About Last Night

I can’t remember the last full night of sleep that I’ve had. In fact, I’m not sure that I’ve ever had one. For as long as I can remember, I’ve been a light sleeper. It’s not uncommon for me to wake up 3-4 times a night for a trip to the bathroom, a glass of water, or even just to fluff my pillow and/or adjust my blankets.

Those 3-4 times a night don’t include trips in to see “the boy” either. Unfortunately, I’m fearful that he has inherited my sleeping habits as it’s fairly common for him to wake up 1-2 times a night. Sometimes he just fusses a bit and goes back to bed without any assistance. Sometimes, he’ll call for Carol or I to go to his room. He usually doesn’t need anything other than to be covered up or to be handed a stuffed animal that may have fallen on the floor. I know we’re not supposed to go in there every time he cries, but since I’m up so often at night, it really doesn’t affect me in the least.

Normally, this might be a big deal, but it’s fairly easy for me to fall back asleep after each of these occurrences. My body has become accustomed to sleep deprivation and actually revolts if I get too much sleep. “Sleeping in” for me on the weekends is basically me sleeping until 9:00 – and I have to force myself to do that. Even then, when I get out of bed I usually have a headache and my entire body is sore. Now that could either be from too much sleep or from the drinking that I may have done the night before that required me to sleep until 9:00 in the first place. I vote for the first one.

But I digress.

Last night I was awakened, as expected, by Ben at around 1:30 calling “I want my daddy.” Like I said before, I’m a sucker for being called “daddy” so of course I made my way into his room to see what he wanted. I found him sitting upright in bed crying. When I asked him what was wrong, he told me that he didn’t know, but he stopped crying which was good. I then told him that it was late and we needed to go back to sleep. That usually works and he reacts accordingly. Not last night. When I told him that it was time to go back to sleep, he simply looked at me and in a serious but not disobedient way and said “no.”

It wasn’t as if he was defying me, he just looked at me in a very matter of fact way as if to say, “Yes father, I have thought this over considerably and after leaning this way and then that, I’ve come to the conclusion that I have slumbered all that I desire this evening and I now wish to get up, frolic around the room, and amuse myself with my toys.”

This didn’t bode well for me.

While Ben is a great combination of Carol and myself, he definitely got her sense of, well let’s just call it “determination.” He had his mind made up that he didn’t want to sleep anymore and damnit, he wasn’t going to. Luckily, as I tried to convince him to fall back asleep, I noticed that his eyelids were very heavy and he kept laying his head down on his pillow. Seeing the opportunity to use this to my advantage, I began rubbing his back which will almost always knock him out. After a few attempts at rubbing his back, watching him fall asleep, leaving the room, and closing the door only to make it 3 steps before the crying began again, re-entering the room and starting the process over agin, I was finally able to get him to fall asleep for what I hoped was the remainder of the night. I made my way back to the bedroom, slid in next to Carol (who has the amazing ability to sleep through anything) and went back to sleep.

*BOOM*

Around 3:30 or so, I was awakened by what sounded like WWIII outside my bedroom window. At first the flashing lights, heavy gunfire and gasping for air startled me, but then I realized that it was only a severe thunderstorm with heavy lightening, thunder, and a good amount of hail. I can’t remember such a light show from a storm in my life. It was if the entire night sky was eternally illuminated due to the repeated lightning strikes going on all around us. Of course with lightning, you also get the accompanying thunder. And with as much lightning as there was, there was a ton of thunder. And it was loud. It was so loud, in fact, that it even woke up Carol Van Winkle. We both got out of bed to look at the storm and were surprised, yet excited, to see hail (we need a new roof).

“But what was the gasping for air sound that you mentioned Scott?”

I’m glad you asked.

The gasping for air was actually panting. Heavy panting. No, not that kind – perverts. This is the kind of heavy panting that comes from the 60lb furry beast sitting next to my bed who’s job it is to “protect” us. The heavy panting was coming from Tina.

