My brother, my sister, and I have loved movies since we were kids. One of our favorites, if not the favorite of all time, is “Mr. Mom.” We used to be able to recite every single line, which generally annoyed anyone within earshot.
For those who may not either recall or have not yet seen the film (gasp), I’ll briefly re-cap the plot. The Butler family lives in a Detroit suburb in the early 1980s. The father, Jack, gets laid off from the car plant. The mother, Caroline, goes back to work to support the family. Jack becomes part of the housewives clique and adjusts to being the stay-at-home parent. Meanwhile, Caroline adapts to the dog-eat-dog world of advertising.
About halfway through the movie, Jack and Caroline are experiencing a strain in their marriage while adjusting to their new family dynamic. Both parents thought Jack would be able to find a job and return to being the bread winner. Consequently, he never really embraced his role as a househusband and underachieved during the day by drinking beers, watching soaps, ironing grilled cheese sandwiches, and letting the house fall into disarray.
Inevitably, tension erupts between the couple when Caroline comes home after a long day at work only to find Jack playing coupon poker with his newfound lady friends and flirting with the busty Joan. Anywho, Jack and Caroline confront each other about their unhappiness. Without consulting the internets, I believe Jack makes the following statement to Caroline to explain what he’s been going through:
“My brain [pointing to his head and hesitating] is like oatmeal. Yesterday, I yelled at Kenny for coloring outside the lines. Megan (his one year-old daughter) and I are watching the same TV shows. And I’m liking them. I’m losing it.”
Last week Greta experienced her first cold. Consequently, her sleep schedule was awful. Add to the situation that I love staying up late and I got a flu shot on Thursday, my brain has been a lot like oatmeal. I suddenly realized that I sincerely enjoy two of Gigi’s TV shows that we watch when she wakes up at 5 in the morning and I’m trying to get her to fall back asleep: “Jack’s Big Music Show” and “Yo Gabba Gabba.” I’ll go in order.
Jack, his dog Mel, and his super swell friend Mary are puppets who play music in his clubhouse and teach really cute lessons. Every episode they get a visit from the Schwartzmann Quartet who are a cappella puppets. They also get an occasional visit from real people like Dr. String who made a house call last episode to sing while fixing Mary’s hammer dulcimer, which Jack accidentally broke but decided to disclose after encouragement from the Schwartzmen.
I am not exaggerating when I say that this show makes me laugh out loud at least two or three times per episode, and I tip out on the music. (Seriously, I just downloaded a couple songs on iTunes.) Plus, there is a curly-haired woman who cameos almost every episode during an interlude music video who has a pretty nice rack.
As for “Yo Gabba Gabba,” it’s kind of like a more hip variation of “Sesame Street.” First, the music on this show is great. Here’s just a sampling, and yes, these are all on the iPod. “There’s a party in my tummy. So yummy, so yummy yummy.” The song stops because the carrots and green beans are upset that they weren’t eaten. Then a new beat kicks in and the party starts up again when the veggies are swallowed.” Great stuff.
However, “Gabba” is equally entertaining for the graphic design, DJ Lance, and the shots of “My name is ___ and I like to dance.” As G-sizzle and I cuddled on the couch in the early morning dark last Friday morning, I found myself hoping that Foofa (unfortunately not Fupa, as we originally thought) would have the opening solo because her voice is just so eerily comforting to me. I thought it might help lull G back to sleep because I certainly could have snoozed. G never dozed but she was pretty mellow and I enjoyed every minute of being cozy together under our blanket.
The point of the story is this – for all the Jack and Caroline Butlers out there finding themselves sleep deprived and unfamiliar with the “South to drop off, North to pick em up” school zone commute situations, I feel your pain. We’ll get through this together.
So, any stay-at-home parents out there in Southie interested in doing Jazzercise together at my place on Mondays when I work from home with G? We can watch “As the World Turns” together and comment about how Victor’s vasectomy didn’t take so Vicky’s having his baby. By the way honey, if you call and I’m not here, I’ll either be at the gym or the gun club. How’d you like a little trim on that moustache, Ron? Schooner tuna. Irv, are these tampon maxi pads on special? It’s okay Irv. Nevermind. Forget about it.
Don’t get it? Rent “Mr. Mom,” for crying out loud – or at least check out Jack and DJ Lance.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Friday, October 30, 2009
Bats in the Cave
G’s boogie counts were off the charts this week due to her first bout of sniffles – not quite a cold, just a noticeable nose whistle when she has the binkie in her mouth. We use this rubber bulb to suction out the bats in her cave because 1) even our pinkies are way too big to infiltrate her nostril and 2) G has not yet discovered the true mystery and sheer satisfaction of picking her nose.
Perhaps I am nostalgic for him because it is October and the Yanks are back in the World Series, but Joe Torre was the master public nose picker. Joe would be sitting in the Yankees’ dugout knowing full well that a TV camera could be on him at any time, but he would feel the call to arms as a boogie beckoned from one of his cavernous nostrils. So Joe would employ what I like to call the “J.T. technique.” He would quickly pinch and pull on the wall of his nose with a thumb and index finger for quick evacuation and lightly flick away. Mission accomplished. No public humiliation.
As I was walking into work the other day, I saw a great looking women in a suit do the “J.T.” without even blinking. Why is this move so acceptable, yet an all out digging for gold technique is still shunned and disgusted by contemporary society? Answer: the disposal.
