What to Expect When You're Expecting

No, we're not expecting. But we have been twice before. When I say 'we', I mean 'she' - because I had no idea what to expect. She had books to help her along the way. She had friends who had been expecting before. I had nothing, and as a result my journey into 'expecting' was much like being bandied about the head with an axe-handle. It was painful, disorienting, and I hoped that it would soon stop. If I were to write a book for guys, about what to expect when you're expecting, then they would never read it - 'cause I mean come on, we're guys, but if I were to make some cliff notes on the book in an effort to help prepare the average guy for what to expect, then they would be as follows:

1) Strange books will begin to appear on your coffee table. Lots of them. Hundreds of dollars worth of books - and she will want you to read them along with her. You will want to resist this - but not to the point of appearing uninvolved or disinterested. Some books have excrutiating details in them which are best left to the doctors and the babies, and some are little journal-type things that you write in (i.e. Day 63: I thought I felt you kick today, but it turned out that it was just those fajitas we had last night. I realize that you aren't capable of kicking me yet, but you are such a little miracle and blah, and blah, and blah.) One possible compromise is to have her read the book aloud to you in the evenings while you're sipping your beer. If she resists, then remind her that studies show that babies are comforted by their mothers voice while in the womb and that ears begin to form at only 8 weeks into pregnancy, and wouldn't-this-be-a-great-family-bonding-thing-for-all-of-you? :) Then all you have to do is try to not grimance when she announces rather proudly that her mucus plug is about to come in. Tip: If she thinks that you are disinterested then you can save yourself by putting your ear to her stomach and listening to the fajitas digesting for a few minutes. Don't ask me why.

2) She will begin 'nesting' if she hasn't already. You thought the books were expensive? Having a baby is the world's best reason to go on a shopping spree - and it never ends! She will buy things. A lot of things. Things that the child will have no use for until they are three years old. Things that are cute. Things that are on sale. Things that her friends thought were cute. Things that you kind of need, but that could be put off for another 6 months easily. She will buy two of some things in case the baby likes one of them better. Then there will probably be something called a baby registry too, where all of her friends can join in the excitement and buy multiple copies of things that the baby will have no interest in. Take heart - at least the financial strain will be spread around somewhat. There's really no way to stop this without appearing to be the world's biggest prick, so my advice is just to plan ahead and let it happen and defend as much of your territory as possible. If you're not having the baby for another six months, then you don't need to have the car seat in the back of your car just in case. Did she get an inflatable kiddie pool on sale? Don't blow it up yet, just smile and compliment her shopping ability, and then stick it in the garage.

3) She will change. Physically, obviously, but that's easily dealt with by using the phrase: 'You're just glowing honey, and it's the greatest thing ever that you can bring our child into this world.' Just repeat it at least three times out loud, right now, and remember it. That phrase will save you from just about any arguments or drama about what's happening with her body - and if you're convincing enough, then you'll score some bonus 'good daddy' points out of the gate. Trust me, those are more easily earned now rather than later. Emotionally speaking she will also change, and could have umm.. mood swings.. and cravings.. It's kinda fun waking up not knowing whether the bacon and eggs that you made her for breakfast will make you a star for the day or whether you'll be the devil's spawn who is making her fat (insert glowing statement here) and then she'll start crying and call her friend to bitch about this and all of the other stupid things that you've done during this trimester. Cravings are handled easily enough, you just have to make sure that you get enough of whatever it is that she wants. Think one pint of Ben & Jerry's is enough? Think again. Get three. Worried about waste? Over a $3 pint of ice cream? When you now own two changing tables that go for $400 a pop? Get real. I once had to drag my ass out of bed at midnight (so cliche', but I'm serious) to go find a store that was still open and that had peach yogurt and pink lady apples (nothing else would do). I filled the damn shopping basket after that. Fool me once.

4) She will become, uhh, irrational at times. Some of this is the fault of the books from #1 - at least one of which outlaws all sugar while pregnant and suggests that you reward yourself with an organic fruit-juice-sweetened cookie no more than once a week if you just can't live without it. Of all the tripe to put in a pregnancy book. She may read things like this (unbeknownst to you), second-guess herself, try, fail, and cry, at which point you will need to step up and do something or you risk being the insensitive jerk who ruined her life. Remind her that her mother smoked, drank, and probably ate her weight in doughnuts while she was in the womb and look how beautiful and smart she turned out (insert glowing statement from #3 here - are you seeing how useful it is yet?). You won't be able to fight some of the irrationality though, as it tends to resist reason very well - such as why the spare room upstairs, which has had fine white walls for the last five years suddenly needs to be a different color for the baby. It's for the baby. The baby needs a yellow nursery. The baby needs it. Don't try reasoning through this; don't try fighting back. Yes, it's true that the baby likely wont be able to appreciate interior decorating for quite some time, yes it's true that they may prefer white to yellow, it's almost certainly true that the room doesn't need to be painted right now - but you won't win this one. Just suck it up, go to Home Depot, and get the paint that she picked out. Reward yourself with a new power tool while you're there - and if you get called on it, then say it's for the baby. A new router? Say it's for engraving the baby's name on the crib or the changing table or something. New saw? Well, you need it for the detail work on the rocking horse you were planning on surprising her with. You know.

