:

*In real life, the Truckster may more closely resemble a well-worn Camry. 

**I am nothing if not predictable.

Guy Talk

The Bean was in the bathtub when I got home from work. He was really happy to see me and launched into details about camp. Having drunk several cups of coffee and water throughout the day, followed by a marathon of afternoon meetings and a long drive home, I was in desperate need of relief. I closed the door and told the kid of my intentions to pee.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” he said. “I’ll turn away.”

“You don’t have to. We’re both guys. It’s okay.”

 After the business at hand had begun the Bean said, “At camp after swimming today, my friends were talking about wieners.”

“Like with your guy friends?”

 “Yeah, they were making jokes about wieners and…” The Bean got a guilty look on his face and stopped talking.

“What’s wrong?”

"Mom said I’m not allowed to say ‘wiener’.”

 “Listen, when you’re with guys or your dad there are certain things you can say that you shouldn’t say in front of mom. It’s called guy talk. With me, ‘wiener’ is okay.“

The Bean soaked in that information before continuing to tell me the wiener jokes his friends made at camp.

I smiled realizing that this conversation is going to be very similar but very different when he’s 13.

Everything You Need To Know About Me

In my formative years, one of my prized possessions was a book called "The World's Worst Elephant Jokes."


The first joke in the book went like this:

What did Tarzan say when he saw elephants coming over the hill?

"Here come elephants over the hill."


The second joke in the book went like this:

What did Tarzan say when he saw elephants coming over the hill wearing dark sunglasses?

Nothing.  He didn't recognize them.


Now you understand what my family puts up with. 

Retaliation

My Facebook status read:

Hey WonderWife™, that thing with the glitter....? Nicely played. I hate you for it, but nicely played. 

Earlier that day, WonderWife™ and I had what we’ll call a domestic squabble. It was a very rare occurrence for us, a couple that prides themselves on how little they fight. (A stark contrast to my parents, who I lovingly refer to as “The Costanzas”…but that’s another post for another time.) The fracas wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. At the core of it, a difference of opinion. It was the kind of row that all married couples have at some point in their relationship. But there was some anger. And by some, I mean a lot. Pointed directly at me. By her. All day I could feel her silently seething in my direction, the quiet aftermath of the initial battle.

I shrewdly decided to keep my distance. Thankfully, it was a divide and conquer sort of day where each of us took a kid to a separate birthday party. As a result, there wasn’t a lot of interaction between us. WW™ took Sprout to a party in the morning while I escorted the Bean to an afternoon affair.

In the evening, I went to my study to immerse myself in various forms of social media and tubes of You. There on my desk, directly in front of my laptop were two works of art from my daughter. The kids’ love of arts and crafts had been growing steadily and the walls of my office had become plastered with their various drawings and paintings. They would leave them for me on my desk or on the chair. But upon closer inspection, these pieces were different. They were absolutely the work of my little girl, but she had worked in a new medium. Glitter. Every square inch of the artwork was coated in a thick layer of sparkly art class glitter.

I abhor glitter with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns.

I used to have a cat that loved me and was incredibly territorial. During my single days, if a woman started spending too much time with me and getting comfortable in my apartment the cat would leave a present on her pillow. And by present, I mean poop. (The cat did this the most to the woman who would become WonderWife™. Later the two of them strongly bonded.) In this moment, I couldn't help but to think of that cat.  WonderWife™ was exactly like her.

I carefully removed the glitter bombs from the room as carefully as Jeremy Renner in The Hurt Locker, knowing that one false move would mean debris, which would mean sometime in the near future I would be walking around with glitter embarrassingly attached to my face. All the while, WonderWife™ smiled a devilish smile. The message couldn’t have been any clearer if I had woken up next to a horse head.

I was pissed at WonderWife’s™ retaliation but I also applauded her cleverness. This is why I love her.

This Story Does Not Make Me Look Good

The Bean has hated getting water in his eyes since he was old enough to sit up in the bath.  To this very day, he complains whenever he gets splashed while bathing.  Though he doesn’t seem to have this problem when he’s swimming.  I don’t know why, but this has always bothered me.  I guess that getting splashed in the eye is one of those details that is so minor to me it should be minor to him.  I mean it’s just water.  And he couldn't be complaining about shampoo in his eyes because it’s not supposed to sting.  It says so right on the bottle.  His sister even confirmed that it didn't hurt.  

I was giving the Bean his bath when water splashed in his face.  As per his custom, he freaked out and asked for a rag to wipe his eyes.  Even though the rags were in a container that was literally right outside of the bathroom door, I rejected his request.  I’m not sure what compelled me to do this.  Ignoring the fact that he's six, I wanted him to stop being so dramatic over a little water.  I figured in a minute he'd forget about his eye and continue on with his washing.  Hee began to get really upset—the screaming, red-eyed, nose-running, sloppy sobbing kind of upset.  Instead of nurturing the problem that I created and getting the boy a rag, I made it worse by calmly telling him to stop crying.  The sobbing continued all the way through the bath and only calmed down after a hug from his mom and some Ninjago. 

I felt really shitty about it.    

At bedtime, I tucked the Bean under his covers and sat down on the bed. 

I inhaled deeply and said, “In the bath tonight, you asked for a rag to wipe your eye and I didn’t give it to you.  I was wrong and I’m sorry.  I should have given you what you were asking for and the next time I will.”

The Bean looked visibly relieved and a slight smile crept on his face.  We hugged.  We kissed.  We were good again.  And I walked out of his room learning a very valuable lesson—if it’s important to him, it doesn’t matter if it’s not important to me.