get that out of your mouth

rocks, glass houses

We have a fabulous liquor store near us.

Due to it's fabulousness, it's usually very crowded during peak booze buying hours.

So, I have started shopping there when it first opens.

At 8 AM.

No lines.

No bumping into neglected carts.

No pushing and shoving in the scotch aisle.

Heaven.

The only thing I have to contend with are the female alcoholics buying their day's worth of vodka.

They also shop for liquor at 8 AM.

You cannot tell if these poor trembling souls are 30 or 60.

The other day I caught myself feeling superior when

one of them laid out 10 mini bar bottles of Smirnoff to be wrung up.

Look at that I thought, it's 8 in the morning and she is buying that.

Then, I looked down at my cart of booze.

Scotch.

Gin.

Bourbon

Red wine.

White wine.

Beer.

8 AM.

My smug grin abandoned me.

And I lined up behind her with my head held a little lower.

down the rabbit hole

Many things cause my eyebrow to raise.

Still more cause me to visibly wince.

And then there are the things that need to be cleansed from the very dregs of my soul

lest they fester there and spread blackness.

My pale hippy fifty something neighbor.

Coke bottle glasses askew.

Long, stringy ponytail flapping back and forth like a Medusean snake.

Wearing only a faded purple t-shirt and bath slippers as she goes out to retrieve her mail.

Most likely bills and junk mail for COD fantasy knife collections.

I pull my boys away from the window.

We all stare at each other in silent horror.

The silence is actually a cry. 

A scream.

We have born witness.

The silence is broken by my oldest.

Him: "Dad, why doesn't she have any pants on?"

 

Me: "Hey, lets all go get some popsicles, huh?

Them: "Yeah!"

God bless popsicles.

birth of a confidence artist

An ancient rite is performed on my living room floor.

The complete and total fleecing of a younger brother by the eldest.

My charlatan firstborn lays their Pokemon cards out.

And in the span of a few minutes, hornswoggles every good Pokemon card 

out of his brother's deck and into his own.

I, do not know what makes a good Pokemon card. 

Because it is a game a game only idiot savants can understand.

Which is why my two children love it.

However, I intercede on my youngest's behalf.

His shifty, carnie brother whines that I am upsetting the natural order of things.

I tell him to zip his grifter pie-hole and give his brother back the "mutant turtle 

with a tree growing out of it's shell" card.

My oldest, oddly, immediately complies, a little smirk flashes across his face.

I sigh. 

It is a look that can only mean, "when you're gone, I'm going to wipe him out."

World, I apologize now for the reign of terror I fear he will one day unleash.

Beware of him trying to sell you something on late night cable in 15 years.

the truly slippery nature of play-dates

Ahh play-dates.

They used to be called... actually they weren't called anything 

you just said, " hey, does your kid want to come over and play?"

But that was too many words and didn't sound important enough.

So, the modern play-date was created.

Play-dates sound very structured, but funny things can happen on them.

Like the one my four-year old had today with two little girls.

There's a lot to explore in a home that isn't yours.

Drawers for instance.

He pretty much knows what's in our drawers.

Other people's drawers however are still areas of mystery that must be investigated.

And that's what he did.

At some point during his play-date, the mother of the home whose drawers were virgin territory, waltzed into her bedroom to find my son and the girls covered in Astroglide.

A personal lubricant and moisturizer recommended by 4 out of 5 stay-at-home moms.

All play-dates must end my friends, and so did this one.

But I'm guessing we'll probably have her girls over for a play-date in the next day or so, while she runs a quick errand to Fascinations, the global sex emporium that's as ubiquitous as the Gap these days.

fitful kingdom

Location: The Mattress King

Participants: My wife, my three-year old, oily Mattress King salesman.

Overview: It was time to plunk down many dollars on a new mattress.

My son and wife bravely ventured to The Mattress King, where used car salesmen

and high-risk mortgage lenders go to die. 

The floor room looked like a a package of peppermint Chiclets had exploded.

Gleaming white rectangles everywhere.

Truly the home of The Mattress King. 

A benevolent sire who only wanted a good night's sleep for his bleary-eyed subjects.

Of course, every court is ruled by slithering sycophants who only look out for their own

personal interests and this hall was no exception.

The Mattress King salesman slid over to my wife and child and proceeded to point out 

the pros and more pros of the Temperpedic sleep system.

According to him, you can no longer buy a mattress, you must buy a "sleep system."

Subtle cajoling, tender manipulation, the man was a master of the dark art of persuasion.

My son, off-handedly mentioned he needed to go the bathroom.

But the web had been cast and the salesman would let no subjects escape.

A few more minutes of back and forth passed, then my wife looked around 

and found my son no longer at her side. 

He had marched right out of the Mattress King and was staring back through the large plate glass showroom window. He waved, then pulled down his pants and proceeded to urinate all over the window.

Take that Mattress King. 

Uhm, and we'll be taking your finest mattress pad too.

the five stages of insincere grief

One: Your child realizes they have done something wrong and been caught.

Two: They blame everyone and anyone other than themselves.

Three: They create a poorly constructed excuse that implausibly frees them from all blame.

Four: They finally admit under duress they were responsible for above mentioned wrongdoing.

Five: They give a half-hearted, lame apology without making eye contact or feeling any remorse.

Addendum: They instantly forget they did anything wrong and are quite willing to immediately repeat wrongdoing.

Guilty conscience be damned.

one nation under bubble wrap

Our children go out to play in helmets, kneepads and other assorted armor.

They wash their hands in anti-bacterial soap.

They march off to attend structured play dates.

They wear sunblock, insect repellent and grimaces.

They won't ever know a bottle rocket or Roman candle.

Our children are hermetically sealed for freshness.

They appear safer. 

I guess appearances count for something.

conversational vomitorium

When one of my boys pukes, it becomes the topic for the week.

All conversation either starts or ends with the subject.

Conversations that have nothing to do with it take abrupt turns 

and run headlong into it.

Puke, becomes all we talk about.

I puked a lot huh Dad?

Yes.

I puked four times.

Yes you did.

Puke came out my nose.

Yup.

That was a very bad day.

It sure was. Want to go to the park?

My puke was red Dad.

Park...?

What If I puke in the park?

You won't puke in the park.

I puked on Mom.

Ugh.

What if I puke on Mom at the park?

Ahhh...

Maybe we shouldn't go to the park because I could puke on Mom there.

Okay.

But maybe we could take the puke bucket to the park.

Huh?

Then I could puke in the puke bucket at the park and not on Mom.

Honey, you puked two days ago, you're okay now.

That was a very bad day, huh Dad?

Yup.

I puked that day didn't I Dad?

For the love of God, change the subject!

Okay Dad, but puke is yucky. And it came out my nose...