Grim Richard's Irregulars

Better Angels and Sweet Potatoes

2010-11-25T08:17:00.001-08:00

So, this beautiful Thanksgiving morning I went to the gym early. It was open from 7 a.m. to 2 p.m today - which was very convenient. On the way home, I stopped at Dunkin' Donuts and slurped up a coffee and sandwich, which was also very convenient. A few minutes ago, I picked up my car keys with the intention of heading to the grocery store and picking up some extra garbage bags - which also would have been very convenient.

My wife refused to let me go.

Her reason? She thinks that everyone should be off work for Thanksgiving and that by patronizing businesses today, you're encouraging businesses to force employees to work. I headed for the door anyway, but just before I reached it, I stopped.

She's right.

Businesses are forcing their employees to work on holidays. And more to the point, they're not forcing all of their employees to work today. Mostly, they're only forcing the unlucky bastards at the bottom of the organizational chart to come in when everyone else is staying with their families. I don't see a lot of executives and managers working today, but I do see a lot of people in uncomfortable polyester uniforms biding their time. And that, as the Pilgrims would say, does sucketh verily.

I used to be one of those guys and I hated it, even when I didn't have a family. Usually, the company would give me some token for working the holiday - like time and a half wages - but what I really wanted was a choice about whether I came in or not.

So, I've come to a decision. I'm going to avoid businesses on holidays. Which is not convenient. I'm going to fill up on gas the day before the holiday instead of that morning. I'm going to skip the gym. I'm going to make my own coffee. I'm going to make sure that we've got all the food we need the week before the holiday. The plan is not to buy less of anything. It's not a boycott designed to hurt businesses or employees. I just want to shift the buying to non-holidays.

I realize that this will have almost zero effect on the problem, but that's not the point. Sometimes, you have to realize what even though you're willing to pay extra for added convenience on the holiday, you're not the only one paying the price.

Once again, I want to thank my wife for being my better angel in this matter. And I hope like hell we don't run out sweet potatoes.

Like Good, American Raccoons

2010-08-18T02:34:00.001-07:00

   My wife hates the raccoons in our neighborhood because they break into our trash cans in the middle of the night, eat the leftovers and leave food packaging strewn across our yard. It’s very festive, actually. It looks like a ticker-tape parade was held by Lean Cuisine.
   “What are we going to do about these raccoons?” Bridget asked me the other night as we picked up frozen pizza wrappers, fish stick boxes and empty juice boxes.
   Well, they’re eating our leftovers,” I said. “If we do nothing, they’ll eventually die of coronary heart disease.”

Did I Say Finesse?

2010-07-02T03:28:00.001-07:00

Talking with your kids about sex and sexuality requires a deft touch - a kind of "finesse" if you will.

Or you could just handle it the way I do.

Yesterday, Gabriel stopped me in the kitchen as I gathered towels and sunscreen for the pool.

"Hey, dad. What's a condom?"

"A what?" I asked - even though I had heard the question clearly. I folded the terry cloth towels to buy myself some time.

"A condom," Gabriel answered. "I saw a commercial for condoms. What are they?"

I paused and looked at my ten year-old. I considered lying for a moment because that's...what's the word I'm looking for....easier.

"It's a piece of rubber that men wear on their penises so that the women won't get pregnant."

He considered this for a moment.

"We live in a really weird world."

"Yes, we do," I replied.

House of a Thousand Screws

2010-04-26T19:53:00.001-07:00

This Christmas, my in-laws gave my six year-old daughter Riley a stained wood playhouse. And this playhouse isn't one of those ten-piece plastic playhouses that you can pick up at Target. No, sir. This playhouse has a porch. This playhouse has an actual porch with white wooden columns. This playhouse has a bay window on one side, for god sakes.

And though this playhouse is magnificent and my daughter really, really wants to play in it, I haven't even contemplated building this architectural treasure before now. Why, you ask?

This playhouse is held together by a thousand screws.

As I looked at the directions over eggnog last Christmas, I noticed that the manual clearly states that building this playhouse requires two adults about six to eight hours of work time. And it occurred to me to ask myself:

What have I done to piss off my in-laws?

Clearly, I did something.

I am famous in my town for not having tools. Hell, there are even some rumors flying about that I lack opposable thumbs with which to grasp tools. This is a lie, of course. I do have opposable thumbs. They just happen to be, God help me, on my feet. I sometimes even use my foot thumbs to pick up and eat Cheetohs that have fallen to the floor while I watch television. This is the real reason, if you must know, that my feet are vaguely burnished orange.

Whatever. The point is that I never, ever build stuff.

And yet Riley got the gift of this house and I got the gift of...screwing. My in-laws have even let me borrow a drill with a phillips-head driver on it, so that I don't have to screw screws in manually. I am grateful for that.

Because I am on hour seven right now...of screwing. All of the wood is pre-cut, so there is no measuring or cutting to distract you from, say, screwing screws into boards. Also, there's no painting of any kind, either, so you can pretty much just concentrate on the screwing.

You get the idea, probably.

This thing gets potentially worse, too. It's been raining in Florida, so I've been building the house inside of my garage. I've just realized that once I'm finished, I have to get this resined behemoth out of my garage, over a chain-link fence and into the back yard. I'm not even sure this thing will fit under the opened garage door. My 10 year-old son Gabriel suggested with a laugh that I might have to unscrew sections of the house in order to get it out the garage.

"Heh.That's pretty funny," I replied.

We laughed together for a moment.

And then I taught him how to use the drill.

Burned-Out American Bulbs

2010-03-08T19:22:00.001-08:00

My wife and I built our kids from scratch. We started with the basic supplies, followed the time-honored blueprint and, after a period of incubation, manufactured three wiggly autonomous machines capable of intaking fuel in huge amounts and converting it directly into poop and frustration.

We built these machines but we cannot program them.

This weekend, for instance, I went into my sons' room. My 10 year-old son Gabriel sat on his bed playing a Nintendo DS game.

"Gabriel," I said clearly. "Put down the video and clean your room. Breakfast will be ready in 10 minutes and I want your room to be clean by then."

He gave me a look which, in retrospect, was very reminiscent of the hourglass I used to get whenever I started a Windows 95 program. I went back to scrambling eggs for breakfast. Ten minutes later, I walked back into the room and both Gabriel and his seven year-old brother were watching television. No work had been done. I decided to try another programming language.

I yelled.

Both boys jumped to their feet and started milling around their beds. They weren't actually picking anything up, but were confusedly making paths around the room, approximating the work of cleaning up. They looked like Roomba vacuum cleaners with broken sensors. I left them and went to eat my cold eggs.

A few minutes later, Gabriel walked up to me. He had a light bulb in his hand.

"Dad, what am I supposed to do with this burned-out light bulb?"

I stared at him for a moment. I considered legitimately answering his question, but I was no longer positive that clear English was the solution to our dilemma.

"Send it the Smithsonian Institute for their collection of burned-out American light bulbs."

He gave me a suspicious look.

"The Smithsonian has a collection of burned-out light bulbs?"

"Nope," I answered. "They just throw them away."

And then I walked away without waiting for his epiphany. When I imagine it now, I like to think the light bulb came on in his hand.

Wild Yorkies

2009-12-22T04:46:00.001-08:00

So, the Grim Richard family went home to Virginia for the Thanksgiving holidays, where we stayed with my brother's family. Prior to leaving Florida, our family prepared by going over a huge list of traits that we should hide in order to appear normal when in proximity to other people.

I started by looking to my wife.

"Bridget, we're already taking our dog on the trip. Do not adopt another dog while we're in another state, in someone else's house, for only four days...."

Bridget looked outraged, so I continued.

"... wait until we get home to adopt another dog against my wishes."

She smiled and relaxed.

"Kids, while we're in Virginia, you have to wear clothes. It's not Florida. You can't go "hanging brains" all over people's furniture and get away with it. Besides, it's 40 degrees there. Your brains will actually freeze to the furniture.

The three kids glumly nodded their approval.

"Finally, if someone hears my stomach rumbling, subtly waft your hand in front of your nose to remind me that most people hold their farts in."

My family nodded. One of my kids began subtly wafting his hand immediately.

"Nice try," I said and farted.

Mostly, this worked. We passed as a normal family. No Virginia dogs were adopted and none of my kids got inappropriately nude. Gabriel, however, did have one small hiccup.

Gabriel loves watching documentary-style shows more than anything else - even the Cartoon Channel. Unfortunately, his ten year-old senses can't yet discern the difference between a Ken Burns documentary and, say, Ghost Hunters. This means that Gabriel is constantly spraying facts, figures and trivia that range from the tested and accurate through the wildly inaccurate and all the way into the batshit crazy insane. He's like my own amazingly pale Fox News Channel.

One morning Gabriel and I were sitting in the kitchen with Roger when Gabriel let loose with the following factoid:

"Did you know that in Mexico, people will often let their dogs loose in the wild because they can no longer afford to care for them? Eventually, they stop being domesticated and return to being wild creatures."

"I did not know that," Roger said in his best patient uncle manner. But Gabriel was not done.

"In fact, a wild Yorkie can easily kill a domesticated Pit Bull." He looked very scientific as he said this.

Uncle Roger stared hard at Gabriel. "A wild Yorkie?"

Gabriel nodded.

"Well, I don't believe that," said Roger, who is known world-wide for his tact and diplomacy.

Gabriel looked to me for help.

I obliged. "You know I'm going to kid you about this for a long time, right?"

Gabriel let out a sigh.

A few hours later, I kept my word. As Gabriel passed me in the hallway, I let out a soft rumble.

He responded by waving his hand subtly in front of his nose.

"That wasn't me, dude," I said.

He looked at me.

"I think it was a wild Yorkie."

I'll Have What He's Having

2009-11-17T17:58:00.001-08:00

I had to get a testicular sonogram recently. I mention this for a few reasons. First, it's absolutely pertinent to the potentially humorous story I'm going to tell. Also, I believe in frank discussion about medical issues. Especially if it gets my readers squirming in front of their computers.

So, buckle up. This one's gonna be way testicley.

First some background. A testicular sonogram is just like the sonogram that a pregnant women gets, except it's lower. Warm gel is used as a conductive agent, a wand is applied to the area or areas and a grainy black and white picture is produced. An uncomfortable time is had by all.

This much I expected. Here's what I didn't expect:

When you're done, you get a DVD of the sonogram to take to the doctor who originally ordered the test. This DVD looks exactly like the "Hannah Montana" movie your brother-in-law pirated off of the Internet- a white-colored disc with the title written in permanent marker. Except it doesn't star Miley Cyrus. It stars your testicles.

After you take it to the doctor, you can do anything you want with that DVD. I, for instance, considered sending it to Netflix when I returned some of their movies - until I considered how angry this might make my wife.

So, I did what any responsible person would do with his intensely private medical record. I left it in my car. So my children could find it on the ride to school one morning.

"What's this?," Julian asked.

As I said, I believe in frankly discussing medical issues. It makes me feel like a rational adult.

"It's a DVD of my testicular sonogram."

My kids were instantly mesmerized.

"Can we see it?"

I realized that they thought this was a regular DVD - an actual movie of me being sonogrammed. I pictured a director in the room with me, the technician and my testicles.

"It's not a movie. It's just a black and white scan."

All three kids looked at me expectantly.

"You can't see anything."

"Oh," they said in unison and looked disappointed. For a second, I thought I might be off the hook.

"Did they have to scan your anus, too?" Gabriel asked.

"No. No, they didn't, Gabriel."

I looked in the rear-view mirror at my ten year-old son. "And where did you learn the word "anus"?"

"Playground," he answered.

Seven year-old Julian interrupted my next question.

"Hey," he said. "I got one of these sonograms when I hurt my testicles playing football."

"That's right," I said. "I remember that now."

"Did it hurt?" Gabriel asked.

Julian considered this for a second and smiled.

"Nope. It kinda felt good."

I must be going to the wrong sonogram place.

ROFLOL-BMH

2009-10-06T19:25:00.001-07:00

Three of my nieces recently added me as a friend on Facebook. This move posed little risk for my college-age nieces because I am old and my posts are soft and mushy - like my bones. Most of my status updates, for instance, involve napping. Also, I only know how to do two things: updates and clicking the little thumbs up button to show approval. There are no sharp edges to my Facebook updates.

The real risk is for people like me - elderly people in their early forties. Navigating Facebook for us is akin walking across the field during a rugby game. There's going to be injuries. Hips will be broken. But now that I've run across that metaphorical field for a few months, I do have some advice for newly-elderly people who want to befriend young people on Facebook.

First, do not read young people posts. They like to describe what they're doing in college. You, as a relative who cares for them, their education and their safety, do not want to know what they're doing in college. For instance, one of my nieces might hypothetically post something like the following:

"Skipping class today. I lost the car last night and need to find it quick before someone opens the trunk. Hope my parents don't find out."

See? There's nothing constructive that you can do after reading something like that. It's best that you never read it in the first place. Embracing your impending senility is a lot easier without being confronted with painful questions on Facebook.

Which brings me to my second tip. If you must read young people posts on Facebook, don't reply to them. Don't comment on them. You might think that you will fit in - that no one will know how old you are because the Internet gives you a measure of anonymity.

You would be wrong.

I wish I had a dime for every time I've popped out a witty bon mot on one of my niece's pages only to have three of her friends comment:

"Dude, your post smells like my grandmother's house."

That's right. On Facebook, old people posts literally smell like mothballs.

Sometimes, I can barely type ROFLOL through the tears. And that only intensifies the pain and irony - because I'm way too old to physically roll on the floor and laugh out loud like the youngsters do. Not without busting my hip. You know, ROFLOL-BMH.

Finally, never use the phrase "bon mot" on Facebook. Or in a blog post. You'll just look like a tool.

Because I'm Enjoying It...

2009-09-03T07:03:00.001-07:00

To new parents and prospective parents, I offer this bit of hard-earned advice about kids:

Don't teach them to talk. There's no upside to letting children communicate. Oh sure, all the experts drone on and on about the importance of talking children, but the experts leave out some important points. For instance, did you know what the first thing kids do after learning to talk?

They talk back.

And they parse your words. They challenge everything you say, no matter how innocuous. Living with talking kids is like hiring lawyers to come live with you and sue you every second of the day.

The other morning at the kitchen table, my sons had just started their daily harassment of their little sister. I wanted to shut this down quickly for a few reasons. First, I don't want my sons to grow up thinking it's okay to bully girls. But also, little Riley was starting to get mad - you could tell by the way she clenched her five year-old jaw. And her tiny fist. If this kept up, one or both of my sons was going to take a ride on Riley's Choo Choo Train of Pain.

"Stop messing with Riley," I said clearly and simply.

Six year-old Julian looked me squarely in the face, nodded in the affirmative to let me know that he definitely understood my instructions and then plucked his sister in the ear.

So, I elaborated. "If you don't stop bullying your little sister, I will take away everything that you enjoy. Every video game. Every toy. Every single activity that you enjoy will be taken away for a week."

All of the kids stopped for a moment and considered this. Riley was smiling in rich anticipation of her brothers' potential suffering, which I expected. She was, after all, on my side in this. But Julian was smiling, too, which I had not expected. And then he let me have it.

"I enjoy going poop," he said matter-of-factly. "Are you gonna stop me from going poop?"

And just like that - I had been rhetorically bested by a six year-old.

"You know what I mean," I snapped back. I jabbed my finger for emphasis.

This was some pretty weak sauce, as retorts go, and even Riley seemed embarrassed for me - so embarrassed, in fact, that she switched sides right in front of me. She started laughing along with the boys who had been tormenting her moments before.

But that's okay. Julian can think he's won for now. He's gotta use the bathroom sooner or later. And then I'll knock on the door.

"Julian?" I'll say quietly.

"I'm going to the bathroom," he'll answer.
"Julian?" I'll say again.

"I said I'm going to the bathroom, Dad."

"Julian?"

"What?"

"Julian?"

"Dad! Stop It!" Julian will yell. "I'm trying to go to the bathroom!"

"Julian?"

"What!" he'll yell.

And then I'll let him have it.

"Are you enjoying yourself?"

Pencils Down!

2009-08-24T07:42:00.001-07:00

The new school year is here and parents KNOW what that means.

Paperwork. And lots of it.

This year is no exception. The teachers have again lobbed homework at the parents - giving us permission slips to sign, legal releases to initial and new rules to remember. And Bridget and I have three kids, which is like...cross out the two, carry the one...double the work.

I wouldn't mind except that Bridget expects me to help.

"Hypothetically speaking," Bridget said, "You're fifty percent of the parents in this house - not twenty-five percent of the kids."

"What that supposed to mean?" I demanded.

"You're one of the parents..." she started.

I stopped her. "No, I meant "hypothetically". What does that mean?"

I was going to continue watching "Cheaters", but then I spied the questions on one of the colored papers we had to fill out for Riley's kindergarten teacher. It was one of those questionnaires where you describe your kid to her new teacher.

"What," it asked, "is one of your child's favorite things to do?"

I grabbed a pencil.

"Riley enjoys installing NOX in her Power Wheels Barbie Jeep, heading down to Daytona for the weekend and racing for pinks. I guess you could say that she lives life a quarter mile at a time."

I was starting to enjoy myself now.

"What is one of your child's least favorite things to do?"

Hmmm. "Power washing the house. She always cries about how the power washer is too big and it hurts her arms but I think when she looks at the clean house and driveway at the end of those eight hours, she probably feels the same pride I do."

Bridget took my pencil.

Pee On It!

2009-08-17T08:28:00.001-07:00

I've been on vacation for the last couple of weeks. I live in Florida, so I don't actually have to fly anywhere to visit a tropical paradise filled with exotic locales, strange plants and fascinating animals. Basically, I just walk out my door and - bam! - I'm standing in a friggin' paradise.

In turns out, ironically, that the only inconvenient thing about living and vacationing in Florida is the exotic locales, strange plants and fascinating animals.

On my second day of vacation, for example, I stepped on a Sea Urchin while climbing onto the stern ladder of my father-in-law's boat. I don't recommend it. It really hurts. It kinda feels like stepping on 20 needles and then breaking them off in your foot. Mostly because that's actually what you're doing.

I did learn something interesting about the Internet, though, as I sat on the boat wincing in pain. While my wife and mother-in-law used tweezers to pull urchin spines out of the sole of my foot, I used my phone to surf the Internet and pull up information about treating urchin spine impalements. And that's when I learned this:

The cure for everything on the Internet involves peeing on it.

Punctured by urchin spines? Pee on it. Sunburn? Pee on it. Jellyfish sting? Pee on it. Shark bite? Pee on it. Cancer? Pee on it.

Because I'm one of those deluded fools who worships science at the cost of ignoring the homeopathic bounty that nature provides, I chose to go with antibiotics instead.

My children are like-minded. The other day our lilliputian Boston Terrier bit into a toads in our yard. This started a mini-panic in our house because Florida is home to Bufo toads whose skin secretes a venom that deadly to small dogs. And our dog loves to chomp some amphibians.

Nine year-old Gabriel examined our dog and pronounced everything okay. As he cradled the dog, he cooed to her.

"You know what cures Bufo venom, Marnie?"

The dog looked uncomfortable. I stifled the urge to yell out, "Pee on it!"

"Love," Gabriel answered. "Love and lots and lots of drugs."

...And That's a Fascist Belt

2009-08-04T09:06:00.001-07:00

The current political conversation summed up:

Obama: Thousands of people die every year because our current insurance system is inadequate. In addition, tens of thousands of families go bankrupt even if they have insurance. Both Republicans and Democrats agree that we need to discuss how to fix this before it breaks America socially and financially. What do you think?

Crazy People: That is a very, very important issue but your zipper is down.

Obama: Oh, thanks...no, wait, my zipper is up.

Crazy People: No, your zipper is down.

Obama: I just checked it. My zipper is up.

Crazy People: You've never shown proof that your zipper is up.

Obama:You and I are standing three feet apart and both of us can see that my zipper is clearly up.

Crazy People: (Pause) Those are socialist pants.

Burning Ring of Truth

2009-07-13T17:54:00.001-07:00

Regular readers may remember that I recently mocked my eldest son because he wanted to learn how to play the recorder. Chiefly, I judged the wind instrument to be a less-than-manly instrument much unsuited to rocking out. Because I wanted Gabriel to lose interest in the recorder quickly - I did what any smart parent would do in order to force his kid to drop something like a hot potato - or in this case, a hot cross bun.

I fully supported him.

I bought him a new recorder. I forced him to play for me. I forced him to play for other people. And once my son sensed my enthusiasm, he walked away from his plastic recorder like it was radioactive.

Mission accomplished. And yet, a month later, my nine year-old would have his revenge when I came across a Julia Nunes ukulele-version of Weezer's "Keep Fishin' on YouTube.

To begin with, Julia Nunes clearly rocked the song. I liked it even better than the original Weezer version. But I was also dumbstruck by how much her little ukulele rocked. And more than that, the tingy melodies reminded me of the mandolin my grandmother used to play before she passed away. And that's apparently the recipe that gets me hooked - two parts rocking and one part dearly-missed grandmother.

So I bought a soprano ukulele, the smallest you can get, about a week later and tried to hide my new obsession from everyone including my family. I retreated to the tiny, dark re-purposed closet that is my office, shut the door and started practicing ukulele chords, some of which require only one finger to play.

Occasionally, my wife would knock on the door.

"Uh, Richard? What's that noise?" she would ask.

I would look at my beautiful 20 inch uke and back toward the door. I considered shoving aside my masculinity and admitting my fondness for the tiny four-stringed powerhouse in my hands - maybe even busting out some Cashian "Ring of Fire" to make my wife understand. And then I said:

"I'm looking at pornography on the computer! Could I have some privacy, please!"

The best lies have the ring of truth.

Later, when I finally sat down and discussed my ukulele problem with Bridget, she did something I didn't expect her to do.

She fully supported me.

Clever, clever woman.

Editor's Note : For those of you who want to see Julia Nunes' great cover of Weezer's "Keep Fishin""

Eye Rolling

2009-06-29T16:14:00.001-07:00

There is a huge population of retired people in Florida. I am, of course, being politically correct when I say "retired people". I'm actually mean that Florida has a huge population of old, wrinkly people who will sometimes forget that they're driving - even though they're in the middle of of an intersection and have just run over a Guatemalan guy on a bicycle.

But here's the advantage to this skewed surplus of wrinkly people in Florida: being 40 years-old in Florida is like being 20 anywhere else. And we middle-aged people take full advantage of that down here. We drive around listening to Ting Tings songs way too loud. We drink like college freshmen and we curse the old people who just don't "get us."

The only thing that spoils the illusion is when we run into actual young people in Florida. A few weeks ago,for instance, I was driving through the supermarket parking lot when I locked eyes with a young woman with tan skin.

Because I'm married to an easily-riled woman with a formidable right hook, I am unusually good at not noticing women. When I'm with my wife, in fact, I could walk past a naked Monica Bellucci and never move my gaze from the floor.

But my natural instincts were overcome at the supermarket for a few reasons. First, this particular woman sported what car enthusiasts might refer to as "aftermarket parts". If I make take the euphemism further, someone had mistakenly ordered truck parts for the young woman's sub-compact chassis.

Further, thieves had clearly stolen this woman's clothes and replaced them with tiny, midget versions that did not properly cover the delicate, tasteful tattoo that graced the small of her back. Also, I was looking for a parking space, so my guard was down.

In any case, I locked eyes with the twenty-something woman. A little embarrassed, I smiled, which was intended to say, "Excuse me for staring. My eyes are just passing through". Or something to effect.

I expected her to smile back and shrug. Instead, she gave me an eye roll. This, in turn, gave me an unwanted epiphany which caused me to hit the brakes.

"Oh, just freakin' terrific," I said. "I'm a creepy old guy."

My wife off-handedly confirmed this a few days ago, while my family munched on donuts at a table outside of a Dunkin' Donuts.

"Did you notice," I said as I sipped decaf coffee, "that our cashier looked exactly like Phoebe Cates? The resemblance was amazing. I almost asked her if anyone else had mentioned that before."

"You mean Phoebe Cates, the actress from "Fast Times at Ridgemont High?," my said wife answered. "Yeah, I wouldn't do that."

"Why?" I asked. "She might find it flattering."

"Hmmm. She might find it flattering that she reminds you, a guy twenty-five years her senior, of an actress whose most famous scene involves playing an underage high school student who walks in on an older guy masturbating to the image of her in a bathing suit?"

"You make an excellent point," I conceded.

"She's probably never heard of Phoebe Cates. That would be like a senior citizen coming up to me and saying that I remind him of Bette Davis or Lana Turner. It's just creepy."

"Enough," I said. "You can stop making sense anytime now."

And yet, the reminders of my newly-discovered creepiness keep coming.

Yesterday, I sat in my car at a stoplight. I looked out the passenger window, lost in thought, when a car rolled up next me and stopped exactly in my sight line. The blonde driver turned to her left, saw me staring in her direction and quickly eye-rolled me.

I lost it.

"Hey," I called. "I'm not looking at you. I was thinking about lunch. I thought I saw a french fry on our dashboard left over from a trip to McDonald's."
She didn't turn around.