Tina has always been scared of storms and last night was no different. She immediately starts panting and whining and if no one’s leg is readily available for her to attach herself to, she will find the most remote corner of the house and curl up into the smallest ball that her overweight body will allow. Normally, once the storm is over, she stops the panting and whining and everything is fine. Not last night. No, last night I was not meant to get any sleep.

Even after the storm passed, Tina lay on her big pillow in the corner of our room panting. Loudly. I tried to ignore it, but it was really annoying.I tried to verbally reassure her that everything was okay, but the panting continued. I got out of bed to pet her and put her at ease, but still, the panting continued. I dragged her out of the room by her goddamned collar and told her to shut the hell up or I’d make her sleep outside like a real dog, felt bad, gave her a hug, let her come back into the bedroom, got back in bed to try and fall asleep, but still the panting continued.

As I lay in bed at 5:00 am, still awake and listening to the rain, the panting, and the relaxed breaths of my deeply sleeping wife, I began counting down the hours until I had to wake up for work. The counting must have done the trick as when my alarm went off at 7:00 am, I was actually awoken from sleep. I looked over at Carol sleeping soundly. I noticed that Tina was out cold on her pillow sawing logs. And, I didn’t hear a peep coming out of Ben’s room which was a good sign that he’d probably sleep until 8:00 this morning, which is always a good thing. I was so jealous.

I don’t think I have a point to all of this. I really think that I just wanted to whine. I’m tired, I’m cranky, and I don’t have anything to write about for my blog today. As a result, you’re stuck with this and I don't care how many run on sentences I have. I don't feel like editing anything. Deal with it.

Baby got back

Gross topic today – just warning you.

As I was sitting at the computer last night, I got an itch on my back. After I fumbled around with the “opposite arm around the front of the chest and under the armpit” scratch, the “opposite arm around the neck and over the shoulder” scratch, and the ”opposite arm behind the head, elbow pointing straight up” scratch, I deduced that the proper way to attack this itch was with the “same arm, tricep extension” scratch.

Ahhh relief. Very few things feel as good as scratching an itch that you’ve had problems getting to. It seems as though every failed attempt at scratching it just makes it itch more and more. Then, when you’ve finally discovered the correct method to relieve your discomfort, it’s as though you’ve discovered some new kama sutra position that provides the best sensation ever. Sometimes, it feels so good you just can’t stop scratching. You have no idea whether or not the area even itches any more, but you don’t care because you don’t want to stop the wonderful sensation of scratching to find out.

I soon found myself scratching for so long that I was beginning to lose feeling in my arm. I was willing to ride it out until that occurred, but then something else happened. Apparently I veered over to the left a little too much and I felt something. At first I ignored it and went back to my glorious scratching, but then curiosity got the better of me and I allowed my fingers to wander over to the left again. Soon, I found myself scratching less and running my fingers over what I had found to the left more and more. Yep, there was no doubt about this.

I found a blackhead.

Now don’t get grossed out. Even the best of you have gotten a pimple or two on your back in the past. When I was attending massage school and was getting hour-long massages 3-4 nights a week (I SOOOOO miss those days), I would be covered in oil quite often (calm down ladies). Those of you who know me know that I haven’t always had the best skin in the world, so imagine what a constant slathering of oil would do to my pores. I was lucky enough that it only affected my back, but more often than not in those days, at any given time I would have a few blackheads back there. If you’ve ever experienced one of these (and I know you have – stop judging me) you know they are impossible to get to. Luckily for me, I had a girl who was sort of my massage partner for training purposes who (get ready for it) used to love popping them. She couldn’t get enough of it. She would actually go from table to table looking at other people’s backs trying to find some. She was only 18 and a little out there, but she served a definite purpose. I’m not saying I had a field of dirty pores on my back, but the few that I did have would be promptly dismissed by her before the massage even started. She was awesome.

But she wasn’t here to help me last night.

I tried various methods of getting one to two hands back there to take care of it, but as I just recently expressed in my attempts to just scratch the aforementioned itch, this was not an area easily reached. I began going over my options. Would it just go away? Would I even be able to forget about it now that I had discovered it? Do I still have that girl’s number? Unfortunately, the answer to all of these was no. There was one and only one thing I could do…

“CAROL!”