Obviously, a tissue is the preferred technique for boogie disposal because one can easily toss a used one in the trash. The J.T. implies that the boogies are light and crusty so perhaps they are less disgusting in nature than the alternative. Digging for gold, however, suggests that you’ve got huge boulders or possibly even the dreaded wet-dry stringer hybrids. Where does the picker dispose of the latter kind? Therein lies the scorn of any observer to such a feat.
I confess that I am a huge fan of nose picking. Especially at a urinal or while driving. It’s just automatic. But don’t worry, it’s the J.T. technique so it’s acceptable. There it is. The truth is out there. I feel so relieved. I can probably date Kate Hudson now and hit over .400 in the MLB playoffs.
Of course, the wife and I will emphasize the importance of tissue usage to G-monster as she gets older. It would be hypocritical of me to chastise G if I do catch her in the act. When that happens, though, I will be sure to watch her technique and encourage the style of Joe Torre. Go Yankees!
Perhaps I am nostalgic for him because it is October and the Yanks are back in the World Series, but Joe Torre was the master public nose picker. Joe would be sitting in the Yankees’ dugout knowing full well that a TV camera could be on him at any time, but he would feel the call to arms as a boogie beckoned from one of his cavernous nostrils. So Joe would employ what I like to call the “J.T. technique.” He would quickly pinch and pull on the wall of his nose with a thumb and index finger for quick evacuation and lightly flick away. Mission accomplished. No public humiliation.
As I was walking into work the other day, I saw a great looking women in a suit do the “J.T.” without even blinking. Why is this move so acceptable, yet an all out digging for gold technique is still shunned and disgusted by contemporary society? Answer: the disposal.
Obviously, a tissue is the preferred technique for boogie disposal because one can easily toss a used one in the trash. The J.T. implies that the boogies are light and crusty so perhaps they are less disgusting in nature than the alternative. Digging for gold, however, suggests that you’ve got huge boulders or possibly even the dreaded wet-dry stringer hybrids. Where does the picker dispose of the latter kind? Therein lies the scorn of any observer to such a feat.
I confess that I am a huge fan of nose picking. Especially at a urinal or while driving. It’s just automatic. But don’t worry, it’s the J.T. technique so it’s acceptable. There it is. The truth is out there. I feel so relieved. I can probably date Kate Hudson now and hit over .400 in the MLB playoffs.
Of course, the wife and I will emphasize the importance of tissue usage to G-monster as she gets older. It would be hypocritical of me to chastise G if I do catch her in the act. When that happens, though, I will be sure to watch her technique and encourage the style of Joe Torre. Go Yankees!
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Reality Means Anonymity, Not Celebrity
Okay I admit US Weekly is an occasional guilty pleasure for a myriad of reasons, but especially for the “Stars – They’re just like us!” section. I just imagine creepy paparazzi staked out in an Aries K-car full of fast food wrappers and assorted camera equipment waiting hours for that perfect shot of an Olsen twin emerging from an organic taqueria in Greenwich Village blasting a Marlboro, holding a 64-ounce cup of coffee, while sporting shades bigger than both of their heads added together, but she’s “just like us” because she bought a burrito.
The most recent cover of US I saw showed America’s newest celebrated divorcing mom and dad. Mom has the blond pheasant toupee that will be a smash hit this Halloween, and dad is the bloated, prematurely mid-life crisis experiencing guy complete with diamond studs. Yes, I’m talking about Jon and Kate Gosselin of course.
The wife has been a fan of their show for a long time and I’ve suffered through a few episodes here and there. By no means do I declare myself an authority of any sort over who is right or wrong with respect to their recent drama. Honestly, I don’t care. I just feel sorry for their children. In fact, both parents make me wince uncomfortably whenever I hear or see either one of them addressing a camera of any sort.
I suppose at the genesis of the show, the idea of televising their unique family situation was arguably an innocent way to supplement the household income. After all, they did have 8 mouths to feed.
Although their story was admittedly compelling, I doubt anyone foresaw the extent to which they would become celebrities. The frenzied tabloid coverage they’ve drawn since the marital problems arose publicly seems more appropriately reserved to greater accomplished head cases like Michael Jackson, Britney Spears, or Lindsay Lohan. Maybe because of this notoriety, I can’t help but suspect that both of the Gosselins privately craved fame when they decided to launch the show – or at least assumed the risk that they could become “reality celebrities.”
This brings me to my next point. (Wait a second, I’m getting out the old soap box.) The entire concept of a “reality” TV show absolutely blows my mind away. The idea of anything realistic happening on any of those shows could not be further from the truth. First, let me distinguish the reality competition shows like Project Runway, Top Chef, and SYTYCD (obv – greatest shows ever!) that celebrate actual talent, as well as those documentary-esque shows like Deadliest Catch (strangely entertaining), as opposed to those:
1) with fabricated “reality” plot lines celebrating shallow, talentless, wholly worthless individuals (see anything ever shown on MTV or starring Paris Hilton);
2) that recruit contestants from the slums of Desperateville (see above and any episode of The Bachelor/Bachelorette) to accomplish a sacred vow like, I don’t know, marriage; and
3) with main characters who go onto Larry King Live or The Today Show to publicly argue in the court of public opinion why he/she is so right and their future ex-spouse is so wrong.