5) A lot of books say that she may become very horny during the second trimester. Heh. I wouldn't bank on that. . .

Anyway, if you can weather the storm then when you get to the hospital and witness the miracle of birth you will be greatly rewarded. Cherish the arrival of the baby. Cherish the look on your wife's face as the baby is presented to her. Cherish the look on your wife's face as you tell her that you forgot to put the car seat in the back of the car that you drove to the hospital. Cherish the urine as it drips from your chin, because soon this little person will call you 'dada' and then it's all over. :)

That's it, in a nutshell, hope it helps!

Away with the Circus

I was a carnie once, I'll admit it. Briefly. This unfortunate turn of events was due to the fact that I needed money prior to taking off for college, and I had just recently been fired from my prior job for 'horse play', whatever that is :).

So, at my Dad's insistence, I read through the paper to find myself a job for the last few weeks of summer before school started. I think the ad went something like this:

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$
$
$ RIDE OPERATORS WANTED, NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY !!
$
$ Must speak and understand English, must be able to lift 50 lbs.
$
$ Get started TODAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
$
$ Show up on Friday at the field on 5th and Vine before 9am.
$
$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

And as you might have guessed from their rather stringent set of requirements, this turned out to be quite a fascinating and dynamic organization to become a part of. I showed up at 8:30 am on Friday, and stood next to a couple of other sorry-looking individuals and surveyed the once-vacant lot - which now seemed to be taken over by trailers, tents, and other assorted vehicles and contraptions that, when all taken in during the early morning fog, made this seem more like the set of a Stephen King movie rather than a place to bring the family. It was a chilly morning, but I waited. At about 9:20 a girl(?) came walking up to us and simply said (gruffly) 'CommON', and led us all into the maze of trailers that we had been staring at. The trail of smoke left by her cigar made it easy to follow her into the mist, and she sat us all down under a tent and went on.

Carnie Girl (handing us paper): 'Fill these out.'
Us (fumbling around for pens or whatever): ...
Carnie Girl: 'Oh Jesus Christ, CommON!'
From behind the trailer: 'Bev, where's my shorts!?'
Carnie Girl: 'I TOLL you I don't know, get-the-hell-outta my trailer!!'
Us (scribbling now): ...?
Bev (I guess): 'Don't you mind that now, y'all can fill those out later, CommON!'
Bev (mumbling): 'Somebitch better notta got me pregnant.'
One of us (not me): 'Is there going to be an interview, or.. ?'
Bev (walking off): 'CommON I SAID!'

And Bev walked us around to the various contraptions that were being set up in the field, and started pointing her cigar at them and calling out names (sort of). 'Blondie' she said, gesturing towards the Haunted House 'You're over there.' 'Freckles, on the canoe ride'. 'Sweet cheeks' she said, looking at me, 'You're on the teacups'. 'But I...' I started, 'CommON and git!' she said, and I scurried over to the ride and tried to figure out where to stand so that I at least looked like I knew what I was doing. 'I'll be back' she barked, and stomped her way off to one of the tents behind the line of trailers.

I stood in place, not daring to move, and looked over at the other new carnies-to-be. No one said anything, but it was easy to see by their similarly rigid stances that the the three of us had no idea what we had gotten ourselves into. 'Up time!' I heard Bev grunting, as she rounded the line of trailers again. 'Up time!' she shouted, kicking the sides of the trailers as she went, causing them to shake back and forth to wake their occupants. 'UP TIME!' One by one a small herd of hung-over, red-vested carnies emerged from their trailers and went almost robotically to their assigned attractions. There would be no introductions. Bev handed each of the three of us a not-so-clean red vest, and a few words of encouragement 'Don't go making trouble'.

Me (putting on my vest): 'So umm.. How do you work the ride?'
Bev (incredulous, pointing to some buttons): 'Green means go, Red means stop. You know your colors right?'
Me: 'Err, yeah. So um.. What do I do if someone falls off or gets hurt or. . .'
Bev: 'Are you Makein TROUBLE?!'
Me (cowering): 'No!'
Bev: 'Look, there's only one thing you gotta know. Each cup has a weight limit of 140 pounds. Anything more than that, and it goes bad. Keep the fat fucks off it.'
Me (in my head): How the hell am I supposed to know how much someone weighs just by looking? I mean, what does a group of three 8 year-olds weigh? I better err on the side of caution here. . .
Me: (in my outside voice, with a thumbs up): 'You got it boss.'
Bev (handing me a towel): 'Here's your towel.'
Me: 'Umm (?)'
Bev (walking off, over her shoulder): 'You'll figger it.'