Carol is a saint among saints and I try to thank her constantly for all she puts up with and does for me. I know I don’t do a good enough job of it, and last night as I was hunched over on the couch with her fingers digging into this tumor on my back saying “ewww, ewww, gross, oh my god, GROSS”, I was once again reminded of that. Carol, you’re the best. Thanks for always having my back.

Damn You Joel McHale!!

For anyone who watches "The Soup" on E, you know Joel McHale as the tall, funny guy who wears fancy suits with skinny ties. I was fine with that Joel McHale. He made me laugh, sometimes hysterically, and was a guy I could relate to: tall, lanky, handsome in a goofy way, and hilariously funny. That worked out well for me.

For anyone who watches "Community" on NBC on Thursday nights, you know Joel McHale as the tall, surprisingly ripped, funny guy who almost every week has a scene where he's forced to take his shirt off and make me second guess my sexual orientation. Wait, what did I say? Scratch that last part. I think...

I do not like this Joel McHale. Does he still make me laugh? Yes. Do I still enjoy both shows? Tremendously. Do I spend the entire time looking at him wondering how he can look so normal with his shirt on but look so totally buff once he takes it off (which is far too often)? Unfortunately, yes. It's a little creepy how obsessed I have now become with his muscles. But, there's a reason behind it. Please read on.

I first encountered Joel on a show called "The Soup". The shows premise is to take clips of pretty much anything on TV and make fun of it. Talk shows, reality shows, game shows, Ryan Seacrest; it was all fair game and Joel was the host. Carol and I would make it a point to watch "The Soup" together every week because it made us laugh out loud. Joel made us laugh and we liked him because of it. When I found out he was getting a show on NBC called "Community", I was excited because I thought it could be a show I would get into. I was a Joel McHale fan.

When People magazine ranked it's sexiest people last year, Joel McHale was one of the people listed. I chalked it up to good PR because he had a new show coming out - not because he was sexy. I also was a little proud because, as I said, I could relate to him. Maybe there was a place for tall, skinny, funny guys in this world. When I first saw "Community", I was impressed both with his acting ability and the actors surrounding him. This was a good show. I related to the humor and the characters were also very well drawn. I was now an even bigger Joel McHale fan.

Then came the episode when he took off his shirt.

I remember it well. Joel's character was living out of his car and they shot a scene where he was standing right outside his car brushing his teeth and lifting a dumbell - with his shirt off. Carol and I both looked at each other with astonished looks on our faces. Was that a body double? Maybe it was just some good lighting. Maybe? I sure hoped so. I knew that Carol was a big fan of his humor, but if he was also "sexy", that spelled trouble for me.

The next time he appeared shirtless (I admit that it's a LOT creepy that I can keep track of his shirtless appearances, but I like to think it's my amazing ability to store useless information rather than anything sexual) was in the Billiards episode. In that episode, not only did he take his shirt off, but he took everything else off as well. I was floored. This guy was freaking ripped!! I had to call Carol at work and let her know that she was in for a treat when she watched it later that night. And, just as I predicted, she was more than impressed. I was beginning to dislike this McHale fellow.

I admit, I was a little jealous of my wife's affinity for him. I was supposed to be the guy that made her laugh. I assume other guys make her laugh, but I'm sure that none of them are near as develishly handome as I am. It's okay when an ugly person makes you laugh but when someone good looking does, that's a different story. Now, here's my good buddy Joel, all deceptive-like with his "The Soup" suits and skinny ties, making my wife laugh AND making her tingle. Not cool, Joel. Not cool.

The final straw was last nights episode - the Paintball episode. For what seemed like the entire show, Jerk McHale was either walking around in a wife beater or laying on a table with his shirt off. And he was sweaty. The way the sweat glistened off of those rock hard muscles angered me in a way that I had never been angered before. Sure, I laughed because the show was legitimately funny, but every laugh for Jackass McHale was born of out of anger. How dare he come into my home with his muscles glistening with sweat AND be able to make me laugh while doing it? Carol was barely able to take her eyes off of the television for the love of God. This means war!