"In fact," I yelled," I'm totally gay and completely uninterested in you. Seriously. I was checking out the hot guy on the other side of you. You're in the way of my...hot...guy..checking...stuff."

The blonde did not look around. But my wife did turn around to face my kids in the backseat.

"You know Dad's just joking right?"

Facebooked!

2009-06-22T13:19:00.001-07:00

I've been at peace with this whole social communications thing for a while now. I'm LinkedIn. I'm down with the MySpace. I get deviant on DeviantART. I'll sometimes even Twitter when no one is watching.

And I used to like Facebook. Lately, though, Facebook has evolved into something terrifying.

My wife is on Facebook now.

At work a few months ago, I sat with my co-workers and checked my Facebook account via my phone. On my "wall", my wife had posted this:

"Please stop at the store on the way home and buy some milk. Love Bridget."

"What the..!" I said

One of my co-workers looked over at my screen and shook his head.

"That's too bad," he said matter-of-factly.

"What's too bad?," I asked.

"Your wife just made you her Facebook bitch."

A few nights later, I sat in my office writing. By "office" I mean that I sat in the dark little bedroom closet where I keep my desk and computer. By "writing" I mean that I was surfing the Internet - which still officially counts as writing because there was no porn involved. I got a Facebook notification that someone had posted to my wall.

"Sweetie, come out on the porch...Marnie's doing something really cute."

Excellent. My wife, who sat fifty feet away on the porch, was using Facebook on her wireless laptop to send a message to the Facebook servers three thousand miles away in California, which in turn routed that message through seven or eight far-flung computers and back to me - all to command me to come out to the porch to watch our Boston Terrier do tricks.

My wife is one of those people who treats a dog exactly like a human, which leads to some pretty bizarre experiences. I am, for instance, not allowed to call the dog "stupid" in front of the dog. When people ask me how many kids I have in the family, Bridget forces me to include the dog in the count. Occasionally, Bridget even dresses the dog up.

I walked out to the porch.

"Bridget, you can't use Facebook to call me out to the porch to look at the dog."

I pointed at the dog for emphasis.

Bridget looked around at the tableau - me standing on the porch looking at the dog - and she bit her lip. Lip biting is one of the many reasons I love my wife.

"Look," I said. "You're new to Facebook, so you don't understand. Facebook is a dangerous place. Facebook is like the Old West, except gunslingers don't shoot you down. Instead, your friends judge you. When my friends see you sending me on errands for milk on Facebook, they assume that I'm a whipped husband."

"That's ridiculous," my wife answered. "Now look at Marnie. Isn't that cute?"

I could sense that my wife wasn't taking me seriously.

"Besides," she said. "How exactly is that different from exaggerating the foibles and eccentricities of your family to spice up a blog posting?"

This seemed like a good time to change the subject.

"Omigod. Is the dog using your Iphone? That's amazing."

A few weeks later, my wife learned the hard way after we spent an enjoyable Saturday night at a friend's party. The party had great food, little shots of some flavored alcohol and someone roving around with a camera. It was a recipe for disaster that was missing only one ingredient:

Facebook.

The following Monday, Bridget's friend Monica provided exactly that. I called Bridget at work.

"Hi, Sweetie," she said. "What's up?"

I tried not to sound panicked.

"Monica posted the party photos on Facebook."

"Oh, cool. I'll look at them a little later. Are they good?"

I said nothing for a moment and then jumped in.

"You know how they took that picture of you with your arms around Monica's shoulders? You're both smiling and you're wearing that sleeveless blouse?"

"Yes..."

I continued. "Well, whoever took the picture kinda messed up the...I think it's called "depth of field" or something...and it makes your arms look...elephantine."

"Elephantine?"

Bridget wasn't getting it.

"The photo makes your arms look like your Nana's arms."

I swear she screamed.

And a parting gift....

Lee Evans from "There's Something About Mary" and the Lee Evans Trio.

Overwhelm

2009-06-15T19:24:00.001-07:00

I began writing this in the ICU unit of children's hospital in Florida. Ten feet away, my wife was sleeping in a hospital bed, curled around my five year-old daughter Riley. Riley was hooked to two IVs - one for steroids and one for blood pressure medication - so she had to sleep with her arms straightened at her sides.

Riley had been diagnosed with something called Nephrotic Syndrome. Her blood pressure was high - within the stroke range even for an adult - and the doctors and nurses had been trying different medications in the hope that her blood pressure would go down to normal. At around 2 a.m. in the morning, they would find the right medicine.

But at that moment, we didn't know that.

I thought about different things there in the dark ICU room, as one of Riley's favorite Scooby Doo DVDs played over an over. I thought about a ritual that Riley performs when I pick her up from pre-school on Mondays. As soon as I walk through the gate to her school yard, she backs up, plants her feet and races toward me. Then she jumps. My only job is to catch this lanky, golden juggernaut girl and then stagger back - as if she has almost knocked me over. Riley doesn't like it as much if I don't stagger. The purpose of her leap is to overwhelm me.

And she does.

That night I also thought about health insurance. What if we didn't have it? Riley didn't seem that sick at first, but we took her to the doctor's office just in case. What if we had waited because we didn't have the money?

Two weeks after Riley left the hospital, I was repairing a computer at customer's house when the customer began talking politics. In general, he felt that President Obama was going to bankrupt the country. I've heard this stuff before, sometimes from friends, and I try to keep my responses measured. I do this because it's the polite thing to do, but I also do this because even though I voted for Obama, I have no idea how this is going to turn out. I'm not an economist.

But then the customer started talking about socialized medicine. I tried to steer him away from the conversation.

"My daughter just got out of the hospital," I said. "Every time I see something about universal coverage on the news, I think about her. I'm probably not the most rational about the subject."

The man persisted. "You're living proof, though. You've got a job and you've got medical coverage. Almost everyone can afford medical coverage. The problem is that you've got people who would rather spend the premium on other things..."

I flinched because I thought he might be the kind of person to end that sentence with "...like spinners and rims."

But he didn't. He seemed to sincerely believe that our medical system was in great shape.

I didn't try to change his mind. I'm not a preacher, either.

Riley is doing better now. Her medicine costs, thanks to health insurance, only about $300 a month. We're happy to pay this. The money is not the tough part for us.

Riley's medicine gives her something called "moonface" - meaning that her thin, sweet face has become almost round. Her cheeks are hard to the touch and her stomach swells out, too. And for the first time in my five year-old's life, she is afraid to be seen in a bathing suit. She is like Eve just after she was thrown out of the Garden of Eden - only Riley never stole an apple. We think she might be able to stop the medicine in a few weeks.

I've written this column for something like five years now. I try to keep it humorous; I exaggerate a little here; I poke a little fun there. Every now and then I make a pee pee joke for the kids and husbands. But this thing with Riley has changed me. I can't stand the national conversation about health coverage.

Most of the debate is generated by interest groups with something to sell. The purpose of their talk is not to inform us or educate us; their purpose is to overwhelm us - and they do.

So, I'm not an economist, but I'm gonna say a few things about the economy. Nor am I a preacher; but I'm gonna fucking preach a few things.

Someone you know - someone you like and admire - is going to tell you in the next few months that America doesn't need "socialized" medicine. They might even be an actual doctor. They're going to spout talking points about how it will affect job growth in a faltering economy. They might talk about how doctors will actually leave the field of medicine because they can't pay their bills. This is what you should say:

Almost nine million kids don't have health insurance, part of the almost 45 million people in the United States without any kind of health coverage. It's estimated that at least 18,000 people die each year because they lack medical insurance.

If your friend talks about America becoming Socialist - whatever that means - appeal to their rationality and point out that our libraries, police departments and fire departments are already socialized. They have been since the beginning of our country. Tell your friend that our medical infrastructure needs to be exactly like a fire department - because the health of America is dangerously close to being on fire. Appeal also to their common sense. When the next pandemic rolls through, do we really want nearly 20% of America avoiding a doctor's office?

I don't. But then, I'm not an epidemiologist. I could be wrong.

I'm just a father haunted by the thought of all the uninsured families out there that have a daughter like Riley with an undiagnosed problem. The girl is feeling a little sick, but is otherwise okay.

I wonder how long they wait.

Wrong Banana Leaf

2009-05-11T17:50:00.001-07:00

Life in the jungles of South America can be brutal, brief and deadly. Survival means always being aware of your surroundings. You never know which banana leaf might be hiding a deadly Bushmaster or, God forbid, a Brazilian Wandering Spider.

Marriage is a lot like that, too.

A few weekends ago, for instance, I let my wife sit in the car while I ran into the house for something. This was a stupid move because my wife was already displaying the classic spousal signs of unrest. Bridget had,for instance, already referred to me as an "ass" twice that morning when, honestly, I had only deserved being called an "ass" once. Also, she had started to blame me for problems that were probably outside the traditional scope of my husbandly duties - like the swine flu pandemic and the resurgence of bedbugs in the hotels of America.

So, I was clearly out of my freakin' mind when I ran back inside the house to get my sunglasses and left my wife and family in my car with nothing constructive to do. In the space of few minutes, my wife had rifled the contents of my car and had discovered in the glove box a - wait for it - deadly Brazilian Wandering Spider.

Actually, it was a Taylor Swift CD.

And when I came out, there was cold silence in the car until I buckled in. And my wife said the following nonchalantly:

"So, whose Taylor Swift CD is in your glove compartment?"

She pointed to a CD half hidden under auto handbooks and garage receipts.

"Uh, who is Taylor Swift?" I responded.

Wrong banana leaf.

"Why would you have a Taylor Swift CD in your glove compartment if you don't even know that she's a multi-platinum recording artist who's currently enjoying great success with her song "Love Story" - which is very likely on that CD sitting in your glove box."

This was actually a good question - and one for which I did not have an answer. I improvised.

"Isn't it yours?"

"I don't like Taylor Swift. Apparently you know someone who does.

Improvisation clearly wasn't working, so I decided to try it again.

"Where are you going with this?" I asked.

"Nowhere. I just want to know whose CD that is."

I had no idea whose Taylor Swift CD it was. I needed more time to think.

"I forgot to go to the bathroom," I said and jumped out of the car. I ran inside and feigned going to the bathroom for twenty minutes. This gave me plenty of time to think but I was unfortunately distracted by a copy of "People Magazine" that had, from the look of it, been in the bathroom since before our house was built.

I returned to the car, prepared for the worse but very, very up-to-date on what Suri Cruise was wearing.

Bridget smiled at me and kissed me.

"I have to apologize," she said. "It's not a Taylor Swift CD; it's a Shakira CD. I didn't pull it all the way out and look at it before."

"Why is there a Shakira CD in my car?" I asked.

"Oh," she giggled. "It's mine. I left it in here."

Life in the South American rainforest. It's deadly. It's dangerous. It's very mercurial.

Stuck

2009-05-05T17:32:00.001-07:00

In theory, my kids are old enough to dress themselves. I should be able to wake them up at six every morning, give them a good morning hug and then stand back as they shower, dress and then fix themselves a nutritious breakfast.

But that's not the way it works with my kids. My kids get stuck.

On some mornings I come out of my room and find all three kids standing buck naked in the living room and staring at a rerun of Jim Cramer's "Mad Money" on CNBC.

"Why aren't you getting ready for school"? I ask my kids.

They just shrug without answering, which bothers me for a few reasons. First, it's important that my kids leave for school on time because it shows respect for the institution.

Also, only daddies are allowed to get naked with Jim Cramer.

Booyah.

Even without Jim Cramer to distract them, my kids still get stuck.

Take the other morning. As is my habit, I was wandering confused around the house in my underwear. I passed through the kitchen. Gabriel and Julian were eating cereal out of red bowls. Both were in their boxers. What follows is their actual conversation.

"Three million," said six year-old Julian.

"Nope," said his older brother Gabriel.

I took my shower, put on my clothes and resumed strolling around the house. I contemplated getting my wallet and keys together, but I consider procrastination a kind of art - and you can't rush art. I passed the boys again. They were still at the table.

"Twenty-one million," said Julian.

"Nope," said Gabriel.

Now, I was interested.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"We're playing a game," Gabriel volunteered. "I pick a number between one and infinity and Julian has to guess it."

"One bazillion!" Julian shouted out as if he's picked up a clue from our conversation.

Gabriel looked at him with a mixture of disdain and boredom.

"Nope," he said again.

They were stuck. Neither of these two would give up this game - no matter how inane it is. We would be late for school and I hate being late for school. Partially, this is because I respect the institution. It's also because Gabriel's principal gives me the hinky evil eye every time I drop him off late. I decided to help the boys get unstuck.

"Julian, I'm thinking of a number between one and three. Guess it."

"Two!" shouted Julian.

I high-fived him. "Good work, little man. Now, put your bowls in the sink. It's time to get dressed.We have ten minutes before we leave for school."

Gabriel got up. He seemed irritated and relieved at the same time. He picked up his bowl and turned toward the sink. At least we're making headway, I thought. We've got a chance to make it on time.

"Where's your sister?" I ask the boys.

"She's still asleep," Julian answers, unworried.

...or We Could Do That

2009-04-20T13:38:00.001-07:00

Excerpt from a real-life conversation in the Grim Richard car, after all three children have been picked up from school:

First, some background. Julian the six year-old is, by nature, an instigator. In fact, if you ask Julian what he wants to do when he grows up, he does not answer that he wants to be a fireman or policeman.

No, he's got bigger things on his mind.

"I want to cuss and chew bubble gum."

I am not making this up.

Anyway, it's 3 in the afternoon on the way home from school. Nine year-old Gabriel has taken a break from peppering me with unanswerable questions about Star Wars. There is peace.

"Hey, I've got an idea," says Julian.

I brace myself.

"Why don't we get gloves and pick up all the dog poop in the backyard?"

In the rear-view mirror, I can actually see confused question marks floating above everyone's head. Except for Julian. He's smiling.

"And then once we all have a bag of poop...we can have a poop fight!"

All of the kids crack up. If you're under ten, this is like Nobel Prize-winning comedy material. This is comedy gold, a rich jambalaya of Cosby and Martin with a spicy dash of Kinison.

And then my little, sweet daughter Riley chimes in.

"Or we can have a water balloon fight!"

This, of course, kills the laughing.

I look in the rear-view mirror again and that's when I start laughing. Because four year-old Riley has an excited look on her face that says she's up for either one - poop fight or water ballon fight. It doesn't matter.

I have clearly failed as a parent.

...And Some Yuca

2009-02-03T18:46:00.001-08:00

I work about 40 miles away from where I live - which makes me next to ineffectual when a family crisis arises. By the time I find out about most problems, the problem has probably already been taken care of.

Bridget points out that I'm also ineffectual at solving family crises that occur right in front of my face. Which is true. Personally, though, I think this has less to do with my crisis-handling abilities and more with the types of crises that are thrown my way.

For instance, a voice mail that I received from my wife went something like this:

"Your six year-old son Julian has been taken down to the principal's office because he was dancing on the cafeteria tables and yelling for his friends to hit him in the balls. Call me as soon as possible."

I considered calling Bridget for a moment. Then I went to lunch at Pollo Tropical.

Before you judge, let me explain my reasoning. First, Pollo Tropical has this really amazing chicken soup with corn, plantains, soft pumpkin and yuca. I don't even know what yuca is, but I do know that God meant for it to be in soup. I had been thinking about a bowl of that soup all day and it would have been both disappointing and nutritionally unsound if I had skipped lunch to discuss my child's testicles.

Second, it seemed to me that the principal had swooped in and swiftly averted any possible testicle crisis. Bridget, didn't, for example, leave me a message that said, "Come quickly, your son was kicked in the groin by, like, 20 kids. He needs a teste transplant and you're his only donor match."

So, I relaxed and had some soup. Later, I got the whole story from Bridget which, as I guessed, was different from the voice mail message. It seems that Julian got in trouble because of two separate incidents in the cafeteria. In the first, Julian decided to impress his easily amused friends in the lunch line by shouting out,"Hey, dudes, don't hit me in the balls!"

Don't laugh. I hear Ashton Kutcher got his start the exact same way.

The second incident, which occurred ten minutes later and in front of the same adults, involved what Bridget says the principal described as Julian "gyrating on the tables like he was in the "High School Musical" movie."

Now that things are calmed down, I'd like to apologize to the state of Florida for my son's inappropriate behavior in school. But I do have two other comments.

I enjoyed the fact that the principal insisted on using the word "gyrate" to describe Julian's dancing. Because of his word choice, I will always picture him as Ed Sullivan and Julian as a really short, curly-haired Elvis. I appreciate that more than you know.

Finally, I saw parts of the "High School Musical" movie.

And it could have used some balls.

...And a Parting Gift:

Will Smith and the Ukulele

Thumbhole

2009-01-20T18:22:00.001-08:00

Probably every parent wants their kid to learn how to play a musical instrument. I'm no exception. Each of my kids, I announced recently, will have to play at least one musical instrument of some kind.
"I don't care what musical instrument you play," I said to the kids, "as long you play an instrument."
That turned out to be a lie.
Six year-old Julian jumped on the, uh, bandwagon without hesitation. I think this is because curly, golden-haired Julian secretly suspects that he's supposed to be a rock star of some kind but just hasn't gotten around to picking up the accessories yet - the leather pants, the Ace-bandage-tight Lenny Kravitz shirt or the ability to play some kind of music.
Julian asked for a guitar for Christmas, and Santa promptly supplied a Julian-sized acoustic guitar. We plan to work on the rock star clothes once Julian has figured out how to wear his boxers right-side-out with the fly in the front. So, we've got some time.
I thought Gabriel would be easy. He loves playing Rock Band on the X Box and he even sings Karaoke at his grandparent's house, so when I solicited him for ideas I was mentally sizing him up for a drum kit or maybe even singing lessons. We have a student piano in our living room now, so I thought maybe he'd go for that.
"I want bongos," he said.
I stared at him like he was somebody else's kid. Somebody else's weird kid.
"I don't think you understand," I demurred. "You're supposed to let me live vicariously through you by doing the things I was too disorganized and uncool to accomplish when I was a child. I've already mastered dorkiness."
He pondered this for a second.
"How about the trumpet?"
A week later, I picked Gabriel up from school and he fairly jumped into the car.
"You remember how you said you wanted me to learn an instrument?"
"Uhhhhhhh," I said, sensing a trap.
"Well, I figured out which one I'm gonna play."
"Uhhhhhhh," I said again, but with this time with emphasis.
"I want to play the recorder!"
I looked at him like he was someone else's weird, recorder-playing kid.
"Oh," I said. "Do boys play that instrument, too?"
Still, I got him a recorder that day. I've got my fingers crossed that the ridicule of his peers would eventually drive him toward a cooler instrument, like maybe the xylophone or even the bassoon. In the between the repetitions of Hot Cross Buns, I take what enjoyment I can from the instrument. For instance, did you know recorders have something called a thumb hole? It makes me giggle every time I say it - and I say it alot.
Thumb hole.
Gabriel doesn't find it as funny.

Semi-Duh

2009-01-05T13:04:00.001-08:00

We're moving into a new house in two days, almost exactly a year after we first moved to Florida. And though we're excited about the new house, we're less excited about actually moving. Here's how I know:

With two days to go, we haven't started packing. Not a thing.

The pans, pots and spices are still in the cabinets, the DVDs are still in the bookcases and the towels are still in whatever you call that little closet near the kids' rooms.

In all fairness, we did try packing yesterday. We prepared by waking up early and getting breakfast out of the way. We skipped church (because God understands when you're moving) and Bridget instead picked up flat-packed cardboard boxes from our in-laws and brought them home.

All this was accomplished by 9 a.m., leaving us a good nine hours to dismantle the house, cram it into boxes and seal it with brown tape. The weather, as is usual for Florida, was sunny and cooperative. We were psyched.

From 9 a.m. to 3 p.m, we watched television. We did not even put together a single box during this time. I'm not even sure what we watched; it might even have been an all-day marathon on the "Anything But Packing" channel. Or maybe it was that new HGTV show "We've Got to Be Out of This House in the Next Week But We Don't Give a Crap" show. I'm not really sure.

At almost 3 p.m., we began to make a kind of progress. Bridget began cleaning the garage. I thought this was odd, since the plan was to move everything out of said garage in exactly two days, but I tried to remain positive.

"Hey," I offered, "Do you want me to start taking down the wall hangings?"

Bridget paused and looked at me incredulously.

"No, we're cleaning the garage now."

I could tell she was fighting the urge to append the phrase "duh" to the end of her sentence. It was a kind of punctuation - a "semi-duh".

About ten minutes later, she found a tool that belonged to her friend Monica and left immediately to return it. I didn't see her for a couple of hours. But that was okay. I caught two back-to-back episodes of "Watch Old Guys Golf While Important Deadlines Loom" on the Golf Channel.

I love that show.

Grim Bonus: Dimitri Martin goes over some pie charts.

Denouement, Dudes!

2008-12-31T15:15:00.001-08:00

I have noticed that a lot of big time writers will use the end of the year as an excuse to revisit the previous year's columns. Supposedly, they do this to update the readers and add a kind of psychological denouement to the year.

Personally, I like doing it because it makes for some easy writing. Also, I really like saying the word denouement.

Let's start with flip flops. Readers may remember that I started wearing flip flops for the first time this year. I did eventually learn to saunter in those laid back shoes. In fact, I successfully rocked those flip flops until one of the tiny toe thongs gave out at church one Sunday.

I wish I was kidding about this.

It seems I am both tacky enough to wear flip flops to church and unlucky enough to have one of the tiny toe things blow out, effectively turning my flip flops into just flops. Very loud flops if you must know.

2008 was the year that I gave a name to the biggest e-mail scourge of all time, Spom - or spam sent by your mother. Many of you reached out to me by sending me examples of the complete crap your mother had sent you via e-mail. Ironically, this meant that I was essentially being spommed by your mothers - as well as by my own.

So, we're gonna put that in the "backfired" column.

I bought both an Iphone and an Amazon Kindle this year, successfully spending a thousand dollars to do things I could already do and neatly proving that I am both a consumer tool and a completely legitimate candidate for some kind of government bailout.

We also discussed my wife's addiction to celebrations this year. I'd like to think she's making progress, but we had a birthday party for a friend last night on December 30th, and we're having another for New Year's Eve tonight. Draw your own conclusions.

Finally, I'm gonna do some gloating. In 2007, I pointed out that the conventional wisdom re: losing more than half of your body heat through your head was, uh, stupid. Turns out I was right, for once.

Happy new year, people.

Editor's Note: If you're like me, you sometimes forget how cool the 80s were. My gift to you as we head into 2009...

Ridiculous

2008-12-23T07:08:00.001-08:00

Here's the thing about my nine year-old son, Gabriel. He is a humongous nerd, obsessed with building Lego play sets and playing Halo video games. He is racked by social anxiety and has trouble concentrating in school. And despite all of this, he is convinced that he is right about everything.

He reminds me of someone...

Oh, wait. I remember now. It's me.

And here's the other thing about Gabriel. Though he loves me, he clearly thinks I'm a moron.

The other day, for instance, my younger son Julian asked me about Santa Claus while we played in the front yard. By playing, I mean that the kids were hurling a football and I was drinking a Pete's Cherry Wheat in a pink plastic Adirondack chair.

"Dad," said Julian, "How old is Santa?"

This was a relative easy question, as far as Santa questions go, and I jumped on it.

"Santa is thousands of years old, Julian."

He seemed placated by my answer and since placation is really all you can hope for when you answer your children's questions, I took a satisfied swig.

"That's ridiculous!"

I turned to see Gabriel rolling his eyes.

"Excuse me?"

"Santa is not thousands of years old," Gabriel retorted. "The Santa Claus position is thousands of years old. It's actually passed down from person to person, like a king or a queen. Nobody lives for a thousand years."

I looked squarely at this little blond kid with the serious look on his face.

"It does sound stupid now that I think about it."

"Sheesh!" he answered.

"What if I told you Santa Clause was a vast conspiracy by adults to make kids believe in an imaginary being? What if I told you also that adults formulated this conspiracy without ever actually discussing it? Further, would you believe that most parents have no clear idea why they're part of this vast conspiracy? And what if I told you parents buy all of the toys at Christmas and give the credit to this imaginary Santa because they love their children and don't care about getting the credit for it?"

Gabriel didn't hesitate. "That's ridiculous!"

"Yeah," I said. "I suppose it is."

Twenties

2008-11-18T18:36:00.001-08:00

When we moved down to Florida, we left most of our family behind. We also left behind some of my oldest friends in the world - guys I grew up with. They are the best kind of old friends, the kind that knew me when I was a fat and acne-covered high schooler, the kind that hung out every Friday night even if no one had any concrete plans. And when we hung out, we did stupid kid shit, watched movies, played Dungeons and Dragons, read comics and fragged the crap out of each other in Halo 2.

I knew I'd miss them even before we left Virginia, but we left just the same.

We've gained new friends here in Florida and they are the best kind of new friends. They are intelligent, funny, responsible people with beautiful kids. They understand how hard marriage is. They only like their jobs some of the time, but they soldier on anyway, because that's what you do when you have a family. They have magnificent parties, actual shindigs that last into the early hours of the morning, shindigs with all the elements of a good story - narrative, rising action, spicy dialog and denouement. And like those parties, life is bigger here in Florida.