Are we Americans so intoxicated with the idea that fame solves all of our problems and cures our unhappiness that we prefer becoming a celebrity for any stupid reason, instead of just living our lives as good people in anonymity? I pose this question on the heels of reports that a former Wife Swap father so desperately craves fame that he staged a hoax about a runaway hot air balloon using his poor 6 year-old son to lie and barf on national television, in order to land his own reality TV show.
Simply put, the shows that fall into any of the aforementioned 3 categories simply have little to nothing in common with actual reality. We real people go to work, raise our children, care for our homes, love our families, pursue our passions, struggle emotionally and financially all the time, fight over issues that truly matter, regroup, recover, and repeat. We are the ones who deserve free drinks and line privileges at bars – but we don’t have the time, energy, or money to go because we’re too busy working and just plain getting by!
Okay, I’m off the soap box now. Wow, I think I just blacked out like Frank the Tank during the debate in Old School. Where was I?
Let’s just say I would never in a million years sign up to televise my family life. I prefer my hugs and kisses from G and the wife to be in the warm privacy of our home, far away from any zoom lenses, confessional booth cams, and accompanying soundtracks with the coolest new Death Cab For Cutie jam – just like other real people. I mean, right?
The most recent cover of US I saw showed America’s newest celebrated divorcing mom and dad. Mom has the blond pheasant toupee that will be a smash hit this Halloween, and dad is the bloated, prematurely mid-life crisis experiencing guy complete with diamond studs. Yes, I’m talking about Jon and Kate Gosselin of course.
The wife has been a fan of their show for a long time and I’ve suffered through a few episodes here and there. By no means do I declare myself an authority of any sort over who is right or wrong with respect to their recent drama. Honestly, I don’t care. I just feel sorry for their children. In fact, both parents make me wince uncomfortably whenever I hear or see either one of them addressing a camera of any sort.
I suppose at the genesis of the show, the idea of televising their unique family situation was arguably an innocent way to supplement the household income. After all, they did have 8 mouths to feed.
Although their story was admittedly compelling, I doubt anyone foresaw the extent to which they would become celebrities. The frenzied tabloid coverage they’ve drawn since the marital problems arose publicly seems more appropriately reserved to greater accomplished head cases like Michael Jackson, Britney Spears, or Lindsay Lohan. Maybe because of this notoriety, I can’t help but suspect that both of the Gosselins privately craved fame when they decided to launch the show – or at least assumed the risk that they could become “reality celebrities.”
This brings me to my next point. (Wait a second, I’m getting out the old soap box.) The entire concept of a “reality” TV show absolutely blows my mind away. The idea of anything realistic happening on any of those shows could not be further from the truth. First, let me distinguish the reality competition shows like Project Runway, Top Chef, and SYTYCD (obv – greatest shows ever!) that celebrate actual talent, as well as those documentary-esque shows like Deadliest Catch (strangely entertaining), as opposed to those:
1) with fabricated “reality” plot lines celebrating shallow, talentless, wholly worthless individuals (see anything ever shown on MTV or starring Paris Hilton);
2) that recruit contestants from the slums of Desperateville (see above and any episode of The Bachelor/Bachelorette) to accomplish a sacred vow like, I don’t know, marriage; and
3) with main characters who go onto Larry King Live or The Today Show to publicly argue in the court of public opinion why he/she is so right and their future ex-spouse is so wrong.
Are we Americans so intoxicated with the idea that fame solves all of our problems and cures our unhappiness that we prefer becoming a celebrity for any stupid reason, instead of just living our lives as good people in anonymity? I pose this question on the heels of reports that a former Wife Swap father so desperately craves fame that he staged a hoax about a runaway hot air balloon using his poor 6 year-old son to lie and barf on national television, in order to land his own reality TV show.
Simply put, the shows that fall into any of the aforementioned 3 categories simply have little to nothing in common with actual reality. We real people go to work, raise our children, care for our homes, love our families, pursue our passions, struggle emotionally and financially all the time, fight over issues that truly matter, regroup, recover, and repeat. We are the ones who deserve free drinks and line privileges at bars – but we don’t have the time, energy, or money to go because we’re too busy working and just plain getting by!
Okay, I’m off the soap box now. Wow, I think I just blacked out like Frank the Tank during the debate in Old School. Where was I?
Let’s just say I would never in a million years sign up to televise my family life. I prefer my hugs and kisses from G and the wife to be in the warm privacy of our home, far away from any zoom lenses, confessional booth cams, and accompanying soundtracks with the coolest new Death Cab For Cutie jam – just like other real people. I mean, right?
Friday, October 2, 2009
GULP
No alarm clock necessary. G is automatic for the 6 a.m. wake up. She squawks and beckons from the crib, sometimes tapping a binkie repeatedly against the rails or just plain letting her pipes loose. I got the early shift this morning. Time to get up.
I shuffle in my undies over to the bowl and pee. Flush. Hand wash. G hears the noise and you can tell she’s waiting. She’s trying to stand in the crib even though her sleeper sack easily trips her during the hurried attempts to rise up. As I creep along the hallway, she sounds as if she just stumbled. I peek my head into her room.
“Hwaaaaaaaaahhhhh,” she screeches pterodactyl-like. G is standing in a semi-squat position resting her arms on the top rail to balance as she bounces up in down with glee. I greet my little one like a female gymnast after, well, basically any event that a gymnast just completed – and she’s kicking and squirming in delight.
