Nerf Wars

Last year I was in a store with my son shopping for pots and pans that either never get dirty or that clean themselves, and we passed the toy isle.

I bought two Nerf guns and a load of darts thinking that someday my 10 year old son and I would have a little war.

This was stupid for two reasons. First, boys with Nerf guns shoot sisters without following any moral code. Eyeballs and screaming mouths are excellent targets for foam darts.

Second, boys, in general, break everything.
Everything.
My son has broken rocks, lizards, pants, food, and every plastic toy that has breached his ½ mile destruction zone.

Last week, I scheduled a “play date” (I hate that term) with a boy and girl who are the same ages as my kids. I also knew that the boy had Nerf guns, so I asked him to bring ‘em along for a friendly war.

Today, before they arrived, I pulled out our Nerf guns and found that they didn’t work. Not exactly a surprise. I found all of the darts that had not been partially digested by the dogs, and hid them so I would have unlimited shots during the war – hey, don’t judge me, it’s my house.

The guests arrived and rolled out of the Toyota with gigantic battery powered Nerf guns with magazines, bullet belts, and a bag of darts. They had enough firepower to take out a village of Smurfs.

Game on.

I went over the basics, you know, “Whomever gets all the flags wins,” and “If you get hit, lay down and count to ten,” and “If you see blood, call for a time out until we figure out where it’s coming from”.

After we hid our flags, all hell broke loose for about two hours. I was sweating within the first five minutes, and I think I counted to ten enough times to hit 6 digits.

I soon realized that the children had formed a Survivor-type alliance with each other to take the old man down. Another reason to keep your kids away from reality TV.

During the mayhem, I noticed the tykes weren’t picking up the darts they were riddling me with, so I devised a diabolical plan. During my ten counts, I took every dart I could reach and shoved them in my pockets. If I’m the only guy with ammo, I will win, right?

Wrong.

My son remembered the goal and took all the flags while I lay on the floor guarding my groin while being peppered with darts from the other three hoodlums. Next year, I’m getting one of those Smurf destroyers…and I’m going to wear a cup.

Cheap Maids

I’ve got a new idea to run by you guys… Monkey Maids!

Spider monkeys, lemurs, macaques, it doesn’t really matter, as long as they have prehensile tails.

Here’s a little background for you.

There are only two things I really dislike about being a Stay At Home Dad (there really is a group of guys calling themselves SAHD).

First, I don’t like cooking. I dig the shopping part – riding on the cart, asking elderly ladies where the prophylactics are, putting Kotex in other guy’s carts when they aren’t looking, and telling little kids that the magazines taste like candy if you lick them; but the cooking part is a waste of time. No matter how much time or care you put into the meal, it gets all mangled up with spit and swallowed, then even worse things happen to it. Picture Van Gogh finishing Starry Night, then turning and feeding it to Nermal the goat. Total waste of time.

The second thing I dislike about being a SAHD is cleaning. I don’t mind blasting stuff with the pressure washer, or smashing things in the recycle can, but the real cleaning part stinks. So, I started thinking of cheap labor…. otherwise known as children.

You can pay them a quarter to do any kind of work. And they are happy to do it! And if you start out with dimes, you can get them positively ecstatic with mention of a buck.
I bet I could get a bus-load of kids to repave my driveway for $3.50 if I threw in some Capri Suns and powdered doughnuts.

Now, picture a half-dozen kids dressed in fleece footie pajamas and amped up on Mountain Dew. They could get a hard wood floor sparkling in seconds. Now wrap duct tape around them with the sticky side out and toss some Skittles around the room. No more cat hair, no more crumbs, and no more of Aunt Bertha’s fingernail clippings. Then you get the added bonus of watching them remove the duct tape! Now that’s entertainment. You could also dip them in Tilex and let ‘em fight in the shower – shiny clean… at least the bottom half of the shower.

The problem lies in those pesky Child-Labor Laws. I’m not a fan of jail.

