Halloween Pt. 2

I had to watch myself with Allie's Monday night bedtime story. As usual I just started making crap up and realized I was delivering an old fashioned, semi-scary Halloween story.

Allie got a little freaked.

So when the little girl in the story (her name was Allie, of course) fell into a dark hole that had a monster lurking inside the monster turned out to be a helpful, fuzzy monster. The monster catches the little girl and, with a friendly smile, lifts her back on to the sidewalk.

I'm pretty sure you know how things would have turned out for the little girl in the story if Allie was, say, 12. It would have been a lot scarier. Maybe something like:

The little girl would have fallen into the hole and the monster would catch her and force her to sit with him in the dark, dank hole. The creature would warn her about hanging out with the wrong crowd. Next the monster would produce a host of charts that would clearly illustrate the importance of maintaining a high GPA throughout middle school in order to gain entrance to advance placement courses in high school. The monster would then move on to discussing abstinence from sex, drugs and mainstream country music. Next the monster would shred and devour a fluffy little bunny in front of the little girl after explaining that the bunny voted Republican.

Scary stuff.

Allie didn't particularly like her watered-down monster story so we moved on. She likes the story I tell about Bobo, the dog who likes eggs. Yes. I know there's a children's book about a farting dog. We haven't read it and I promise I didn't have it in mind when I made up Bobo. I was just telling Allie about a dog who loves eggs but unfortunately happens to have major G.I. problems whenever he eats them. Allie's job is to name something for Bobo to fart near and I tell her about the consequences of Bobo's egg fueled flatulence. Her favorite? Pretty butterflies that drop out of the sky and roll around choking and coughing in a cloud of misty green dog farts.

Scary stuff.

Screw You Check-Out Lady

I was thinking about this kid I knew in grade school. He was chunky. In fact, at lunch time he used to take a pencil and press it into the layer of fat that covered his stomach. He'd hold the pencil there for a moment and then expel it from the fold in his tummy fat with surprising force. As the pencil flew across the lunch room he'd say, "Hey! I'm a rocket launcher!"

Today he's an M.D. back in my home town.

I wonder if he does the same stunt only now with tongue depressors.

I just tried Dr. Rocket Launcher's trick myself. Fortunately it turns out I don't have enough fat to hold a pencil in place. Unfortunately I think I'm a mere four to five weekend rib binges away from becoming a rocket launcher.

Nobody wants to be a rocket launcher.

Now that I feel like a tub of goo I'll probably head to the grocery store and pick up the latest copy of Men's Health. Reading this magazine makes me feel as if I'm actually doing something to improve my health. So rather than change my diet or exercise I buy a magazine. Maybe I should call Dr. Rocket Launcher and see if he'd approve my fitness program. Who knows, I might be able to get our insurance company to underwrite the cost of a subscription.

The thing is I recently discovered that Men's Health is very popular with male homosexuals. That makes sense. There are always plenty of black and white pictures of super-fit men artfully peeling their shirts off. The problem is I'm self-conscious now when I buy the magazine. I realize I shouldn't give a crap if the check-out lady sees the magazine and wonders if I have a boyfriend. However I will admit that the ape-brain kicks in and needles me into arranging my other groceries around my magazine in the hope that no one will notice my purchase.

But that's not the only reason I turn the magazine upside down on the conveyor belt as if it were a copy of Huge Knockers Monthly. See, I'm pretty sure the check-out lady is smirking at me saying to herself, "Yeah, if anyone needs this magazine it'd be you, tubby."

It should be pretty apparent by now that I have a host of issues with the check-out lady.

So the next time I'm at the store I'll plop my copy of Men's Health right in front of the check-out lady and glare at her. "You got a problem with that?" I'll ask her. I'm sure she'll keep a wide eye on me as she swipes the UPC code. I'll throw my money toward her and say something like, "Yeah. I didn't think so. . ." and proudly march out of the store.

I know I'll begin feeling healthier immediately.

Here's something you don't see everyday: a new link on the link page.

Happy Halloween - Pt. 1

ZOMBIE BABY!

Go to the password gallery and click on Multimedia. Then click ZOMBIE BABY!. It's a big file (4.8 MB) so be patient. Also, if the link doesn't show up you may need to refresh your page. And, as usual, if don't know the password drop me an email and I'll forward it to you.

It's really is some of Debbie's best acting work since the rack of lamb last New Year's Eve.

Rental Tux

A rented tux is a wonderful thing.

A rental tux is more like a costume. It says you're taking part in an event so incredibly special you need to borrow the appropriate garments to participate.

That's cool.

If you buy your tux, then it's just clothing out of your closet. I don't care if Giorgio Armani himself tailors the thing, once you own the suit it loses some of its appeal.