Last weekend, for instance, we joined our friends in their front yard to watch the space shuttle Endeavor launch into space. We hadn't actually planned to watch the launch. It was more like an afterthought, a nice bonus that you get for living in Florida. Cape Canaveral is maybe 150 miles away, but we watched the countdown on our friends' living room television and rushed out to join the neighbors as everyone looked north for the fiery trail of the rocket booster. And about a minute later, we saw it. It didn't look like a rocket, really. It looked like a shooting star. And for the first time in a long time, I thought about the seven people on top of that little orange flickering light. I wondered if they were afraid. Or were they just excited?

I miss my old friends at the weirdest times. I missed them the night the new James Bond movie opened, because I knew that a thousand miles away, my friends would be meeting at the mall to catch the late show. Afterwards, they might play Halo if no one had work in the morning.

I miss my friends when I wear certain clothes. I have a black t-shirt with a red and white picture of a twenty-sided die, the kind of dice you roll in Dungeons and Dragons to determine a character's probability to hit another character. To the right of the picture of the die are the words "I roll twenties."

I wore it to a party the other night.

I like to wear the shirt to parties because it's like a secret nerd signal. Usually, one or two guys will quietly acknowledge the shirt by smiling or saying "I used to play that game when I was kid." Occasionally, I'll hear a semi-drunken cry of "Critical Hit!" and I know that some of my kind are at the party, hiding like nerdy Wildebeests in a pride of lions.

A few people asked about the shirt the other night, but no one knew what the picture and legend meant.

I kinda expected that, but I was hoping just the same.

I'll tell you what else I thought about on the night of the shuttle launch. I thought about the seven people strapped into their seats and hurtling as fast as they could toward their futures. In the midst of all the violent shaking and huge explosions, did they think about the people behind them?

I think they did.

Daddipedia

2008-11-13T17:05:00.001-08:00

Fatherhood is a breeze, if you don't count all the studying.

It was last Saturday at the local Supercuts. I've got the whole family there, plunked down in those plastic chairs and reading golf and travel magazines. There are a few other people waiting. Gabriel asks a question - kind of casually.

"When was World War II, Dad?"

I had just found an article in my magazine that promised to shave 10 strokes off of my golf game, so I shot him back a casual answer.

"A long time ago, Gabriel."

When I didn't look up from the magazine, Bridget punched me in the arm.

"Answer him," she said.

"It's a trap," I said without looking up. One of the male patrons laughed.

"A trap? That's the weirdest thing I've ever heard," said Bridget. "Answer the question."

I didn't move. She appraised me for a moment.

"Unless you don't know the answer."

I looked at my wife for a second and put down my magazine. I looked at Gabriel, who was playing a Nintendo DS game.

"The United States entered the war in 1941, but it started in Europe earlier, in 1939."

I picked the magazine back up.

"When did World War II end?" he asked.

"1945."

"I thought that was the Civil War."

"Nope. The Civil War ended in 1865."

"When did the Civil War start?"

"1861, I think."

Gabriel changed tack.

"Who were the good guys in World War II?"

"Lots of countries, but I'll go with the biggies...the United States, Great Britain and the Soviet Union."

"Who were the bad guys in World War II?"

"The Axis - the Germans, the Italians and the Japanese, mainly."

Gabriel wasn't done, but I could see my wife getting a little antsy.

"When did it end?
"1945, roughly."

"Why did it start?"

"Lots of reasons, mostly economic. But Hitler lit the fuse by invading Poland."

He flicked off his DS and sighed.

"Dad, why was Hitler bad?

"Gabriel!" Bridget almost shouted. "That's enough. Let your dad read his magazine."

I scanned the golf tips.

"I told you it was a trap."

Grim Richard Rocks the Vote

2008-10-28T18:29:00.001-07:00

The other day, while dropping off a library book, I noticed the early voting line winding around the library. Naturally, I was intrigued. Longtime readers of this column know that there's nothing I like more than a good, long line. And since there's no Iphone or Harry Potter book coming out in the next couple of months, the early voting line might be my last chance to faire en queue until, say, Black Friday.

So I decided to get in line, but first I picked up the kids from school. Sure, part of me hopes that they'll learn to enjoy long lines with the same reverence I do, but also I figured it would be nice if my kids had at least one memory of me doing something responsible.

But as much as I like standing in line to buy stuff, the early voting line almost broke me. When I arrived, the line only ran down one side of our tropical library and was fairly short, maybe 300 feet long. Soon after, though, the computers that checked for voter eligibility went down and turned a 30 minute civics lesson for my kids into something a little more difficult.

You see, my kids have to the ability to behave for roughly 29 minutes. And sure enough, for exactly that short period of time, my kids amused themselves by collecting rocks at the edge of the parking lot and asking precocious questions about the election process. At about 30 minutes, though, you could see their kidness cracking through the good behavior, like monsters awaking inside ancient terra cotta statues.

Some of the crowd was getting surly, too.

"I thought the whole point of early voting," said one middle-aged guy in dress slacks, "is to avoid the long lines on election day. This stinks."

A lot of people in line agreed. Since early voting started, we've been seeing reporter after reporter detailing the difficulties and long lines for voting in this neck of the woods. Standing in the same place without moving only confirmed the news reports that was something potentially wrong here - that South Florida was screwing up again.

And as my kids flitted in and out of the line, throwing leaves and arguing over rocks, I started to feel the same way. I started to feel like voting was harder than it was supposed to be.

And then I remembered something.

I stood in two separate lines to buy the last Harry Potter book. I once stood in a mile-long line to get into an event at the San Diego comic convention. I once waited five hours to buy a video game console. In other words, I will stand in line for hours just to get some amazingly stupid shit.

And I remembered, too, that this is South Florida. There are a hundred Guatemalans within a half mile who traveled a thousand miles to get to the city I live in. That's a pretty long line, too. I bet any one of those people would trade places with me, even if it meant spending two hours in line once every four years.

Don't believe the media and don't believe the grumpy people in line. Our system is working, even when the voting machines aren't. Our system is working because I can stand in line with kids without worrying about their safety.

I finally got to vote. And I'm glad my kids did see it. If you're reading this, I hope you vote - no matter who your candidate is, no matter how busy you are. Our kids are watching. And some of them are going to remember that their mom and dad once stood in line for eight hours to buy a Wii, but they couldn't find one extra hour to vote.

The Five

2008-10-13T16:29:00.000-07:00

I was driving my son Gabriel to school today and listening to Wilco's song "Hummingbird" when I realized what an amazing song it is. To begin with, it has possibly the best lyrical opening line ever created for a pop song:

"His goal in life was to be an echo."

This line is, of course, pure genius - rich, creamy imagery surrounding a satisfying nougat with just the right amount of artsy fartsy. It reminds me of moi, frankly. Especially the nougat.

The rest of the song is just as good. In fact, when the song got to these words...

"Remember to remember me

Standing still in your past

Floating fast like a hummingbird"

...I realized that "Hummingbird" is one of The Five - my personal list of the five best songs ever written. As you might expect, this is not a permanent list. The collection varies, sometimes on whim. There was a dark day this summer, for instance, when "I Kissed a Girl" occupied all five spots. I don't like to talk about that day or my brief struggle with lesbianism.

As of today, though, The Five are as follows:

"Hummingbird" by Wilco

"Somewhere Over the Rainbow/What a Wonderful World" as covered by Israel Kaʻanoʻi Kamakawiwoʻole A.K.A Bruddah Iz

"My Babe" by Little Walter

"Love Stinks" by the J. Geils Band

"Little Tornado" by Aimee Mann

As you can see, I'm feeling a little "sensitive" right now. BTW, If you've got a list of The Five, let me see 'em.

Bounce House

2008-10-02T20:11:00.000-07:00

In principle, I like birthday parties. But my wife, honestly, has a celebration problem and she's making it hard for me to enjoy any of party or holiday celebration. Take my son Julian's recent sixth birthday party.

Julian duck-duck-goosed his way into pre-pre-pre teendom with 60 guests from his class and neighborhood, two separate SpongeBob birthday cakes and a full range of alcoholic drinks for the parents.

Also, Julian and his guests enjoyed a full-sized bounce house, one of those inflatable rooms that kids jump around in at carnivals and school fairs. I planned to include it in the list of birthday excesses detailed earlier, until Bridget pointed out that I spent more time bouncing than any of the kids.

I couldn't help it. It made my stomach feel funny.

Friends and family know that Bridget's preoccupation with celebrations doesn't stop at birthday parties either. We put up two Christmas trees every year. Bridget picks a theme for one and I pick a theme for the other. This year, for instance, one of the trees (Bridget's) will use Herbie the Dentist and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer as metaphors for man's alienation from society. My tree's theme will be, uh, candy canes.

Bridget's obsession is not just wearing me down. Gabriel's ninth birthday is coming up and Bridget talked with him about the party as we set the table for dinner.

"So, Gabriel, how many kids are you inviting to your birthday party?"

Gabriel shrugged. "I don't know, maybe five. I don't have a lot of friends."

Bridget smiled.

"Well, honey, you've got a month to make some more friends. Get on it."

Gabriel looked to me for sympathy, but I couldn't help him. I've seen the party budget that Bridget prepared and there's no way we're gonna be able to justify the bounce house for just five kids.

The Pianus

2008-09-17T18:22:00.000-07:00

Many thanks to the readers who helped me briefly beat the sales ranking of "Identifying Wood" on Amazon. It was, however, just the first salvo in the war. Today, however, we take a break from the publishing battles and return to my roots - embarrassment by family members:

Our story starts when the Brown family invited our family over to their house for a pool party. Bridget and I looked forward to this. When you're new in town, it's difficult to meet people and make friends. And by "people", I mean neighbors with common interests or goals. As I related in a past column, my kids have already introduced us to local law enforcement, so we're covered on that side of things.

Anyway, we went over to the Brown family house around 2 p.m. on a sunny Saturday. Our kids jumped immediately into their pool with the Brown kids and began swimming. On the tiled deck next to the pool, Bridget and I jumped into the conversational pool and began treading water with Hank and Anya, the Brown parents.

Hank and Anya, it turns out, are not only attractive people, they're funny and smart as well. About an hour into our conversation, when their Ipod began playing "Why I Don't Like Mondays" by the Boomtown Rats, I had to stifle the urge to grab Bridget and squeal out loud like a teenage girl, "These people are so totally cool. I hope they like us." It was only later that things went horribly wrong. And by "things", I'm referring to my four year-old daughter Riley.

It happened as Anya prepared to serve dinner and called everyone out of the pool. Hank stood in his swimsuit to one side of the breakfast counter. Riley charged around from the other side of the counter, pointed to Hank at about crotch level and said:

"You have a little penis."

For a moment, I thought I might be mistaken about what Riley had said, so I glanced over to Bridget. The horrified look on her face told me that she had heard the same thing. I also saw 8 year-old Gabriel's face, which looked radiant and full of joy, so I knew he had also heard the same thing.

To make matters worse, Riley had mangled the pronunciation of the word "penis" so that it came out sounding like a horrible combination of "penis" and "anus".

She pronounced it "pi-anus".

And this is how Hank responded:

"Uh, what?"

"You have a little pi-anus," Riley restated helpfully.

"Uh, what?" Hank re-restated.

Which was exactly what I would have said in the same situation, except I would have added,"I, uh, just got out of the pool."

Hank looked at me, confused.

I considered telling Hank the truth - that I regularly let Riley hang out with two of the most scatologically-obsessed people on the planet. These two people - Riley's brothers - spent most of every day teaching her inappropriate words. And even worse, God help me, I had laughed at some of the jokes. Rather than teaching my daughter manners, I had probably been subtly telling her it was okay to talk about someone's pi-anus.

But that's not what I said. No, I was trying to look cool in front of the Browns. For all they knew, I was a responsible parent. I decided to act like one.

"Riley," I said. "We don't talk about people's penises in public. That's unacceptable."

"Your father's right," Bridget echoed.

We felt very parental and very mature until Anya spoke.

"Your minds are in the gutter. Riley didn't say that Hank had a little penis. Riley said Hank had a little piano."

"Uh, what?" I said.

"Riley said that Hank had a little piano," Anya restated. She seemed amused.

I didn't know what to say to Anya. I felt relieved that she had misinterpreted Riley's speech, but her interpretation was ridiculous. It was a humongous stretch of the imagination - until Anya pointed to the other side of breakfast bar.

That's where the Brown family keeps a little, tiny wooden piano.

Identify This!

2008-09-08T15:25:00.000-07:00

It's done. Last week, my first published book, "The Book of Gabriel" hit Amazon.com and set the Web site on fire.

Okay. That's an overstatement. It's ranked like 362,762 today.

I really thought this whole bestselling author thing would be easier. I figured readers might need maybe a week to find my book, an hour to read it and possibly a day or two to start tearfully enjoining their friends to jump on the Grim Richard bandwagon. According to my calculations, I should already be sitting by the pool in a smoking jacket and turning down interviews from Oprah.

No such luck. And to make matters worse, writing this entry just reminded me that I totally forgot to buy a bandwagon. How are people going to jump on the Grim Richard bandwagon, when I don't even have one?

This bestselling author thing is tougher than I thought.

I can take it. After all, I'm an unknown author who wrote a book smart-ass book of advice for his son - A smart-ass book that includes stories about growing up in nudist camp and babies with rotisserie heads. There's a reason why I kept getting rejection letters that said, "I love this book, but I have no idea how I'd sell it."

But here's what hurts. You want to know what book is currently perched at number 71,634 on Amazon.com's book list? It's a hardcover book called "Identifying Wood: Accurate Results with Simple Tools ". As you might expect, it's a book about looking at wood grain and identifying which species of tree it comes from.

I'm being outsold by a book on wood. That really puts things into perspective. And I really, really hate perspective.

I don't care about the smoking jacket and Oprah anymore. I don't care about being a bestselling author. I just want the "The Book of Gabriel" to outsell a book about wood. That's my lofty goal. I'll let you know how it goes.

I only have one problem so far. I truly, deeply and devoutly want to buy "Identifying Wood" just to say I have a book about wood identification. The only thing stopping me from giving it the quick click purchase on Amazon?

I'm saving up for a bandwagon. They're outselling my book, too.

The Bathroom Tourists

2008-08-25T17:54:00.000-07:00

My sons are bathroom tourists.

Anytime we go to a restaurant - and we go to a lot of restaurants - both boys find some excuse to visit the bathroom.
Several times.

This would be less irritating if I had no plan to, say, eat at these restaurants. Unfortunately, I usually wait until I'm hungry to visit a restaurant and eating is pretty much the foremost thing on my mind. I might even go alone, but society pretty much demands that I feed my family, too.
Damn society.

Instead, like most parents of young children, I spend only 25% of my time at restaurants actually eating. Another 50% is spent repeatedly visiting the bathroom. The final 25% is spent yelling.

"No. You cannot go to the bathroom. I don't care if your bladder swells to twice its usual size and then explodes; you are not going to the bathroom again."

And then I usually take them to the bathroom again because I see fellow diners are dialing 911.

I know why my sons like going to the bathroom. It's those frickin' paper towel dispensers with the laser-activated mechanisms. My kids enjoy washing their hands and then waving them like a wand under the dispensers until the box magically rolls out a sheet of gritty paper.

I get that. I really do. I myself frequent exactly one movie theater in Florida and I do it for one reason only - the theater has the new Dyson Air Blade machines that actually squeegee your hands with air. Sometimes, I lose complete interest in the movie and spend most of my time in the bathroom. Sometimes, I'm forced to stand in a line of like-minded guys, each one tearing himself away from the Dyson with an embarrassed laugh.

I swear to you right now that I will have one of those Dyson Air Blades in my home - right next to the immensely practical urinal I'm planning to install.

Occasionally, I don't mind the frequent trips with my kids to the bathroom. My favorite trip so far was to an older diner attached to a drug store. We visited the bathroom, and after the boys finished their business, 5 year-old Julian walked expectantly to the paper towel dispenser and waved his hand under it.

When nothing happened, he waved his hand again. Still nothing. 9 year-old Gabriel took a swipe, apparently under the impression that Julian had waved his hand incorrectly.

I reached over and pulled down on the black old-style lever on the side of the brushed metal dispenser. One sheet advanced and my sons' mouths fell open.

They liked even better than the lasers.

Chock Full of Jesus

2008-08-14T19:08:00.000-07:00

I've been going to church with my family since we moved to Florida. This was Bridget's idea, mostly, because she's worried about our kids growing up without any kind of reference point for religion.

A few years ago, for instance, we ate a holiday dinner at Bridget's aunt's house. Someone began to say grace and everyone at the table bowed their heads - except for the three Grim Richard children who, with their mouths crammed with food, looked around in amazement as the entire room of people closed their eyes. It was Gabriel, I think, who had the guts to shout out the obvious heathen question:

"Why the heck is everybody sleeping, Dad?"

So, there is some merit to Bridget's concern.

I'm surprised by how much I like going to this church. At first, I only agreed to attend because I think it's a good idea to force a conversation about morality at least once a week. Usually, this blog forces two or three uncomfortable conversations a week with my wife, so I sort of assumed that base was covered.

Apparently not.
v Gradually, though, I've come to enjoy the nice people, the great conversations and the fact that the "H" word is not thrown around like a holy brick. Also - and Bridget will hate me for mentioning this - there are donuts in the lobby after services. I think other churches really underestimate the synergy of donuts and religion.

Alas, the donuts are off limits for me now. A recent physical showed that I had borderline high blood pressure problems, borderline sugar problems and, finally, borderline cholesterol problems. To combat these borderline ills, I've adopted a pretty strict diet that denies me sugar, refined wheat and, most of all, high fructose corn syrup.

And so far, it's worked. My sugar levels dropped to acceptable levels. My blood pressure also dropped. It turns out that if you concentrate on eating only "food", your body tends to...what's the word I'm looking for...work.

A few Sundays ago, our church held Communion. Ushers handed little cubes of bread and tiny glasses of grape juice to everyone who wanted to participate. On cue, everyone popped their cubes of bread into their mouths. Except for me.

Bridget gestured impatiently toward my bread.

"High fructose corn syrup," I whispered.

Bridget shook her head forcefully and I swallowed the bread. I got her point. A little corn syrup is okay as long as the bread is chock full of Jesus.

The Miley Vyrus

2008-08-04T07:04:00.000-07:00

It's been a couple of weeks since I posted. I have good excuses. My brother and his family came into town, for instance. Also, I just plain suck sometimes.

It's true. You can look it up on Wikipedia.

I planned to make up for my sloth by writing and posting a really good, amazingly funny blog entry. And I did indeed write a really good, amazingly funny entry yesterday which I was five seconds from posting this morning.

Until I saw the Hannah Montana Wake Up call site. Using this snappy purple and pink site, you can actually have a recording of Hannah Montana call your daughter's cell phone and give her a personalized reminder about her cooking class, girl scouts or cheerleader practice.

That's one possibility, anyway.

Or you could use the site to interrupt your friend Ron's important business meeting to remind him about his non-existent Girl Scout meeting. And what about Mike and Hank? Wouldn't they feel left out if Hannah Montana didn't call to give them a chirrupy reminder about gymnastics practice?

But wait a second here. I'm a middle-aged man with middle-aged friends who have serious responsibilities. Is this really the kind of behavior grown adults would appreciate?

Hmmm.

So, anyway, my apologies go out in advance to Ron, Mike, Matt, Hank and Roger. I would have hit more friends, but the site only lets you schedule five calls per e-mail address. I would have set another, temporary e-mail address in order to spread the Miley Vyrus but I have a lot of important, responsible work to do.

Like posting the web address for the Hannah Montana Wake Up Call site.

Tiny Toe Thongs

2008-07-07T12:51:00.000-07:00

You know how some kids don't live near a pool or the ocean? And those kids, because they don't have access to water, never learn how to swim? And when they grow up, they keep avoiding pool parties and trips to the beach because they don't want anyone to know that they can't swim?
That's how it is with me and flip flops. I don't know how to walk in them.

Yes, by "flip flops", I mean the casual beach footwear championed by surfers and singer James Buffet. It's not something I planned; it was more of a lifestyle choice. I grew up on the mean streets of a coastal Virginia town, a really fat kid with an amazing talent for being a smart ass. This meant I did a lot of running to avoid getting beat up. Flip flops just didn't fit in with my shoot-your-mouth-off-and-run-like-hell-for-home lifestyle.

My feet, too, present compatibility problems with flip flops. They're not normal feet. My size thirteen feet are almost half toes and full of sinewy animal-like veins. People who have seen my feet can actually see evidence that we and apes have descended from a common ancestor.

It's true. I've had actual creationists approach me at the beach, look at my feet and renounce their former beliefs.

"Evolution," they sigh. "I totally get it now. Sorry, God."

Flip flops, unfortunately, are not really built to handle feet with finger-long toes. So,for these reasons and others, I've tried to hide my flip flop problems. I've worn regulars shoes and socks to the beach, embraced the Teva gladiator-like sandals and have generally done everything I can to avoid the tiny toe thongs of flip flops.

But the other day I found them - a tan aerodynamic pair of Dexters with blue accents and a soft rubbery foot bed that cradled my humongous feet. For the first time in my life, I felt like I was ready to try flip flops. I haven't been beat up in years after all and I've grown tired of buying Maximus-style sandals to hide my ape-like feet. I pointed the flip flops out to Bridget and she gently urged me to buy them. She even offered to help me learn to walk in them.

I wore them out to the car and Bridget, though she promised not to, laughed at me.

"You're walking like a girl who just got her first pair of high heels."

She paused. "No, I take that back. You're walking like a geisha who's just learning to walk on those Japanese wooden platform shoes."

Bridget's flip flop lessons were not as constructive as I first hoped.

Still, her taunts may have had an unexpected effect. I'm trying harder to master this footwear because of the harassment. One day I will casually walk in these casual shoes, with not too much flip and just enough flop. I will saunter in these laid back shoes and strike a blow for the flip flop-impaired and the people with huge, grotesque feet.

And the non-swimmers. I won't forget them either.

BTW: Writing this blog reminded me of the great band Guadalcanal Diary and one of their albums, "Flip Flop". So I spent most of my time writing this listening to the song "Always Saturday". The MP3 is not available on Amazon or Itunes, so I ended up watching it on YouTube. It's great song and a great video. Check it out if you can.

Martian Ice

2008-07-01T19:34:00.000-07:00

School is out - which means that we've got to enroll our kids in some kind of camp quickly or we'll actually have to spend more time with with them. And none of the kids wants that.

Luckily, there's a different kind of summer camp for almost every kind of kid and we've been able to match our three kids to activities that suit their personalities. Riley, our four year-old girl, plies to dance classes every day in a pink leotard and matching shoes. Julian, who loves and excels at sports of all stripes, is slamming homers at baseball camp. And what about Gabriel - our pale eight year-old who dislikes sports and loves studying Uranus?

He's going to baseball camp with Julian.

Yeah, I know. But in our defense, it's not as easy to find an Uranus summer camp as you might think. It is, however, amazingly fun to call around to recreational centers and ask about one. Ultimately, it was just easier for us to send Gabriel to baseball camp and pretend that we're doing it so that he'll sample new things.

Gabriel is taking it like the champion nerd trooper he is. Every day he marches out to the outfield in his shorts and untied sneakers and stands there while baseballs rain down and other more competitive kids in actual, professional-looking uniforms yell at him to hustle.

But I don't think Gabriel is concentrating on his hustle.

Bridget and I picked the boys up from camp the other day. I tossed out the usual question.

"So, did you like baseball camp?"

"Yeah!" they answered. Gabriel's enthusiasm surprised me. "So, what was your favorite part about baseball camp?" I asked.

Julian chimed in first. "I like hitting the ball!"

"What about you, Gabriel?" I asked. He got a huge smile on his face.

"The dirt on the infield reminds me of the surface of the Mars!"

He's not wrong. Infield dirt totally looks like Martian surface.

I think Bridget is a little disappointed that Gabriel is not into baseball. Me? I like having two kids running around on the baseball diamond. One of them spends his time blasting home runs out the park. The other feigns playing baseball while he surreptitiously searches for Martian ice just below the surface.

D**keleptic

2008-06-23T17:24:00.000-07:00

I called Bridget the other morning from work.

"Yes?" she said tersely.
"I just wanted to call and, you know, apologize for the way I acted when I got home yesterday."

"You mean when you were acting like a d**k?"

I was picking up on subtle verbal cues that signaled that my wife might still be feeling some animosity. I'm intuitive that way.

The evening before I had pulled into the driveway after work and had been greeted by my smiling wife, kids and dogs. A smart guy would have jumped out of his car, grabbed a beverage and enjoyed the Florida evening with his family. I chose a different route when I noticed that my wife had once again parked her car in the middle of our two car driveway, which prevented me from parking my car. I stormed in the house without talking to anyone and made a sandwich.

Still, I didn't think my behavior merited the "D" word.

