Thursday, September 30, 2010
To summarize (straight from the covers of People and Okay! magazines): Ashton Kutcher reportedly cheated on his wife of five years, Demi Moore. After he cheated on her, he and his much younger lover Brittney kept up a texting relationship. I’m not sure how many times Ashton and Brittney hooked up, but the texting evidence of their post-coital flirting is there on young Brittney’s cell phone.
Ashton Kutcher is 32, and Demi Moore is 47. A lot of people wondered about their older woman younger man cougar relationship. But they seemed to be in love and got along great. Demi has kids from her marriage to Bruce Willis, and I believe even Bruce felt Ashton was a good step-dad.
Ashton’s lover Brittney is 21, making her younger than Ashton's step-daughter (Demi’s oldest daughter). How f**ked up is that? Most would agree that older man younger woman relationships become creepy if the woman is the same age or younger than the guy’s daughter (or in Ashton’s case, step-daughter).
I’m sure psychologists could have a field day with the older woman younger man / older man younger woman dynamics to these relationships. I won’t try to analyze Ashton here. Though I will say, it always did strike me that Demi’s old enough to be Ashton’s mother.
At least Ashton’s too young to be Brittney’s dad. (But somehow he’s old enough to be step-dad to Demi and Bruce’s oldest? Only in Hollywood...)
To put things in perspective: I’m the same age as Demi Moore. If my ex-wife had married someone as young as Ashton Kutcher, there would have been bells ringing and red flags flying in my mind. And I sure as hell wouldn’t want him as my kids’ stepdad, especially if he was only ten years older than my daughter.
Back to sexy texting. What Ashton Kutcher does with his life is his business. How he involves his wife and step-kids is his business. But if he’s going to have an affair, don’t you think he’d know enough from Tiger Woods divorce to not text about it? I’m not defending Ashton. I’m just saying any sane person … er… what am I trying to say?
Okay, the whole thing is creepy. And it played out in text-speak exactly how it was meant to be...
Hey Ashton, here’s an emoticon for ya: :-P
Friday, September 24, 2010
“Dowal’s. Papa, I want Dowal’s.” The Boy told me as I walked back into the room and plopped down on the couch beside him, just as Mr Spongeboob Squire Pants popped his annoyingly awesome yellowness back on the tube before us.
“Dow? What is it that you say my son?”
“Papa, Papa,” Mr Pants eagerly said as he looked straight at me, as I was looking bug eyed straight in his pupils,”
“Yes son, I am here… Yeees, what is it……” “Papa…” “What whuuuuuuuut?”
“Uhm….I want Dowald’s. Dowald’s. Have some? Can I have some?”
“Yeah buddy. But uh, I don’t really know what Dowald’s is.”
“Sure sure, you can have it! Take it.” And that was the end of it. Dowald’s though, I haven’t the foggiest idea what the hell he was so gluttonously asking me for. For the most part, now at 27 months, I can understand everything he says. And he can imitate nearly anything I tell him to. (Even damnit, (as if I would really ask him to repeat that though, (sometimes they just eavesdrop on my conversations and get me in trouble with their verbatim recollection of it’s contents later on when their mother happens to be around)) But this was utterly beyond my capacity to translate.
So we sat and watched Spongeboob. The commercials came on so I pried the controller from Mr Pant’s filthy lil’ hands and started fast forwarding the commercials. And then this….
“DOWALD’S Papa! Dowald’s!”
And at once I knew what he was talking about. For a fleeting moment, a mere flash before my eyes that could have been missed if I blinked too long, a brightly colored Mc Donald’s happy meal box flashed before me on the screen. Nearly subliminally as the commercials flew by in high motion on the tube in variations of bright colors filled with brief glances of various toys and cartoon ads…..with a sneakily placed Mc Donalds commercial jabbed right in the middle of it all. So sneaky they are. Mc Mother Fucken Dowald’s. So I rewound it and saw the commercial. A cleverly animated commercial with all sorts of happy little shit heads eating their happy little fucken meals, as if the contents of those happy meals were the absolute best thing in the world for them, making them the happiest little snot nosed pea brained kids in the whooooole world, as if every kid should have one of those damn things or else they are a total loser and not with the in crowd, as if I am a bad parent for not getting my boy a happy meal at the precise moment he spits out his first begging for a happy meal word…..as if. And there it was before me, sending us all those messages instantly, subliminally sabotaging my boys psyches.