Sure, Jiveturkey McHateyou, I'll watch "The Soup" tonight. I'll even watch "Community" again next week. And sure, I know I'll laugh my ass off. But just know that you're not fooling anyone with your skinny looking suits anymore. Guys are onto you. Guys with girlfriends and wives are onto you. This charade can not last any longer. We will revolt and we will have our day in the sun. Just please, keep making us laugh the entire time we're destroying you and your web of deception. You are, my enemy for life, a funny man.

Damn you Joel McHale.

Oh, I'm bad

This entry is dedicated to my friend Liz who came up with the idea of me taking a Cosmo quiz and posting my answers. I’m not quite sure she had this in mind though. So, without further ado, it’s time to find out:

Am I enough of a bad girl?

1) Which is the most outrageous thing you would do for cold, hard cash?

a) Star in a “Girls Gone Wild”- type video?
b) Sing a seductive pop song like “lovegame” at a karaoke bar
c) Play strip poker with a coed group of friends

Answer: I don’t think Carol would approve of the GGW type video (as fun as it would be), so I’m guessing “A” is out of the question. Plus, my breasts really aren’t that impressive. I stink at poker, so regardless of the fact that I have never even heard this song and have no idea what I’d be getting myself into, I think we’ll go with the karaoke song: “B”

2) Rumors swirl that your ex has been talking trash about you to mutual friends. How do you respond?

a) By sending him an angry text or voice mail warning that two can play the trash talking game
b) By lying low for a few weeks – you won’t descend to his level
c) By trying to seduce his best friend. If that fails, you key his car

Answer: Really? An angry text or voice mail? Is that what society has come to? What’s wrong with confronting someone face to face? It has to be digital? What happens if you try to send a voicemail but they actually pick the phone up? Do you hang up and wait until you’re hammered at 3:00 in the morning and then call hoping maybe he’s asleep this time? How pathetic. Speaking of pathetic, I’ll pick “B”. I avoid all confrontation – digital or not.

3) Your closest girlfriend always contacts you first when which of these situations arises

a) She has split with her boyfriend and wants a partner in crime for a very hot night out.
b) She wants to sip cocktails at a hip lounge all night…and needs a designated driver.
c) She craves fun company for a decadent day of shopping or spa treatments.

Answer: We’re only 3 questions in and I’m already feeling like I’m not living up to their standards as a bad girl. I think if one of my girlfriends wanted a very hot night out, I would be in trouble at home - you know, having a wife and all. I don’t think I’d be the number one choice for shopping or spa treatments (unless I’m the one giving the massage), so I think I’ll go with “B”. Not saying I won’t stop by Wendy’s on the way home, but I’ll get you there eventually.

4) The kind of men you usually find yourself dating best fit the following description

a) They’re in bed by 11:00 pm on weeknights, 1:00 am on weekends
b) They work hard and play even harder
c) So wild, they make “The Hangover” guys look like the Jonas brothers

Answer: “C” Next question please.

5) Which phrase are you most likely to overhear being said about you?

a) “Does she always act this crazy?”
b) “I want her at my next party”
c) “Did I do something to offend her?”

Answer: I’d like to think that I’m well liked and that people want me around. Even if they don’t, I show up anyway. That’s just how I roll. “B”


Results: Too good for your own good.
You have a naughty side, but for some reason, you keep it under wraps, where it does you no good. You may be suppressing your wildest impulses because you’re afraid you’ll be judged poorly, says Jody Lipper, coauthor of “How to Love Like a Hot Chick.” The result? You’re overlooked by guys and typecast by pals as the “responsible” one, says psychologist John Valentis, PhD, coauthor of “Brave New You.” Show some backbone when you get dissed and more skin than usual on Saturday night. A little badness is extremely sexy, and it prevents people from taking advantage of you.