I seem to be the only one with a towel. Blondie and freckles didn't get towels. Hm. Before I had time to ponder this any further, people began making their way down the midway and out into the field to survey the shoddily-maintained death-tra- I mean, attractions. I didn't actually see them come down the midway, per se, I just heard the carnies start shouting at them as the walked - 'come on and who's gonna win - who's a winner here - you a winner sir? Step riiiight up!' My first customers were on the way. Two little kids and their mom. Mentally, I play the weight game before they arrive.

Two little kids: maybe 60 or 70 pounds total
Mom: Ugh. 200? I don't know.

I collect their tickets, pull back the chain on the corral, and they mooooove on to the teacup floor. 'Excuse me ma'am', I say, as she goes to hand me her tickets better think of something fast - think-think-think!, 'but this ride is just for little kids.' yeah! that's it! you go boy! 'Oh, okay' she gruffs, and I help her kids into the teacup. I push the green button, spin the little suckers around for a few minutes to their sheer delight, and then hit the red button, lead them back to mom, and then they stumble off giggling. 'Okay' I think. This is easy, no sweat! Next comes a family of four - mom and dad didn't even want to get on the stupid teacups - no problem! Gaggle of giggling girls? No problem! An entire cub scout troop? No problem! This ride isn't cool enough for anyone over 12 it seems, so this has been cake walk for the most part.

'Break' I hear from behind me, and turn around to see Bev bending over to get something in the grass at my feet (turns out it was a dime). And I tried not to look, but because I am a guy, I couldn't help it - it was totally involuntary. And I looked, and I saw a thin blue line of fabric popping out along the top of Bev's pants. Underwear. 'Now that's a surprise', I thought to myself, 'I would have figured her for going commando'.

Bev: 'What you lookin at?'
Me: 'Nothing!'
Bev: 'Git! And be back here in 20 minutes, less you want trouble, sweet cheeks!'
Me: 'Okay boss!'

And I take off my vest and scoot off towards the midway, looking for a hamburger or something to eat for lunch. Following the smoke, I find a little shack doing popcorn, hamburgers, and hot dogs with a short line gathering around it. I wait. And someone in a red vest nudges me and points over to a table where there were a bunch of other people, who could only be carnies, gathered. Every single one of them had a hot dog. So... I guess I am getting a hot dog too.

Me: 'One hot dog please.'
They: 'ONE HOT DOG!!!'
They: 'You with the show?'
Me: 'Huh? Err.. yeah. '
They (shaking their head and looking skyward): 'Here ya go.'

I go and sit at the table with all the other carnies, none of whose names I remember, but if you picture a bunch of alcoholic 40-yr olds who look like they spent the last 10 years in prison, then you wouldn't be too far off. The clamor of the midway and the smoke from the grill adds a touch of elegance and sense of occasion to the meal.

From the midway: 'and who's gonna win - who's a winner here - you a winner sir? Step riiiight up!'
Some old Carnie: 'Go git 'em son!!! Booyeah!!!'
Me (trying to be more carnie than I can reasonably pull off): 'Why y'all got hot dogs for anyhows?'
Old Carnie: 'Hot dogs is new on Friday.'
Me: 'So... I mean.. Do they ever get .. old?'
Carnies: (laughter)
Old Carnie (gesturing to the hot dog machine): 'See dat roller up air?'
Me: 'Yeah.'
Old Carnie: 'They load 'er up when we pull into town, and the hot dogs last all week.'
Me (epiphany): 'Ooooohhh, right then.'
Old Carnie: 'No dogs past Sunday, that's the rule. I been here near twenty years, and the only time I ever got sick was on dogs past Sunday.'
Me: 'What about, like, the other people who come here an-'
Old Carnie: 'Hey! Are you tryin' to make trouble?!'
Me (quickly): 'No!'

And I scarf my hot dog, make a mental note to switch to hamburgers on Monday, and scurry back to Bev who looks to be busy instructing the kids on the finer points of riding on my ride.

Bev: 'Heet-up on in there now! Here we go! CommON!'
Me: 'I'm back!'
Bev (pulling some Skoal out of her pocket): 'Great. You got a cigarette? I'll trade ya a dip.'
Me (because I smoked when I was 18): 'Here, just, take it. It's cool.'
Bev (all of a sudden turning nice): 'Well, thanks, they don't let us smoke when we're workin'.'
Bev (pausing to spit on the side of the ride): 'So I make do with this.'