So, monkeys are the obvious solution. I’ve never heard of Monkey-Labor Laws, and monkeys are really just hairy children that don’t speak and have better table manners. Monkeys are the perfect house cleaners – almost. You can stick a rag in both hands, both feet, AND a tail. Try doing that with your Cock-a-poo and see if you don’t get bit.

There’s a little issue of hygiene, which might cause problems. I’ve heard that upset monkeys fling their poo. I can’t picture that going over well with… anyone. I doubt my wife would notice the dusted furniture and minty fresh toilet bowl, if there was dried monkey poo on the windows.

I guess I could make them wear diapers. Would you be more likely to hire a bunch of naked monkeys, or monkeys wearing diapers? I’ll work that out later, right now I have to get some monkeys. Used ones would be okay, but not senile ones. That has horror flick written all over it. I wonder if I should go straight banana diet or if Purina makes Monkey-Chow?

Socks and Hats

I’ve heard comedians talk about washing machines eating socks, and I used to love The Far Side’s “Land of Missing Things” which includes car keys and marbles along with the piles of socks. But, it’s not funny anymore. I’m actually upset.

I’ve been doing the laundry now for a while and I can’t figure out where the socks are going. I can account for two or three socks being statically clung to my wife’s sweat pants, suicided behind the dryer, and tucked in the elasticized corner of a fitted bed sheet, but the rest have no logical explanation.

By the way, why do they say “fitted bed sheet” when they don’t fit squat? If you get the pillow top fitted sheets they either look like a deflated balloon or you have to crank them down like a pregnant woman pulling on skinny jeans. It’s like the “One Size Fits All” hats that only fit that guy that works down at Quiznos with the really big head. How did he become the standard for heads? China makes all the hats. Does China have one model head that they use for all the hats? I thought those guys were even smaller than Americans. Was there a terrible “I Love Lucy” type accident with the model head, which got glued back together in a Frankenstein’s Monster shape, which became the go-to head for all Chinese headwear manufacturing? Why can’t they just have small, medium, large, and Big Gulp like the drink cups. The Quiznos guy can get his Big Gulp hat and the rest of us can get one that fits too. Who came up with the Big Gulp drink anyway? Who, besides a porpoise, needs that much liquid? And when the heck did “small” become a half gallon? I went into Burger King for first time in a year or two and ordered a Coke. She asked me what size I wanted, and I pointed to a healthy sized cup on the counter. She replied by saying, “Okay, one ‘kiddie’ size fountain drink.” Kiddie size!? Are you kidding me? You’re going to emasculate me because I only want a QUART of Coke? Should I order “Sippy Cup” next time if I’m only a little thirsty?

Whoa… side track, bad… what the heck was I talking about a minute ago… Socks! That’s it.

I can’t find them. I’ve looked. I found one in my wife’s underwear drawer. That’s how desperate I got. I looked in my wife’s underwear drawer.

I had a weird rotation of three orange socks because one of them went missing a year ago. The three remaining got equal wear. Then one day, without it giving me an explanation, the missing orange sock reappeared. I looked around the closet for a newly installed Lost Sock Dispenser, or a remorseful sock burglar trying to make amends, but alas, I was alone with my new mystery.

I tried putting the sock back into the rotation, but it felt wrong. You can’t have one faded, worn out orange sock and one new-looking orange sock on. So, do I just throw away the good looking one? I mean, it just came back. That feels wrong, too. And where was it all this time? Does it know where the others are? I’m thinking China is somehow involved in this.

Dad's Potty Training

My children’s bladders are magnetically triggered by the Subaru. It’s either a magnetic trigger or it’s just regular voodoo.