Analysis: Firstly, I don’t find it fair that they judge me based on 5 extremely vague questions. I do plenty of bad ass things. I watch professional wrestling for pete’s sake. What’s more bad ass than that? Secondly, if these so called “professionals” know so much about this topic, how come they could only co-author their books. What, not bad-ass enough to write it yourself? Hmmm? And thirdly, since when is it bad to be responsible? Plus, if it’s bad to be responsible, wouldn’t that make me a rebel, and therefore, bad? I think so. I am a bad girl whether they like it or not.

Don't go away mad, just go away

We have a fish. His name is Fishy McFisherson, and he just won’t die.

We got Fishy for Ben a little over a year ago after I received a $50 gift card from my bosses as a token of their appreciation for doing a good job. After I received the gift card, I was trying to think of what to get myself. As per usual, when I don’t have spare money, I have a list of things that I want. Once I get spare money, I have no idea what to buy. Since I couldn’t think of anything to get for myself, my thoughts turned to Ben and what I could possibly get for him. My initial thought was a tattoo, but that seemed a little excessive so I decided on something a little less permanent.

A pet

We already had a dog named Tina, so that was out of the question. She’s a pit bull/shepherd mix and the sweetest dog you’ll ever meet. Yes, she can be a little annoying, but she’s ours and we wouldn’t trade her for anything. We didn’t have a cat yet, but that will stay that way because a: I hate cats, and b: I lied to Carol and told her that the vet said Tina was allergic to them. I may be joking about that, but I may not be. Not even Carol knows.

As I walked into the pet store I had my mind set on some type of lizard. I was thinking about buying an iguana or a gecko or something of the like, but after reading how much care and attention they would require, I realized that it would probably not last much longer than a week. Not that Carol and I are lazy, but I didn’t have a lot of faith in our ability to keep the temperature adjusted properly, or to feed it, or basically remember we had it at all.

After perusing the store and going over all of my options, I figured that my best bet would probably be to just get Ben a goldfish. They’re cute and fun, but don’t last very long and aren’t much of a hassle. Now, I remember back when I was little you would get a glass bowl, some decorative rock, drop a goldfish in, and viola! Instant pet. Now, according to the girl at Petsmart, that is no longer the proper way to treat a goldfish. You now need to buy a tank with a filter, which ironically enough, they happened to have on sale that day. I wasn’t taking the bait.

I asked if they had any “easy” fish that wouldn’t be too much work. She pointed in the direction of a beta display and I saw some of the most beautiful fish I had ever seen. I picked out a fish, a tank, some decorative rock, fake plastic trees and was out the door having spent $47 of my $50 gift card. I got the fish home, prepared the tank, waited the appropriate amount of time (which isn’t really my strong suit – but that’s a different tale for a different time), plopped Fishy McFisherson in, and there we had it. Ben had a pet.

That was a little over a year ago.

I’ve never had much luck with fish. Even if I would give the water proper time to adjust to room temperature upon the initial setup, once I cleaned the tank for the first time, the fish would die. I really can’t remember ever having a fish last longer than a month because of that, so imagine my surprise when after I cleaned the tank for the first time, Fishy lived. It was kind of touch and go for a while as after I placed him back in the tank he did that not swimming/not floating/kind of 45 degree angle thing. You fish owners know what I’m talking about. So, we figured he was dead as a doornail. I even posted an R.I.P for him on Facebook. To our surprise, however, he pulled through and stayed with us for a while more.

Months later, Carol and I went to Las Vegas, and prior to the trip Fishy wasn’t looking very good. We made the decision to just not worry about feeding him while we were gone and assume the responsibility for whatever happened. Lo and behold, when we got home Fishy was swimming around like nothing was wrong and he decided to stay with us for a while more – again. This fish just wasn’t going to die.

Don’t get me wrong – I don’t wish any harm to Fishy, I just want him to die. Ben doesn’t care about the fish. Carol and I never remember if we fed it or if we did, when that may have occurred. The tank stays clean (probably due to the lack of food and the resulting lack of feces) and the cost after the initial purchase has been nil, so it’s not as if the fish is even a hassle. I think I’m just at the point where I’m anticipating having the “sleeping forever” talk with Ben and I’m not looking forward to doing it. The older he gets, the more questions he’s going to ask regarding it, and I have no idea what I’m going to say.