And with that I actually saw Bev smile as she threw off her vest and lit up my cigarette. The cigarette could have easily rested in half a dozen different pockets between her remaining teeth, but she didn't seem to notice my awkward gawking. Then after a short pause and a big drag, she looked at me and said 'see ya.'

So I put my vest back on and stepped up to the ride. More people were coming now, it was a zoo in the afternoon. And across the field I see a mom with three kids coming up. Again, the pre-emptive weight game -

Kids #1 and #2: About 80 lbs I reckon
Kid #3: maybe 100 lbs
Mom: Milf-tastic! She'd fit under the limit with room to spare!

I open the door, take the tickets, and divvy everyone up into their cups, and awaaay we go! And a line forms as everyone is spinning around, and I now realize that I just lost my good excuse for keeping the ride weight under control. Shit. And as the ride ends, and as I say goodbye to Ms. Milf-tastic, we take on more riders, and the line continues to grow. So far so good. And we start/stop and load up again, and this time there is trouble.

Me: 'I'm sorry Ma'am, but this is a ride for little kids.'
300: 'It is not. I saw another mother riding with her kids just a minute ago.'
Me (in my head): I am so, so fucked.
Me (trying to sell it): 'No you didn't.'
300: 'Don't be tellin' me what I saw, and I don't see no sign that sa-'
Me (transformation complete): 'HAY! You tryin' to make TROUBLE?!?'
300 (in utter shock): 'No!'

It worked!! And the ride went on, and no one else in line said shit after that! Awesome! And the day went on without issue, and well into the evening until it was almost time to close down for the day. And then I got me another gaggle of giggling girls. And they were fine, and they climbed in and rode, and as the ride was coming to a stop the cutest among them said 'Hey, can we just go again?' Now, I am a total sucker for cute little girls. I can't help it. Want an ice cream cone? A pony? College tuition? Okay, just smile and blink your eyes at me, that's all it takes, and I'll cave. They need to make a pill for this, obviously. And since the carnival is emptying out, and since no one else is in line, I say 'Sure!', and I spin them again. And a few minutes later the ride comes to a stop, and again she asks 'Hey, can we go just one more time?'

Me (sucker): 'Ohhh, okay.'
Them: 'Woo hoo!'

It's not like anyone is counting my tickets anyway, right? And they spin and spin and spin, and then. for. some. reason. they. want. to. stop. So. we. stop, and they all get out and start heading in fairly random directions and collapse on the grass. No more giggles. Then slowly they regain their feet, and the cute one waves goodbye to me. The littlest one just looks at me and says 'sorry' before scurrying off to join her friends. Sorry? Sorry about what (?), I wonder. And then the smell hits me. And I creep up to the teacup where she had been sitting. And it's everywhere. Looks like it might have been pizza about an hour ago (?). And now I understand what the towel is for. So I get to work cleaning up, and Bev brings me by a bucket of water. 'Come back tomorrow, sweet cheeks' she says, before dropping the bucket and heading off to her trailer for the night.

And I do, and all the rest of that week too, until Thursday rolls around and it's time to pack up. I help with the packing up, and Bev comes over and hands me a wad of cash -

Bev: 'That's for the week. You headin' out with us?'
Me: 'Thanks. I don't think so, I have other-'
Bev (rocking back on her heels and flashing her six sexy teeth): 'Aw come on. You can sleep in my trailer if you don't got none.'
Me (putting it in terms that I think she can understand): 'Thanks really, but I think I'll be movin' on now.'
Bev (pausing to drag on her cigar): 'Arright then. See ya sweet cheeks!'

And then she smacked me on the ass, turned, and walked away.

The Men's Room

'Why don't you change the baby? There's a changing station in the men's room.' she said. Evidently, she had never seen the inside of a men's room before. Certainly not a real men's room. Not a men's room like the one at the McDonalds off of I-5 that I would have had to change the baby in. 'No thanks. I'll just change him in the car' I say. 'Don't be stupid,' she continued editorial note: That is her favorite phrase, 'It's pouring outside, you'll get soaked...' 'I don't care.' I replied. And seeing the continued quizzical expression on her face, I had to break down and tell her. The real horrors that are the men's public restroom. This took roughly an hour to lay out for her, but I will attempt to keep it brief, since the rest of you have lives to get back to. I'll start with upscale men's rooms, and work my way down. I swear that all of this is real - there's not even a need to stretch the truth here. No pictures will be provided. You're welcome.

