Open a Window

I am not only a SAHD (stay at home dad), I am also a bit of a DIY (do it yourself) guy when it comes to the house.

Today I decided to install the counter-top for the sink in the utility room. The process required that I do something that I have never done before – glue laminate to the top of the counter. This procedure requires glue. The glue in question is very specific to laminate… and probably drug users.

I started reading the glue can, while sitting in the tiny, unventilated room. On the can, there was a warning about tiny unventilated rooms, right next to a paragraph about long term exposure, brain damage, and operating heavy machinery.

Eventually I got around to the instructions for application, popped the lid, and started applying the toxic goop with a brush. Within seconds, the room was filled with an unusually strong odor, and I was unclear what my initial mission was.

I began gluing the lid to the floor, and the can to the drill, and my shoe to the shelf. It was terribly funny to me at the time.

At one point, I came around enough to get back to the task at hand and decided to review the instructions for wait-time to stick the laminate to the wood top. I read something about vomiting, so I double checked to see that I had the can right side up, then reread the step to see where I was supposed to vomit and for how long.

Upon realizing I had been reading the hazard section again, I turned the can to the application instructions and found the drying time – 30 minutes. Oooo, math. I like math.

I looked at the pretty little numbers on my watch, but the numbers didn’t provide much help.

I went back to the can, and it said to wait until the glue was tacky. I imagined the glue wearing socks with sandals – very tacky. I thought it was terribly funny at the time.

The glue was wet still, so I went out to the shed to put away some tools. While in the shed, I went completely blind. Everything was black. I couldn’t help but think that it was odd that I would go blind so quickly.

My eyes started adjusting to the dark, and to my great relief, I discovered that the door had blown shut and the lights were off. I groped to the door and with my newly restored sight, I went back into the house as loopy as ever.

I stopped in my son’s room, which is next to the utility room to see if the vapors had killed his gecko. I looked through the glass at the nocturnal creature, which was now wide awake and licking its eyeballs. It was terribly funny at the time. I wondered if gecko saliva made his eyeballs tacky…ooooh, tacky…TACKY… I’ve got to check the glue!

Back into the utility room, I found the glue to be perfectly tacky and ready for installation. I got the laminate in place and rolled it on and installed the sink…. I think. I don’t remember all of that, but it’s done and I’m the only one who would have done it, so it must have been me. The gecko is not that industrious.

Now, I’ve got an incredible desire to eat Doritos and Little Debbie snack cakes. You know those ones that have the creamy swirl wrapped inside the chocolaty goodness? Man, I need to go get a box of those. I wonder where the kids are?

Adult Slushies

If you give my children caffeine, you’ll be sorry.

Not because I will get mad at you, but because I will politely force you to be responsible for them until their brains return to normal.

It’s safe to say my son has destructive tendencies. With caffeine in his system, he is destructive… faster. My daughter is very social. With caffeine in her system, she is like a cheerleader on speed.

I was in the grocery store today. I told the children they could pick out a drink. They know the rules – no high fructose corn syrup, no artificial-chemical-Frankenstein-sugar, and no caffeine. They perused the juices, vitamin waters, and flavored sparking beverages, before turning to me and asking politely for a slushy.

I flash-backed to my childhood, standing in the 7-11 with a crumpled dollar bill in my pocket trying to decide which slushy would cause maximum tongue discoloration. I proclaimed, “What the heck, kids, knock yourselves out! Get a slushy!”

I went about my business knowing that my children were safely cocooned in my nostalgia and undergoing a right of passage – unsupervised slushy mixing. I looked forward to seeing the familiar foul gray color that occurred when one mixes all the slushy flavors together in an attempt to create a new and groundbreaking slushy flavor.

My daughter ran up to me as I stared at chicken.

“Dad! The slushy has caffeine… and Jay has it!”

“Oh, dear child, slushies don’t have caffeine. Slushies are full of sugar, flavors, and magic neon fairy sprinkles. There’s nothing bad in slushies, so don’t you worry your pretty little head.”

My daughter didn’t go for it, and gave me the You-Are-A-Dumb-Adult look. I strolled back over to the slushy machine to check on Jay.

His eyes were bugged out as he sucked frozen blue/green slushy out of a clear cup. He pointed to the microscopic label that read, “CAFFEINE TAURINE GINSENG” and said, “See, that doesn’t say, ‘caffeine’. It says… well, I can’t read it.”