Maybe after Ben goes to bed tonight, I’ll do my duty and clean out the tank. Maybe if I’m lucky Fishy won’t survive the transition. Maybe if I’m lucky, Fishy will flop himself onto the floor and I just won’t get to it on time. Maybe while he’s on the floor, Tina will run into the room and have herself a little snack. Or maybe, just maybe, I’ll leave the top off of the tank, stop lying to Carol about the whole doggie allergy thing, and get us a cat to do the job. That’s assuming, of course, that I’m lying about the cat.

Maybe.

Child Abuse?

I was born and raised in Belleville, IL. I love sports. In particular, I love baseball. Of all the strange things to remember from my youth, I remember getting ready for school the day after the Cardinals won the 1982 World Series and the radio around our house blasting “Celebration.” I remember waiting to go to a Cub Scout meeting and watching Ozzie’s homerun over the right field wall in the 1985 playoffs. I remember my barber getting me Whitey Herzog’s autograph on a Cardinal hat that I dropped in the creek two days later. I don’t know why I remember these tidbits. I also don’t understand that after all I know about the Cardinals, and after all of the games I watch, and after all of the big moments that were fixtures of my childhood why I became

*gulp*

A Cubs fan.

I have my suspicions. During the sweltering hot days that a St Louis summer can provide I would often stay inside and play with my baseball cards. I would arrange them in alphabetical order, numerical order, team order, etc. I was addicted to these things. While doing this, I would search the TV channels for something to watch and would frequently stop on a channel that was broadcasting a live-action version of what I was carefully placing in my baseball card binders: WGN.

This was back in 1988 when the Cubs had a division winning team featuring guys like Ryne Sandberg, Andre Dawson, Mark Grace, Rick Sutcliffe, Shawon Dunston, and so on. It was a great team and a lot of fun to watch. But the thing that got me most wasn’t as much the team as it was this insane guy in the broadcast booth mispronouncing everyone’s name and singing during the 7th inning stretch.

Harry Caray

I know St Louis had him first and that he did his best broadcasting with the Cardinals, but his enthusiasm and his love for the Cubs was unmatched. He made me fall in love with them. Now, being as young as I was, I had no grasp on history nor did I have a magic 8 ball to predict what the future held for this team. Had I known then what I know now, I might have made a different decision, but as a kid, you don’t think about the future. You think about the now, and as of right then and there, I was hooked on the Cubs.

Still am.

Now here’s my problem. Outside of my father and I, there aren’t going to be many Cub fans in my son’s life. As I grew up right across the river from greats like Ozzie Smith and Willie McGee, my son will be right across the river from greats like Albert Pujols and Matt Holliday. His friends will love the Cardinals. His relatives already do love the Cardinals. Do I push him to like the team that my father and I love so much or do I let him make his own decision and just be glad that he’s taking an interest in the sport that means so much to me?
The funny thing is, I made my decision the second I found out I was having a boy. After Carol and I left the doctor’s office, I came right back to work and got on the internet. A few weeks later, UPS delivered a package to our house. Inside that package was a child’s mobile to hang above his crib. If you wound it up, you would see four little bears in blue hats spinning around to the melodious sound of Take Me Out to the Ballgame.

Sorry buddy. You’ll work this out in therapy.

Oh,Susanna

I went to see The Bangles in concert last night. No, this is not something I wrote back in 1987. I actually went to see The Bangles in concert on May 2, 2010 at The Pageant in St Louis, MO – and it rocked. I was expecting to hear the 4 songs that I could remember, but was pleasantly surprised both by a bunch of songs I had forgotten they played and by some songs I wasn’t familiar with but were still very entertaining. But this isn’t a music review. I don’t do that. This is about something so much more important than that. This is about the very reason I wanted to go to the show and the reason that did not disappoint.