The Upscale Men's Room
Found in: Fancy restaurants, executive hotels, and anywhere there is a lot of money
You are sometimes ok venturing into the upscale men's room, especially if it's earlier in the day. These are cleaned frequently, have quality tile, and are monitored for the occasional no-no. In some upscale men's rooms they even have attendants to assist you with whatever you might need while peeing - you know, the little mint and towel guys in black tie. This can be both a good and bad thing, depending on whether you like encouragement while trying to accomplish your business:
'Come sir, let's have it then.'
'I shall alert the weather bureau that a flood shall be forthcoming.'
'Well struck sir. We shall have to re-tile after that thunderous contribution.'
You know. And this is not to say that an unattended upscale men's room will not deteriorate quickly when left alone for too long - quite the contrary. Men seem to be pigs, and it doesn't matter if they are in a suit or a wife beater, they can't squat, aim, or wash without making a mess. The only particularly dangerous thing about the upscale men's room is that the tile is well-sealed and high-quality, meaning that when it gets wet it will be extremely slick. Couple that with a nice pair of virtually tractionless dress shoes, such as you might wear in a fancy restaurant, and you can be in for some fun.

The Men's Room at Work
Found in: most workplaces
And here we begin to see a real breakdown of societal normalcy. If you've seen Lord of the Flies, then you understand what I'm getting at. Let's begin our tour at the stalls. The stalls are kind of like a game show, in that you're never quite sure what you'll find behind each door - or whether it's a good idea to try to trade up to see what's behind a different door. As a general rule, anything that doesn't have poo smeared all over the insides of the stall or throne is workable, though not necessarily desirable. The traditional method is the quick-peek through the cracked stall door during which you can make an informed decision about whether to venture into the stall any further. If someone just went wild with #1, then you might be able to clean up or even better do a hover-type manuver to avoid contact. Caution must be exercised with the hover though, as it tends to promote splashing, so sometimes you're better off trying still another stall door to see if you can find a relatively unmolested stall. Depends how many doors you have to choose from I guess. Allow me to summarize the typical stall findings:

Always: Toilet paper on the floor, liquid of one kind or another on the throne, bad smell.
Frequently: Toilet paper missing, previous hover-manuver gone awry - leading to collateral damage on throne, liquid surrounding throne - like a moat for your castle.
And Sometimes: Poo on throne, floor, or other, used toilet paper on floor or other, throne overflowing and has presents inside, and even 'my diet has gone horribly, horribly wrong' - leading to a total catastrophie.

Moving on, we have a special fixture for guys called a urinal. You pee in it. That's it. Most of the time. . . At my place of employment, someone has affixed a laminated (obviously) sign above the urinals which reads: 'Only Urine in the Urinals Please.' . . . This is a fortune-500 company, not some rinky-dink operation that employs transients to throw freight. And what's worse, I will tell you that there are exactly three things that are ever found in a urinal aside from urine. One is gum, but no one chews gum here. The second used to be cigarette butts, before they outlawed smoking inside. The third belongs in a stall, but for whatever reason it's apparently not getting to the stall sometimes. And for them to go to the trouble of making a sign about it tells me that this has happened more than once, right?

Let's dissect the urinal a little more though. I want to examine it from a time-of-day perspective, as most janitorial-type duties (how they do it, I'll never know) are performed at night. In the early early morning, the men's room at work is, for the most part, clean. This is your only shot at getting a stall in reasonable condition, and also your best shot at not getting your shoes wet if you need to use the urinal. Why, you ask? Well, as the urinal sees more and more use, there is more and more spillage on the ground, until a nice little lake forms in front of it. You choices at any point later in the day are to stand in the lake (but eww), or stand on the far side of the lake and pee across the distance. Most everyone chooses option #2, and as a result the lake continues to increase in size as the stream drop-offs continue to land on the floor. Occasionally the lake will build to such a size as to create and support a small town complete with a ferryman to take you across the lake in his little boat so that you may pee closer to the urinal. He will generally not be as nice as the little mint guy in the executive men's room, and you have to make sure that he doesn't head back to shore without you too. Tip well.

The Real Men's Room
Found in: Gas stations, fast food, airports, train stations, skating rinks, and especially Chucky Cheese.
Girls, think you've seen it all? Are you disgusted by that little drop of pee left on the seat, and the nerve of the person before you who left the toilet unflushed? HAHAHAHAHA!!!! You haven't seen shit, my friend. If the world descended into anarchy and people were expelling waste whenever, wherever, and however they pleased, then you still couldn't touch the absolute filthery (not a word, I checked) of the Real Men's Room. I call it that because you have to be a real man's man to even enter these god-forsaken shit holes. Most of us would rather pee out the car window, even with the risk of blow-back. The placement of thrones and urinals in the real men's room are taken mostly under advisement, with the final resting place of said waste pretty much being distributed randomly across whatever space is available in most cases. The only way you'd be able to prove that the throne or urinal was once used is that whatever contents were deposited in either one have not been flushed, ipso facto, someone managed to hit the target at least once - and let's be honest here, close counts in the real men's room.