Sleeper sack off. Remove the diaper and wonder at its weight as I fold it up. Replace with a dry one while swatting away the kicking hamhocks. (All in the dark, thank you.) We move to the kitchen as she yanks at my chest hair with one hand and clutches in the other hand whatever object I could find to distract her during the diaper change: a stray shoe, Timmy the Turtle, a squeeze bottle of Bacitracin.
I place G into this “Phil & Ted’s me too” baby seat, which suspends off the side of our kitchen counter top with screw-in attachments. The binkie’s still in her mouth. I go over to the sink and challenge myself, as I do every time, to fill the bottle as close to exactly 6 ounces as possible. 6.5. I’m a little off.
Three scoops of formula next. Attach the remaining bottle components. Cover. Shake. Turn back to G- sizzle who’s been waiting impatiently for her breakfast. I smile until I see it for the first time.
After a few seconds, I flash back to my pledging days at college. I think of vomiting beer into a T-shirt breast pocket and slamming it with my hand to indicate I was done. I think of spewing assorted parts of multiple goldfish out of my mouth onto the head of a pledge brother. I think of Montezuma tequila blasting its way through my nostrils and the burn that dripped post-nasally. Please tell me G can projectile vomit, too.
The night before, a backing to the wife’s earring fell out. She innocently removed the backless one and then the other, placing them on the kitchen counter top. We went to sleep. A few minutes ago, I turned my back to make the bottle and saw for the first time that only one earring was laid on the counter easily within G’s grasp.
At this moment, an EKG would definitely show an uptick in my cardiac activity. I grab the abandoned earring and immediately look on the floor under Greta. Nothing. Adrenal glands now kicking in. Inner monologue tidbit: “Michelle’s gonna kill me… Guess I’ll have to call out from work today… Looks like we’re taking our first trip to the emergency room… Maybe the bottle will help induce her to puke it up if I overfeed her a little bit…”
No matching earring in sight. Okay, here goes. (Hurried walk back to the bedroom.)
Me: “Hi honey, how’d you sleep?”
Wife: “What’s wrong?”
Me: “Nothing.”
Wife: “Why are you waking me up?”
Me: “No reason. Um, so, did you happen to take one of your earrings into the bedroom last night?”
Wife: “No, why?”
Me: “Um, nothing. Just ruling out whether Greta may have swallowed the earring that YOU put on the counter directly next to where she eats without telling me. Be right back.”
Now I’m running back towards Greta. She’s pissed that I haven’t brought her a bottle. I yank her out of her seat and feel around desperately. “Could she pass the earring in her poo?,” I ask myself because I clearly do not wish to ask the wife this question when -
YES! JACKPOT! Holy shit. Thank God. Phew. Back to the bedroom.
Me: “Go back to sleep, hon. I got the earring.”
Wife: “Are you freaking kidding me right now? You just gave me a heart attack.”
Me: “Nothing to see here. Just go back to sleep. False alarm. Sorry. Ha! That was funny, huh?”
Wife: “I’m getting up, I can’t sleep.”
Crisis averted! Wow, that adrenaline was better than coffee. Returning to G, I see that she is chewing on the laptop’s electrical cord. Good times. 6:13 a.m.
I shuffle in my undies over to the bowl and pee. Flush. Hand wash. G hears the noise and you can tell she’s waiting. She’s trying to stand in the crib even though her sleeper sack easily trips her during the hurried attempts to rise up. As I creep along the hallway, she sounds as if she just stumbled. I peek my head into her room.
“Hwaaaaaaaaahhhhh,” she screeches pterodactyl-like. G is standing in a semi-squat position resting her arms on the top rail to balance as she bounces up in down with glee. I greet my little one like a female gymnast after, well, basically any event that a gymnast just completed – and she’s kicking and squirming in delight.
Sleeper sack off. Remove the diaper and wonder at its weight as I fold it up. Replace with a dry one while swatting away the kicking hamhocks. (All in the dark, thank you.) We move to the kitchen as she yanks at my chest hair with one hand and clutches in the other hand whatever object I could find to distract her during the diaper change: a stray shoe, Timmy the Turtle, a squeeze bottle of Bacitracin.
I place G into this “Phil & Ted’s me too” baby seat, which suspends off the side of our kitchen counter top with screw-in attachments. The binkie’s still in her mouth. I go over to the sink and challenge myself, as I do every time, to fill the bottle as close to exactly 6 ounces as possible. 6.5. I’m a little off.
Three scoops of formula next. Attach the remaining bottle components. Cover. Shake. Turn back to G- sizzle who’s been waiting impatiently for her breakfast. I smile until I see it for the first time.
After a few seconds, I flash back to my pledging days at college. I think of vomiting beer into a T-shirt breast pocket and slamming it with my hand to indicate I was done. I think of spewing assorted parts of multiple goldfish out of my mouth onto the head of a pledge brother. I think of Montezuma tequila blasting its way through my nostrils and the burn that dripped post-nasally. Please tell me G can projectile vomit, too.
The night before, a backing to the wife’s earring fell out. She innocently removed the backless one and then the other, placing them on the kitchen counter top. We went to sleep. A few minutes ago, I turned my back to make the bottle and saw for the first time that only one earring was laid on the counter easily within G’s grasp.
At this moment, an EKG would definitely show an uptick in my cardiac activity. I grab the abandoned earring and immediately look on the floor under Greta. Nothing. Adrenal glands now kicking in. Inner monologue tidbit: “Michelle’s gonna kill me… Guess I’ll have to call out from work today… Looks like we’re taking our first trip to the emergency room… Maybe the bottle will help induce her to puke it up if I overfeed her a little bit…”
No matching earring in sight. Okay, here goes. (Hurried walk back to the bedroom.)