So, whether it's powder blue with big ruffles or classic black; putting on a rented tuxedo makes you feel like you're on top of the world.

The last time I wore a rented tuxedo was eight years ago.

I felt like I was on top of the world then.

The funny thing is, I'm fairly sure I wouldn't have needed a rented suit to feel that way.

All I had to do was look down the aisle to see what was coming my way.

Weekend Updates

The no password gallery now has random shots from the camera phone.

The password gallery has two movies on the Multimedia page: Julia Walks and Syrup Removal.

If you've forgotten the password send me an email and I'll remind you.

But Can She Lift 20-lbs. or More?

I hate emptying the trash on Tuesdays.

I think it has something to do with my favorite book when I was little, From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. In that book, the lead character was Claudia Kincaid (and if anyone would like to make something of the fact that my favorite book in third grade featured a female protagonist he/she can kiss my ass). Claudia ran away from home to escape the drudgery and oppression of her everyday life.

Claudia really wasn't oppressed. In fact she was quite privileged and had a nice family. But that didn't keep her from taking her younger brother (she needed his money) and running away to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York. The museum wouldn't have been my first choice but she and her brother had quite the adventure anyway.

Book report aside, I wanted to let you know that one of Claudia's least favorite chores was gathering the trash from throughout her house. That must have stuck with me because I really don't like gathering the trash. Claudia had a prick of an older brother who would empty his pencil shavings in his basket every trash collection day just to piss Claudia off. As for me, it's the Diaper Genie I hate to deal with. I'd say pencil shavings are nothing compared to a giant snake of crap filled diapers but that's beside the point. The point is, by third grade I knew that trash duty wasn't for me.

Turns out I was wrong. I must be wrong. After all, I've been doing it for a very long time now.

It's not all bad. I admit I like knowing that I'll have at least of couple of days that I can drop a Q-Tip in our bathroom garbage without worrying about it bouncing out and hiding behind the toilet. I hate that when it happens. But that's about the only pleasure I get from Tuesday trash days. Most of the time I think about what type skin condition I'm going to develop by being exposed to the bazillions of germs, viruses and disease bearing vermin that have incubated and hatched in Allie's trash can during the week. And that's nothing compared to the kitchen trash can. It's teeming with stinky, slimy ebola-type shit I know can kill me. Kill me slowly. Kill me painfully.

I'm not saying I'm the only guy in the world who hates to take out the trash. I'm just telling you I'm pretty sure I know why I hate it so much.

Allie is four. She'd probably think trash duty was fun.

We'll begin next Tuesday. I'll start by burning my old copy of From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler. I'll keep you posted about how the rest of her training goes.

It didn't just move. . .

I did not just see it move.

It's only a dolly. A plastic baby dressed in a pink satin skirt with a leopard print accent. A slutty little Chucky-like killer doll. I know she sits up and grimaces at me whenever I turn my head.

Hold on, I'm going to move the thing.

That was dumb. Now it's staring at me. Wait a sec. . .

I've wrapped it in a blanket and threw a pillow over it.

It didn't help. I'm getting out of here. It's late and I'm going to bed. I'll uncover the dolly so she won't get pissed at me. However I'm sure the dolly will still follow me upstairs.

I'm concerned, but the dolly will get Debbie first. Deb's side of the bed is closest to the door.

I might make it out of this thing alive after all.

Expressed Gland Zone of Missed Birthdays Walking

I'm sure it isn't the most pleasant experience to have your ass juiced like a ripe orange. However, the vet told me it was a good thing Pig got squeezed. The doc said our cat's anal glands were chock full of noxious fluid and could have blown at any moment. Funny thing was the Dr. had a different attitude when I first requested that Pig get a good butt milking. The vet gave me a puzzled look and kind of shrugged when I asked her to do it. But I know our cat, I know our cat's rear and when it's ready to be pumped out.

I don't even want to think about the Google hits I'm going to get from the above paragaph.

Let's move on. . .

I have now established a four foot Zone of Death around this computer's keyboard. Anyone venturing within this newly establish zone with beverages, sloppy food, mucous, a large carbuncle or anything that could potentially gum-up this keyboard will face serious consequences. I usually enjoy an ice cold bottle of water or a fruit punch flavored Gatorade while I'm down here typing. Those days are over now that I have to remove what looks to be Pepsi from between the B, N and M keys. I don't drink a lot of brown, sticky beverages (I just told you what I drink while typing). So I'm taking my name off the list of suspects and have hired an outside agency to do a more thorough investigation.