"I think the word "d**k" is a little strong."

"Really?" She sounded genuinely surprised.

"In all fairness," I replied, "I hadn't eaten all day and I was tired from ten hours of work in the hot Florida sun."

"And that excuses your temper tantrum?"

Now I was a little irritated.

"That was not a temper tantrum. That was a physiological response to adverse environmental conditions."

She didn't say anything so I continued.

"This was more like a seizure. Like, you know, epilepsy - but different."

"In other words, you have dickilepsy."

There was that word again. I formulated a measured, even retort that not only explained my position but let my wife know just how offended her repeated use of that word made me. And then I discarded it.

"Exactly. I have dickilepsy."

"Is there some kind of telethon for that?"

"Nope. Not that I'm aware of. But there should be."

Obsessed with Uranus

2008-06-09T15:25:00.000-07:00

I have two bits of news:

To begin with, the first ever Grim Richard book is headed for publication in the next couple of months. It's called "The Book of Gabriel" and it's being published by a small outfit called San Francisco Bay Press. The book, as regular readers might imagine, concerns my oldest son, Gabriel, around whom my second bit of news revolves.

Gabriel, it seems, has become obsessed with our solar system. That's not particularly unusual, given that Gabriel studied our solar neighborhood during the second grade school year that he just completed. His area of scientific focus, however, is peculiar.

Gabriel is enthralled with Uranus.

I'm not saying that to be funny or childish. Okay, actually I am. But I'm also being accurate. Gabriel has studied all of the planets in our solar system and, unlike other kids who are drawn to the rings of Saturn or the sheer mass of Jupiter, he is drawn to the seventh planet from the sun.

Uranus is all that Gabriel wants to talk about and this has given me and his mother humongous amounts of enjoyment.

Perhaps more mature parents might not giggle when their son announces in a bookstore that he "loves Uranus." We, unfortunately, are not those parents. My personal favorite so far? While working on an art project, he announced, "I need more glitter for Uranus."

Indeed. Who doesn't?

In any case, other Grim Richard publishing projects may require us to establish a corporate umbrella of some kind. Gabriel overheard his mother and I discussing this and almost instantly suggested a name.

Uranus Books.

I love that kid.

Ultra Dog

2008-05-29T20:39:00.000-07:00

As I predicted mere weeks ago, an attempt was made to insert a new dog into the Grim Richard family - a new dog we didn't need. Luckily, I sensed the attempt, put my foot down and let everyone in the family know that I'm against getting a puppy.

So, anyway, it's a Boston Terrier.

The black and white three pounder has already completed two-thirds of the demonic puppy trifecta. She vomited on my son Gabriel about 30 minutes after meeting him and peed on our kitchen ceramic tile later that night. She hasn't done the dirtiest dog deed in the house yet, but I imagine it's only a matter of time. I'm am not fooled by her exaggerated comic galumphing around the house. I know she is plotting to poop in the house as soon as I let my guard down.

I saw this dog thing coming a mile away. So I prepared myself for the intrusion. I prepared myself for the mess. But there is one thing I was less than prepared for.

I love this freakin' dog.

It actually delights me to see her sliding around on our ceramic tile. It makes me happy deep in my heart to see her prancing and gamboling with my children. I'm not saying this ironically, either. I love this freakin' dog.

Let me demonstrate how weird I'm feeling about this dog. Remember when I said that the puppy peed on our ceramic tile? I actually thought it was cute because she didn't squat. She bowed down into a kind of dainty plie - like a ballet dancer - and did her business.

I think that's interesting. If an actual ballet dancer did a plie and then peed on my floor, I'd be horrified. But if this dog does it, I think it's adorable. This might be a sign of the apocalypse. Also, I just used the word "adorable" and I'm uncomfortable with that.

I'm not completely turning into a pushover because of this dog. One of the preconditions for getting the dog was that I'd be allowed to name it, no strings attached. I wanted something original and fun, so I winnowed my choices down to "Ultra Dog" (I have no idea why) and "Watts" (a clear nod to Mary Stuart Masterson's epic drummer girl from the 80s flick "Some Kind of Wonderful").

So, anyway, we're naming it "Marnie".

Mother's Day Mystery

2008-05-16T19:18:00.000-07:00

So, my family gave me a really sweet golf driver for Mother's Day.
Why would my family give me, the father, a gift for Mother's Day? Well, that part is simple. They gave me a new driver because they didn't break the old one. And why would my family replace a club that didn't need replacing?

It's a Mother's Day Mystery that started like this...

Time: 2:15 p.m. Mother's Day, Location: Sports Authority

My in-laws have just taken us to lunch to celebrate the holiday, but now we're at a sports store -ostensibly to pick up a golf glove for my five year-old son. My father-in-law walks up to me and puts his hand on my shoulder.

"Look, Bridget has some bad news to tell you, but she's afraid to do it. I'm just gonna lay it out for you."

For a second, I'm taken aback - not because my father-in-law has mysterious news to give me, but because he's a dude and his hand is on my shoulder. He notices my discomfort, removes his hand and continues.

"The kids broke your golf driver the other day. You need to buy a driver while you're here."

"My driver?" I gasped. I've never actually gasped before. My gasp is way more feminine than I expected.

"Your driver," he repeated and put his hand back on my shoulder. This time I didn't mind.

"How did it happen?" I asked. "When did it happen?"

Time: 9:30 a.m. 2 Weeks Ago - Location: Our Garage

The kids are playing in the garage. By playing in the garage, I mean that the kids are raising and lowering the electric garage door repeatedly. Suddenly, there is silence. Bridget goes out to investigate. There she finds my precious driver in three pieces and Julian in tears because he thinks he's in trouble. A decision is made there, a pact is sealed and a conspiracy is born. Nothing will be said to Dad about his obviously expensive club until a replacement can be purchased. There is, however, some things that my wife doesn't know.

Time: 2:17 p.m. Mother's Day - Location: Sports Authority

The news has sunk in and the entire family is waiting to see my response. Inside, I'm elated. I get to buy a new golf driver. And I get to do it guilt-free. Husbands never get to buy golf stuff without feeling guilty.

Except I know something that my wife doesn't know.

My driver is in my golf bag in the car - not in the garage. Julian probably broke a fairway wood that I never use. Even if he had broken my driver, it wouldn't matter. I bought my entire bag of clubs for a hundred dollars new. My driver is worth maybe eight dollars.

I'm standing in the Sports Authority, surrounded by my family and thousands of golf clubs. I'm tempted to pick up an expensive new club just to teach my wife a lesson. I'm tempted to buy a new driver and then tell her the story so that she understands how hurt I am by her lack of trust. But then I realize that I would never be able to use that club without feeling guilty. Buying a new club would mean that I sank to their level. Did I really want to do that?

Time: 3:18 p.m., Day After Mother's Day - Location: Golf Course

So, I got one of those new square, MOI drivers with a 10.5 degree loft. And you wanna know something? I can't swear to it, but I think guilt actually makes your ball go further.

Low Hanging Fruit

2008-05-02T20:16:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, especially during prolonged presidential campaigns, it's easy to become jaded and assume that politicians spend too much time collecting money and not enough time solving the basic problems facing Americans.

Not here in Florida. In Florida, our legislature has kept their collective eye on the ball and have just finished months of debate about one of the hairiest moral dilemmas of our times:
Is it okay to hang simulated bull testicles from the bumper of your pickup truck?

For those of you not up to date on the latest truck technology, I'll explain. (Editor's Note: If you're one of those readers more interested in the latest bull testicle technology - you're on your own). It seems that while the Japanese car industry wasted time developing its almost-certain-to-fail hybrid motor technology, truly innovative American inventors pioneered a way to make giant, life-like bull testicles from plastic products and affix them to the bumpers of kick-ass American pickups.

You know, like a decoration - but a really kick-ass, inappropriately swinging, American decoration.

These plastic, simulated bull testicles have become so popular that horrified mothers around the state of Florida have complained to their representatives about the rapidly growing (and rapidly swinging) phenomena. I admire their courage of these women because most mothers I've met are reluctant to discuss simulated bull testicles - no matter how often I mention them in everyday conversation.

Go figure.

Luckily, politicians love to talk about simulated bull testicles as much as I do. They're constantly on the prowl for easy, no-brainer laws to pass - low hanging fruit, so to speak. And this was the lowest of the low hangers. So, for the past few months Floridians have been treated to lots of clever headlines, much posturing and more than a few pictures of plastic bull testicles. I've thought about tossing out a few double entendres of my own - you know, before the case peters out - but ultimately decided against it.

My decision to take the high road turned out to be a good one. The Florida legislature decided today to set aside any consideration of an anti-testicle legislation. American innovation has once again triumphed over the Japanese and, uh, mothers.

Doggie Bags

2008-04-22T18:38:00.000-07:00

I was standing in the Golfsmith store today, browsing through stuff I want but will never buy, when a long-haired blonde guy stuck his head in the door.

"Can I bring my puppy in here?" he asked.

"What the hell?" I thought to myself. Why would someone bring their puppy to a golf store? Why would he even take his dog in the car if he knew he had shopping to do? What would make him think that a store would allow a dog inside?

Maybe the dog is a golfer, I snorted. This joke kinda backfired because I spent the next 20 seconds actually picturing a dog playing golf, which would explain why people in the Golfsmith store saw a sunburnt guy stopped dead in his tracks with a huge doofey smile on his face.

But I wiped that smile off of my face in a hurry because there's nothing funny about Florida's dog problem. Not even golfing dogs. Although they do come very close.

Anyway, people in Florida collect dogs. And when I say that Floridians "collect" dogs, I mean they collect dogs like people used to collect Beanie Babies, except that these particular Beanie Babies will often pee on the furniture, vomit on the floor or both.

The Florida obsession with dogs would not bother me at all, except that my mother-in-law, the owner of three (sometimes four dogs) has decided that my family needs another dog. She and many other Florida dog owners agree that we need a second dog because:

1. My Current Dog is Apparently Lonely and Needs a Friend. I'm not sure how anyone can calculate my twelve year-old dog's need for companionship, but apparently it's obvious. Perhaps my dog has been clumsily placing ads on Craig's List.

2. My Kids Need a Younger Dog. This one is an insidious reversal of the first reason because it posits that my current dog has too much companionship. It seems that my rambunctious kids may accidentally break my elderly dog in the course of normal activity. We need another, healthier dog to draw away our kids' attention. There may be some truth to this, though. My mother swears that my kids broke her once when she was babysitting.

3. Florida Needs More Poop. Okay, I made that last reason up. But if you ever come across a room full of people and you want to pick out the Floridian - just look for the guy with the plastic bag on his hand.

I left the Golfsmith before I found out whether they let the dog in. Probably, they did. This is Florida. I don't know yet whether we'll get another dog, but we probably will. This is Florida, after all, and my mother-in-law is very convincing.

I don't want another dog, but I'll take it in stride. I'll feed it, walk it and love it. And when I'm picking up poop, I'll picture that dog playing golf.

Cling

2008-04-15T18:11:00.000-07:00

Every married person creates their own vision of what marriage should be like. My wife, for instance, built her marriage beliefs around her spirituality and a strong sense of right and wrong. Because I have neither of those things, I based my vision of marriage on reruns of the "The Dick Van Dyke Show" on late night cable television.

This has worked well for me so far. Sure, I have that problem with Capri pants but, honestly, I think that's society's problem and not mine.

In fact, my only marriage issues occur when I violate the sacred guidance that Rob and Laura Petrie have set out for me. I, for instance, never understood why the television couple slept in separate twin beds. This seemed a waste of both space and Mary Tyler Moore's supreme hotness.

But I've shared a bed with my own wife since then. And now I know the truth about the separate beds. Laura, like many otherwise great wives, was probably a clinger. She probably slept wrapped around Rob Petrie like an anaconda, restricting his movement, inhibiting his R.E.M and generally making a good night's sleep impossible. Laura Petrie drove Rob Petrie into that separate, tiny twin bed.

My wife is a clinger, too. Don't get me wrong. I like the clinging. I like the fact that as soon as I hit the bed, my wife will casually throw a leg over my leg. It feels good to have a human, physical connection to the woman I love.

But leg connection is never enough for my wife. It's merely the opening move in a physical contest with a feature unique from all other physical contests - one of the participants is sound asleep (my wife) and the other participant (me) is wide awake.

Within seconds of the leg sweep, my sleeping wife will perform a "reverse" that closes the distance between us and throws the entire left half of her body over mine. When done for maximum effect, my wife rests her neck directly on my left arm which, as all martial arts masters know, compresses the brachial nerve and renders that arm useless.

Often, I still mistakenly believe I have a chance at this point. I did some wrestling in high school. I know a few moves of my own. So I turn over on to my stomach.

Halfway through this maneuver, I remember that I did not wrestle in high school. That was actually my brother. I was on the yearbook staff. I quickly run through my yearbook staff skills and decide that kerning and pagination are probably useless here.

It's too late. Instead of escaping my wife's grapple like the Rock in a WWE match, I've instead put myself in the hucklebuck like Andy Dufresne in the Shawshank Redemption. Sometimes, too, my three year-old daughter will wake in the middle of the night and jump into bed with us. And true to form, she will wrap herself around her mother's back who, in turn, is mounted on my back.

Eventually, I lapse into something less like sleep and more like a coma. When I wake in the morning, I check on my sons before I do anything else. I watch them sleeping peacefully and, God help me, I resent them for their bunk beds.

Daddy's Little Helper

2008-03-28T16:40:00.000-07:00

Most of our friends think that Bridget and I relocated our family to Florida because we had found better jobs and a bigger house in the sunshine state. Not so. We moved because we thought we could trick Bridget's Florida-based mother into babysitting. Frankly, we had depleted Virginia of willing babysitters.

Any parent will tell you how difficult and expensive it is to get a babysitter. And that's just for one kid. If you have two kids, the difficulty is doubled. If you have three kids, the difficulty is tripled. And if any one of those hypothetical kids is my five year-old son Julian...well, you should order HBO and upgrade your home theater system, because you're probably spending Friday nights at home.

That's not to say that the other two Grim Richard kids aren't a challenge. Tow-headed Gabriel, for instance, spent an entire evening convincing one babysitter that she had been calling his little sister Riley by the wrong name for two years. The babysitter apologized so sincerely to us that it seemed almost a shame to tell her that Gabriel was lying.

Almost.

Julian, though, is the toughest babysitee of our bunch. Julian is, as I've detailed, the living personification of Loki, the Norse god of mischief and lies. He boasts a double-sided personality, a frosted shredded wheat soul that gives forth sweet, unconditional love on one side and brusk, fibrous tricks on the other side.

Maybe two weeks after moving to Florida, Bridget and I decided to go out on a date and leave the kids with their grandparents. We hoped that Julian would give them some kind of break on their very first night of babysitting. This was not to be.

While Bridget and I bought tickets to "Juno", our kids slipped into the brand new pajamas that their grandparents had bought them. Even later, while Bridget and I sat in the dark eating popcorn smothered with butter, one of my kids slipped out of bed, grabbed one of his/her grandmother's phones and reported a murder.

You probably think I'm exaggerating. You probably think I've run out of stuff to write and decided to crib a stale plot from some old television show. Nope. One of my kids dialed 911 and reported that someone was being killed. The police even dispatched a black and white to investigate. If you doubt me, you can ask Bridget's mother. But ask her later - she's still pretty busy explaining to her neighbors that no one has been killed in her house.

Officially, three year-old Riley took the blame for the whole mess. The dispatchers identified the caller as a small girl, so after making sure that no one was actually in jeopardy, the police officer lectured my daughter and then left. Mystery solved.

But this is what the grandparents and police officer didn't know. Riley doesn't know how to dial 911.

Nope. The actual culprit confessed later that night once I promised never to tell his grandmother. Maybe "confession" is too strong a word. Though Julian that he picked up the phone, handed it to his three year-old sister, dialed 911 and told Riley what to say, he still firmly believes that Riley "did it" and he "helped".

And, God help me, he's convincing. I couldn't figure out who to punish, so I just talked a lot and wagged my finger in authoritative manner. Besides, I don't think something like this will happen again.

Just in case, though, I'm making a list of family members who live in other states.

iForget

2008-03-20T18:25:00.000-07:00

Okay, I admit it. I bought an iPhone.

Yes, I realize that I specifically counseled the readers of this blog not to buy iPhones. I believe I also referred to the iPhone as the "High School Cheerleader of Cell Phones" in an attempt to underscore the superficiality of spending $400 on a phone just because it looked cooler than other phones.

In jumping to that rash conclusion, I didn't give take into account two factors:

It is damn shiny and, God help me, so very pretty.

I'm glad that I spent the $400, actually, because not only did I pick up a sexy new phone, I also learned something important about myself. I'm not referring to the fact that I'm a shallow consumer tool with too much money and not enough common sense. I already knew that. I'm referring to a revelation that occurred as I transferred all of my contacts to my new phone.

As you may know, the iPhone is not just a phone. It's an e-mail client. It's a Web browser. It plays music. It takes pictures. It stops nipple chafing when applied directly to the male breast.

Okay. I made that last part up.

The point is this: getting an iPhone required me to punch in not only the name and phone numbers of all the significant people in my life, but their physical addresses and e-mail addresses as well. I also needed to put in the Web addresses of my favorite sites. I started to set everything up immediately after buying the iPhone, once I reached my car in the parking lot. I stopped about two minutes later.

Other than my wife's cell phone number - which used to be my number - I remembered exactly none of that pertinent information.

I depend on computers and cell phones so much that I have not bothered to remember any of the information of any of my friends. I don't know their phone numbers. I don't know their e-mail addresses either.

A couple of days later, the rest of the epiphany came into focus. My eight year-old son, Gabriel, was wrestling with subtraction problems. I easily walked him through the first twenty or so problems. Then we came to a thorny nest of problems where you had to "borrow" from the next column of numbers. Suddenly, I mentally stumbled in explaining the process to my son. I realized that I hadn't done even simple math in years without using a calculator. And right then, I realized that I'm actually getting stupider because of my electronic devices.

I have become e-tarded.

The Wonder Woman Belt Buckle

2008-02-27T16:58:00.000-08:00

There are few opportunities for a husband to actually make his wife hotter. Usually wives are in control of their own hotness - and this is a good thing. If guys did control hotness, the malls would overflow with blond, rail-thin women with unnaturally large breasts...

Never mind.

As I was saying, the average husband cannot change his wife's hotness. I, however, stumbled upon a way to make my wife so hot that even the blond, rail-thin women at the mall must rest their huge breasts on a food court table for a moment and recognize just how hot my wife is.

How did I do it? I bought my wife a Wonder Woman belt buckle.

I have no doubt that the geeks among my readers have already begun to nod their heads affirmatively. Many of these geeks, in fact, have begun to look for their near mint copies of Wonder Woman #1 and might already be fondling their Wonder Woman action figures.

My wife, though, didn't comprehend the power of the Wonder Woman belt buckle when I first brought it home last summer from the San Diego Comic-Con. She wouldn't even wear the red,white, blue and yellow buckle for months.

I don't blame her. My wife is fighting a fashion war. Just taking my kids to school forces her to run a gauntlet of Lexus cars, Louis Vuitton handbags and Jimmy Choo pumps. She fights her own specialized super villains at that elementary school every day.

For instance, there's I Wear Nothing But Coach Woman, who sports a Coach handbag, Coach shoes, Coach sunglasses and, one suspects, Coach panties. I've never seen Coach panties but I assume they're brown and have Cs all over them.

There's also Always on the Cell Phone Lass and her matching Dooney and Burke cell phone case. I can't decide what her mutant power is, but I know it involves unlimited minutes. And there's the villainous Two Face of elementary mothers - Daytime Clothes But Nighttime Makeup Woman. She has great taste in clothes but slathers on the makeup like bridesmaid who has a prom after the wedding.

It took some convincing but my wife finally strapped on the Double W logo of the Amazonian Princess. Her first stop? The elementary school.

"How did it go?" I asked her a couple days later.

"Everyone loved my belt buckle," she answered with a smile.

"How could you tell?" I asked. "Did any of the women say anything?"

"Not really," Bridget replied. "But do you remember Different Designer Dress Every Day Chick?"

"Definitely," I answered.

"The next day she wore a Supergirl shirt."

No matter. If Different Designer Dress Every Day Chick had any fashion sense whatsoever, she would have gone with Power Girl and not Super Girl. And if she does wise up, it still won't matter. I'm buying more stuff for my wife - and not even Versace can beat a Spider-Woman t-shirt.

Spom!

2008-02-09T06:39:00.000-08:00

I say this with love in my heart, but no matter how painful, I must say it:

If we are to stop e-mail spam in our lifetime, our mothers must be prevented from using e-mail.

Admit it. You have dozens of cute bunny pictures on your computer. Your mother sent every one of them. And the pictures of kittens saying stuff like "I can haz cheezburger?" It's not your fault. You haz a mudder. And she sends you spam.

This mom spam...this spom...it's worse than regular spam. Gmail and Outlook can stop regular e-mail spam by blocking future e-mails sent from a spamming account. But spom circumvents normal spam defenses because it's sent by someone you trust. It's sent by your mom. And for some reason, she hates you. Why else would she send this:

"Please forward this e-mail. Every time someone forwards this e-mail, Microsoft will donate $1.00 toward little Maria's urgently needed heart transplant."

Every single person on the Internet knows that e-mails like the one above are fake. Except your mom.

And my mom. My mother is literally half blind and needs help doing anything except the most rudimentary things on her computer. But if she gets a fake spam e-mail about a missing 13 year-old girl who can only be found if everyone circulates her picture on the Internet, my mother suddenly becomes Sandra Bullock in "The Net". Suddenly, she can e-mail every single person on her contact list without any help and, if she wants to, take down the "grid" - whatever that is.

"People who did not forward this picture to at least five people died mysteriously...."

How do we stop spom? As I mentioned, we can't block our mothers' e-mail addresses. We'd have to start phoning them again. And no one wants that, not even our mothers.

So, what can we do to make our grown mothers think twice before sending us e-mail? What can we do to make their fingers hesitate before clicking "send" on anything but the most urgent e-mails?

Spam our mothers back. We'll send them ten e-mails every day. And we'll begin every e-mail like this:

"Dear Mom, we need a babysitter this weekend..."

The Chip Licker

2008-02-01T08:47:00.000-08:00

Here comes the Super Bowl. I can see the preparations. Millions of eager families are buying new televisions and stockpiling salty snacks. Millions of husbands roll down the supermarket aisles and stop to buy the "good" beer. Millions of wives plan to make teeming plates of nachos.

None of these people will invite my family to their Super Bowl party. None. And it's all my son Gabriel's fault.

He's a chip licker.

Prior to having kids, my wife and scored many invitations to Super Bowl parties. Neither of us really watches football, but we attended the parties anyway. I enjoyed both the strategic and athletic elements of the game. But mostly, I enjoyed the free food and alcohol.

My wife, on the other hand, enjoyed the fashion and rooted for teams based on their uniform colors. She usually sat to the side saying stuff like,"Ooooh! That team is wearing white uniforms. That's so bold!"

Here's something I learned about my wife. Anytime she uses the word "bold" in a conversation,that means she's enjoying the free alcohol, too.

All of this crushed to a stop the first time we took Gabriel to a Super Bowl party. A close friend of ours hosted this particular party. Our son was maybe two years old. The party went well enough for about an hour, until we noticed people making odd faces as they ate chips.

The host noticed this as well and asked if something was wrong.

"I don't want to be rude," answered someone, "but your chips are wet."

Everyone eyed my two year-old son standing near one of the chip bowls. He fished a hand down into the bowl and snaked one chip from the bottom. He eyed it curiously and then licked it clean of Ranch seasoning, like a cat cleaning its paws.

And then he put the chip back in the bowl and grabbed another.

"Now, that's bold," I wanted to say.

We were not invited back the next year. And word apparently got out about our chip-licking son because we haven't been invited to a Super Bowl party since. No one invites us to Mexican restaurants either.

We hope to attend another Super Bowl party someday, but the odds - and our kids - are stacked against us. Yesterday morning, I opened a box of six glazed donuts on our kitchen counter. There was one small, neat bite taken out of every donut. I looked around to see my five year-old son Julian smiling at me. I think I cursed out loud.

"What's wrong?" my wife yelled from another room.

"It's Julian," I said. "I thinks he's a donut biter."

The Fierce Ants

2008-01-25T08:42:00.001-08:00

Editor's Note:

Last week, I posted the now infamous story about how my wife accidentally wiped her butt with a lizard. This week, I decided to post the story that almost ran instead. Each week, I usually take one theme, build a couple of variations and decide at the last minute which mood or narrative I want to take. Last week, I decided to use Florida's wildlife as a metaphor for the alienation my family is feeling. I ultimately chose to go with a humorous (but very true) slant, but I also used the same wildlife to evoke a slightly different flavor. You can decide if I made the correct editorial decision. Or conversely, you could just decide that I'm a pretentious bastard. Do with it what you will.

---

In Virginia, we didn't have lizards. In Florida, multi-colored lizards cling to a trees and windows just about everywhere you look. We didn't have fire ants in Virginia either - just the regular kind that don't bite.