Me: “Hi honey, how’d you sleep?”
Wife: “What’s wrong?”
Me: “Nothing.”
Wife: “Why are you waking me up?”
Me: “No reason. Um, so, did you happen to take one of your earrings into the bedroom last night?”
Wife: “No, why?”
Me: “Um, nothing. Just ruling out whether Greta may have swallowed the earring that YOU put on the counter directly next to where she eats without telling me. Be right back.”
Now I’m running back towards Greta. She’s pissed that I haven’t brought her a bottle. I yank her out of her seat and feel around desperately. “Could she pass the earring in her poo?,” I ask myself because I clearly do not wish to ask the wife this question when -
YES! JACKPOT! Holy shit. Thank God. Phew. Back to the bedroom.
Me: “Go back to sleep, hon. I got the earring.”
Wife: “Are you freaking kidding me right now? You just gave me a heart attack.”
Me: “Nothing to see here. Just go back to sleep. False alarm. Sorry. Ha! That was funny, huh?”
Wife: “I’m getting up, I can’t sleep.”
Crisis averted! Wow, that adrenaline was better than coffee. Returning to G, I see that she is chewing on the laptop’s electrical cord. Good times. 6:13 a.m.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Mow-Wow!
Before Greta, there was Wally. He was raised in a Southie brothel – I mean apartment – by the wife and “all the single ladies” with whom she lived at the time many moons ago. They weaned him on Fancy Feast, expressions of feelings, The Bachelor, and sangria – basically the perfect recipe for spawning a pimp.
When I met Walter back in 05’ at Pacific Street, I sighed and thought “Oh great, she’s one of those single girls with a cat.” In other words, pretend to like her pussy (pause) cat if I want to get her pussy (pause) willow … but little did I know, this cat was of the coolest variety.
Wally strutted around our home like he just owned the joint. Passersby might try to call him over, but he wouldn’t just stop for anybody. You needed to have some type of rapport or history with him. Basically, you had to be one of his peeps.
The Wall-man was a hulking, feline mass of black, white, grey, and light brown stripes. He had a small pie slice missing out of one of his ears, which was a souvenir from a back alley fight during his rookie season. He went undefeated from that time until a minor setback with raccoons (yes, plural) back in 07’ but he dragged himself back to the ring to re-assert his dominance of the East Third and G Street Southie sector a couple weeks later.
Despite Wally’s tough exterior, he had a keen sense when one of his loved ones was down. He had an uncanny knack for crawling up on a lap and maybe even licking an arm, at just the right time. He was especially close to his most loving and longest-serving parent, Shell. “He is my rock,” she would tell me all the time. Let's just say, he knew her moods better than I did most of the time.
Of course, the 20+ pound mass of loving, hairy warmth won me over probably after the first time he plopped himself on my chest as I laid in bed one night. His purring was like the perfect, wonderful lullaby. The ever growing affection I had for him was eroding my machismo. My preconception that "straight men don’t love cats,” couldn't have been more wrong.
Over time, I came to marvel at Wally’s unique qualities. For example, he growled when the door bell rang. He came running from out of nowhere when I whistled for him to come home. As he crossed the street, his belly would sway from side to side as he said “mow wow mow wow” which translates in cat to “where the hell have you been, I’ve been waiting forevah fo’ ya across the street” in a thick, Boston accent. But most impressively to me, Wally could get an erection from licking his own scrotum. (Seeing his lipstick always made me think of the meat beneath the shell of a lobster claw, for some reason.) Moving on.
After I knocked up the wife, we speculated about how Wally would react to his future sibling’s presence. He was, after all, an only child for over 9 years by the time February of 2009 rolled around. When we came home from the hospital with G, our worries about Wally’s feelings towards her evaporated when we caught him affectionately nuzzling the side of her face. We were a happy family.
Unfortunately, we lost our little man during the same week that my grandmother passed away, which was a few weeks after Greta was born. Wally went missing before we had left for my grandma’s services in New York. When we returned, we received the bad news about Wally from a neighbor. He was most likely hit by a car. It was a bad week, to say the least.
Walter Cooney Teravainen now sleeps peacefully beneath a beautiful, flower garden in Carver close to where Greta will be playing happily in the years to come. I imagine that he went running with his belly swaying into the Pearly Gates. I hope he gave a nice “mow wow” to those who greeted him.
I am grateful to Wally for introducing me to a sort of fatherhood. He was the first pet that I ever called my own. He is and will continue to be missed in our home. I needed some time before I could appropriately memorialize him. I hope I did justice to his mystique.
To all of you loving parents of furry children out there, give them a nice hug, kiss, and a special treat in memory of the Wall-man tonight. Maybe that early morning wake up tomorrow will not be so bad after all!
When I met Walter back in 05’ at Pacific Street, I sighed and thought “Oh great, she’s one of those single girls with a cat.” In other words, pretend to like her pussy (pause) cat if I want to get her pussy (pause) willow … but little did I know, this cat was of the coolest variety.
Wally strutted around our home like he just owned the joint. Passersby might try to call him over, but he wouldn’t just stop for anybody. You needed to have some type of rapport or history with him. Basically, you had to be one of his peeps.