Also, you do not wash your hands in the real men's room. Touching anything at all will just make you dirtier than when you came in. You go in, hold your breath, do whatever you need to do wherever you can find room to do it, and then if there is paper of some kind available, you use it, open the door with it, throw the paper on the floor, and get the hell out. 'And that's the reality of the situation' I said to her. . . 'Fine' she replied, 'I'll just change him in the women's restroom', and she stalked off kinda pissed.

And now I don't have to change the baby when we are on the road anymore!!! :)

Before She Eats

I attempted a parody of Carrie Underwood's 'Before He Cheats' a long time ago, and finally decided to put it on the list of songs over to the right. It's not a great performance on my part, but I felt it might at least be entertaining (maybe), so I figured I would put it up. This particular sonic nightmare was mixed (rescued, really) by a guy named Jay Walsh who can be reached at http://www.farviewrecording.com. If this is your first time here, then I would recommend listening to 'Glamorous' or 'Hey There Vagina' first, as these are really more up to snuff.

Rhianna and Eminem are next up. Additional videos likely. Be afraid. . .

The List

The list. You know, the list. The list of people who if you had a chance to sleep with them (not that you'd ever have a chance), then there is a silent agreement with the wife that it would be ok, because, I mean, damn. I'm not sure how many people y'all get to have on your list, but I get five on mine - chiefly as a result of my dongle hanging on a little hook by the front door. Encased in glass. Along with a little hammer and a note which reads 'Don't you even - '.

I figure that the only way I'd ever get to meet one of the people on my list and have a chance with them would be if like, they were driving around in my neighborhood without an entourage, with a dead cell phone, got a flat tire right in front of my house, and were insatiably horny upon my fixing the tire for them - and that's only if the lighting isn't too good. I changed out our porch lights from 75W to 60W just in case, and keep waiting for that knock on the door. So far zippo.

So without further ado, here's my list for 2008:

1) Natalie Portman. That little ripped up white outfit in Star Wars? To die for!
2) Rihanna. When she has the straight hair in those music videos? Ack!
3) Rebecca Romijn-Stamos. The blue chick from XMEN. Drooo o o o o l.
4) Angelina Jolie. Pretty much any time, anywhere. Duh.
5) Milla Jovovich. She's weird. She's interesting. She'd have to be a great lay.

I know, I know, you're saying what about Halle Berry? What about Victoria Beckham? What about - - - ??? Okay chief, who's on your list?

Kari's House

The five of us had plotted all week. Me, Shane, Josh, Paul, and Bob. Plotted all week to have a sleep-over and then sneak out and go toilet paper Kari Pollreisz’s house. Kari, spelled K-a-r-i, was the future homecoming queen, head cheerleader, and queen of the fake-baked-mall-bitches all in one. She hated us. We openly hated but secretly loved her (or the idea of her anyway), and after enduring months of torment that only adolescents can either dish out or experience fully, we finally decided to get her back. We were going to TP her house. Next weekend. TP it good. Then she would be sorry and take back all those brush-offs, screw-yous, and thinly disguised looks of disdain that we would always garner while making those farting sounds with our arm pits in class. Bitch.

Bob, by virtue of having overheard our conversation at lunch, had to be included in this little endeavor, though everyone (particularly Paul) was skeptical about Bob’s ability to make a meaningful contribution (who's Bob?).

Paul: ‘He’s slow, weak, noisy, and pathetic – whaddaya mean we have to bring him?’
Me: ‘He’ll tell. . .’

And since we were 12, that was enough to secure Bob the outing of his life so far. Oh, I’m sure that Bob has since moved up in the world – probably retired from software engineering at 30 and waking up on his yacht right now as I type, deciding which ex-model will be allowed to welcome him into the world this morning with a bloody mary and a blow job, but this is a story set long ago where we can still poke fun at Bob and not have to follow it with a ‘sir’.

So we all meet up at my house, and Bob brings along all of his Dungeons and Dragons stuff because, well, we need something to do, and Bob will tell, so I guess we’re playing… Also, Bob gets to be the dungeon master, because he’s the only one who really knows how the game is supposed to work – and the only one with the rule books too, so that means he basically gets to tell us all what to do during the game to a large extent as well. Bob may very well have popped his first boner that night - what with all the excitement.

Bob (rolling dice): ‘Wah wah wah.’ <--- That’s how Bob laughs
Shane: ‘What?’
Bob: ‘It seems that the Beholder has taken an interest in you, puny elfling, wah-wah-wah’
Shane: ‘Okay so –‘
Bob: ‘The rest of you guys see Fizgig shoot up into the air and . . ‘
Bob (rolling more dice): ‘.. oh look, he just exploded. Wow. I’ve invented elf-rockets! Wah-wah-wah’
Bob: ‘Someone better collect the dust, maybe you can resurrect him in town.’
Paul: ‘Screw this crap.’
Bob (smug look): …
Me: ‘I’ll get a jar…’

And this pretty much goes on for a few hours, as we down cans of Jolt (remember Jolt?) cola and bags of chips. We get the stupid elf resurrected, we save someone from something – I don’t remember what, and emerge heros. And then it’s time.