When we leave the house, one or both of them have to use the bathroom before the car makes it a mile. I’ve tried hugging them really hard before we leave to see if I can get them to go, but that rarely works and I’m not sure if it’s legal. I’ve considered putting one of those little port-a-potties in the hatchback, but I don’t much like the smell of that blue stuff, and it might slosh out on the sharp turns. Litter boxes are an obvious solution. They could just sit on them in the back seat. People looking in the window might not immediately see the wisdom in sitting on a litter box… now that I think about it, forget the litter box. They would just kick the litter out on the floor like cats do.

Both kids drink very little on the whole, so I don’t really know where it’s coming from. I have wondered if their esophagi have overflow valves that connect directly to their bladders, but I’m 82% sure that is physically impossible. I’ve also wondered if they absorb water through their pores… like reverse sweating.

Whatever the cause, I’ve learned to deal with it. I had to teach them both how to pee outdoors pretty early on. The day after the first outdoor-potty-training session, while we were letting them play on the school playground, my wife screamed. I looked up to see my son and daughter peeing right there in the schoolyard. My wife wanted to sell the house and move, but I convinced her that the majority of people who saw them probably thought they were just getting bark chips out of their pants.

My daughter now apparently belongs to an exclusive club that allows her to use anyone’s restroom at any time. When I was getting my hair cut, she walked right around the counter and into the back room. None of the employees even blinked. Since I was the only one who seemed distressed by it, I let it go.

My son is an expert at using the restroom in strange places (it’s like a hobby), which gives me a sense of solace if not a bit of pride. I’ve seen him spot toilets or port-a-potties from a half mile away.

I need to call Steven Hawking and NASA to check out the Port-A-Potty at the park next to the school. I’m convinced it somehow disrupts the time space continuum. My son has spent hours in there with no explanation. I’ve gone in there myself to see if there’s a hidden passage to a pizza place or a maybe a video game screwed into the wall, but it’s just a giant plastic box with toilet paper, a tank of excrement, and D-Dog’s name scratched into the door along with a misspelled message proclaiming him to be a cool guy.

I’ve noticed that while I grow gray hairs waiting for him to come out, he appears to have grown a bit younger and possibly a bit happier when he steps out. I’m beginning to think the Fountain of Youth might be a semi-nasty plastic box that smells like Scope poured over a dirty diaper. And I’m wondering if Mr. D-Dog really is cool, after all.

Tazers and Nuggets

Today, I decided to take the kids rock climbing. It sounded good in my head. Sort of like the way, “Hey, I think I’ll poke this wild animal” sounds good until you do it.

While scrambling to load the gear, I noticed the three dogs (Tebby, Ollie and the neighbor’s dog, Sonny) staring at me. Tebby told me that they needed a walk and that they would like to chase small animals amongst the rocks, so I put them in the car along with leashes, and told Tebby not to speak English anymore because it creeps me out. I pulled out of the driveway with the puker (Ollie) already looking green, the crotch clawer (Tebby) trying to get on my head to get a better view of rabbits, and the elephant (Sonny) in the way-back drooling on the seat and blocking my rear view.

I made it to the schools, found my children, and made sure both of them had their backpacks and shoes (you’d be surprised). When we got rolling again there was an extra boy in the back, but I knew him and he didn’t appear to be there against his will, so I kept driving.

The first comment was, “I’m hungry AND thirsty.” This was solved by a stop at the place that sells Little Debbies alongside RockStar, cigarette lighters, and hats that say, “Who Farted?”

Nutritional needs met, we drove to the USFWS parking lot to meet the family we were going to climb with. I let the dogs out next to a sign, which read, “Dogs Must Be On Leash” and started digging for the leashes. I found the leashes just as Sonny proceeded to leave a massive poo on the beautiful grass. I had no poop bags, and even if I did, that thing would not have fit. Luckily, my daughter was able to yell loud enough for Idaho to hear, “Dad, Sonny is pooping on the grass… you need to pick it up!” I smiled at the nice couple walking by who were trying to melt me with their stare, and tried to go to my happy place.