The Wall-man was a hulking, feline mass of black, white, grey, and light brown stripes. He had a small pie slice missing out of one of his ears, which was a souvenir from a back alley fight during his rookie season. He went undefeated from that time until a minor setback with raccoons (yes, plural) back in 07’ but he dragged himself back to the ring to re-assert his dominance of the East Third and G Street Southie sector a couple weeks later.
Despite Wally’s tough exterior, he had a keen sense when one of his loved ones was down. He had an uncanny knack for crawling up on a lap and maybe even licking an arm, at just the right time. He was especially close to his most loving and longest-serving parent, Shell. “He is my rock,” she would tell me all the time. Let's just say, he knew her moods better than I did most of the time.
Of course, the 20+ pound mass of loving, hairy warmth won me over probably after the first time he plopped himself on my chest as I laid in bed one night. His purring was like the perfect, wonderful lullaby. The ever growing affection I had for him was eroding my machismo. My preconception that "straight men don’t love cats,” couldn't have been more wrong.
Over time, I came to marvel at Wally’s unique qualities. For example, he growled when the door bell rang. He came running from out of nowhere when I whistled for him to come home. As he crossed the street, his belly would sway from side to side as he said “mow wow mow wow” which translates in cat to “where the hell have you been, I’ve been waiting forevah fo’ ya across the street” in a thick, Boston accent. But most impressively to me, Wally could get an erection from licking his own scrotum. (Seeing his lipstick always made me think of the meat beneath the shell of a lobster claw, for some reason.) Moving on.
After I knocked up the wife, we speculated about how Wally would react to his future sibling’s presence. He was, after all, an only child for over 9 years by the time February of 2009 rolled around. When we came home from the hospital with G, our worries about Wally’s feelings towards her evaporated when we caught him affectionately nuzzling the side of her face. We were a happy family.
Unfortunately, we lost our little man during the same week that my grandmother passed away, which was a few weeks after Greta was born. Wally went missing before we had left for my grandma’s services in New York. When we returned, we received the bad news about Wally from a neighbor. He was most likely hit by a car. It was a bad week, to say the least.
Walter Cooney Teravainen now sleeps peacefully beneath a beautiful, flower garden in Carver close to where Greta will be playing happily in the years to come. I imagine that he went running with his belly swaying into the Pearly Gates. I hope he gave a nice “mow wow” to those who greeted him.
I am grateful to Wally for introducing me to a sort of fatherhood. He was the first pet that I ever called my own. He is and will continue to be missed in our home. I needed some time before I could appropriately memorialize him. I hope I did justice to his mystique.
To all of you loving parents of furry children out there, give them a nice hug, kiss, and a special treat in memory of the Wall-man tonight. Maybe that early morning wake up tomorrow will not be so bad after all!
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Rip Van Greta Snoozebug
(I’ve decided to temporarily discontinue updates on the Facebook about new blog postings because I’m worried that readers are on overload from me. I’m feeling a bit insecure and overexposed circa Britney Spears and her 2008 streak of photos exiting cars commando. I’ll wait until my publicist says the coast is clear.)
Watching Greta sleep at night is one of the happiest moments in my typically uneventful daily routine. The position is always unpredictable. She could be contorted like a yogi master on her side crammed into the corner. She could be on her back in the center of the crib, her chest moving ever so slightly as she breathes. Like any child’s face to his or her parent, G’s during sleep is precious, innocent, and angelic.
When Greta is sleeping peacefully, I imagine she is dreaming of limitless quantities of formula in a bottle that she can swipe away yet never leaves her mouth. Or possibly endless bath time with Mr. Crab, Timmy the Turtle, and Jenny Jellyfish. Maybe a crib piled high with cell phones and remote controls for unlimited gnawing and chewing.
It surprises me, though, that her restless sleeps aren’t more frequent considering her days are basically fodder for bad LSD trips. Think about it. Constant exaggerated facial expressions by mom, dad, or BFF Kate with over-the-top, wide eyed smiles. Songs with confusing topics like bags of wool, spiders walking up spouts, and bridges collapsing in London. Words for letters, numbers, and colors in Spanish. It’s amazing she can get any sleep at all.
The next best thing to watching her sleep, is greeting her when she wakes up. Kicking her legs, babbling, and rolling around, she looks up at me with a drooly smile and a pterodactyl screech. Maybe my daily routine isn’t so uneventful after all…
Watching Greta sleep at night is one of the happiest moments in my typically uneventful daily routine. The position is always unpredictable. She could be contorted like a yogi master on her side crammed into the corner. She could be on her back in the center of the crib, her chest moving ever so slightly as she breathes. Like any child’s face to his or her parent, G’s during sleep is precious, innocent, and angelic.
When Greta is sleeping peacefully, I imagine she is dreaming of limitless quantities of formula in a bottle that she can swipe away yet never leaves her mouth. Or possibly endless bath time with Mr. Crab, Timmy the Turtle, and Jenny Jellyfish. Maybe a crib piled high with cell phones and remote controls for unlimited gnawing and chewing.
It surprises me, though, that her restless sleeps aren’t more frequent considering her days are basically fodder for bad LSD trips. Think about it. Constant exaggerated facial expressions by mom, dad, or BFF Kate with over-the-top, wide eyed smiles. Songs with confusing topics like bags of wool, spiders walking up spouts, and bridges collapsing in London. Words for letters, numbers, and colors in Spanish. It’s amazing she can get any sleep at all.