About 2am we grab all the toilet paper in the house that we can find, about 12 rolls, and stuff them into backpacks. Josh has brought some from home already – 4 more rolls makes 16. And then naturally we grab the firecrackers too – because we, of course, have to go torment a field full of cows that are on the way. It’s like a tradition. Okay, it’s just a guy thing… Okay, so… Really it’s more like we wanted to try cow-tipping this one time, but we were too chicken to do it, so we threw firecrackers at them instead, and now we sort of just always do it, okay?

We also swipe a couple of beers from the fridge because, uhh, because they are there I guess. I didn’t develop any taste for beer until I was about 22 – and couldn’t hack down enough of it to get a buzz until I was 14, but hey, if it made you look cooler to have it, then you may as well have it right?

Me (popping open a can): ‘Here Bob, go for it.’
Bob: ‘I don’t think that I sh-‘
Me: ‘Oh Christ Bob, it’s just beer, drink it.’
Bob (sipping): ‘I – uGh! Argh!’

Bob says ‘argh’ a lot. It can mean any cuss word. He lives with his gran, if you recall, and she’s the kind of gran that don’t abide no cussin’. In my idle daydreams I sometimes picture Bob sitting in the bathroom with a bar of soap in his mouth, like that little kid in A Christmas Story. Bob hands me back the beer, and I pretend to like the rest of the can as we walk to the cow fields.

We spread the upper gap in the barbed-wire fence and crawl through quietly, approaching our unsuspecting prey – 5 or 6 cows standing in a field unsuspecting. Probably having cow dreams. What exactly they dream about I can’t tell you, but I can tell you that the dreams are about to come to an end –

Paul (lit firecrackers in hand): ‘Hey-oh Cows!!!!!’
Cows: ‘Moo?’
Paul: ‘Artillery!’

And at that we start sticking bottle rockets lightly in the ground, angled towards the cows, and lighting them. *shoom*shoo-shoo-shoom*bang*bang*bang-ang* (I wasn’t brave enough to launch them by hand yet) and Paul throws his firecrackers, and the cows start a mini-stampede to the other end of the field with us preparing to pursue, and Ssssssssssssssss…. *BANG* happens right at our feet.

Paul: ‘Dammit BOB! You don’t stick ‘em in the ground that far!’
Josh: ‘Cows are already gone, dood.’
Bob (abashed, and stammering): ‘O.. Okay.’
And we start a pursuit, and run them into a corner (quietly) where we continue the merciless and senseless onslaught – and Paul is about to bellow an attack order when from behind us: *shoom-shoo-shoo-shoo-shoom* rockets begin whizzing by our heads and veering off-course and hitting the adjacent fence right behind the cows *bang-bang-ang-ang-bang* and this naturally spooks the crap out of them, and they start their mini-stampede again – right towards us.

Paul: ‘Goddammit Bob!!!’
Bob: ‘I-‘
Me (cutting in) ‘RUN.’

And we do run, and probably make more of a production out of running than necessary, but hey it’s a really dark night, and if you get trampled or bit or something, then you’re basically on your own because no one thought to bring a flashlight. We cross to the nearest fence and all scoot through the barbed wire, and from behind me I hear

The darkness: ‘Oh ARGH.’
Me: ‘Bob?’
The darkness: ‘Help!’
Me: ‘Guys, I think Bob is in trouble.’
The darkness: ‘Come on guys…’
The guys (mocking): ‘Come on guys…’
The darkness: ‘I’m stuck!’
The guys: (laughter)

So, I go back for Bob, because Bob’s, well, a little out of his element I guess, and plus he is my friend. Mostly. So I walk back, and Bob is perched kind of straddling the barbed-wire fence, with the crotch of his stylish grey corduroy pants all hung up on the barbed wire (Bob chose corduroys instead of the cheap nasty purple jeans that I usually got stuck with – to each his own I guess).

Bob (having given up trying to free himself): ‘Help?’
Me (sighing): ‘Okay, let me see if I can OHMYGOD–WHAT-HAPPENED?’
Bob: ‘I kinda slipped on the way…’

Bob had, in fact, found himself a fresh cow-pie, ran through it and managed to both lose his shoe and slip and fall into a second cow-pie all at the same time. His pants were trashed. He smelled horrible. And I had to reach into this mess to get him off the fence.