Apparently, the transformation had begun.

My heart stopped beating for a couple of seconds. My lip twitched. My childhood memories were dashed to the sticky floor. The green slushy has caffeine and taurine in it.

What the hell are they thinking! Who would put caffeine in a slushy? If some psycho wants Red Bull in his slushy, let him buy a dern Red Bull and put it in his own dern slushy! What’s next? A little Ecstasy in the SweetTarts? How about some crack in the Nerds. Heck, cocaine in the Pixie Stix should create a lovely sales spike.

In an effort to restore some of my innocence, I took note that the row of tanks did not have the infamous Icee polar bear hanging on a gargantuan circus colored cup. Instead, they had “Italian Sodas” printed below the unnaturally florescent churning semi-liquids. I guess that makes it marketed for adults.

I think I’ll write the company to see when the “Camel Menthol” flavor is coming out.

Un-Macho Dad

I accidentally referred to myself as a Stay-At-Home-Mom the other day.

It was just a slip, right? I’m a macho Stay-At-Home-Dad, right? It’s not like I gave up my manliness when I started wearing bright orange rubber gloves and a frilly apron… did I?

To be on the safe side, I joined a gym. Gyms are manly places where men get pumped up, and testosterone is in such abundance that it leaks out of the doors and makes passers-by want to grunt, scratch, and watch boxing.

I went at 9:00AM. I had not been notified in advance that at 9:00 AM, the gym had only Stay-At-Home-Moms talking about cleaning supplies, babies, and The View.

I walked in determined to do a manly workout despite the estrogen fueled conversation. However, one lady had the audacity to say that the Shark Steam Mop couldn’t pick up crayon marks off of hard wood floors.

I couldn’t let that one lie.

I informed her that you had to pump up the steam and let the mop head sit on the crayon mark for a few seconds, then it would come right up. Amateurs.

After my workout with the ladies, I was still not feeling the macho vibe, so I decided to get my truck fixed. After all there are not many things more manly than a greasy old 4x4 plow truck.

I put my bike in the back so that I could ride home, and changed into my stretchy Spandex bike shorts. I drove down into town and parked in the repair shop lot next to some very manly 4x4’s.

I swaggered into the shop with my bike tights and sexy little bike shoes on, and told the grease monkey behind the counter that I had a leak in my rear end.

That’s manly.

He looked confused and slightly ill. I explained that my manly truck was dripping oil out of the rear differential. He seemed relieved, and started asking me the typical manly questions, such as, “What kind of rear end do you have?” I stumbled over the questions and used words such as, “thingy” and “pointy-ish” to describe my manly undercarriage.

Eventually, the 250 pound unshaven man realized I was clueless and went into help-the-damsel-in-distress mode. He explained that my posi-traction rear end required fully disassembling to replace the seal which was causing the problem and that they could take care of it and call me when it was done.

I left the keys on the counter, pulled my bike tights out of my crack and walked out.

Back at the house, I cranked up my iTunes. ABBA blared from the speakers. During Dancing Queen, I had an epiphany.

Maybe I should give up and embrace my un-macho self. After a full day of housework, grocery shopping, helping with homework, and cooking dinner; I could settle into a comfy chair and watch the Notebook on DVD.

Okay… not The Notebook. I am still a guy, after all.

Killer Chocolate

My cousin is kind, compassionate, and loving… but if you start talking about vomit, she will beat you into a coma with your own arm.

If you have similar issues with vomit, stop reading, because this will make you unhappy.

This winter, I took my kids into the library after school. My daughter’s school bag, a treasure trove of trinkets, trash, food, and hair clips, was left in the car along with our two dogs.

Upon returning, my little white dog, Tebby, looked up from an empty Nestle’s Semi-sweet Morsels bag, wagging her little nub tail, and sporting a chocolate mustache.

The bag had been nearly full, so considering she only weighed about 14 pounds, that meant my little dog ate 16% of her body weight in delicious milk chocolate.

I seemed to recall that chocolate was bad for dogs in more than a waistline way. I did a quick “chocolate & dogs” search on my phone. On the screen, I saw stories of death, descriptions of death, and time tables of death. Apparently, chocolate is the smack of the dog world, and Tebby had overdosed. If she didn’t throw up, she had a couple of hours to live - tops.