Soon enough the other family pulled up and we loaded the dogs and drove to the crags, leaving the poop and the leashes behind. We pulled off the road next to the trail to the climbing area, and I searched for the leashes. I thanked Karma for being kinder than I deserved, and started to let the dogs loose just as a cop pulled a car over a few yards down the road. My son, being a well-mannered child yelled, “Dad, can we go see if he gets Tazered?”

We waited a few minutes to see if the cop would leave so that we could head up the trail sans dog-of-leash citation, but it became apparent that the fellow who got pulled over was dead drunk and definitely a Tazer candidate. At this crossroads, I did what any responsible father would do in the same circumstance… I let the dogs out of the car and yelled, “Run kids!” and headed for the trail.

We didn’t stop running until we were safely in the woods. The last thing I saw over my shoulder was a wobbly guy, with his eyes closed (not touching his nose with his finger), and a cop watching three loose dogs chasing 5 children into the woods.

At the crag, we set up ropes and told the kids to climb on. While I belayed my daughter, who was 50’ up the rock, I spotted Sonny staring at us from the cliff edge 100’ above us. As the others discussed the possible super powers that allowed him to get up there, I was wondering how mad my neighbors were going to be and how much family counseling would cost if Sonny decided to come down the quick way.

Sonny made it back down without a helicopter rescue, and it was getting dark, so we packed up and left. I took my car load to a place where dirty, loud children are always welcome: McDonalds.

As I was practicing my “I’m not here” look in the booth, my son looked across the table at me with a French fry perched between his nose and upper lip, like a cartoon mustache and said, “I need more food, father.” Ignoring the mustache and the fact that he has never called me “father” before, I got him some Chicken McNuggets to go, while I listened to him and his friend making up new and interesting nicknames for their testicles.

With nuggets, dogs, nicknames, and kids in the car, we finished the trip just in time for bed. While the kids sawed logs, I fed two of the dogs, but Tebby was not to be found. After a frantic 30-minute search, which included waking up and interrogating the incoherent children, I decided to retrace my steps since pulling into the garage. This led me to the Subaru where I discovered Tebby, who had been left in the car… with the McNuggets that my son “needed”. So, instead of dog food, Tebby got nuggets, paper bag, and BBQ sauce for dinner. I had just fed this stuff to my children, yet I worried that the dog would get sick. Hmmmm.

At 10:00, with clean up done, I flopped on my bed, but something was still bugging me. Why didn’t either of the boys say anything about McNuggets when they were making up nicknames for their testicles? It seems so obvious.

Shopping in a Strange Land

Some walk cautiously to a challenge. I run - like a cheap red shirt in a load of whites.
Today I blindly sprinted to a Costco shopping trip. How hard could shopping be?

The first snag came when I rolled into the parking lot. I got a sweet parking space….because they didn’t open until 10. And they don’t screw around with that rule. The door might open at 5 to10, but if you try to go in, they release an orangutan with diaper rash to knock you around a little.

The second obstacle is the little white Costco card. It’s like a passport at the Canadian boarder. There’s a code of conduct attached to the presentation of the card that I haven’t fully cracked. Some people just flash the card and the ninja Navy Seal guarding the door smiles and nods them in; others hand him the card and he scrutinizes the photo before giving the nod. Not knowing which card-holder I was, I tried the in-between. I held the card up like the Orbit Gum girl and gave him a knowing smile while I crab-walked carefully by him (never turn your back on a ninja Navy Seal). His look was a cross between pity and confusion. But since he didn’t snap me in half, or whip out some nun chucks, I must be close to cracking the code.

The third challenge was to navigate the labyrinth with the Texas shopping cart. The cart was so big, I thought I was supposed to ride in it, but I couldn’t find a start button, and the elderly lady who helped me climb in refused to push me. So, I started cranking around the store like a granny in a 70’s LTD. I bought a pallet of my wife’s favorite cereal, 3 or 4 thousand granola bars, a “bottle” of shampoo that was the size of a baby harbor seal, and an enormous shrink-wrapped thing that I can’t recall putting in my cart.