Me: ‘This is love, Bob.’
Bob: ‘Please don’t tell the others.’
Me (fighting back the urge to both vomit and laugh): ‘I don’t think we’re going to be able to hide this one.’
Me (still fighting back a giggle): …Want some toilet paper, for… you know… (?)
Bob: …
Me: wah-wah-wah!
Bob: ‘Argh.’

So Bob gets loose, minus a few crotch fibers and the aforementioned shoe. And we talk about it and decide that going back for the shoe would be pointless as he’ll never want to wear it again anyway. No, I am absolutely not making any of this up, you’d just have to know Bob.

So, cows sufficiently spooked, we continued on to Care Bear’s house. Kari the bitch, Kari whose family is loaded, Kari who has never not been on any of the junior high dance, Christmas, homecoming, or whatever courts. Kari, whose book report was on ‘Of Mice and Men’, when asked, reported that the theme of the story was ‘to be nice to everyone (+ tee hee)’ and got an ‘A’ for that smarmy, vapid, future Miss America answer. Kari who was so high up on her throne that she actually sent a follower of hers to come over to our table at lunch time and announce that ‘Kari doesn’t like you’, since it was beneath her to do it herself. She’s getting hers tonight. Maybe we’ll even be lucky enough to wake her up while we’re doing it and then we can see her in her underwear in her bedroom window, we thought. Yah, that would be the icing on the cake alright.

And we’re close now. We’re sticking to the shadows, and have cut all the chatter among us. Toilet paper is handed out and primed silently as we walk. We don’t give any to Bob, despite the fact that he needs it the most. He might trip over a dangling stream and let out an ‘Argh!’ at the wrong time or something. No no, not taking any chances now. And we’re quiet, and we slow down. It’s just around the corner now. Hungry smirks are traded like baseball cards as we try to conceal the fog from our breath on approach. No fingerprints, no trace, no nothing we agreed. Everyone has known their piece of this endeavor since the day before. It will be fast, thorough, and humiliating – that much is certain. And we round the bend, and the tree blocking her house from view from the main road. And we start up the sides of the driveway – all stealthy, like cats. And we stop. And we look up. And wonder. And it was truly, truly the best work of art I had ever seen - even to this day. Absolute mastery, as if someone had decorated for Christmas. The trees were trimmed expertly; the house looked like something from a paper mache ginger bread kit. It was awe-inspiring, but as we stood there, toilet paper in hand, reeking of beer and cow manure, the fact remained that SOMEONE ELSE HAD ALREADY TOILET-PAPERED KARI’S HOUSE EARLIER THAT NIGHT!

Me (tossing my roll of toilet paper to Bob): ‘Here Bob… Argh!...’
Bob (suddenly hopeful): ‘Well, that’s that then. Who’s up for more D&D?’

Inequalities

When you get married, you have to relinquish yourself to having some things that are his & hers. His & hers bath towels for instance. One for him, and one for her. What no one ever tells you before entering into this pact is that 'His & Hers' can extend to other aspects of your relationship, and that separate does not necessarily mean equal. Case in point:

This is 'Her' ice scraper. Actually, it's mine, but she lost hers, so I was nice and let her borrow mine. 4 years ago. We used to live in Minneapolis, where the winters sucked. We got a pair of these for free at a Twins game back in 1999 when we were still dating, and have used them ever since. Great scapers. Virtually indestructable - and they just laugh at the pathetic winters we get here in the Pac NW. Note the long handle so you wont get frostbite while scraping. Note the brush just in case you want to finish off the scraping job and scatter that frost-dust on the ground. This is good. This was mine. This is hers. Now. . .

This is my ice scraper.
It's half of a subway sandwich card. It's only a half because a few years ago I broke off the other half while trying to scrape my windshield. If the camera phone were better, you could see the useful platic coating peeling back from the leading edge of the half-card, which makes it much less efficient at scraping windows than an ordinary half-a-card. The ice curls up and lands perfectly on my finger tips while I am scraping the window no matter what angle I approach it from - at 5am, while my wife sleeps away the morning with the lion's share of the covers in our nice warm bed - but I'm not bitter or anything. I know that I could go to Subway and ask for a new card. I simply understand that in any relationship you need to compromise and sometimes his does not equal hers, and that's OK.

...and it's okay because I have some other cool toys that are mine and mine alone, such as:
Ye' olde time toilet plunger. Yes, this baby is all mine. She never touches it. Never talks about getting her own, never gives me one of those little furtive jealous glances when she sees me using it, never sighs wistfully and bats her eyelashes the way she does when she sees a nice little $5000 tennis bracelet in the store window. Doesn't matter who actually did it, fear not, me and my trusty plunger will come to the rescue time and time again and splook out the problem - whatever it might be. . .

Maybe I'll get her one for our anniverssary. . .