Here in Florida, we see people demonstrating against illegal immigrants. There wasn't much of that in Virginia, really. We had illegal immigrants, for sure, but something is different about the immigration issue in Florida. In our new town, protesters picket the building where illegal immigrants, mostly Guatemalan, gather to get day work. Most of the protesters carry signs and a few carry video cameras so they can film the employers who hire the illegal immigrants.

I saw a video on YouTube where one protester actually filmed the license plate of an employer and told him that he could find the video on an immigration enforcement Web site. Eventually, the person being filmed physically confronted the guy with the camera.

It's not just the ants that bite in Florida.

Inflated Dewlaps

2008-01-18T08:38:00.001-08:00

Two weeks ago, my family and I moved to Florida from Virginia. I lived in Florida when I was a boy and we've visited many times in recent years, but I'd forgotten just how different Florida is. In Florida, for instance, you hear people speaking Spanish twenty times a day. You rarely heard Spanish in Virginia. And you know what else I rarely heard?

My wife screaming in terror and disgust.

But here in Florida, we have lizards - which means that I get to hear my wife's terrified screams every couple of days.

At first, I thought Bridget was overreacting. When they're mating or threatened, lizards naturally seek to make themselves seem larger and stronger - which explains why lizards strike aggressive intimidating poses whenever you see one.

I suspect that, in humans, this may also explain the Hair Club for Men.

But lizard poses barely bother my wife. The lizards could inflate and deflate their dewlaps all day long without ever causing my wife to scream. What bothers my wife is the lizards' insistence that they run over her feet in the dark. This has happened to her four times in two weeks. It has not happened to me at all. My wife thinks that the leathery lizards are deliberately targeting her. And she may be right.

This morning, the lizards escalated.

I heard my wife's horrible scream coming from our bathroom at 8 a.m. Her scream sounded so terrible that I didn't suspect a lizard at first. I heard her second scream and her uncontrollable sobbing when I was halfway to the bathroom. I expected to find something horrific - blood or something. There was no blood, but something horrific had happened.

I want to explain this delicately because my wife reads this blog. Unfortunately, "delicate" usually gets in the way of "funny" and I can't have that. So here goes:

A small lizard decided to cling to the toilet paper in our bathroom this morning at roughly the same time my wife decided to urinate.

You can probably figure out the rest. There is, however, no fun in that and I've decided to describe the incident. To be delicate, I'm using nothing but verbs.

Cling. Wipe. Wiggle. Scream. Wiggle. Jump. Scream. Cry. Run. Laugh.

To be fair, that last verb was not the lizard or my wife. That was me.

My wife was still shaking when I took her to work this morning. In the front yard, I saw maybe three lizards on branches smugly inflating and deflating their dewlaps.

What's a dewlap? It's a flap of skin just under the throat that lizards puff up to attract mates. It may also explain some women that I saw at the mall.

The Gahusbander

2008-01-10T08:02:00.000-08:00

I realized something this last holiday season.

Christmas parties scare me.

To begin with, I'm uncomfortable with Turducken - and Turducken is way popular at holiday parties lately. As an American, I understand its appeal. It's three foods in one - turkey stuffed with chicken that's been stuffed with duck. It's like a Transformer you can eat.

But if I eat it - and my stomach is stuffed with Turducken - am I now potentially part of this greasy, edible Russian nesting doll? Have I essentially become a Grim Turducken?

I think about these things a lot.

Here's the other thing about holiday parties that truly scares me: the dancing.

Every husband knows how the holiday party works. Our job is to dress up in uncomfortable ties and eat mounds of finger food while sprinkling awkward pauses into random conversations. And, at some point during the night, we are contractually bound to dance once with our wives. Although this annual dance is mandatory, we do have the option of waiting for a slow dance. Since we only learned one dance in high school, it's a great option.

Inevitably, though, at least one wife has brought a husband who actually likes to dance.

We hate this guy.

Not only does this guy like to dance, he likes to dress, too. He's the guy wearing cologne and a tie pin. His shoes are polished and he got a hair cut specifically for this party. If one of the women decides to bust out some karaoke, he's down for it. He knows the Hustle, The Electric Slide and the Cha Cha Cha Slide.

He's not really a husband. He's a husband stuffed inside of a dancer stuffed inside of platonic gay friend. He's a gahusbander.

And once the gahusbander starts dancing, things start to go downhill. The wives, who have contented themselves by dancing with other wives, now start to glare at the sullen husbands nervously discussing golf and NASCAR. And the wives begin to resent us.

Panic sets in with most husbands at this point. If you combine women, alcohol, years of pent-up dance moves and a gahusbander, you are maybe five minutes from an explosion of Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive."

And sure enough, that's how most of these parties end - with the wives dancing together, glaring at the husbands and lip-synching meaningfully in their direction:

"But I spent so many nights thinking how you done me wrong and I grew strong; I learned how to get along."

And the gahusbander? His work is done at this point. He's licking his fingers at the food table. And he's probably eating Turducken.

Beefed Up Wind Instruments

2007-12-27T19:19:00.000-08:00

The gauntlet has been thrown down.

Each year, my friend Kevin and his family send out a Christmas card. Tucked in each of these cards is a three paragraph note detailing what Kevin's family has accomplished during the year. The paragraphs organize themselves by family member - starting with Kevin, moving to his wife and finally closing with the details about their smart, talented daughter.

It is very similar to other holiday letters we receive, except for one thing:

Kevin's family accomplishes an amazing amount of crap in one year.

Kevin, for instance, is a project manager on two major government construction projects. He's been selected by a trade magazine as one of fifty up and comers for his field. In his spare time, he got a law degree. His daughter is no slouch, either. She goes to school and takes multiple classes outside of school. In her spare time, she wrote a book.

In my spare time this year, I taught my kids to fart the melodies to all the songs on Britney Spears' comeback album.

As impressive as that accomplishment is, I still feel like something of a slacker when I look at Kevin's annual letter. So, I've decided to do something about it. I'm going to send out my own letter. Obviously, I can't go back in time and urge my family to achieve more than they actually did. No, it's much more practical for me to just lie about our achievements.

"When he wasn't spending hours working on his award-winning blog, Grim Richard mapped and sequenced his own human genome using parts salvaged from abandoned bread-making machines and exercise equipment. He also was nominated for, but did not win, a Nobel Peace Prize for his work on the half life of french fries lost in the fissures of car seats."

Now, we're getting somewhere.

"His wife, when not perfecting her technique for growing breast tissue with her mind, finished writing and inking her twelve volume graphic novel detailing the history of the Middle East - making it the first graphic novel written in English, Farsi and Esperanto."

I'm starting to like my family better already. But my letter needs a little truth to keep it anchored to reality...

"Grim Richard produced and re-mixed Britney Spears' comeback album, Blackout, using "found" instruments and a beefed-up wind section...."

Yep. that's it.

Catnip for Chicks

2007-12-20T08:16:00.000-08:00

Ahhhhh! Our small house rings with sound of cooking, caroling and giftwrapping.

My only complaint? It's difficult to concentrate on video games like Call of Duty 4 or Halo 3 with all of that ringing Christmas crap going on in the background.

Every married video game player faces the same conundrum. How do you fit quality time with your wife into your already hectic video game schedule? And when you're spending that quality time with your wife, what's the best way to pretend that you're not thinking about playing video games?

It' a question as old as Atari, my friend.

My personal strategy combines elements of chess, timing and a keen understanding of my wife's television-viewing habits. When I get home from work, I resist the urge to jump online and play video games. Instead I do something less intuitive - I help around the house. My wife notices this pretty quickly.

"You're not going to play video games?" she asks.

"No," I reply. "I figured we'd watch T.V. together on the couch. You can lay down and I'll rub your feet."

At this point, my wife senses the trap, but to no avail. For some reason, foot rubbing is like catnip for chicks. They can't resist it and my wife is no exception. She positions herself on the couch; I turn on the Lifetime channel which, when combined with foot rubbing, forms a potent cocktail unrivaled by even Valium. My wife is snoring within 15 minutes. Then, I go play video games for three hours.

If she asks the next day, I tell her that I rubbed her feet for about an hour and then went to bed early.

I mentioned my strategy to a fellow video gamer at work.

"I use a different strategy," he said.

He begins the same way I do, by watching television with his wife. He tolerates it as long he can and then, when he can't stand it anymore, he turns to his woman, looks soulfully into her eyes...

"...and then I touch her boobs," he said.

Her response is almost instantaneous. She doesn't even look away from the television.

"Why don't you go play some video games, baby?"

The Web's Only Honest Holiday Gift Guide

2007-12-15T08:13:00.000-08:00

The Web's Only Honest Holiday Gift Guide
(What You Shouldn't Buy This Christmas)

Every year, I see Web sites filling up space by publishing holiday gift guides. And every year, I see parents standing in line outside of Best Buy trying to buy the items listed in those holiday gift guides. Coincidence?

I think not.

This year I offer the Web's only honest holiday gift guide as a remedy. It's list of really cool stuff and reasons you shouldn't buy that cool stuff.

The Nintendo Wii

Every parent I know is searching fruitlessly for a Wii. It's the cheapest game console on the market and boasts revolutionary controls that encourage players to actually move and exercise when they're playing games.

My family got one last Christmas. It took my kids about an hour to figure out that big, wild, vigorous movements (you know, exercise) can be completely replaced by small, controlled wrist movements. Luckily for my kid's health, they enjoy playing a virtual reality game called "Running Around" on a revolutionary game console I call "The Outdoors."

The Lowdown: The only exercise benefit you're likely to get involves standing in line at Best Buy.

The I Phone

I really, really want one of these $400 phones with the revolutionary multi-touch interface. I want one of these so much that I harangued my wife into getting me one for Christmas - and then I withdrew my request.

You know why? It's a $400 phone. And it doesn't actually do anything better than other, cheaper phones. It just does it cooler. It's like the high school cheerleader of phones.

Hmmmm. Now, I want an I Phone again.

The Lowdown: It's expensive and won't improve your life. It does have the ability to make early adopters look cooler than they actually are, but if you don't have one by now...save your money and buy another black turtleneck.

Big Screen Televisions

The old adage says it all: size does not matter. Unless you plan to sit more than 20 feet away from your television, a huge screen size is cool for exactly ten minutes - and then it looks like every other television screen.

The Lowdown: Bigger does not mean better. If someone tries to tell you different, they're either trying to sell you a television set, trying to justify why they bought one or compensating because of other, uh, size issues.

Gift Cards

You realize that this is a scam right? Stores offer them because up to 30% of the money put on these cards is never used - resulting in pure profit for the stores.

The Lowdown: If you'd like to approximate the purchase of a gift card for a friend without actually buying one, do this: withdraw $100 from your bank account. Hand $70 to your friend. Light the remaining $30 on fire and hug while you watch the money turn to dust.

Happy holidays!

The Unreview

2007-12-06T09:02:00.000-08:00

I'm a man with varied and eclectic interests that include reading, writing and working on elaborate science projects with my kids. I am, however, also a busy man and I've concluded that actually spending time on any of these interests would consume way too much of my discretionary time. For this reason, I don't actually participate in any of my hobbies, but I do enjoy buying stuff that gives me the appearance of actually participating.

Lately, instead of reading, I've been trying to buy Amazon's new electronic reading device, the Kindle. The Kindle, for those who don't know, is a white, paperback-sized device that lets you buy books wirelessly and begin reading them almost instantly - all for the low price of $400. I used the phrase "trying to buy" because the Amazon Kindle is sold out and will not be available until February.

A person less dedicated to buying stuff might use this opportunity to actually read books the old fashioned way. Not me. Instead, I've spent hours reading the Amazon reviews for the Kindle. I haven't actually learned anything new about the device, but I have learned something cool about the consumers who write Amazon reviews:

Hundreds of people who have never actually touched the device have given it negative reviews. That's right. Of the hundreds of negative reviews garnered by the Kindle, only a fraction were written by people who've actually used the device.

Frankly, this was an epiphany. For years, I've held back my opinion on various products because I hadn't actually used them. I've stifled my thoughts on hundreds of movies I haven't seen and buried my feelings concerning thousands of books I haven't had the time to read.

I had no idea you could unreview something.

Well, I'm going to make up for lost time. I'm planning to become the Internet's - nay, the world's - best unreviewer. And I've started by unreviewing the Kindle. You can read my unreview here.

Those Damn Sunday Shoes

2007-11-29T11:26:00.000-08:00

On the day after Thanksgiving, my two sons, aged five and eight, decided to get full-on, 80s-style Mohawks. This was decided by the boys and their mother within the space of five minutes. Within an hour, each of the boys sported a closely-shaved head with a thick, hairy stripe of rebellious hair running down the middle.

The Mohawk is a classic rebellion move, designed to give a big, fat hairy finger to "The Man." I would be immensely proud of my kids, if it weren't for one thing:

I hate my kids' Mohawk haircuts.

This confused me at first. Why would their haircuts bother me? Both of the boys look kinda cool. And, as far as I know, neither of them are going for any job interviews in the near future.

Then I realized what the problem was. I am "The Man." I discipline the boys. I force them to eat leafy, green vegetables. I make them do homework. I have - God help me - actually bought them food from McDonald's that didn't come with some kind of toy.

I'm not supposed to like their Mohawks.

Don't mistake me. I don't like being "The Man." In fact, I specifically purchased my IPod to show that I'm not like the rest of my peers. No way. I'm hip. I'm cool. I'm so funky, in fact, that I need a portable music device with a thousand songs on it because the urge to dance might overcome me at any moment.

You know, like Ren McCormack in "Footloose." I can't count the number of times I've stifled the urge to kick off my Sunday shoes.

She Owes Them

2007-11-18T13:36:00.000-08:00

Winona Ryder's refusal to do a nude scene has not only irritated and frustrated her male fans, it has endangered her chances of ever collecting a Best Actress Oscar.

I learned this surprising bit of news last night as I chomped down a Hooter's hamburger with two of my oldest friends, Kieth and Matt.

"It's true," said Kieth, a big guy with long hair. "You have to do a nude scene before you can get a Best Actress Oscar."

Matt scratched his grey, untrimmed beard. "Tell that to Reese Witherspoon. She won it for "Walk the Line" without taking off her clothes."

"I didn't say the actress has to be naked in the role that wins her the Oscar," countered Kieth. "Only that she has to get naked on film before she can win the Oscar. Reese Witherspoon had a topless scene in "Twilight".

"No way," Matt and I said simultaneously. I wondered where my Blockbuster card was.

"Yep." said Kieth. "It's why Natalie Portman took her clothes off in the recent "Hotel Chevalier". It had nothing to do with the story; she just wanted to get the nude scene out of the way."

"How do you explain Dame Judi Dench?"

Kieth deflected it. "I don't have to explain Judi Dench. She's never won the Best Actress Oscar. She was, however, naked in a 60s movie called "A Midsummer's Night's Dream".

"Yep," said Matt, "That Shakespeare dude has gotten a lot of girls in trouble."

Kieth continued. "Charlize Theron? Nude scene. Hallie Berry? Nude scene. Hillary Swank? Nude scene. Nicole Kidman? Ditto."

"Aha!" I said. "Julia Roberts. Julia Roberts is famous for never doing a nude scene."

"She's doing her nude scene later. Like Kathy Bates did. She got the Oscar for "Misery", but the did the nude scene the next year in "At Play in the Fields of the Lord". Have you ever wondered why she takes her clothes off on film?"

"All the time," I admitted.

"She owes them for the Oscar."

Save the Children's Foreheads!

2007-11-02T08:40:00.000-07:00

Before I became a dad, I assumed that parents carried out one main function - raising their children to be productive members of society. This sacred duty, I thought, probably involved spending time with your kids, passing on important life lessons and occasionally motivating my kids to achieve more.

Oh, naive, base fool!

I now understand that my primary parenting job is to watch television and have the crap scared out of me by parenting experts. Oh, I'm still responsible for turning my kids into efficient cogs in the societal machine, but really there's not much time for that.

Right now, for instance, I'm confronting the twin terrors of deadly, unstoppable staph infections and the deadly, lurking dangers of lead-painted toys. And these are relatively new terrors. I was already juggling trans fats, childhood obesity, attention-deficit syndrome, Internet predators, child safety seats, toy magnets, stranger danger and video game violence.

I'm pretty busy just being terrified.

I'm on top of it, though. I'm slowly but surely removing all potential sources of danger from my children's lives. I've decided to share my list of the top four actions concerned parents can take to danger-proof their children's lives.

The Outside is Bad - Circumvent the child safety seat problem and the stranger danger problem by forcing your children to remain in their rooms when they're not at school. If you must expose your children to the outside in order to get them to school, remember to apply huge amounts of sunscreen to their exposed surfaces. Also, don't forget the bug spray or you're just begging for lyme disease, West Nile and Malaria. Anyone is potentially a predator, so teach your children to avoid speaking with anyone. In fact, my experience shows that teaching children to talk at all just invites problems.
Friends are Bad, Too - Generally speaking, I'd love for my kids to have friends. Unfortunately, friends are major vectors of infection, teen pregnancy and a love of hip-hop. Studies show that kids are 87% less likely to bow to peer pressure if they don't actually have any peers.
Danger Proof Your Home - Over 85% of homes are built almost entirely out of sharp, 90 degree angles. Corners are dangerous. As a child, I once got my head stuck in a corner for well over three hours with permanent consequences. Only my special haircut hides the sharp indentation down the center of my forehead. I recommend puttying over the corners in your house. While you're at it, remove the furniture and replace the beds with fire-retardant blankets securely fastened to the floor.
Remove the Media - Get rid of the televisions and video games. Burn that copy of Catcher in the Rye. Deny your kids access to most of the Internet because it's chock full of predators and, even worse, dangerous friends. Do allow them access to blogs because blogs are the best source of accurate lists of potentially dangerous stuff.

Well, that's my list. Use it well. I'm heading to the kitchen now so that I can throw out anything with corn syrup, partially hydrogenated vegetable oil or sugar. It's tough work, but I'm doing it for my kids. Sure, they're pale, mute, friendless, illiterate and afraid of right angles - but at least they're safe.

Baz Truman Returns!

2007-10-26T12:07:00.000-07:00

Editor’s Note:

For years, workers have suffered through the advice of pundits, over-achievers and corporate lackeys, some of whom have had only three or four jobs in their entire lives.

Wouldn’t it be better to get career advice from someone with experience at literally thousands of jobs?

Baz Truman thinks so. Since the early 1980s, Baz Truman has been working at and getting fired from more jobs in a week than most people get fired from in a lifetime. Baz’ single-minded determination to excel at his career - no matter the cost – has gotten him fired from some of the world’s biggest and brightest companies.

The Most Fired Man in America
By Baz Truman

Q. I'm fairly new to Human Resources and still learning my craft. Since you have more experience getting fired from jobs than anyone in America, I'm wondering if you have any tips you can give out to the professional on the other side of the table who's doing the firing. Any suggestions?
Terminating Neophyte

Dear Terminating Neophyte:

After hundreds of terminations, I've gotten to see just as many techniques in action. I've found that every Human Resources person has their own technique as individual as a snowflake - only you wouldn't want to eat one of these snowflakes because they're bitter and much, much colder than a regular snowflake.

Ha ha ha ha. Just kidding.

That's exactly what's missing from most terminations - the spirit of fun. I've got a few suggestions to liven up any termination meeting and send everyone home with a smile on their face. Except maybe the employees who are getting fired. If you don't have the kind of experience I do, it's easy to get caught up in the whole "I don't have and job and I can't pay my bills" thing.

Here's my list of "Dos" and "Don'ts":

Do pick some kind of theme for the termination. Instead of wearing a business suit to the meeting, wear a Hawaiian shirt and flip-flops. Hand the employee a beach towel and bottle of suntan lotion and turn the negative meeting into a positive by saying brightly, "Guess who's got a lot more time to go to the beach?"

Then point to the employee.

I know what you're thinking. How will the employee have time to go to the beach if he or she is looking for a new job? That's exactly what makes it so funny.

Don't bring paperwork to the meeting. The employee is not going to agree with you any way. Why spend the last few minutes you're ever going to have with this employee detailing his or her faults and signing documents?

Finally:

Don't use a security guard theme if you can possibly help it. In my experience, security guards almost always "oversell" the joke, no matter how much you wink to let them know you're in on the joke. Take it from me, tasers are only funny the first couple of times.

Sincerely,

Baz Truman The Most Fired Man in America

General Mom

2007-10-19T07:39:00.000-07:00

My wife left town today to attend her sister's wedding. This seems like a monumental mistake to me because, frankly, I am not qualified to take care of three kids by myself.

Our family has already ignored the first rule of parenting - which says that the total number of kids should never surpass the total number of parents. Bridget and I smugly assumed that this rule applied to other, less capable people. We were wrong about this. Time and again, the three to two ratio has meant that two of our kids could effectively launch frontal attacks to distract us while the third child moved to flank us. I use battle metaphors only half in jest because parenting is exactly like war, except the troops fight for and against you. And the battles usually end with an entire roll of toilet paper mysteriously wedged into an overflowing toilet.

No, parenting requires a capable general - and our general is on furlough.

This morning, for instance, the kids began their assault, as usual, at breakfast.

"What's for breakfast?" asked Gabriel.

Normally, General Mom would issue marching orders at this point.

"Julian, get bowls out and set the table. Gabriel, get the milk out of the refrigerator. Riley, get your underpants off of the dog's head."

Then she looks at me. "And you should stop laughing at the dog. It's only encouraging Riley."

This is exactly the right way to handle the breakfast situation. Each unit is given clear orders with little room for interpretation. Even the dog appreciates the clarity.

How did I handle the same situation this morning?

"Uh, what would you like to have for breakfast?" I asked.

Apparently, the troops wanted one bite of peanut butter toast, one spoonful of yogurt, one piece of bacon and fifteen glasses of milk. They also clamored for chocolate sauce, which I might have given them except I had already used the entire bottle for my own breakfast.

I am no General Mom.

I know my wife will read this blog entry today, so let me say this:

Under your capable leadership, the troops have always assumed that I was second-in-command. You've only been gone about four hours, however, and the troops are beginning to realize that I am, at best, an enlisted soldier like themselves.

We love you. We know you deserve a couple of days with your family. But this is war, dammit! With all due respect, your furlough has been revoked.

3 and a Half Pack

2007-10-12T08:37:00.000-07:00

Two exciting "husband" things have happened to me recently:

First, I bought the "Halo 3" video game and have been playing it online almost every night. For those who don't know, "Halo 3" allows you to battle players from around the world in a tense, futuristic setting using various lasers, grenades and machine guns. That's the promise, anyway. In actual practice, twelve year-olds from around the world use various lasers, grenades and machine guns to blow me up while casting aspersions on my mom's dating habits.

Man, I love that game.

Second, fans of this blog know that my wife became obsessed with Jake Gyllenhaal's massive biceps and forced me to start working out. Well, it worked.

Kinda.

I have lost weight and built some muscle. I don't have a six pack, but I can now pull off my shirt and proudly point to a three and a half pack. Truthfully, I suspect that the "half pack" may be a hernia. Whatever. Progress is progress - even it's big, red, bulging and painful to the touch.

And though my wife forced me to start working out, she worries that I will be tempted to put my bulging, red painful muscles to ill use if I'm out of her strict gaze. And this is where "Halo 3" intersects with my workouts.

My wife actually encourages me to play "Halo 3" because it means that I'll stay on the couch on a Friday night instead of hanging out with my bachelor friends. In other words, now that my wife feels that she's made me more attractive, she's using my favorite video game to effectively keep a leash on me.

I find this more than a little condescending and cynical. That's why I'm going to hang out with my friends this weekend. I'm grabbing the car keys, ignoring my wife's protests and going to meet my bachelor friends. If we end up at bar, my wife will just have to trust me. If my friends and I end up at a party of some kind, my wife will just have to remember that I'm a happily married, responsible adult. I told my friends that I'm up for anything this weekend, so bring it on.

I think we're playing "Halo 3" at Thad's house.

Sucker From the Future

2007-10-05T11:20:00.000-07:00

I must write quickly, for I go to clean my wife's car. I do not know how it will end. I only know that there will be a reckoning - and it will be epic.

My wife will likely read this entry at some point. Because she knows me, she will dismiss my opening sentence as hyperbole and exaggeration. But I tell you this:

The interior of my wife's car smells like winos have lived in it, slept in it and urinated in it.

No, that's not quite right.

It smells like winos lived in it, slept in it, urinated in it and were eventually chased out by a feral wolverine family who also urinated in it to unsuccessfully remove the smell of the winos.

I don't blame my wife for most of this; I blame my children. Those three kids have lost more food inside that car than most small countries need to subsist for a year, provided, of course, that the small country lives entirely on chicken nuggets and french fries.

Perhaps "lost" is the wrong word. Indeed, I've begun to suspect a kid conspiracy. "Lost" implies an accidental river of food flotsam and jetsam flowing inch by inch through the car and eventually depositing itself on some delta, perhaps a bumper.

This does not happen. I know this food is not "lost" because my kids "find" it with amazing regularity.