The next best thing to watching her sleep, is greeting her when she wakes up. Kicking her legs, babbling, and rolling around, she looks up at me with a drooly smile and a pterodactyl screech. Maybe my daily routine isn’t so uneventful after all…
Monday, September 7, 2009
Spring Break Shark Attack!
Here’s the Comcast info description of this 2005 made-for-TV movie: “A sheltered college gal encounters studly predators on land and killer sharks in the water during spring break.” I think .7 seconds elapsed before selecting “record” on the DVR. Who could possibly pass up such a horribly awesome program? Certainly not someone watching the “Sy Fy” channel at 11 pm on a Sunday night. While I watched for gratuitous scenes of wet 20 year-olds in two-pieces, I actually received valuable lessons in parenting.
This is what we learn in the opening scenes: Danielle is a busty college student who commutes to college while protecting her virginity. Her parents refuse to let her go to Florida for spring break. Somehow, Danielle convincingly justifies her desire to wrestle in kiddie pools full of jello with other girls in bikinis because father once cheated on mother. Of course, in complete disregard of her parents' instructions, she leaves the next day on a plane to meet her two girlfriends who are staying in a beach house nice enough for Puff Daddy to host his annual white party.
(Don’t forget the equally clichéd Taken also involved a girl disobeying her father’s instructions about traveling and she almost became a concubine – let’s see where Danielle’s decision takes her.)
DAD LESSON 1: Anytime your daughter is planning to go away on a trip, lie to her about natural disasters striking the exact area where she intends to travel. If she persists, chain her to her bed until the spring break week is over. She’ll hate you but at least she will become less popular and less likely to be invited on future spring break trips. Back to the movie.
While the three girls are sunbathing on the beach, one of the girl’s boyfriends (Max) is astonished to learn that they crashed his vacation plans because he and his buddy (J.T.) planned on making a spring break-themed “Girls Gone Wild” video. That night, Max is dancing with his girlfriend but unabashedly hits on a different girl on the dance floor while his g.f. is looking the other way. We soon learn that evil people die horribly in this cinematic masterpiece when Max and his around-the-way girl are devoured during a naughty swim in the ocean.
Meanwhile J.T. is somehow fascinated with humping Danielle even though her friend Karen is ten times hotter and 100 times sluttier. Fortunately for the audience, local nice guy Shane (too poor to go to college so he works with mom at their boat rental shop) enters the scene and vies for Danielle’s affection. Naturally, J.T. is overmatched in this battle to feed Danielle’s horses so he resorts to slipping a roofie into Danielle’s drink like any typical creep on spring break. Don’t worry, Shane foiled J.T.’s plan but not before Danielle called home to confess about her disobedience to her father.
DAD LESSON 2: Anytime your daughter calls you intoxicated or otherwise inebriated from a place where she was not supposed to be, you travel immediately to that location with an unloaded gun and a shovel. Upon arrival, you tell any dudes near your daughter that you intend to use the shovel to hack up their body after you shoot them. In all likelihood, they’ll help carry your daughter to the car when you will subsequently transport her home. (See Lesson 1.)
The next day, J.T. inexplicably visits Shane to “thank” him for helping to take care of Danielle. As a token of appreciation, J.T. offers to hire Shane for a 24-hour boat ride with the three girls. (Meanwhile, Max has been missing for 2 or 3 days and no one seems to care.) Shane objects but his mom really needs the money so Shane relents. Just before disembarking, Danielle’s dad arrives and embarrassingly confronts her. Defiantly, Danielle jumps on the boat as J.T. laughs in dad’s face.
DAD LESSON 3: When attempting to kidnap your daughter in front of her friends, calmly convince her to speak with you privately first, then throw her over your shoulder to complete the abduction. Punch J.T. in the face later.
The boat ride ensues followed by a near death experience with two tiger sharks. Clearly, Danielle’s virginity spared her from tragedy as the sharks opted not to attack her – the only person in the entire movie spared from losing limbs. During the struggle to evade the sharks, the boat is slightly damaged and almost sinking. The crew is forced to stay the night on an island ½ a mile away so that Shane can repair the engine. As they get off the boat, Danielle discovers J.T.’s stash of roofies, which he brought with him on the boat for reasons that defy logic. Shane, Danielle, and her two friends ostracize J.T. but allow him back on the boat the next day when they return to shore.
In the interim, the audience discovers that a businessman from a rival town previously used Shane’s boat to chum the waters in an effort to lure sharks to the new beach front that has stolen his profits. He hoped the sharks’ presence would divert the spring breakers back to his bar where they used to go. The best part about this preposterous evil plan is that the businessman is Tom Cruise’s partner, Coughlin, from “Cocktail” who apparently resorted to these guerilla business warfare tactics because the bottle throwing show at his “Hopes and Dreams” bar just wasn’t drawing the spring break crowds he had in 1988.
Anyway, J.T. decides to drown his sorrows of failing to rape Danielle by getting drunk and hitting on a different set of girls. While he parties with hundreds of other college kids on a floating stage at a beach party, they somehow fail to notice approximately 57 tiger sharks infiltrate the waters around them. Mass bloodshed ensues and J.T. (don’t forget he is evil) meets an appropriate ending as a tiger shark tears him apart. Shane, Danielle, and Danielle’s brother (don’t ask) save the day by luring the sharks away using methods that are irrelevant for purposes of my summary. Shane’s mom appropriately chastises Coughlin before police take him away. Shane and Danielle finally french. The end.