And I realized that while I was out of the room, no one was there to fast forward the commercials. NoooOoOOOoOoo! Say it isn’t so. How could I of neglected my boy so badly as to subject him to those damned brain washing commercials? I’m a failure, a complete and utter commercial fast forwarding failure.
Who watches commercials anymore anyway? They are now obsolete. Have been rendered so by my network media tank hooked up to my system with several terabytes of memory that holds millions of movies and shows, and the satellites ability to record and fast forward. Commercials. Bah. I scoff at their very existence and the marketing geniuses behind them. May they be damned to an eternal hell filled with their very own commercials being played before them for eternity. You know what, I bet each and every person behind the design of those commercials fast forwards them. You know they do.
So my boy was subjected to a Mc’y D’s commercial for the first time, as I was out of the room. And now he wants a damn happy meal. Well, he probably also remembered what it was when his granny (cough cough, mothers side, cough cough) got him one that one time. Yeah, and then Lilly threatened that if she keeps feeding him junk her visitation rights will be removed. Serious. It happened. Yeah, the wife went there. Can’t really say if it the threat worked though. Can’t really say.
But now the Mc D’s brand is burned in his poor little brain forever. Everytime he see’s those damnable golden arches, the commercial will replay through his little chicken nugget craving brain, bursting forth a wash of serotonin in his lil head making him feel so good as he imagines taking a bite of nugget with three sauces on it while simultaneously dipping a handful of fries in his chocolate shake and stuffing all that in his mouth at the same time while taking a sip of his seriously watered down orange soda with the straw that is so carefully plugged in the corner of his mouth as he swallows, no chewing, just swallowing. Oh you know that’s how you did it. That’s how I did it anyway. And if I can help it. If I can resist the damned temptation of those beautiful golden arches dripping with gooey ketchup as they sneer at me in my rear view, I will never, ever take the boy there. Never……eeeeveeeer….mmmmmmmmmmmm….chicken nuggets……frys……with a choco shake……ahhhhhhhhhh…must have mcdowals….
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
The first children's book I bought for her was "Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs" over seven years ago.
I had remembered what a cool book it was when I was a kid and she'd never read it... so to me... it offered her a glance into my childhood.
The passing years we were together brought more books like:
One of my personal favorites...
Now that she's over two and growing like a weed... we've read EVERY book in her shelf at least 40 times. In an effort to switch things up, I grabbed an aged book I found in the deep inner recesses of my closet: Mother Goose And Her Book Of Sick And Twisted Nursery Rhymes.
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall.
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and all the king's men
Couldn't put Humpty together again!
Humpty Dumpty seconds before death...
You can't tell by the rhyme itself... but Humpty Dumpty is a giant living egg. Then he falls to his death while breaking into a million pieces. While it makes about as much sense as a land where it rains meatballs or a dog whose farts help rob a bank... its central character dies! These are supposed to be stories that parents read to their kids before they drift off into dreamland. I don't want my kid dreaming of some "Egg-man" falling off a wall and shattering his body into a million bloody pieces!
Three blind mice,
See how they run!
They all ran after a farmer's wife,
Who cut off their tails with a carving knife.
Did you ever see such a sight in your life,
As three blind mice?
While the central characters in this rhyme didn't die... they got their tails cut off!!! With a carving knife no less!!! Don't get me wrong... I don't want mice in my garage more than the next guy but I'm not sadistically cut off their tails!!! I'm going to set out a mousetrap.
How about this one:
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children, she didn't know what to do.