Next, I searched for vomiting recipes for dogs. Hey! What do you know! There’s a bunch of them! I picked an easy one, which involves hydrogen peroxide. I told the kids to sit tight, and I ran across the street to buy H2O2.

Brown bottle in hand, we went looking for a lovely spot to save the dog. The phone said I had less than an hour left before serious nerve damage started, so driving the 15 minutes home was totally out of the question. Riverside Park, though, was close and provided a beautiful backdrop for throwing up.

As we pulled in, I told the kids that making dogs puke requires teamwork. The kids were up to the task, so while I held the dog down and held her mouth up and open, one child poured hydrogen peroxide down her throat, while the other child supervised. Convinced that enough went down her gullet, I let her go. We watched her lick the now-foaming chocolate mustache, and look up at us as if we must have accidentally restrained her and poured nasty liquid down her throat.

Almost a minute passed before I declared, “It’s not working! Round TWO!” I grabbed her again and we poured another batch down her throat.

That time, when I let go of her, she clued in on the pattern and decided she was not interested in Round 3. She bolted toward the swing set, but only made it a few yards before the first heaving lurch.

For the next 30 minutes, we followed our poor little cockapoo around the park while she vomited up nearly a pound of Semi-Sweet Morsels (and a few unidentified things from my daughter’s school bag). The snow in a 100’ radius was splotched with foaming choco-barf.

On the way home, we all kept looking at Tebby, expecting her to either die or throw up again. I called the vet from the driveway. He told me we did the right thing, she would be fine, and the second dose of hydrogen peroxide was unnecessary. Unfortunately, Tebby heard the last part and didn’t speak to me for a few days.

I know she learned her lesson, because she asked for a real bunny to eat for Easter as opposed to a chocolate one.

I’m currently working on a hydrogen peroxide juice box for next Halloween to curb my children’s already startling sugar habit.

Small Town Anthropology

I dropped the kids at school and motored the 10 miles to town to buy a birthday present. I decided to go to a place that was mostly foreign to me – the Mall.

When I rolled into the lot, I got a SWEET parking spot right in front of the main doors. In fact there were very few cars in the lot, just about 5 or 6 full sized Buicks, Oldsmobiles, and Fords.

As I got out of the car, it dawned on me that the mall would not be open at 8:15 in the morning. So I stood in the nearly vacant parking lot in my Carhartt work clothes staring at the font doors, when a sudden urge to go to the bathroom fell upon me.

The parking lot was, of course, the first option, but I thought better of it. Perhaps one door was unlocked for early employees or janitors. There had to be a restroom in there somewhere.

To my surprise, the first door I tried was unlocked. In fact they were all unlocked! How careless!

I crept inside with cat-like stealth and took in my surroundings. The lights were on, but all of the store fronts had little jail cell curtains covering the entrances. I scuttled up to the main hall junction and ran smack dab into a group of burglars.

They were in a pack headed down the hall. They were all in their 60’s and 70’s wearing JC Penny track suits and white sneakers. They nodded and smiled as they cruised by.

The thrill was too much to pass up. I joined them.

As we passed the Sears, I spotted two more gangs of burglars roaming the mall in a startling systematic way… counter clockwise. The last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. I had not joined a roaming gang of geriatric burglars, I had joined the Mall Walkers!

I had heard that such a tribe of people existed, but I truly didn’t think I would ever get a chance to see them, much less, participate in their ritual. I felt a bit like Dian Fossey as I scurried along behind them, trying to decipher their language and migration patterns.

I spotted the entrance to the restroom next to Bed Bath and Beyond across the way. I avoided sudden movements so as not to frighten the Mall Walkers as I traveled directly across the main concourse.

I did not hear the alarm. I did not smell the pheromone. I did not receive the psychic signal. But something alerted the Walkers, and they all turned to look at the intruder.

I had broken the cardinal rule of the Mall Walkers. I had left the designated path. My Carhartts suddenly seemed grotesque to me. How I longed for a track suit and white sneakers in that horrible moment.

I coyly strolled to the restroom and avoided eye contact. When I emerged from the restroom, I kept a keen eye out for the alpha males. I’ve heard they’re the most dangerous. I wondered if there was a silverback waiting in the Crocs booth that separated me from my nearest exit. I made my way past the Orange Julius without breathing.... trying not to show fear. I heard they bite you if they sense fear.