DAD LESSON 4: Pray that for every trip that your Danielle takes without permission, a Shane will be out there to protect her long enough for a tiger shark to eliminate J.T. from the equation. If your daughter turns out to be Max’s secret hook up girl, go back to Lessons 1 through 3 before it’s too late!
This is what we learn in the opening scenes: Danielle is a busty college student who commutes to college while protecting her virginity. Her parents refuse to let her go to Florida for spring break. Somehow, Danielle convincingly justifies her desire to wrestle in kiddie pools full of jello with other girls in bikinis because father once cheated on mother. Of course, in complete disregard of her parents' instructions, she leaves the next day on a plane to meet her two girlfriends who are staying in a beach house nice enough for Puff Daddy to host his annual white party.
(Don’t forget the equally clichéd Taken also involved a girl disobeying her father’s instructions about traveling and she almost became a concubine – let’s see where Danielle’s decision takes her.)
DAD LESSON 1: Anytime your daughter is planning to go away on a trip, lie to her about natural disasters striking the exact area where she intends to travel. If she persists, chain her to her bed until the spring break week is over. She’ll hate you but at least she will become less popular and less likely to be invited on future spring break trips. Back to the movie.
While the three girls are sunbathing on the beach, one of the girl’s boyfriends (Max) is astonished to learn that they crashed his vacation plans because he and his buddy (J.T.) planned on making a spring break-themed “Girls Gone Wild” video. That night, Max is dancing with his girlfriend but unabashedly hits on a different girl on the dance floor while his g.f. is looking the other way. We soon learn that evil people die horribly in this cinematic masterpiece when Max and his around-the-way girl are devoured during a naughty swim in the ocean.
Meanwhile J.T. is somehow fascinated with humping Danielle even though her friend Karen is ten times hotter and 100 times sluttier. Fortunately for the audience, local nice guy Shane (too poor to go to college so he works with mom at their boat rental shop) enters the scene and vies for Danielle’s affection. Naturally, J.T. is overmatched in this battle to feed Danielle’s horses so he resorts to slipping a roofie into Danielle’s drink like any typical creep on spring break. Don’t worry, Shane foiled J.T.’s plan but not before Danielle called home to confess about her disobedience to her father.
DAD LESSON 2: Anytime your daughter calls you intoxicated or otherwise inebriated from a place where she was not supposed to be, you travel immediately to that location with an unloaded gun and a shovel. Upon arrival, you tell any dudes near your daughter that you intend to use the shovel to hack up their body after you shoot them. In all likelihood, they’ll help carry your daughter to the car when you will subsequently transport her home. (See Lesson 1.)
The next day, J.T. inexplicably visits Shane to “thank” him for helping to take care of Danielle. As a token of appreciation, J.T. offers to hire Shane for a 24-hour boat ride with the three girls. (Meanwhile, Max has been missing for 2 or 3 days and no one seems to care.) Shane objects but his mom really needs the money so Shane relents. Just before disembarking, Danielle’s dad arrives and embarrassingly confronts her. Defiantly, Danielle jumps on the boat as J.T. laughs in dad’s face.
DAD LESSON 3: When attempting to kidnap your daughter in front of her friends, calmly convince her to speak with you privately first, then throw her over your shoulder to complete the abduction. Punch J.T. in the face later.
The boat ride ensues followed by a near death experience with two tiger sharks. Clearly, Danielle’s virginity spared her from tragedy as the sharks opted not to attack her – the only person in the entire movie spared from losing limbs. During the struggle to evade the sharks, the boat is slightly damaged and almost sinking. The crew is forced to stay the night on an island ½ a mile away so that Shane can repair the engine. As they get off the boat, Danielle discovers J.T.’s stash of roofies, which he brought with him on the boat for reasons that defy logic. Shane, Danielle, and her two friends ostracize J.T. but allow him back on the boat the next day when they return to shore.
In the interim, the audience discovers that a businessman from a rival town previously used Shane’s boat to chum the waters in an effort to lure sharks to the new beach front that has stolen his profits. He hoped the sharks’ presence would divert the spring breakers back to his bar where they used to go. The best part about this preposterous evil plan is that the businessman is Tom Cruise’s partner, Coughlin, from “Cocktail” who apparently resorted to these guerilla business warfare tactics because the bottle throwing show at his “Hopes and Dreams” bar just wasn’t drawing the spring break crowds he had in 1988.
Anyway, J.T. decides to drown his sorrows of failing to rape Danielle by getting drunk and hitting on a different set of girls. While he parties with hundreds of other college kids on a floating stage at a beach party, they somehow fail to notice approximately 57 tiger sharks infiltrate the waters around them. Mass bloodshed ensues and J.T. (don’t forget he is evil) meets an appropriate ending as a tiger shark tears him apart. Shane, Danielle, and Danielle’s brother (don’t ask) save the day by luring the sharks away using methods that are irrelevant for purposes of my summary. Shane’s mom appropriately chastises Coughlin before police take him away. Shane and Danielle finally french. The end.
DAD LESSON 4: Pray that for every trip that your Danielle takes without permission, a Shane will be out there to protect her long enough for a tiger shark to eliminate J.T. from the equation. If your daughter turns out to be Max’s secret hook up girl, go back to Lessons 1 through 3 before it’s too late!
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