Susanna Hoffs

I first fell in love with Susanna back in the mid 80’s when I saw the video for Walk Like an Egyptian. I can still see remember the exact part of the video that got me. It was right after the whistling portion of the song when Susanna got to sing her part. She began singing the verse in her sweet, sweet voice and I was entranced. By the time the verse ended, I was infatuated. But it wasn’t until she got to the chorus (picuted above) that I was smitten. As she was singing, she never looked into the camera, but instead was looking first left, then right, then left again with her big doe eyes and a sexy little smile on her mouth. I couldn’t have been more than 10 years old, but I knew this was hot. I was in love.

Unfortunately, The Bangles didn’t last, but I followed Susanna’s career. She did some solo work after that and even starred in a movie back in the late ‘80’s entitled “The Allnighter.” For a good portion of my high school career I worked in various video (that’s right VIDEO) rental stores and I vividly recall walking through the comedy section on a routine basis and seeing her on the cover of the video box in her bikini. Ooooh, that bikini. She was standing in front of a sea of balloons and holding a blue drink in her hand. I sometimes went out of my way to take that route. Way out of my way. However, as odd as it may seem, I never once rented that movie. Perhaps it’s because I didn’t want the possibility of poor acting to affect my immaculate perception of her. Perhaps it’s because I was surrounded by so many other classic movies and I just had this one further down on my “must see” list. Or, perhaps it’s because it was rated PG-13 and I knew that as badly as I wanted to, I wasn’t going to get to see “the goods.” Yeah, I’m going to go with that last one.

Fastforward to 2010

Now, I hadn’t seen Susanna in years. Years. I trade my celebrity crushes like I trade fantasy baseball outfielders. If someone isn’t performing, you move them off your team for someone that is. After a while, you don’t remember who you had until someone brings it up and you say “oh yeah! I remember that.” I never forgot Susanna, she just wasn’t at the forefront of my mind. Needless to say, when I heard that they were coming in concert, I had that “oh yeah!” moment and bought 4 tickets as soon as they went on sale. I just had to see her live and in person. I couldn’t wait to look up at that stage and see Susanna, MY Susanna, staring back at me with those big doe eyes and that rocking body she had…whoa…um,uh…25 years ago.

Oh shit

As blinded as I was at the thought of seeing her, I didn’t even take the time to factor in the 25 years that have gone by since I fell in love with her. A lot can happen to a person’s appearance in 25 years. Hell, I seem to have misplaced a good portion of my hair in half of that timeframe. What affects could 25 years have on someone who was already 25 when that clock started?

Much to my delight, when The Bangles took the stage she looked as amazing as she ever did. In fact, from 30 yards away, I thought she might have even looked better. I won’t even go into the hair flip that she was doing as this story is already way too long, but let’s just say I’ve already asked Carol to practice it. It’s that good : )

There’s really no moral to this story. There’s no glorious point or insanely witty joke that I’m headed towards at the end. I just wanted to tell a story about my beloved Susanna Hoffs. I appreciate you reading, but now, I’d like to take a moment to speak to the celebrity love of my life.

Susanna, my sweet, even 25 years later you are still a beautiful, beautiful woman who has won my heart all over again. I want to thank you for the time we spent last night, just you, me, and a few hundred onlookers witnessing our love. I will never take you off of my “team” ever again. You are, forever and ever, my eternal flame.

You say tomato, I say butt

I had to go to “time out” three times the other night. You’d figure that for my wide vocabulary of curse words, almost curse words, and words so vulgar that I won’t even say I would have had to go to time out for something pretty good. Nope. Not me.

I said “butt.”

It started a few weeks ago while Carol and I were putting Ben to bed. Normally we’ll each read him a book, give him a kiss, and tell him “sweet dreams” as we turn out the light. During this exchange he will tell each of us good night mommy and daddy respectively, and then he goes to bed. Well, on this given night he decided to replace “mommy” with “stupid butt” (does that get hyphenated?).