The other day, I looked in my rear view mirror and noticed that my three year-old daughter was enjoying one of those weirdly fluorescent bank suckers.

"Hmmm," I thought. "I don't remember getting that at that bank."

I almost jammed on the brakes. We hadn't been to the bank in three weeks. And I had cleaned out the car a week previously, scouring the car for hidden caches of junk and junk food.

"Riley!" I yelled. "Get that thing out of your mouth!"

And she did exactly that. When I got home, I pulled her out of her car seat and looked for the sucker. It had vanished.

So, I'm going out the clean the car again. I will take my usual complement of weapons, some of which you don't normally see used on car - a mop, for instance. I don't expect to find that bank sucker. I imagine that a thousand years from now, an archaeologist will pore over our ancient car using lasers and other futuristic crap. She will turn around to check on her daughter (in the future, kids are allowed to hang around lasers) and she will see her daughter contentedly working on that ancient bank sucker.

And it will still be fluorescent.

Grivia!

2007-09-28T13:40:00.000-07:00

Here at Grim Richard Laboratories, we've been working on a Grim Richard trivia game. Our goal? To capture the essence of Grim Richard in a game. That means that our game needs to be witty, quick and a major pain in the ass.

I think we've done it.

I owe the seeds of the idea to my good friend Kevin, who I've known since I was a kid. People who went over to Kevin's house invariably discovered a plate of brownies or Rice Krispies treats that his mother had baked. Kevin would let his guests dig into the sweet treats and after a few moments passed, he'd say one thing.

"You notice I'm not eating any of those."

And then he wouldn't say anything else about the treats, nor would he answer questions about his statement. It was pure genius. We never stopped eating the treats, but it was harder to enjoy them because you were never sure what he meant when he said that.

We call our new game, Grivia - Grim Richard's Gross Trivia Game - and it's based on the same premise. Wait for the right moment and then announce something that is vague, factually true and possibly disturbing. For instance:

Three friends and I were hanging out one day when one of us farted. Farting, as many people know, is the primary bonding currency among guys and supplants football, NASCAR and scrapbooking. We naturally returned the salute in the customary way, mock indignation and an hour-long discussion about the pungency and loudness of the flatulence. I saw my chance to take it to the next level.

"Scientists have discovered that if you can smell a fart, that means that you have particles of fart in your nose."

This stopped the conversation cold. According to Grivia rules, I scored ten points for each disturbed listener for a total of 30 points. Actually, I scored 40 points because it even disgusted me a little.

Grivia is not a game for wimps. Or polite people.

You also score an additional 100 points if someone is still thinking about the statement days or years later. And I'm really good at picking up these bonus points.

The other night, I walked in the kitchen as my wife poured a tall, cold glass of milk. As she lifted it to her lips, I saw my opportunity.

"You know, technically, you're drinking cow breast milk," I said.

My wife kept drinking because she's played Grivia before. She set the glass down and turned to me. She had a milk mustache.

"You know, technically, you're an ass."

I would have been offended, but she said it with love.

Giant Angry Girl

2007-09-20T15:03:00.000-07:00

My 3 year-old daughter is an angry girl.

Today, for instance, I visited a driving range with Riley in tow. She hates golf of any kind unless it involves her riding fast in a golf cart, so in preparation for our trip, I attempted to placate her with a Slurpee.

This worked for me, but not for the unfortunate driving range attendant who attempted conversation with my little blond daughter.

"Some lucky girl got a Slurpee today!" he said.

Full of sugar and spice, she responded the way any sweet girl would.

"I'm gonna eat your brain!" she yelled. And then launched her amazing scowl at him, keeping one eye wide open, the other eye tightly closed into a squint and her mouth curled into a fierce grimace.

The attendant actually turned pale. I went with a different shade - red.
"Whoah," he said. "I hope that Slurpee isn't your breakfast."

This is what people say when they think one of my kids is getting too much sugar.

"It's not the sugar," I want to explain. "It's high fructose angst."

I shall present further evidence. A few months ago, my two sons were drawing and coloring quietly at the kitchen table. This was a remarkable coloring session in two ways. First, the boys were not fighting and, second, they were actually drawing AT the kitchen table and not ON the kitchen table.

Riley came downstairs and into the kitchen with her baby doll hanging from one hand and her thumb in her mouth. She took the thumb from her mouth, which made a popping noise. Then she looked at the boys.

"Woozers," she said.

This is Riley's pronunciation of the word "losers". Then she unleashed her angry girl scowl and went back upstairs.

Riley also wants to be a giant. Because she's maybe three feet tall, this might seem like a conundrum for other, less angry little girls.

Not for Riley.

Whenever the mood hits - and no matter where it hits - she seeks me out. Then she holds out her arms as if to hug me and announces, "I wanna be a giant." My job is not to hug her, but to hoist her on my shoulders and walk around to other, shorter people.

"I'm a giant," she declares defiantly.

Usually, people take this is good stride - which usually indicates they didn't get her meaning.

Riley has sweet moments, but these usually occur while she's asleep. When she's sleeping, she's a little, blond cherub sucking on her thumb and hugging her baby doll.

On the inside, though, she dreams of being a scowling giant striding across the landscape, harassing losers and well-meaning driving range attendants.

They Line Up

2007-09-13T11:09:00.000-07:00

I unleashed my kids on the public school system last week; Gabriel assaulted the second grade and Julian dipped his toe into the educational pool by going to kindergarten for the first time. As it happens every year, the school held a "meet and greet" so that parents could introduce themselves to their children's teachers and faculty could outline their plans for the kids.

My wife went to the events this year. I don't go anymore because it bothers me to hear kindergarten teachers discuss the merits of homework. And it makes me sad to know that I could hurl one of those big, fat kiddie crayons in any direction and hit a kid on Ritalin.

Gabriel was in Kindergarten when his teacher first suggested that we put him on Ritalin. She said it nicely and even pointed out that several of the kids in her class were already taking the drug. The suggestion was a green smiley-face stamp, not a red stop sign.

***

Last spring at the end of the school year, Gabriel's first grade class held a party chock full of presents, songs and hot dogs. The fiesta culminated with a giant water balloon fight. It was a poorly-planned affair that nonetheless turned out to be, well, way cool.

Originally, I think the plan was to let the kids throw the hundreds of balloons at each other. That plan quickly went south. First, we led the kids to playground and, because no one could think of anything else to do, we had the kids line up. If there's one thing elementary school kids know how to do - it's line up.

But as we parents stood in a loose group with the buckets of water balloons that we had spent hours patiently filling, we began looking at each other. With a quick shrug, we grabbed water balloons and launched them at the kids.

It took fully 20 seconds for the children to realize what had happened. It took about ten more seconds before the bravest of the kids ran forward to grab balloons of their own and fight back. And then it was on, baby.

I remember being out of breath when we ran out of balloons and I remember every single person, young and old, was smiling and wet. I remember how happy my son looked. It might have been the best moment school moment we shared that whole year. The rest was red stop signs, grueling home work sessions and, sometimes, yelling.

***

Earlier at that same end-of-school party, I watched Gabriel sitting at his desk while his teacher thanked the class for the gifts she had received. At one point, she spoke to Gabriel but he didn't notice. He had formed a piece of lined notebook paper into a tall, cylindrical castle and pretended to assault it with erasers.

And right then, I recognized me. My son was exactly like me. School would always be a struggle because he would always be imagining wild battles and amazing heroes. Homework would go undone, tests would be failed. And the very thing that I most liked about myself - my imagination - suddenly seemed like a handicap, a chronic medical condition that needed to be fixed - like asthma or a cleft palate. And I had given it to him.

***

My second son has entered school now. I'm worried for him, but I deal with it by avoiding parent/teacher conferences. I concentrate on the water balloon moments. But even that crazy, great moment bothers me. I picture our little group of parents huddled around buckets. But instead of water balloons, the buckets are filled to the brim with Ritalin. The kids laugh and giggle with excitement because they don't know what's coming. But they line up. Because if there's one thing that elementary kids know how to do - it's line up.

Mini-Mack

2007-08-30T18:19:00.000-07:00

I knew that my mojo had been missing for a while; a guy's mack doesn't just disappear without him realizing it. But as a husband, I assumed that I still possessed a Mack and had purposefully hid it because I didn't need it at the moment - like a sheriff who no longer wears his badge because the town is safe. But my mack is gone - and I know where it is.

My son has stolen it.

My first clue came one bright Saturday afternoon as my family and I pulled our car into our driveway and I noticed one of our neighbors, an attractive woman, working in her yard. I only saw her out of the corner of my eye. I did this on purpose.

All married men instinctively know that attractive female neighbors are like eclipses - it's never healthy to look directly at them. Also, it's not healthy to talk directly to them either. I mean attractive neighbors, not eclipses. You can talk directly to eclipses if you want.

All married men also instinctively know that you shouldn't grunt with appreciation when you see your attractive neighbor working in her yard, so it surprised me when I heard myself let out an exclamation:

"Oommph."

I looked quickly at my wife, expecting to see a disapproving look on her face. And that look was there, but she wasn't looking at me. She was looking at my four year-old son, Julian.

I hadn't slipped at all. I hadn't made the inappropriate grunt of earthy approval. Julian had developed his own Mini Mack.

My wife turned to me. "Is he supposed be doing that this early?"

"Uh, no?"

Married men know that this is the correct answer.

Cut to another sunny afternoon two weeks later. My children and I rode in the car again, this time without my wife. A Harley-Davidson motorcycle passed us on the driver's side of the car. The guy driving it was not your typical middle manager playing biker on the weekends; he's tanned, muscled and covered with tattoos. On the back of the motorcycle, a beautiful blond woman held onto his waist. I noticed that she was beautiful out of the corner of my eye, because it's also dangerous to stare at eclipses with muscled, tattoo-covered boyfriends.

Here's the thing, though. She was staring at me. And she was smiling.

This confused me. I felt certain that my mack was hidden. But it occurred to me that sometimes really, really strong macks have a way of being noticed. Still, I'm a happily married guy, so I appreciated this information but I wasn't going to lock eyes with this woman.

But every time our car came along side the motorcycle, the woman looked directly at me and smiled. She even waved and I wondered how long it would take her boyfriend to notice what she was doing.

Both of our vehicles came to a stop light. The blond continued to look over her shoulder and smile. And just then, her boyfriend turned around and looked at his girlfriend and then toward our car.

He smiled.

"I've got an action figure!" Julian said from the seat directly behind me.

Sure enough, Julian was kneeling in his seat. He held a Bionicles action figure out of the window. He had the woman's full attention. She looked right past me.

The action figure was the toughest to take. Women don't smile at action figures. I've got action figures, but I have to hide them in the closet, dammit! Julian didn't though. Julian had made it part of his mack.

That's when I knew. I wasn't the sheriff. The town was safe, but that was because my son had taken my badge.

LifeCracker

2007-08-23T08:18:00.000-07:00

Here at Grim Richard Laboratories, we strive to maximize your productivity, simplify your life, save time and give you something to read on your laptop in the bathroom. Accordingly, we'd like to introduce our new feature, LifeCracker.

LifeCracker brings you a wealth of helpful tips, tricks and shortcuts that you can use to completely dominate people who don't understand e-mail and "to do" lists as well as you do. LifeCracker lets you focus your obsessive compulsive tendencies like a laser and literally kill the filthy procrastinators who never understood your need to organize your underwear by brand and thread count.

Plus, we do it with lists. Let's get started with our tips:

Pre-Lather for Your Next Shave (and Other Shaving Hacks)

Everyone loves shaving cream. Used properly, it makes your shaving nearly pain-free and reduces the occurrence of unsightly blemishes and ingrown hairs. If only you didn't have to apply it every morning in order for it to be effective! Think of the time that could be saved every morning if you didn't have to reach for the shaving can before you began shaving. Instead, try these shaving hacks:

1. Pre-Lather for Your Next Shave

You've just finished shaving. You've still got the can in your hand. Why not just lather up for tomorrow morning? Ignore the stares at the office. You've just save 50% of your reaching-for- the-shaving-cream-can time!

2. Grow a Beard

Believe it or not, growing a beard is the easiest way to avoid shaving completely. Ladies, go a la francais. You'll find that you're saving money on dating, too!

Embrace the LAGTD System

Do you find yourself procrastinating at work and home, constantly disappointing your co-workers and family because you're so behind on your various projects? Think about using our new organization system, Lying About Getting Things Done, or LAGTD.

It's simple to use. The next time your wife asks if you've taken out the garbage, just lie and say you did. The next time your boss asks if you finished formatting the annual report, just nod and lie through your teeth. Then e-mail him or her whatever you've got.

The last step of the LAGTD system is important. Always finish your lie by giving the other person a thumbs up. It reassuring.

Follow the LAGTD system and you'll free up nearly 75% of your day to do whatever you want.

Make Lists Instead of Actually Writing Your Blog

Take it from us, writing a personal blog can be time consuming. Sure, it's easy to get ideas, but the hard part is coming up with that pesky beginning, middle and end stuff. That's why we make lists whenever we run out of ideas. We find that making lists radically cuts down the actual amounts of content that we need to produce. An even better strategy? Making lists of other people's lists.

Moist!

2007-08-17T08:25:00.000-07:00

One of my nieces left for her first day of college today. Normally, this would only be a bittersweet moment for her parents, but I'm taking it pretty hard, too. I'll explain why.

First, I've known my niece since she came wailing into this world. Her entrance to college forces me to confront the fact that she's like eighteen years-old. That, in turn, makes me confront the fact that I'm...let's see...add the nine...carry the one...oh, yeah - really fricking old. I think it's really selfish of her to put this education thing ahead of my personal comfort, but that's kids for you nowadays.

More importantly, Grim Richard's Irregulars outsources much of its work to a labor force consisting almost entirely of my nieces. I call this NieceSourcing. My nieces work much more cheaply than, say, Chinese toothpaste makers, and this cost savings is passed on to you, the reader, in the form of free weekly updates - and sometimes - free weakly-written weekly updates. Since I only have five nieces, losing one eliminates like, uh, 43% of the Grim Richard workforce.

Or whatever. I outsource my math, too.

My nieces also comprise over 132% of the Grim Richard Institute of Science, a sub entity of Grim Richard's Irregulars that's been working on a top secret research project. Our amazingly secret goal? We've discovered the most disturbing word in the English language.

Nope. It's not that one. It's "moist".

Many researchers have pegged "moist" as disgusting prior to our study, but our rigorous testing confirms that it takes the coveted "Most Disgusting" designation. Admittedly, most of this testing involved me standing around crowded places on hot days and yelling, "It's so hot! Omigod, I'm moist!".

Then our researchers record the number of disgusted looks in my general area.

Anyway, my oldest niece is going to college. She insists on growing up, even though I've laboriously explained the disadvantages of doing so. It's a bittersweet moment and I try not think about it too much.

It makes my eyes, uh, moist.

Kid Lo-Jack and Halo Head

2007-08-09T09:17:00.000-07:00

After writing last weeks treatise on super powers I'd really, really want at a comic convention, it occurred to me that super powers would be also be useful in my everyday, mundane life as a husband and father. For instance:

Rapid Argument Losing

One of the biggest bummers about being a husband involves the slow pace of argument loss. It's a foregone conclusion that you will lose almost every argument with your wife, yet still arguments can take days or weeks to wind themselves down to their conclusion. This power allows husbands to wind time forward directly to their loss using a big, showy blast of energy from their hands. The blast of energy isn't necessary, but it does allow us to feel cool while we're losing. And, really, that's all that a husband wants.

Kid Lo-Jack

I'd like the ability to know where my kids are at all times. Add the ability to freeze them at that position and you've got Kid Lo-Jack, maybe one of the most useful super powers ever. I'd definitely trade both super breath and super leap for this one. But I wouldn't trade heat vision. No husband would ever give up the ability to shoot laser beams from his eyes.

Flaw-Hiding Ability

While many nerds might fantasize about shape-changing or other morphing powers, I'd just like the ability to hide my physical flaws from my kids until they're old enough to realize that they shouldn't mention them to me. I'm not considered a fragile person, but one "Dad, you're breath stinks" followed closely by a "Dad, why does your belly shake?" can ruin an entire day.

A Duplicate of Me Who Likes to Talk About My Wife's Day at Work

I never talk to my wife about my day at work, no matter how bad that day was. My wife, though, enjoys spending an hour elaborating on her work day, complete with details concerning who yelled at whom, why various people don't know what they're talking about and what she would do if she had control over the business. Sometimes, when my cantankerosity claws its way to the surface, I suggest that she stop whining and apply for a management job. A clone would never make this mistake.

Halo in My Head

I would even give up laser beams from my eyes for this one. Playing Halo on my X Box 360 is addictive. It's only flaw? People can catch me playing it when I'm supposed to be doing something more important. But what if I could play it mentally, without anyone knowing? Do you know how good I'd be at Halo deathmatch if I could play it at work and appear to be thinking or working? With enough practice, I might even be able to beat trash-talking 11 year-olds.

Some Unspecified, Important and Benevolent Power

Early in the writing of this column, I planned to devote at least one paragraph to imagining a power that wasn't entirely selfish but, honestly, something good came on television.

Ah, television. It's like my kryptonite.

Paul McCartney and Fizzy Nipples

2007-08-03T07:35:00.000-07:00

So, I'm back from the San Diego ComicCon where I saw many amazing things. For instance, did you know that it's possible to fit well over 225 pounds of nerd into a Spider-man costume that's only rated to hold about 150 pounds of nerd?

I swear it's true.

I also had the opportunity to stand in my very first mile-long line. It stretched down the front of the mammoth convention center, around the side, down the back of convention center and eventually wended into a highway underpass. So, basically it was like a Starbuck's line only no one tried to sell me Paul McCartney's new album - which was cool, because a man can only take so much.

In any case, mile-long lines give you plenty of time to think. Since I was at a comic convention, I spent most of the time speculating about the kind of super powers I'd like to have. My list turned out to be very convention-specific.

For instance:

The Power to Dispense Fountain Beverages from My Fingers

Hey, it was hot standing in line. The power originally involved dispensing fountain soda from my breasts, but how could I hide my fizzy lactation while in my secret identity? Plus, two nipples limits me to two flavors.You gotta think ahead, people.

The Power to Fly On Time

Getting to and from San Diego involved multiple delayed flights, one canceled flight and one night sleeping on the floor of the San Diego airport. While most geeks dream of flying through the air like Superman, I just want to fly through the air at the time scheduled on my ticket.

The Power to Ask Really Original Questions

The convention had movie, book and comic writers participating in panels that usually concluded with a question and answer session. As if codified into natural law, the fans asked every single writer the same question:

"Your ideas are so original. Where do you get them from?"

Apparently not the same place fans get their questions from.

At the time, though, I couldn't think of anything interesting to ask the writers either. But if I had a question super power? I'd march up to the podium, smile and confidently ask a really original question.

"Have you ever thought of having a hero who lactates fountain soda out of his breasts?"

Then I'd wait a moment and let the question just hang there in the awkward silence of the auditorium. Then the famous writer would confirm my awesome powers by asking me his own question.

"Oh, my god," he would say. "That's the sickest thing I've ever heard of."

"Where do you even get an idea like that?"

Irony Sandwiches

2007-07-20T08:57:00.000-07:00

I feel nothing but embarrassment for the consumer tools who lined up a couple of weeks ago to plunk down $600 for an I Phone. Is there anything sadder than rational human beings chasing a product like nursing puppies angling for an open nipple?

I thought about this a lot while I waited in a block-long line this morning to pick up the newest Harry Potter book. Actually, I wasn't in the line to buy the new Harry Potter book. Nope. I stood in the line for an hour to pick up a bracelet that would determine where I will stand in line later tonight when I finally get my chance to buy the new Harry Potter book.

I'm aware of the irony. Actually, that's not strong enough to describe the feelings I'm having. This is more like choking down a huge Irony sandwich. Only instead of cheese, the deli guys have added big, thick slices of irony. And instead of mayo, they spread on more irony. And there's no actual bread, there's just irony.

Whew! Making analogies is hard work! I wish I could buy some kind of product to make analogies for me.

I'm trying to fight my consumer tendencies. Yesterday, for instance, I took my kids out to lunch at Wendy's. I refused to buy the kids "Happy Meals", despite their sea gull-like cries for cheap toys. While we ate, I looked around the busy restaurant and noticed signs for Wendy's new breakfast menu. One item caught my eye. Apparently, Wendy's noticed that people really suck down the company's square-bunned Frescata sandwiches. Accordingly, Wendy's new breakfast biscuits feature - get this - square biscuits! That's right. The biscuits seem to be exactly the same as everyone else's - except they're square.

Wendy's calls them Frescuits and - God help me - I wanted to try one immediately.

Apparently, I like the taste of irony sandwiches. It's the shape I don't like.

The Reverse Big

2007-07-12T08:47:00.000-07:00

In a couple of weeks, two old friends and I will head to San Diego to attend the San Diego Comic Con. Once there, we will look at comics and science fiction stuff, buy related toys, stay up late and tell dirty jokes.

My wife okayed this trip believing that this will be a fairly innocent reunion among three mature, hard-working individuals. But we have darker plans. If our experiment goes well, the three middle-aged, flabby guys will vaporize in a blast of sulfurous, black smoke and be replaced by stupid, care-free twelve year-old boys. Stupid, care-free twelve year-old boys with credit cards.

In other words, we are attempting a Reverse Big.

This should not be confused with the Reverse Big as detailed in the Kama Sutra. The three of us are happily married. Besides, that particular Reverse Big requires women and, as I mentioned earlier, we are attending a comic convention. Our wives can rest easy.

No, we intend to create a Quantum Hanksian state as detailed in the movie "Big", but instead of growing up, we'll grow down, devolve into irresponsibility and exercise poor judgment. Some gullible physics amateurs might ask why we're not working to achieve a Quantum Reinholdian state in which a grown person actually switches bodies with one of his children, effectively forcing the child to do all of the mature stuff like going to work, paying the bills and attending meetings.

Simply put, my wife won't let me.

I detailed the experiment for my wife the other day while I watched anime on television. I had just finished playing video games with my kids and she had just started folding laundry.

"So," she said, "Your plan is to stop exhibiting any adult behavior and focus entirely on behaving like a kid?"

"Precisely," I answered.

She put down the laundry and looked at the cartoons I was watching on television.

"And how exactly will you be able to tell the difference?

I ignored the question. Did they understand Copernicus when he did whatever Copernicus did? Did they understand Tom Hanks' master plan when he was on "Bosom Buddies"?

I think not.

Celebration, Uluation

2007-07-05T07:15:00.000-07:00

It's no secret that women single-handedly hold the holiday framework together. At Christmas in our house, for instance, my wife buys and wraps most of the presents, assembles and decorates the tree and perpetuates the Santa Claus myth by making cookies on Christmas Eve. If left to my organizational skills, Christmas would likely involve taking the kids to Target to buy gift certificates followed by a Yuletide round of Halo multiplayer death matches.

It's not that guys don't like holidays. We do. We simply lack good holiday judgment. This is why so many guys celebrated the adoption of the Declaration of Independence yesterday by getting on a boat, fishing and drinking beer. From the guy perspective, this is also an excellent way to celebrate, say, Arbor Day.

This lack of judgment explains why my wife planned our Independence Day itinerary and why the holiday included no video game death matches where I blew up computer-generated characters with rocket launchers. Instead, our family walked to a nearby beach, threading in out of various drunk people, and sat down to watch fireworks set off by the very same drunk people.

Many people criticize the American propensity for celebrating by mixing alcohol, fireworks and the close proximity of children. I respond by pointing out that in many areas of the world, the celebrants also fire automatic weapons in the air and uluate. At least Americans don't ululate, for godsakes. Okay, I did personally ululate once, but it was in college and I was experimenting.

As usual, following my wife's holiday instructions paid off. We had a great time. We built sand castles and buried our feet. We applauded spectacular, brilliant explosions of fireworks and cheered on inebriated people as they lurched to the water to douse their flaming clothes.

Emotion overwhelmed me at one point. This is what family is about. No, this is what America is about.

When no one was looking, I celebrated by uluating.

Whatever You Do, Don't Plant It

2007-06-29T07:05:00.000-07:00

In my neck of the woods, vegetable gardening has catapulted in popularity. Everyone's doing it.

I don't normally notice fads; I like to keep it real. Besides, fads would only distract me from my "core" workouts - and my stronger "core" has really taken my break dancing to another level.

In this case, though, the vegetable-growing fad has caused a vegetable surplus. The houses of our neighborhood overflow with bountiful harvests. Zucchinis overwhelm the kitchen table, quickly take the counters and move on to dominate coffee tables. And the damn cucumbers? Regardless of the nutrition, they have become cucumber-some.