In other news:

On October 5 I tried to remember Michelle's work number. I tried call Michelle that same evening but she wasn't home. I didn't get in touch with my sister on her birthday. Bad brother. I love my sister. So when I spoke to her this morning I let her know how bad I felt. She didn't even get a cake on her birthday. That made me feel even worse. I will bake a cake and mail it to her. I'm sure the icing will get a little screwed-up, but at least she'll have a cake.

Changing topics:

Allie stood out on the deck last night and sobbed. I went outside to see what the problem was. She was crying because the sun was going down and it was so beautiful. She didn't want the sun to go away. I suppose I should be encouraged that she is moved to tears over the beauty of a sunset. But at the time I was just trying to figure out which day would be the best to take Allie to her soon-to-be-arranged therapy appointments. But she doesn't need therapy. She needs another beautiful sunset to reassure her Dad wasn't lying when he scooped her up and swore that she has many more beautiful sunsets in her future.

One last thing:

Julia is walking. She stands all by herself, then takes a few steps, then plops down on her butt. She also started giving kisses. It works like this: you ask her for a kiss, then she opens her slobber filled mouth and presses it against your lips. Then she pats you on the head.

I'm more thrilled about the walking thing.

No Time for Canada

Honey, I'm home.

I was up at 3:00 a.m. mountain time because when I tried to convince the alarm clock in my hotel room to wake me at 4:30 a.m. I also managed to move myself two hours into the future. So I woke up and the clock told me it was 5:36 and I need to be in the lobby by 5:30.

I flew around the hotel room trying to gather my possesions and stuff them into my suitcase. I brushed my teeth and tried to tame my hair a little so I wouldn't have trouble getting a cab driver to let me in his car.

I looked at the clock again, 5:40. Paul should have called me by now to see why I'm not downstairs. Shit! He's late too. I call Paul's room. "Paul, we're late. We were supposed to be downstairs at 5:30," I yelled.

Paul says, "My clock says it's 3:45."

You can guess the rest. But I'm home now and I'm trying to get things in order. Instead of a nap before I pick up the girls at 4:30 I made a quick vet appointment for Pig to have her anal glands expressed. I unpacked with the intention of starting some laundry. Now I need to pick up the living room and while I did that I remember I wanted to change out Julia's car seat. That brought me downstairs and I decided to check email. Now I'm typing here. Only someone spilled something on the goddamn keyboard and it feels like I'm typing in slow motion.

3:26. I've gotta go.

You guys got Ikea?

A lot of American oil investment means Edmonton, Alberta Canada looks a lot like Milwaukee, but with the world's largest mall. The cab driver who picked us up at the airport kept reading signs along both sides of the road and asking us if we were familiar with each business we passed. You guys got Tim Horton's? He got me on that one but a few seconds later I found out Tom Horton's is owned by Wendy's.

All the oil money means Edmonton is one of the few Canadian provinces with a surplus of tax dollars. Right now the government is asking citizens what to do with the money. New roads? Schools? Hospitals? After a conversation I had with one of the locals today I'm guessing most people here in Edmonton will ask for their own individual pieces of the action in the form of a government check.

Today my co-workers and I went ice skating at the giant mall. I didn't have a choice, really. I'm in Canada. There's no way I could have avoided strapping on some rental skates. See, I don't know how to skate but up here I felt strongly I'd be able to shoot across the ice like I was born with blades on my feet.

The soles of my feet were on fire. I was having fun trying to glide around on the ice, but the pain was a lot to deal with. I switched to a larger size of skates but that made me feel unstable. The point is, there was no magical Canadian skating fairy sprinkling skating glitter on my head. I was a spaz. I didn't fall though.

A group of Asian girls with thick accents were on the ice with me. "Hi. Hi. Hi! It's her birthuday today. It's her birthuday!" they said to me as they pointed to a wilting girl in the middle of the crowd. "Happy birthday," I said as I struggled not to fall on my ass. They all giggled in what had to be mock embarrassment. My pants had not just fallen down around my ankles so I can't imagine why they'd laugh like that unless they were faking it.

The mall also provided me with enough Hello Kitty candy to put Allie into a Hello Hyperglycemic coma. I found the treats at one of the most incredible Asian markets I've ever seen (I love Asian markets). Did you know Heinz made banana ketchup? I didn't. How cool is that? Disgusting, but cool.

Speaking of bananas, we found two, new, yellow Lamborghinis parked in front of our hotel this evening. I guess this hotel is quite the spot. "That's where the Stones stay when they're in town," one person said to me this afternoon upon learning where I'm staying. I'm pretty sure I'm not in Keith Richard's old room right now, but if I find a syringe under the mattress I'll let you know.

Two to go, Deb.