We weren’t quite sure that we heard what we thought we had heard, so we asked him to repeat it. It quickly became obvious that he knew what he had said was wrong as he was hesitant to repeat it. We asked him again and he said “good night stupid butt”. It took all we had to keep from laughing, but we (mostly) held our composure and told him that we don’t say either of those words. He said he had learned it at school so we gave him alternative words to say, like bottom, or hiney, or keister, or whatever, just not butt.

Since that night, Ben has said “butt” a few more times and each time we’ve sent him to sit in time out. He now understands that we don’t say that word and has even gotten to the point where if Carol or I say something that even rhymes with “butt”, he tells us “No, you say bottom”. It’s pretty cute but getting to be a big pain in MY butt.

You see, I have a potty mouth. It’s not overly vulgar or anything, but I curse. In fact, I curse fairly often. I’m not one of those people who drops the f-bomb 4 times every sentence due to laziness or a lack of vocabulary, but if the situation calls for it, I will cuss. In fact, I’m pretty good at it. My challenge comes when I’m at the house around Ben and the need to curse arises and I quickly have to think of alternative words. “Freaking” and “farging” have now entered my vocabulary as extremely viable options.

For the longest time, I’ve considered “butt” to be a very viable option as well. Without thought, I’ve been saying it at work and around kids forever, very thankful that I didn’t say the other thing. I thought I was doing a good job. Well, I did a “good job” the other night three times. Each time Ben caught me, told me “No, you say bottom. You go to time out”, and each time I had to go to the hallway, sit against the wall, and wait for him to come over and excuse me. I guess it’s good because it shows that he’s learning and he hasn’t said “butt” in quite a while. But I’m getting a little sick of sitting in time out. Is it sad that I now have to sit in time out more than my 3 year old son? Has the student surpassed the teacher?

The thing is, I don’t know what’s more pathetic: the sight of a grown man crunched down in a very small hallway to serve the time out imposed by his three year old son or the fact that that same grown man’s three year old son has figured out sooner than I have how to avoid time out. I’m doomed.

Daddy

I am the proud father of a 3 year old son whose job it is to put everything I have ever known (or at least thought I’d known) to the test. He is adorable, very smart, polite, conscientious, and absolutely hysterical. You would think that would be a good thing, right? Well, most of the time it is – except for when he misbehaves.

As with every aspect of raising a child there are mishaps and blunders, but you roll with it and try to build on what you’ve already accomplished. You expect the occasional accident. You expect to have your patience tried. And, you expect that once you put your sweet child to bed and kiss him goodnight that when you go to the kitchen there will be a nice cold beer awaiting you in the fridge as a kind of merit badge for making it through the day.

What you don’t expect, however, are their reactions when you discipline them. My wife and I have decided that our form of discipline will be sitting the boy (as he is affectionately called in our home) down and talking to him about what he’s done. The boy, however, makes this very difficult. The other night, for instance, I came into the living room and found him with a red pen. It seems the sweet little guy had drawn me a picture. Unfortunately, that picture was drawn on our beige couch. I sat him down, talked to him about using crayons, pens, markers, and paints on paper only, and he seemed to understand and be okay with it. I told him I was not happy and that seemed to send the point home. For the next ten minutes, he would repeatedly look at me with a sad face and say “you happy now”. It was so cute but I was upset and wanted to let him know that what he did was wrong, so I responded with “I’m getting there.”

It was at that point where the boy, mustering up all of the cuteness and politeness that I mentioned before, decided to bring me a card that my wife’s aunt had sent to her for her birthday. He handed it to me as if he had gone out to the store, bought it himself for this exact occasion, and with the sweetest eyes, said “I sorry Daddy” and gave me a hug. What? How does he know how to do that? I didn’t learn that trick until well into my dating career. He’s picked it up at three?

Either way, at that point all had been forgiven. The funny thing is, it wasn’t the card, it wasn’t the sweet expression on his face, and it wasn’t the fact that I had decided that his “punishment” was over. It wasn’t even that the upholstery cleaner was able to clean up the mess. All he needed to do was call me that one name that has changed everything.

Daddy.

I’m going to be in trouble.