The morning sun seemed too bright after my time in the Walker's lair. On top of that, I couldn't find the car right away. I think that's a mall thing.

Once located, I steered my Subaru across town to Target. They open early, and the patrons wear pajamas at 8:30 am, not track suits.

DMV Lines

The Department of Motor Vehicles line painters must have good senses of humor.

I went to get my motorcycle license at the DMV, and I got stuck behind some poor student-driver trying to park an SUV in a compact car spot. The catch was that they were ALL compact car spots – I’m talking, Mini Cooper size.

It’s pretty dern funny if you think about it for a second.

Inside, the waiting area was arranged like a game show with the chairs from one side of the room facing the other side. I chose the side with a couple of big guys. I figured if this turned into a fight, we could take the elderly lady and the woman with three kids sitting across the way.

I saw that everyone had a number ticket, but there was no Take-A-Number machine in sight. I figured out that there was an alien energy field that was keeping anyone from making eye contact or talking unless their cell phones rang, and then they were forced to speak very loudly. I began to feel like I had slipped into the alternative reality where Captain Kirk has a goatee.

Eventually, I asked one of the guys behind the counter where the number machine was. With a Prozac smile, he motioned me over to a line of people blocking the machine, which was crammed against the wall. I looked to see if the line of people were doing the Red Rover hand holding thing so I could break through. Before I had picked out the weakest link in the line, he took a number for me and handed it over; number 374.

I sat down and listened as they called number 008… then 565… then 141...
I scanned the room to see if anyone else thought this number sequence was a bit strange. When my random number lit up, I asked the lady at Counter #5 if Willy Wonka installed their number system.

She didn’t respond, she had perfect skin, and I heard ticking, so I think she was an android.

She asked me why I was there. I told the android that I would like to take the motorcycle test. She looked at my license, then told me to look into a set of huge binoculars and read off some numbers.

Then she asked me to look back in the binoculars and tell her where the red dot was. I told her it was in the box. She didn’t respond. I asked if it was supposed to be in the box. She said it was. I asked if it was ever not in the box. She said, “If it’s not in the box, you don’t get your license.”

I was happy that the dot decided to be in the box when I looked. I wondered if the dot was malicious or just randomly wandered out of the box sometimes.

After poking Computer #3 with the correct answers, it told me to go to Counter #1. I took my place hiding the number machine. When it was my turn at the counter, Prozac Smile asked me why I was there. I told him that I took the test, and the computer instructed me to go stand in front of the Take A Number machine.

Prozac Smile happily informed me that while I had passed the test with 100%, there was a riding skills test that I couldn’t take because the lines had to be repainted in the parking lot across the street.

And so, I left, with no motorcycle license, to find the nearest Shriners’ Lodge, so that I can borrow a motor scooter for the skills test that isn't scheduled.

Tooth Fairy in Rehab?

My son lost a tooth.

It wasn’t his first by a long shot. He’s old enough to know that too many questions about the Tooth Fairy, the Easter Bunny, or Santa could derail the money train.

He did what he was supposed to do. He taped it under his pillow. The Tooth Fairy was supposed to give him a buck or two and that would’ve been the end of it.

What can I say? I have no excuse. I’ve been wrapped up in the remodel that I’m doing in my house. It’s all I think about these days.

After two nights of Tooth Fairy no-shows, my son said to me while I was tucking him in, “Dad, why hasn’t the Tooth Fairy come to get my tooth?”

This, of course, hit hard. He’s growing up fast, but he’s still so innocent in many ways. It’s a parent’s job to keep the magic alive as long as possible, right?

I knew what I had to do.

I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at my beautiful son.
After I gathered my courage, I told him:

“The Tooth Fairy is a drinker, son. I’m guessing three, maybe four shots of tequila a night. She wasn’t always like that. When I was a boy, she was a strict vegan and a serious light-weight when it came to booze. But then the Easter Bunny and the other One-Nighters, like Santa, kept getting the spotlight despite that fact that Tooth was working nightly shifts – 365 days a year.

It started with wine coolers, then she started hitting malt liquors and Boons Farm. These days it’s all about the Cuervo Gold.

So, you see, son, she’s probably just sleeping off a binge and she’ll be back in business tonight.

If she leaves you Canadian money, don’t fuss about it. The Looney is stronger than the dollar right now.

Sweet dreams, little man… sweet dreams.”