That's where I come in. Everyone knows that when food is involved, Grim Richard can move it from a sur-plus to a sur-minus in a few minutes. And I'm happy to do it, provided I'm not practicing pikes, handstands or freezes with my crew. I do prefer, however, home-grown vegetables from people other than my wife. My wife is new to the farming craze and that means she is weird about vegetables. We're having these kind of conversations:

Wife: Did you eat the vegetables I harvested yesterday?
Me: I only saw a cherry tomato. I couldn't think of anything you can make with one cherry tomato.
Wife: Why didn't you eat it by itself? Is there something wrong with my tomatoes?
Me: Uh, no. They're good.
Wife: Good? You don't think they're better than store-bought?
Me: Uh, your vegetables taste way better. Their vegetable skills are no match for your vegetable skills. Your vegetables cause little explosions of flavor in my mouth.

The phrase "my tomatoes" is key here. My wife nurtured these plants and that makes them different from the other vegetables we normally ignore when we're reaching for ice cream. Speaking of ice cream...

Wife: What are you eating?
Me: Vanilla ice cream. Ummmm.
Wife: You know what would go good with that?
Me: Chocolate sauce?
Wife: No. Fresh cilantro from my herb garden.

I know she'll get over it. The other day a guy at work gave me a bag of broccoli from his garden and I started my spiel.

"Ooooh!" I said. "I can't wait to get home and cook this. It smells much fresher than those pesticide bombs you buy at the grocery store."

"Whatever," said the guy. "I've got fifty bags of this stuff. I don't care if you boil it, fry it or throw it at small animals."

He leaned in closer.

"But whatever you do, don't plant it."

UMSA

2007-06-22T06:17:00.000-07:00

Here at Grim Richard's Irregulars, I've done my level best to cut down on the time I spend discussing bodily functions, breakdowns or oddities. Oh, sure, I still mention male boobs regularly, but never so often that my readers would think I'm obsessed with them and certainly not at a level which would make one suspect that I actually have a pair.

Because I don't. Seriously. I'm just saying.

For 15 years, though, one of my wife's behaviors has bothered me. The behavior troubles me so much that I must ask the boyfriends and husbands who read this column to help me answer the following, potentially gross question:

Does your wife or girlfriend enjoy popping your zits?

I've already taken a quick poll of the husbands where I work and three men meekly raised their hands.

"Sometimes," one of the men said quietly, "I'm afraid to walk around without a shirt on."

I understand how he feels. In the middle of conversations, I see my wife's eyes moving over my torso and face in search of ingrown hairs, blackheads and bulging zits. If she finds one, she roughly pushes me down and sets to work on popping it. If I protest, she desperately bargains with me.

"Let me do this," she says, "and I'll let you buy a video game."

I feel stupid. I know I should decline as a matter of principle, but I really like video games.

I've racked my brain trying to understand this obsession. Why would a grown adult fixate on naturally occurring biological bumps on my body? Why would someone objectify another person like this?

Asking these questions usually causes me to experience an Uncomfortable Moment of Self-Awareness (UMSA). I have a lot of these UMSAs. Luckily, if you ignore them, they go away quickly.

So, male readers, let us know if your wife is a zit popper. I'll feel better if I'm not alone is this. And female readers, I urge you to come out of the zit popping closet and admit you have a problem.

But please hurry. My back zit problem has gotten worse lately. I'm not sure if it's related but I woke up the other night to find my wife standing over me with bottle of vegetable oil.

"What are you doing?" I asked sleepily.

She put a glistening finger to her lips to shush me.

"Go back to sleep," she said soothingly. "They're not ready yet."

He Got Out and Walked

2007-06-15T03:48:00.000-07:00

I finished work after ten tonight, walked through my front door a half hour later and found my entire family asleep. I had missed everything important. I missed homework, I missed dinner with my family, I missed kissing my wife good night and I missed tucking my three kids in. I could have slept somewhere else and they would never know, not until morning.

I should have been home.

My beautiful, bright seven year-old Gabriel is struggling with school. My younger kids spend most nights watching television while I work and my wife slogs through swamps of consonants and vowels with Gabriel. I yell too much, the house is a mess and my younger son Julian recently asked me why I work so much. I didn't have an answer that would make sense to a four year-old.

Truth be told, I didn't have an answer that would make sense to a forty year-old either. I don't know how to explain the truth: I don't know what I'm doing. I'm winging this fatherhood thing. I don't have a plan.

But when I'm in danger of turning completely into a self-pitying, living embodiment of a Harry Chapin song, I think about James Kim.

Even before Father's Day got this close, I thought often about the tragic father who spent nine days stranded with his family in the Oregon wilderness before setting out on an ill-fated quest to find help. I wonder about his brave family and I pray that they're healing. But I almost never think about the mistakes that were made or the opportunities sorrowfully missed. I think about the overwhelmed father who, when caught in real, deadly circumstances, made the decision to get out of the car and walk for help. And when I think about him doing that, I love him as much as a man can love a man he never met.

On Father's Day, my family will give me a present. They will talk about what a great father I am and I'll accept it all with the grateful smile of someone who has kept his secret for one more year. I'll think about you other fathers on Sunday, too. But for me, Father's Day is James Kim Day.

James Kim taught me what being a father really means. It means that when you're overwhelmed, terrified and on the verge of despair, you don't give up. No matter what the consequences are, you get out and walk.

Light Beer Bono

2007-06-07T07:51:00.000-07:00

Our power winked out at 3 a.m. the other morning. With it went our lights, alarm clocks and the other necessities that my family depends on to survive modern life. For five hours, we lived like people in the 1800s. Well, actually, we were asleep for three of those hours - but I'm sure that sleeping in the 1800s sucked, too. Deprived of modern conveniences, my family surprised me.

I didn't know that if you deprive my wife of a shower, for instance, she will refuse to do anything but sit on the couch in really ugly pajamas. That's how important hot showers are to my wife. I should note here that the power outage did not cause my wife to wear the really ugly pajamas (she always does that), but normally she'll change out of those really ugly pajamas at some point and go to work.

Since my wife was completely nonplussed by the situation, I tried to be, you know, plussed. I started to give her the speech I normally give to the children - my "People in Africa" speech. I like giving this speech because it makes me feel like the light beer version of Bono - all the compassion with a fraction of the actual work.

"People in Africa..." I began.

"Shut up about people in Africa," my wife barked.

I felt less and less like Bono every second.

"We don't have any television. How am I supposed to pick my clothes if I don't know what the weather is like?"

"You could go outside, Sweety," I suggested.

My wife got up in my face. "I'm not a meteorologist, sweety. Do I look like I've got a Triple Doppler radar so that I can just look outside and gauge what the weather is going to be like?"

She had a point.

A couple of hours later, the power company had fixed whatever caused the outage. I had already gone to work by then - without a shower. To my wife's credit, I learned the hard way that my co-workers appreciate the fact that I normally take a shower every morning - even if they never mention it.

I thought about our savage time living in the 1800s and how it put our family to the test and exposed our dependencies. I thought about how that might be a good thing because it taught us a valuable lesson about the things we take for granted. I thought about how valuable lessons usually suck.

I Dot the "i" and I Cross the "t"

2007-05-25T08:41:00.000-07:00

I've been battling "Writer's Block" this week. For those who don't know, "Writer's Block" is a periodic affliction that strikes most writers and blocks them from writing - thus the name. I use the verb "battling" because it is exactly that - a horrific, internal struggle between a writer and his personal demons.

You can tell when a serious writer is battling writer's block because he or she is watching something on television.

It's easy for the layperson (especially the wife layperson) to confuse this television-viewing activity with the procrastination that regular people do in order to avoid regular work. But it's important to remember that "Writer's Block" is different in that we writers are sensitive, creative geniuses and when we watch television we are not "procrastinating", we are "battling".

Writers use television to battle Writer's Block in several ways. One method involves watching Jewel Kilcher music videos. Writers consider Jewel the patron saint of Writer's Block because she literally made millions of dollars writing the song "You Were Meant for Me". She filled this song with lines like "I brushed my teeth and I put the cap back on" and "I break the yolks; I make a smiley face". Clearly, this woman triumphed over Writer's Block. And dental tartar.

Writers also watch episodes of "Lost" because it seems afflicted with Anti-Writer's Block. Just one character, Sawyer, has watched his father kill his mother over a con man, become a con man himself, gone to jail, gotten out of jail, gone to Australia, killed an innocent man, been in an air plane accident and though he's been on a deserted island for only two months has managed to sleep with with two hot women. And Sawyer is just one of 22 characters.

The writers of "Lost" can't seem to stop writing that show.

Sometimes, even television won't cure a tough case of writer's block. When you've battled Writer's Block and lost, there's really only one thing left to do. Watch more television. Or, if you're really desperate, write a blog entry about Writer's Block. Sure, it's a cheap move, but the first sentence practically writes itself..

I dot the "i" and I cross the "t"...

The Full Jenkinson

2007-05-17T07:27:00.000-07:00

I sat in the kitchen eating cereal when my seven year-old son reared up and let me have it.

"Dad, did they have cars when you were a kid?"

"Are you joking?" I asked.

I looked at Gabriel. He was not joking and stared at me with a mixture of intense curiosity and mild pity. I recognized the look because my neighbors make the same face when I work in the yard without a shirt.

Honestly, the question irritated me. My first impulse was to irritably lash out at my son because he dared suggest that I was born prior to the widespread adoption of cars. My second and more rational impulse steered me toward educating my son about my childhood. Because rational responses tend to be boring, I discarded this option.

I decided to go all Clay Jenkinson on my son.

For those who don't know, Clay Jenkinson is a humanities scholar with a syndicated radio show who makes his living by impersonating Thomas Jefferson and other notable historical figures. According his Web site, Clay Jenkinson is "one of the most sought after humanities scholars in the United States". I like that his Web site says this - because it always seems that everyone concentrates on the illegal immigrant problem and almost no one is doing anything about the widespread proliferation of humanities scholars.

"Good Day, Citizen," I said to Gabriel.

To his credit, Gabriel turned to walk away immediately. I stopped him with a patriarchal hand on his shoulder.

"Though I cannot pretend to understand anything but the barest principles of your internal combustion engine and your "motor cars"...

Gabriel looked panicked.

"...I do feel that I can illuminate the effect of mechanical vehicles on the gentleman farmer and his place in a republic."

I think my gambit worked. The next time my son blindsides me with a question like that, though, I'm gonna let loose with the "Full Jenkinson". I can't give you all of the details, but it definitely includes wigs, man stockings and one of my childhood friends impersonating John Adams.

The Most Fired Man in America

2007-05-04T07:25:00.000-07:00

Editor’s Note:

For years, workers have suffered through the advice of pundits, over-achievers and corporate lackeys, some of whom have had only three or four jobs in their entire lives.

Wouldn’t it be better to get career advice from someone with experience at literally thousands of jobs?

The Most Fired Man in America
By Baz Truman

Q. Baz, I've been caught playing computer Solitaire twice by my boss. She says that if I'm caught one more time, I may be in danger of losing my job. My boss have even moved my cubicle assignment to just outside her door, so that she can check on me. I get my work done, but sometimes I just need a break from work. What can I do?

In Solitary Over Solitaire

Dear In Solitary Over Solitaire,

One accounting company estimates that employees spend half a billion hours a year playing computer games during work, resulting in a loss of $10 billion dollars in productivity. Most managers will look at this figure and say, damn, our company needs to get this work gaming thing under control. As America's most serial employee, I see this:

If you divide $10 billion dollars by half a billion hours, you'll see the average person playing Solitaire makes $20 an hour. That's a pretty good wage. Clearly, playing Solitaire results in a better career.

First, you need to get some space away from your boss. I recommend farting. Often and loudly. Eat the right mixture of flatulence-causing legumes for breakfast and I give it a week before you have your own laptop and a cubicle in the parking lot. Take it from me, though - if you follow this route, beware the unintended consequences of this covert operation. I believe the CIA calls this "Blowback".

I call it that, too.

Next, realize that network monitoring software makes it almost impossible to play games at work and not be caught - even if you're working alone in the parking lot. Your only rational choice is to stop playing games.

Personally, I like to get caught early and get it out of the way. This is why I give all of my work projects names like "Minesweeper", "Freejack" or "Goal-oriented Team Accounting III".

If my boss catches me, I like to open up my Outlook Calendar and point to my schedule.

"See? Right there. It clearly says I'll be working on GTA III from 9 a.m. to 10 a.m. today. You approved it."

This approach hasn't actually worked for me, but I have high hopes.

In closing, remember one thing. If America wants to beat its record of half a billion hours, we need every American doing their fair share.

That's right. If you're not being unproductive, you're not being productive.

Al Roker Gets 30%

2007-04-26T10:35:00.000-07:00

Now that summer is coming, my wife and I will be having our annual debate about the concept of "summer sweaters." It's just one of the clothes conversations we seasonally rotate, much like Pete's Wicked Ale does with its flavors. For instance, I usually have this conversation with my wife at least once every winter:

Her: "You should really wear a hat. Medical studies show that 70% of your body heat is lost through your head."

Me: "That doesn't make sense."

Her: "I saw it on the Today Show. Al Roker said it. It's a scientific fact."

Me: "So, you and Al Roker are saying that on a cold day, 70% of my body heat is lost through my head and 30% is lost through the rest of my body?"

Her: "Exactly."

Me: "So, it would actually be better for me to stand naked in the snow with a hat on than fully clothed and without a hat?"

Her: "You can shut up now."

I don't understand why people avoid conversations with me.

As I mentioned, our summer conversation flavor is "summer sweaters." My wife loves to wear 'em and I love to talk about 'em. I love to imagine the marketing meeting where the clothes manufacturers first dreamed up the concept.

Guy #1: "Okay, people we overproduced sweaters this winter and we've got a surplus of 2 million that we have to move. Who's got an idea?"

Guy #2: "I've got it! Let's cut off the arms on the sweaters and sell them in the middle of summer. We'll call them - wait for it - summer sweaters!"

Guy #1: "You're a genius, Jim. But will women buy an obviously uncomfortable item and wear it?"

Guy #2: "You're kidding, right?"

Guy #1: "Of course I am. I used to market thongs!"

I don't think my wife enjoys my ramblings about summer sweaters as much as she used to. Oh, sure, she'll walk around for days coquettishly muttering, "They don't have sleeves, you ass." and I'll usually respond with a flirty "Oh, good, because the sleeves are the really hot part of the sweater." - but it's just not the same. I need to find someone else to discuss clothes with.

This coming winter, I think I'll head up to New York and visit the Today Show. I'll find Al Roker during one of his weather reports, fling off my coat and stand there naked except for a hat. As I slowly turn blue and steam rises off my body, I ask Al this:

"There, Roker. Does that look like 30% to you?"

God of Lies and Wet Jelly Beans

2007-04-19T06:40:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, when it's quiet, I like to think about what my kids will be when they grow up. I like to think that my daughter Riley will grow up to be a doctor. Gabriel, my oldest, seems destined to become an artist of some type.

Julian, my four year-old, will consult with high school career counselors who will suggest that he become Loki, the Norse god of mischief and lies.

How do I know? I walked into my house the other day after work and saw all three of my kids sitting on the couch watching the television. I didn't see my wife, so I looked for her in the kitchen. No dice. I went back into the living room.

"Where's your mom?" I asked.

Without looking up, Julian answered, "She went to the store, Dad."

And, God help me, I actually believed him. For a few seconds, I wondered what the hell had come over my wife. Why would she leave a three year-old, a four year-old and seven year-old by themselves? What could Bridget possibly need from the store that warranted taking a risk like this?

Just then, Bridget came out of the bathroom. I looked at Julian and he was smiling like a celebrity endorser.

"Was that a good joke, Dad?" he asked.

"Not even close," I replied.

Yesterday, I sat on the couch eating orange jelly beans. Julian sat beside me and Gabriel sat on the other side of Julian. I decided to share my jelly beans as a kind of fatherly gesture. Also, I had calculated that if the boys were eating, they wouldn't be talking and I'd be able to hear the Naruto cartoon on television better.

I handed a jelly bean to Julian. With my peripheral vision I saw him looking at the jelly bean and I turned my attention back to Naruto. I handed Julian another Jelly bean.

"Here. Give one to your brother Gabriel," I said.

A few seconds later, Gabriel made a weird sound.

"Ugh," Gabriel said. "Why is my jelly bean wet?"

Julian had turned his face away from his brother and toward me. He smiled a huge, bright smile and gave me a thumbs up gesture - like a pilot - or, more correctly - like a pilot who had just handed something strangely moist to another pilot.

I considered yelling at Julian but, honestly, it was a good joke. Even now, I have no idea what Julian did to the jelly bean. I glimpsed Julian's possible future as Loki, god of mischief and lies. The Wizard of Lies. The Sly God.

At least he won't be a telemarketer.

My Gyllenhaals

2007-04-13T08:19:00.000-07:00

The actor Jake Gyllenhaal wore a sleeveless sequined dress for a Saturday Night Live skit recently and his huge, well-formed biceps took my wife's breath away.

Literally. She exhaled like she had been hit in the stomach and made a gasping sound. And I know it was Gyllenhaal's biceps my wife coveted because a moment later she felt my biceps and let out another involuntary sound - only this one sounded like a tire deflating.

There were other subtle hints that my wife was impressed by Jake Gyllenhaal's biceps and disappointed in mine. For instance, she bought me a set of weights and said, "You should work out."

I took the hint. My wife and I now refer to my biceps as "My Gyllenhaals" - in honor of the man who whose sleeveless sequined dress started it all. I work out every other day and have learned a few things about my Gyllenhaals:

For instance, it is possible to exercise your biceps so strenuously that a completely unrelated muscle on your back blows out. Please feel free to insert your own "Brokeback Mountain" jokes here.

Also, Gyllehaal's are much like helium balloons - they look their best just after being blown up. For this reason, I now do push-ups just prior to walking into any room. This has the side effect of making me look permanently angry and out of breath, but at least my arms are more impressive.

After weeks of working out, I decided to "pose down" in front of a mirror and evaluate whether I'd actually reached my goal of making two of my body parts achieve that Gyllenhaal look.

And indeed I have. After weeks of working out and hundreds of dollars of equipment, my breasts look exactly like Maggie Gyllenhaal's.

My wife is disappointed. I, on the other hand, think Maggie Gyllenhaal is hot.

The Sugar Machine

2007-04-07T16:28:00.000-07:00

Honestly, if it wasn't for the Happy Meals, I'd let it slide. But ever since the commercials started, I've been obsessed with getting McDonald's employees to put sugar in my coffee.

Normally, I wouldn't care whether someone put condiments in my coffee or not. I don't have the baristas do it at Starbuck's; I've never requested help with my coffee at 7-11. I once asked my wife to do it, but that ended badly. But a few things are different this time.

First and foremost, McDonald's promised me. The company's commercials say that if I buy coffee at one of their restaurants, one of the employees will add cream and sugar if I request it. And it's more than that. Judging from the smiles on the faces of the employees in the commercials (they are clearly lovin' it), the McDonald's employees might actually be disappointed if I don't let them fix the coffee to my taste.

Finally, I'm a parent and I can't take my kids out to eat anywhere without them crying for a toy. I blame McDonald's Happy Meals for this behavior. I'm bitter, McDonald's, and, frankly, I think you owe me.

I've ordered coffee three times from three different McDonald's restaurants since the commercials began. The first time I requested cream and sugar, the counter person handed me my admittedly delicious coffee and pointed me toward the condiment bar. The service improved the second time because, after I requested cream and sugar, the counter person actually handed me the condiments.

This is when my obsession fired into life. Was it just me? I kept seeing the commercials, but none of the McDonald's people actually seemed interested in helping me make my coffee. None of the employees actually seemed to be lovin' it at all. Had I offended someone? Was that bastard Ronald in the back secretly making coffee drinks for other customers? I had to find out.

On my third visit, I hit the drive-thru and specifically asked the order taker to put cream and sugar in my coffee. When I drove up to the window, I cheerfully asked, "Is there cream and sugar in this?" I gestured to the coffee.

"Nope," the lady replied back cheerfully. And then she handed me some creamers. I pressed on.

"I thought you guys added the cream and sugar?"

And, I swear to God, this is what she said:

"Normally, we do that. But today, the machine is broken."

This answer stunned me. They have a machine that adds cream and sugar to coffee? For a brief second, because I'm a guy, I had the overwhelming urge to buy one of those machines for my house. Then, I snapped to my senses.

"You couldn't add the cream and sugar by hand?" I asked.

She smiled. "We have a machine that does it - and it's broken. Sorry."

My quest for cream and sugar at McDonald's continues. It's a bittersweet quest - much like coffee - because only an asshole expects other people to make his coffee. At least that's what my wife says.

Honestly, if it weren't for the Happy Meals, I'd let it slide.

Teaching Vegetable

2007-03-29T08:39:00.000-07:00

In retrospect, in wasn't the best parenting idea I've ever had.

My seven year-old asked me, "Why do onions make people cry?"

"Well, Gabriel," I said, "Onions give off a gas when you cut them. The gas irritates your eyes and makes you cry."

Other parents would have stopped here. Other parents would have turned back to their television sets. Other parents would have absolutely nothing to write about in their blogs.

I, on the other hand, cut up an onion and both Gabriel and I took a whiff. You know what happened?

Nothing. Neither Gabriel or I cried. Not a sniffle. We took another whiff and still nothing happened.

About five whiffs in, we both started to cry. Gabriel was amazed. I felt like the coolest dad in the world. That feeling lasted right up until the moment Gabriel's right eye started swelling up.

I learned a few things that night. For instance, if you're relating an anecdote to a doctor and her first response is, "You did what?", you've probably made a medical mistake of some kind. I also learned that people cry because onions give off a very, very diluted form of sulfuric acid and that some fathers actually suffer from a very, very diluted form of "stupid".

A dose of Benadryl quickly fixed Gabriel's eye, so there's no long term harm. But you know what? I'll think twice the next time I have the urge to teach "vegetable".

Great Hemorrhoid Exodus

2007-03-22T07:25:00.000-07:00

I would have posted last week, but I was afflicted with gout.

I realize that many of Grim Richard's readers might confuse gout with goiter, and are now incorrectly picturing Grim Richard with a humongous neck. Frankly, that makes me want to giggle. But I won't giggle and I'll tell you why.

First, I have to be careful with health jokes. When you have three readers, losing even one goiter-afflicted reader can be catastrophic. I know this from personal experience; who can forget the Great Grim Richard Hemorrhoid Exodus of '05?

I can't. That was a pain in my....

See? That's how slippery this slope is.

Second, every time I giggle, it makes my enormous, blood-engorged foot throb. For those who don't know, gout is a build up of "crystals" in the joints - especially the big toe - that results in painful inflammation. This is medical jargon that means that my enormous, blood-engorged foot is throbbing. The pain is excruciating but there is a bright side. Every time I write "enormous", "blood-engorged" and "throb", Google accidentally sends married, middle-aged men to my blog.

The final reason I won't giggle about goiter is this:

I am old now and I realize God is punishing me for making health jokes earlier in my life. I used to think ear hair was hysterical. Hemorrhoids made me laugh. Constipation? Ditto. Well, I don't laugh about them anymore, young whippersnappers.

And you know what?

I really, really regret all the male boob jokes.

The Naplete

2007-03-08T08:11:00.000-08:00

My wife likes to sleep.

Maybe "likes" is too weak a word to describe how much my wife likes to sleep. My wife sleeps the way Olympic athletes train - with dedication and often past the point of injury. My wife is so dedicated to sleeping that she has purchased actual equipment to improve her sleeping ability - and I'm not referring to the prerequisite bed or pillow. She has vitamins, special teas, orthopedic inserts and sheets with a thread count so high that you don't actually sleep on the bed - you instead quietly slide around like human sausages in a giant teflon skillet.

My wife is something more than a sleeper, something more than an athlete; she is a nap-lete.

Her latest piece of training equipment is circadian clock from the Sharper Image catalog. The inventors of this alarm clock/lamp have mounted a special light that begins shining dimly about thirty minutes prior to her scheduled wake up time and gradually brightens until the whole room is lit. This graduated lighting is meant to gently and naturally wake you in the same way that a sunrise does. This feature is kinda cool.

The clock also makes natural sounds that increase in volume; this feature kinda sucks. We tried the relaxing "Brook" sounds first. Bad idea. It turns out that thirty minutes of bubbling water sounds will not gently wake you; it will only make you urgently need to pee. I did point out that waking this way was both gentle and natural, but my wife seemed less than enthusiastic.

Next, we tried the "Wind" sounds. The only thing that could have made this setting more terrifying was if the clock makers had added actual moaning ghost sounds to the desolate haunting sounds of wind. Every day for a week, I woke up scared and depressed. And I needed to pee.

We are trying the "Birds" setting now and I have high hopes. If everything goes well, my wife will awake feeling energetic and refreshed. Plus, after a couple of weeks, my wife says I might be able to have a small drink before bedtime.

The only downside so far? None of this actually wakes my wife up. And I'm really, really starting to hate fricking birds.

The Knots

2007-03-02T08:53:00.000-08:00

My grandmother died at between 7 and 8 p.m. on New Year's eve. I remember it because we got the news in my car while we traveling home on Interstate 95. I think we were in North Carolina. I know it was dark because I remember looking at my wife in the glow the dashboard lights and saying, "My grandmother just died." I was confused because I felt absolutely nothing at all.