The fourth difficulty came at the checkout line. I apparently missed the training session, which provides checkout rules. As I put my items on the conveyor, a man was putting them back into the cart without my permission. The woman with the scanner was zapping stuff like a spider monkey on meth: gallons of milk, gallons of syrup, gallons of socks, gallons of babies… you name it. Without looking, she scanned all of the things that funny-boy had put back into my cart. Then I handed her my credit card – big mistake. My novice cover was blown. Check-out Lady whispered into her lapel, Funny-boy took cover, and I instinctively protected my neck with a 3-pack of family sized ketchup in case Ninja Navy Seal Man attacked from behind. I was instructed to slowly put the credit card away without making any furtive movements (I don’t know what furtive means either) and use a debit card, check, or cash. I got it sorted before the complete lock-down happened, and I made for the door.

Fifth conundrum; just when I could see sunlight and freedom, some fancy pants with a highlighter stopped me at the door. Through a series of ostrich-like hand gestures and aboriginal clicks and grunts, I figured out that he wanted my receipt for some reason. Okay, I’m game. I handed him the receipt, he swiped it with the highlighter and then gave it back. Now, tell me that’s not weird. Freak.

On the plus side, I found out that shorts and mid-calf white socks with sandals are back “in”.

The Wacker

I’m wet and tired.
Although my underwear is wet, that’s not the point of origin. The wetness came from rain.

It’s usually hot and dry here in Sept. The rain came because I planned to rent an expensive piece of equipment to finish a big outside project that should have been finished a long time ago. I heard it raining this morning. I saw it raining this morning. I felt it raining this morning. Yet I still went to my summer home (the Home Depot) and rented a plate compactor, called (get this...) the Wacker.

A plate compactor is not a particularly big piece of equipment, and it only weighs enough to crush 5 or 8 bones, as opposed to all 206. So, my male brain told me that I could just bebop back to the house, unload this little beast from the trailer, compact my soon-to-be front yard, load it back up, return it to the Depot, and be back in time for tea.

I was never a good student of history. There are exactly ZERO examples from my life to indicate this would be successful.

I mud-wrestled the plate compactor to the job site, swam over to the shed for some ear protection (it was raining hard by this point), swam back, and pulled the starter cord on the Wacker.

I have a little experience with pull-start engines, and I know for a fact that the cord is supposed to wind back into the thingy. If it doesn’t go back into the thingy, there will be no wacking.

I stood in the rain and looked at the cord in my hand for a few minutes. I got on my knees and asked the thingy to suck the cord back up… pretty please. I tried to push the cord back into the thingy. I made wind up noises to get the thingy in the mood. Eventually I reasoned that the thingy did not want the cord. I called Home Depot and the nice lady told me that the only person in the Milky Way who could help me with the thingy was on a lunch break and would be back by Thanksgiving, give or take a few months. I thanked her for her cheerful message of doom, hung up, and got out a 10mm socket wrench and took the thingy’s head off.

A chunk of metal fell out, and at the same time the thingy wound up the cord again. I bolted the thingy’s head back on and pulled. This time the engine started, without the metal chunk and everything! But I was afraid to turn it off. I kept thinking that the chunk of metal was probably important, and my time with the Wacker was limited. Even after I finished compacting my soon-to-be yard, I started looking for things to compact before I had to turn it off. Dog toys, dog poo, plants, bugs… whatever.

When I got back to Home Depot, I created a new puddle at the rental counter while I dug the hunk of metal out of my pocket. I was expecting orange-aproned Will to do a proper examination with requisite "Mmmm" or "Jimminy Crickets, you're lucky to be alive!", but the guy didn't even look at it. He took it from me, threw it into the trash can, and insisted that I have a good day.

By the way, dry underwear is AWESOME.