She gave them some broth,
Without any bread,
Whipped them all soundly, and sent them to bed.
Man... what a bitch. Call social services! Sorry about your luck having to live in a shoe (how's that possible anyway) but it ain't your kids faults!! This lady just "didn't know what to do" so she starved them and whipped them. Ooooookaaay... where's the good moral fiber in that story?
If all the world were paper,
And all the sea were ink,
If all the trees
Were bread and cheese,
What should we have to drink?
Okay... that's not sadistic... it's just stupid.
One final time:
Three men in a tub,
And how do you think they got there?
The butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker --
They all jumped out of a rotten potato!
'Twas enough to make a fish stare.
W... T... F! Okay, so I want my little daughter envisioning three men in a tub together. No. And how I ask you... HOW... did they jump out of a rotten potato? What were they doing there in the first place?
I could go on forever... but I'll stop.
What a sociopath! I don't know who "Mother Goose" was or why she felt the need to reveal the innermost workings of her twisted mind to CHILDREN! All her stuff is a mix of randomness, death, torture, child abuse, etc. etc. etc. I think she's really more suited to write lyrics for Slipknot as opposed to writing books for kids!
Rumor has it that the dude in the lower left corner is actually Mother Goose!
I know I may seem a little extreme and I'm not seriously on the "blacklist Mother Goose" bus but seriously folks... seriously... if they made Mother Goose into a movie it would be rated X.
What do you think?
---------------------------------Come visit me at my home: Hands To War.
The boy had been repetitiously slurping on the rainbow swirled suckers from the savior of every shopping parent, everywhere, otherwise known as The Candy Store. I don’t know how I ever got through shopping without the use of such a candy savior. I think he had three so far. And the gummy bears, oh the gummy bears. A plethora of gummy bears in all the fruity rainbow flavors….
And when he puked, his puke was a conglomeration of milk, fruity gummy bears, and rainbow swirls of melted and partially digested sucker juice. It brings a whole new meaning to the term, taste the rainbow. How bout, see the rainbow, then re-taste the rainbow. Now clean up the rainbow Lilly. Clean up the half digested rainbow. Yeah, you clean that rainbow.
Then…..taste the rainbow again, and even a third time. How does a rainbow of fruity flavors taste after the third time? And how does one kid puke three times in a row in one store? Well, I’m not sure, but I sure the hell am glad I wasn’t there to witness….I mean to clean it up. Thirty seconds before my boy puked, three times, I had left the wife and the boy and the baby in the dressing room in Banana Republic.
“Yeah, call me if you need anything,” Was the last thing I said to the woman as I left her in the dressing room with over 2,000 bucks worth of clothes to try on, a toddler, and a crying baby. Hey, I had to make it to the Billabong and Quiksilver store before they closed. Time was wasting and this was multitasking at it’s best. You mean leaving the kids with the wife isn’t considered multi-tasking? Hmm.
Okay so my phone got left in the diaper bag, in the stroller, in the dressing room where I had left them. And seconds after I left the room, he blew chunks everywhere. And then the woman called my phone, several times, while she stood there naked, in the dressing room, with puke all over the place, a screaming and faint 27 month old boy, and a screaming baby who was overdo for a nap and a bottle.
But I didn’t feel too bad for her. A little bit, but ehhh….not too much. Hell, the last time the boy puked in a public place it was all over me in the middle of a restaurant. Chunky chicken vomit bomb. Blaaahh. So she had it coming. As she replayed the gut churning story for me an hour later when I finally got back from spending her money on the credit card she gave me with my name on it, (hey, I’m a SAHD, what do you expect), I showed sincere pity and sorrow on my face, and I sincerely, with all of my being, was laughing my ass off way deep down inside. Ahh man, if she could have just heard me laughing, she would have even thought it funny too. She really missed out on the good time I was having when she told me about how she was on her hands and knees, while naked in between trying on suits, mopping up three piles of vomit off the changing room floor with nothing but butt wipes, the boy’s extra change of clothes we keep in the diaper bag, and some napkins the Banana Republic employee tossed under the door for her. Good times all around.