Gabriel, my seven year-old leaned forward into the glow and said, "Wow. She didn't even make it to the new year." I thought for a second that his comment was inappropriate, but I didn't say anything because I couldn't summon any emotion of my own.

But Gabriel didn't stop. He got a weird half smile on his face and he said something as if he had just mulled it over and decided it.

"I'm not gonna die. I'm gonna live forever."

And then I felt something. I desperately, devoutly wanted him to be right.

***

One of the CDs we listened to that night was "The Black Parade", an album from a band called "My Chemical Romance". As you might expect, the CD is a melodramatic, gothic affair and it owes more than a little to Queen and Pink Floyd. My wife and I love it because it's an album written for kids who think that adults don't understand them. It's an album for climbers lamenting the long trip up the mountain and not the climbers who fear the quick fall down.

The title song, "Welcome to the Black Parade" is four minutes and 39 seconds long. Even the band acknowledges that the song is melodramatic, but that's exactly what I liked about it before I heard the news about my grandmother. Afterwards, I liked the song even more because right in the middle, apropos of nothing else, it has the words:

"Sometimes I get the feeling she's watching over me."

I liked these words even though I didn't feel that way at all. I just desperately, devoutly wanted to feel that way.

***

I'll tell you why my grandmother was cool. When she was 48, after years as a Navy wife, she dropped everything and went back to college. Nowadays, fifty year-old women go back to college all the time, but that wasn't the case nearly 40 years ago. My grandmother summoned the courage to go back to school, earn her teaching degree and then begin a whole new life teaching children. She taught children so well that she was interviewed by the newspaper more than once. She worked on something every day, though I never realized it back then.

***

I'll tell you why my wife is cool. While we were in Florida over Christmas, she borrowed a skateboard from some little kid playing in the cul-de-sac street where my in-laws live. I don't know why she did this or what impulse overtook her. She rode the kid's skateboard until he had to go home and the next day we began searching for a skateboard for my wife.

We found it at a Quicksilver surf shop - a purple longboard with the elephant god Ganesh emblazoned on it. It's a beautiful skateboard and I felt a tiny stitch of jealousy when she bought it. I don't think I was jealous about the skateboard. I felt jealous because she wanted to skateboard.

Earlier that day, while we were looking for the skateboard, she had had this conversation with a skateboard salesperson:

"I'm looking for a skateboard for a beginner," she said.

"How old is the child you're getting it for?" asked the guy on the phone.

"The child is 34," my wife giggled.

***

It wasn't until the memorial at the funeral home that my grandmother's death really hit me - and I wasn't the first to feel the grief. I could actually see the grief traveling around the flowery, faux church chapel, jumping from person to person. At first it reminded me of a lit fuse sparking its way toward its conclusion. But after it hit me and I started crying, I recognized it for what it was. It was an elaborate knot untying itself, decades of ravels, snarls and braids coming undone.

***

I was driving today when that unraveling feeling hit me again. I looked around at my family and the feeling left me. My skateboarder wife sat beside me. In the back seat, my two year-old daughter was sleeping with a skateboard helmet on her head - I don't know why. My seven year-old was playing with his Nintendo DS and my four year-old son was earnestly singing along to his current favorite song in the world.

So paint it black and take it back
Lets shout it loud and clear
Defiant to the end we hear the call
To carry on
We'll carry on,
And though you're dead and gone believe me
Your memory will carry on

You can probably guess what song it was. It's melodramatic, but that's just how we like it. We are making knots here and the job requires big, loud singing. It requires kids who want to live forever and mothers who never stop trying new things. The best people never have the biggest funerals. Instead, we honor them by tying knots.

A Boy and His Plant

2007-02-22T19:06:00.000-08:00

It’s tough for me to say this, but I suspect that my seven year-old son may be turning into a dork.

Oh, I saw the signs, but I ignored them. Twice, he’s corrected me about the correct pronunciation of words in “Star Wars” movies, once so savagely that I burst into tears.

“Well, excuse me, George Lucas Jr.,” I cried. “You’re such an expert. Maybe you can explain why fraternal twins Luke and Leia were kissing in the first movie?”

And then I ran out of the room like a girl.

But that was nothing compared to now. For the last two days, my son has been carrying a plant around everywhere. That's right - a plant. An Ivy of some kind in a plastic pot. I know it's an Ivy because when I said, "Hey, what's with the Fern?", he snapped back, "It's not a Fern. It's an Ivy."

"Well, excuse me, Mr. GreenThumb Jr...," I began, but he had already walked off. A boy and his plant.

My wife has urged me to be understanding. It turns out that Gabriel spent his own allowance purchasing the plant and was so attached to it that he insisted that his new green, leafy friend come with him to dinner, to bed and then to school the next morning.

Oh, yeah. Nothing dorky about that.

Maybe I'm just jealous. Fathers often get jealous when their sons assert their independence, break away and form their own attachments with...plants.

Senate Caught Mass Debating

2007-02-09T05:48:00.000-08:00

The older I get, the less interested I get in politics. But yesterday I walked into my living room and caught the United States Senate mass debating on television. You can imagine my surprise and embarrassment.

I'm trying to be mature about this. I realize mass debating is a natural and beautiful thing. I, myself, have mass debated on occasion. Heck, my face glows red every time I remember the time my dad walked in on me and caught me filibustering.

But this is different. Yesterday, the Senate was mass debating about whether they should mass debate. And once you catch yourself mass debating about mass debating, it's time to get some help. Senators, here's how to tell if you have a problem:

Are you an adult? While it's natural for young children to use mass debating as a tool to explore themselves, we pretty much expect you to stop doing it once you grow up. And, unless you're a porn star or Paris Hilton (or both), you're not allowed to do it on television. Ever.
Do you find that you prefer mass debating to active, two-way legislation with other people? Most politicians find that actually passing laws, while more time consuming and difficult to consummate, eventually leads to a more satisfying relationship for both the politician and his or her constituents.
Have you ever voted against discussing the non-binding resolution you actually introduced? I'm talking to you, John Warner. Are you mass debating in order to avoid facing up to the fact that you're, uh, bi-partisan? My advice? Don't fight it. Being bi-partisan doesn't carry the same stigma it used to. I, in fact, faked bi-partisanship in college in order to meet girls.

Senators, if you answered "yes" to any of the questions above, you may have a problem. Don't rely on your peers for help. Some senators I won't name (Hillary Clinton) may have unpleasant memories of a time when more mass debating - and less constituent interaction - might have helped another politician I won't name (Bill Clinton). We (the American people) strongly urge you to seek help before our Congress is known for nothing other than its mass debating.

Method 21

2007-02-02T08:39:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I find myself being accidentally creepy. To wit:

Last weekend, I had time to kill before heading to a friend's birthday celebration at a local Hooter's restaurant. That's not supposed to be the creepy part, people, so try not to get ahead of the story. It just so happens that Hooter's offers a fine selection of quality food at fair prices. Sure, this food is served by women wearing jogging shorts and panty hose with socks, but it's important to realize that our waitresses genuinely like spending time with us. We're not anything like the losers that normally go to Hooter's.

Hmmm. I'm starting to see your point. Let's move on.

Anyway, I had an hour to kill before the party at Hooters. Some part of me instinctively realized that the only thing sadder than a group of middle-aged men at Hooters is one middle-aged guy sitting at Hooters, so I headed to a nearby Target store to look around. Mostly, I read magazines without paying for them. I read golf magazines. I read video game magazines. I even read Cosmopolitan magazine because apparently there are 20 different ways you can satisfy a man and I only knew three of them. Coincidentally, none of the 20 ways involves a Hooters.

After about 20 minutes, I noticed that I wasn't the only person killing time at Target. There was an elderly woman in the magazine aisle with me. Apparently, she had also run out of reading material because she held a Maxim magazine and was definitely eyeing my Cosmo. No dice. I was only on method 11.

There was also a couple goofing around with the home theater systems in the electronics section. In the 30 minutes I was in the store, I bumped into the couple at least three times. Like me, they didn't appear to be buying anything. After reading about method 20, I decided to leave Target and kill time elsewhere. I drove toward the Hooters.

Now, you can cue the creepy music.

On the way, I spotted an adult novelty store that I've heard advertised on the radio. It's supposed to be classy place and I suddenly felt insanely curious about what the store looked like inside. All the usual things went through my mind. What if someone I know sees me going inside? What if someone sees me looking at some strange device and assumes that I'm interested in it? How sad is it to see a middle-aged guy by himself in an adult novelty store?

I calmed myself by saying the usual things. I'm an adult. I'm not doing anything illegal. Besides, the chances of running into someone I know are astronomically low.

This thought turned out to be weirdly prescient.

My first impulse was to park in front of one of the other stores, but I fought this cowardly impulse and parked right in front of the store. I boldly stepped out of my vehicle and entered the door. Everyone looked up when I entered the bright store. I quickly registered two things: first, this place wasn't classy. It had the high checkout counters and hand written signs you only see in adult stores. Second, the couple that I saw at Target had decided to come here, too.

All three of us went beet red with embarrassment. A second later, I got a horrific feeling in my gut. What are the chances that two separate parties would waste time by first going to a Target store and then independently follow that up by going to the same adult novelty store within minutes? That would be an astronomical long shot. Were they following me?

Then it hit me. They were here first. Omigod, I thought. I look like a creepy stalker. I looked like some dude who had easily skated through methods 1 through 20 and was now busily trying to invent method 21. The only thing that could have made the moment stranger was if I had walked in with the elderly, Maxim-reading woman.

For a moment, I had the urge to talk to the couple. I wanted to explain how I was just this regular guy who was spending the night innocently reading Cosmo and hanging out at adult novelty stores before joining his friends at Hooters...

I decided to leave instead.

Now, That's Amazing!

2007-01-25T08:20:00.000-08:00

So, this is the kind of week that my wife had:

She decided to visit an upscale vitamin store near our city's center in order to buy a natural remedy of some kind. I've never been there, but my wife describes it as a holistically beautiful store with quiet, soothing music and delicious fragrances wafting through the air. It's like a Starbucks but with more drugs. My wife was so intent on getting her natural remedy that she broke the cardinal rule for preserving soothing, relaxing environments.

She took my my kids.

I'd like to say it started out well, but it didn't. My four year-old son skipped into the store happily, took a moment to get oriented in the beautifully designed, healthy environment and then he vomited. Literally. We have no idea why. Strangely enough, the health professionals at the store were not happy to see this potential client and when my family left, my wife looked behind to see a salesperson propping open the door to let air in.

A few days later, our family went to a pizza parlor. A friend of my seven year-old son accompanied us. During the middle of the meal, while the kids played with Star Wars action figures, Gabriel's friend entertained us with a rap song. I didn't listen closely at first, because I'm a Public Enemy fan and I like to kick it old school. Also, by now I think the shorties understand I'm the sickest MC.

Still, on his second time through the rap, I noticed that my wife and most of the other patrons in this restaurant were staring in the direction of this kid. And that's because one of his rhymes has just ended with the word "whore". Later, after my red-faced wife had explained why that word is bad, she whispered to me, "I'm amazed at what comes out of kid's mouths these days."

I shrugged because this sounded like something an old person would say.

A few days later, my family and I sat down at another restaurant. The food was great. My two year-old daughter Riley loved the food most of all. She ate all of her fries, she ate most of her grilled cheese sandwich and she even helped herself to a generous portion of Julian's macaroni and cheese.

Then Riley turned to my wife and started upchucking on her. This was no regular upchucking either. It manifested itself like an elaborate magic trick. Everything came out compartmentalized, neat and in reverse order. First, the mac and cheese came, followed by the grilled cheese. Then we saw some of lemonade Riley had quaffed just after her fries. Finally, the fries came out, too. It was like someone had drilled a core sample on my daughter's stomach and neatly deposited a geographic history of her meal in my wife's lap.

My wife looked really stressed while she cleaned up the mess and I wanted to say something helpful.

"You were right," I said.

"About what?" she asked as she grabbed extra napkins.

"It really is amazing what comes out of kids' mouths these days."

Terrifying Amish Games

2007-01-18T08:10:00.000-08:00

Most parents are dismayed by the amount of time kids spend online, watching television or playing video games. Not me. I prefer that they relax with some "Grand Theft Auto". I encourage them to watch MTV's "Cribs". Heck, I encourage them to steal my credit card and play online poker.

My reasoning is simple: If technology doesn't entertain my kids, they get all Amish on me and start making up their own terrifying, non-tech games.

It's true. One of my favorites so far has been the classic "Ask Dad a Question While He's on the Toilet" game. The rules are simple. Ignore Dad until he goes into the bathroom and locks the door. Wait for the fan to come on and then start messing with door knob. When he yells, "I'm in here!," start asking questions. The first question should always be "Dad, what are you doing?," but any question after that is fair game.

Now that my children are 7,4, and 2 respectively, they've designed a terrifying new game to play when they're not watching television. It's called "Let's Catch Mommy and Daddy Doing It".

Warning: the rest of this essay may include frank discussion of the ways that parents express their love for each other. The mental images generated by this kind of discussion can result in light sensitivity, motion sickness or seizures. Before reading on, try saying a sentence that includes the phrases "my parents" and "open-mouthed kiss". If this makes you a little queasy, please do not continue.

Editor's Note: I, for instance, tasted a little Hamburger Helper just writing that sentence. But I will soldier on.

"Let's Catch Mommy and Daddy Doing It" is, at its core, a hunting game. Any time you suspect your mother or father are sharing a moment of intimacy, it is your job to track them down, bypass any obstacles they've set up, burst in and destroy any sense of privacy that they've built.

My kids are good at this game and getting better. I want to explain to them that winning this game might ultimately scar them for life. I want to explain that even their mother and I feel uncomfortable being there, but we sorta have to be. My kids can win this game, but only in the sense that the Nazis won when they discovered the Lost Ark of the Covenant.

I hope they come to their senses before it's too late. Meanwhile, the hunt goes on.

Me: Did you lock the bedroom door, the outer bathroom door, the inner bathroom door and the front door?
Wife: Check.
Me: Did you turn on that "South Park" episode we never wanted them to watch, threaten them with Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and close their door?
Wife: Of course I did. I also turned on our radio, stuffed shirts under the door and spent the entire week practicing how to enjoy myself without raising my voice above a whisper.
Me: Good....wait...what was that noise? Was that the door knob? Omigod! I think they're breached the outer perimeter!
Wife: Oh god! They just keep coming. Why won't they leave us alone? What do they want? Aaaaaaaaaaiiaiaiaiaiia.....

Final Editor's Note: Sorry about the graphic imagery in this post, but I would like to point out that I'm the first writer in the history of the world to ever use the phrases "Amish", "Nazis" and "open-mouthed kiss" in the same piece. People better recognize.

Waxy Ellis Island

2007-01-11T07:27:00.000-08:00

I have many good excuses for why I haven't updated in a few weeks, but the best one is this:

I have been growing a beard and it's taken all of my concentration.

I know. I know. I also thought that beard growing was a hands-off process. One simply stopped shaving and before long one had a beard that would make Grizzly Adams look on in shame and cause two thirds of ZZ Top to blush with envy.

But I have discovered a truth. I am like a tree and my beard is like moss - it will not grow on one half of my face. After two weeks of dedicated growing, my left cheek sports a burly mountain man look and my right cheek...well, it looks like the right cheek of a high school sophomore who's trying to grow a beard. A female high school sophomore who's trying to grow a beard, actually.

This bothered me at first. It's not like I lack the follicles to produce hair. In fact, if I quit pruning my right eyebrow, right ear and right nostril, I'm fairly sure hair would o'er run the right side of my face like Kudzu in Georgia.

Until now, in fact, I've wondered why I started growing hair is those places and now I know. The follicles left my cheek and immigrated to new lands. I have immigrant follicles and my ears are like a really, really waxy Ellis Island.

I'm assuming these immigrant follicles are growing hair in places where the original hairs refused to grow hair. Naturally, this demands some sort of political intervention or policy. I'm considering a wall...

Editor's Note: We have an actual domain now. Grim Richard's Irregulars can now be reached www.grimrichard.com. Please feel free to try out our new address...leave it on cocktail napkins in seedy bars...vandalize park benches with it.

Once a Week. Whether You Like It or Not

2006-12-21T09:00:00.000-08:00

I’m not bragging or anything, but Grim Richard gets a fair amount of e-mail and comments. True, most of this correspondence has the subject line “Four Inches in Six Months!”, but that’s indicative of nothing in particular. The readers in Grim Richard’s life haven’t had anything to complain about (wink) if you know what I mean.

Why? Have you heard something?

Actually, some of our readers have commented about the frequency of my posts and apparently my wife agrees because after reading my last entry, she casually dropped this bomb:

“You should write one of these every day.”

She smiled when she said this. I believe she regards these posts as a kind of bilious gas that builds up and must be released - followed almost immediately by an apology. I patiently explained the method to my madness.

“I used to post all the time. As I grow older, though, I’ve realized that quality is more important than quantity. So, instead of doling out a daily dose of dreck that depends mostly on double entendre and fart jokes, I like to give my readers one solid column every week on Thursday. Whether they like it or not. Unless I’m tired.”

“They have no idea how lucky they are,” my wife said dryly.

I am nothing, however, if not attentive. Commencing immediately, Grim Richard readers can subscribe to the Grim Richard notification service. Simply e-mail me at grimrichard@grimrichard.com and I’ll make sure that you get an e-mail whenever a new post goes up.

And don’t worry about being spammed. It requires a kind of dedication I’m just not willing to give.

Just ask my wife.

Great Herds of Babysitters

2006-12-14T08:02:00.000-08:00

So my wife and I decided to go on a date. This required a baby sitter because it’s against the law to leave young children at home unless they’re shepherded by someone wiser, more stable and more logical than the tots.

Or you can pay a teenager. This is the route we chose and it was not an easy one. Any parent can tell you that babysitters are rare and hard to find – like unicorns or the Fountain of Youth. Actually, babysitters are even harder to find. You will actually stumble upon unicorns peeing in the Fountain of Youth before you find a teenager willing to accept a lot of money for watching television and occasionally yelling at the kids.

Ironically, I do this every day for free.

When I was a kid, great moving herds of babysitters used to cover the landscape. When my parents needed a babysitter, they merely stepped outside, waved our cable bill to prove we had HBO, and – BAM! – they had three or four babysitters willing to take a dollar an hour to watch three kids. The babysitting herds have largely disappeared now. I blame global warming and Chik-Fil-A.

We lucked out eventually and the daughter of a friend agreed to watch our kids. We picked the babysitter up and drove her to our house where she immediately began watching MTV. Our kids began jumping around, giddy as they pictured the amount of damage they were going to cause in the next few hours.

Before we left, my wife and I took a few bittersweet moments to walk around the house and say goodbye to the personal belongings we cherished the most. Bridget and I paused on the threshold to kiss our children and ask one last question of this rare creature called the babysitter. She didn’t answer or even look away from the television.

No doubt, like us, she was dreaming of a different time; a time when there were only twenty channels on television and only parents were allowed to exploit the cheap labor of teenagers.

Killer Pie

2006-12-07T08:13:00.000-08:00

I haven’t posted since Thanksgiving two weeks ago, but I have an excuse. I can neither button my pants nor bend in the middle like most human beings. I think this has something to do with the 27 pieces of pumpkin pie, but I’m just guessing.

I wouldn’t have eaten that much pumpkin pie normally. During the holidays, though, I think irrationally. When I see pumpkin pie, for instance, there’s always this little voice that says, “What if it’s another year before you get another chance to eat pumpkin pie?

If I successfully ignore that voice, another ups the ante by saying, “Anything could happen between now and next year. There could be pumpkin plague for all you know. What if you never get another chance to eat pumpkin pie?”

Which brings me to killer whales.

In San Antonio recently, a killer whale at Sea World suddenly turned on his trainer and attacked him. Experts chimed in with various theories concerning hormones and – I’m not kidding about this – killer whale sexuality. Apparently, this particular animal was “approaching his breeding age.”

I’d love to see this trainer’s My Space page. “I spend a large part of my day swimming in a pool with a horny killer whale. Before I get in, though, I like to put on a black wetsuit so that the animal can’t tell whether I’m a human, a harbor seal or another, less dominant killer whale. While I’m in the pool, I force him to perform tricks before I feed him.”

Still, I have my own theory about this attack and it has little to do with sexuality and everything to do with the holidays. I can almost picture the trainer tentatively dipping his toe in the pool. I picture the killer whale across the pool nonchalantly performing flips and spins on cue. All the while, he’s thinking this:

“What if I never get another chance to eat a trainer?”

Happy Thanks-O-Ween

2006-11-16T07:13:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving at my house typically involves a strict egalitarian division of labor. Basically, my wife cooks all day and I eat all of it.

Many of you might consider this an unfair arrangement, pointing out that cooking food takes way more time than eating it.

And that would true under normal circumstances. But when I say that it’s my job to eat “all of the food”, I’m not exaggerating. I lack the mechanism that stops most people from eating food when their hunger is satiated. I also lack the mechanism that stops people from eating food when their hunger is satiated, their pants no longer fit and people are complaining about the smell.

Thanksgiving usually ends with Bridget washing the dishes. I watch from the floor, where I’m laid out like one of those snakes you see on the Discovery Channel – the ones that have a humongous bulge in the middle because they ate an egg whole without chewing.

Common sense tells me that I need to exercise some self-control, but I find it’s much easier to blame my genetics or the fast food industry. I’d sue someone, but there’s apple pie I haven’t finished.

This year, my wife announced that she’s not cooking Thanksgiving dinner. Instead, we’re going to her aunt’s house to eat. We may also stop at a friend’s house and eat. This dismayed me at first, but then I realized that my wife had craftily combined aspects from two of my favorite holidays – giant dinners from Thanksgiving and the door-to-door freeloading of Halloween.

My wife’s a genius. She’s invented Thanks-O-Ween.

Danger! Death! Food Driving!

2006-11-02T08:05:00.000-08:00

Recently, we came across a list of the 10 most dangerous foods to eat while driving. Like most modern television research, it eschewed the stupid parts of science i.e. clear methodologies, control groups, etc. and concentrated on the important stuff - like a title with the word “danger” in it.

According to the study, these were the most dangerous foods to consume while driving, listed from most dangerous to least: coffee, hot soup, tacos, chili, hamburgers, barbecued food, fried chicken, jelly or crème-filled donuts, soft drinks and, finally, chocolate.

Most news outlets were impressed by this study. Here at the Grim Richard Institute of Science, however, we use scientifically accepted methodologies to pull things out of our butt. This means that a few minutes of actual guess work can be almost alchemically transformed into hard science. Our list not only has 50% more scary words in the title, it actually includes foods that are more dangerous. Thus, we give you our own list:

The 10 Foods That Will KILL You Dead While You’re Driving

1. Lobster – C’mon. Coffee? A person drawing butter, cracking shells and tying on a bib while driving is way more likely to die than someone just drinking coffee.

2. Corn on the Cob – probably one of the most under-reported food accidents because “the cob” is usually thrown clear of the accident scene. The only sign that something food-related has occurred? Innocent bystanders are found dead with little corn-shaped cob holders stuck in their heads.

3. Fugu – Nearly 100% of people who prepare Japanese blowfish and then eat it while driving die. It’s a fact.

4. Beets – I’ve been telling my mother for years how dangerous beets are. Now, I’ve got official scientific proof.

5. Caffeinated Soda (with Pop Rocks and, uh, cyanide)

Okay, so we were reaching with that last one. Please remember, though, that actually listing 10 dangerous foods is less important than making the list short enough to be read quickly by Matt Lauer before the Today Show goes to commercial. Besides, this research isn’t about “facts”. This research is about “danger” and “death” and “food driving.”

Happy Motoring!

Cruel Mothers of the 70s

2006-10-26T15:18:00.000-07:00

When I was young, the mothers of America regularly banded together and told children some amazingly stupid stuff. It's true. Some of it was so stupid that I like to use it on my own kids just to see their reactions.

This summer, for instance, I finally got to use this one at the water park:

"Gabriel," I yelled, "You just ate lunch. That means you have to wait 30 minutes before you go back in the water."

"Why?" he yelled back.

"Because your body can't swim and digest at the same time. if you try it, all of your swimming muscles will cramp up and you'll drown."

I still remember the incredulous look on his six year-old face. I'll treasure it forever.

This winter, I'm hoping to try out the "If you go out in the cold with your hair wet, you'll get pneumonia and die" thing.

Did my mother - and all of the other moms in America - really believe that red M&Ms caused cancer or that sitting too close to the television caused blindness?

No, I say. When I look at ancient school photos of me and my brother dressed in identical sweater vests, I have to believe that the mothers of America were just cruelly toying with us. And they will not away with it.

The other day my mom was visiting and Gabriel said this to me:

"Nanny says that the waters around Bermuda have a giant electric triangle that sinks ships and planes. Is that true?"

"No, it's not true," I said, warily watching my mother in the next room.

"Why would she lie, Dad?"

I looked at his inquisitive face. He clearly hungered for the truth.

"Every person in the world," I said, "is comprised of four special fluids called humors. Nanny's humors are out of whack."

I look both ways before drawing him closer.

"It's because she watches too much "Matlock" on television."