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Stupid fantasy life.
Friday, September 10, 2010
My daughter is eleven years old but wants to be sixteen.
She doesn't want to join in on any type of family fun (whether it's with me or if it's with her mom) because it's just "not cool" to do and it might hurt her "school rep".
Honestly...I don't remember having a "rep" going into the sixth grade other than being the class clown. Have times changed THAT much?? (they haven't for me, but that's another story)
She wants to dress older (tight jeans and a scarf around the neck when it's 90 degrees outside?). She wants to be treated like an adult. She wants to get her own way because that's what grown ups do.
So how do I cope with this? How does a single dad influence his daughter without it going in one ear and out the other?
Tell me...honestly...how bad does it get when she eventually goes to high school???
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
You never really know someone do you? I mean, there could be a cool neighborhood guy with kids that your kid plays with, and you see each other every week. And you shoot the shit with him as your kids play. And it turns out he is a Paramedic, and he has back problems like you do, and your wife and his wife like each other. But when is it that you really know, that you know him? Or do you ever. Well, I will tell you.
On one of our daily walks around the hood, we ran into one of the guys who brings his kids to the neighborhood Friday playgroup. He was outside smoking a cig, so I parked the stroller in the shade of his garage and we stopped to shoot the shit for a while. In his garage I noticed a setup for glass blowing. He has stacks of raw glass, a large torch and a table full of finished jewelry pieces. He showed me his stuff. He had a whole collection of really cool glass pendants. Each one was done with brilliant colors and very fancy designs and shapes in the center. Some had glass roses inside, others were swirled colors of sparkly glass, or prisms of various sizes. And he made them all by hand. I was very impressed. I did not imagine this guy to be the artsy type at all. I was simply amazed and surprised.
“So what else do you make out of glass?” I enquired of him.
“I will make anything anyone wants….but not crack pipes,” he said with a slight chuckle and sideways glance.
“Anything, huh. Why, have you gotten requests for crack pipes before?”
“Sure. But I sell the pendants, and also teach a glass blowing class once a week in Fullerton.”
“Right on, sounds like a fun hobby.” I added.
“Yeah. You want to know what my biggest seller is….” I didn’t even need to ask as he didn’t skip a beat and offered this to me, “Dildos.”
“Reeeeally. Dildos huh. What, are there people that collect those or what?”
“Yeah. You’d be surprised how many people want a nice glass dildo for their collection.”
“Huh.” Was all I could say about that. And laugh. Lots of laughing, mostly at him, and a little with him, he couldn’t tell the difference anyway. Doesn’t really matter either.
Sure, sure, dildos are great. I mean, who doesn’t like to rumble around with a nice dildo every once and a while. But who the hell makes them? I mean who really makes them? What kind of people make them? What would my wife think of me if I made dildos in my garage? For that matter, what would I think of myself if I made dildos in my garage? And what the hell do you tell your kids you do with all that glass blowing stuff opposite their piles of toys in the garage?
I thought I knew this guy before. I thought I knew that he was a rough guy on the surface, but obviously a caring, compassionate guy who helps people every day as a paramedic, and who loves spending time with his kids, and who is an outgoing dude who hangs out with the families in the neighborhood every Friday night. But now, now that I have walked in his dildo factory garage, now I really know him. And every time I see him now I just won’t see him in quite the same way. And every anniversary my wife and I have, he’s going to get an order placed by me…
As I grabbed the stroller and headed down the driveway, and Mr Pant’s headed off pushing his bubble blowing lawn mower across the guy’s lawn, I turned back and said, ‘Hey, I’ll definitely tell my wife about your stuff.”
To which he replied, “Okay cool, tell her I can make her a cool pendant or a glass rose.”
“Yeah a ribbed rose…..” I said, but I don’t think he quite caught on to what I entended to tell Lilly about.
(Sorry, no photos of the kids in this one. I just couldn't do it.)