Pain In The Neck

This seems wrong to be laughing at what I think is a hilarious situation. But I can’t help it. In the last month, I have seen three people wearing massive neck braces.

The first person was walking down the sidewalk in her big ass neck brace. She was staring straight ahead. Relatively funny.

The funniest was my second sighting, so let me skip to the third one. This was also a woman, but she was driving a little compact car. How could she even be allowed to drive? By the time she turns her whole body to look left, right, then left again; there could be a whole new batch of traffic! And forget about the blind spot – you know stiffy isn’t going to be checking that out. Funny.

The funniest though was the second sighting. This was another compact car. Maybe these people were in crashes and were loaned the tiniest cars possible because the insurance companies know they can’t move their damn heads to look out for other traffic and pedestrians. The driver of the car was a guy in a neck brace. He had a grimace on his face – very similar expression as what my youngest one looked like when he used to push out poops in his diaper. The passenger seat was filled by a very able looking adult woman. The back seat was crammed. Three neck brace free able bodied adults were stuffed in like sardines.

Why the hell was the neck brace man driving? There were four other presumably capable adults in the car with him. I didn’t notice any blind person walking sticks, seeing-eye dogs, or monkeys with tin cups.

Neck brace man was white-knuckling the steering wheel as he drove ten miles per hour and got himself stopped at the red light. There was no way he could turn his big body enough to check for blind spots in that little car with all those people.

I was so bummed I didn’t have my camera phone on me. I was already staring at them with a huge grin on my stupid face. I may as well have taken a picture too. Fucking hilarious.

Why in the world wasn’t someone else driving? Can someone please speculate for me?

DNC Update - Live From Denver

The Democratic National Convention has kicked off here in Denver. The city has warned that cops will not be tolerant, streets will be closed, parades will be rampant, protestors will be protesting, security will be tight, rocky mountain oysters (bull testicles) will be consumed, parties will be had, speeches will be spoken, and shit is gonna happen.

I thought it would take forever to get to work. In reality, streets were pretty dead. Everybody is afraid to drive I guess. Nice!

I started my day by attending a breakfast at the local ABC-TV affiliate to hear Charles Gibson, anchor of World News Tonight. He was damn funny! It was an interesting start to the week. He misspoke once and almost made the same mistake again. He was talking about Obama and Biden a lot and accidentally said O’Biden. We started taking bets on whether or not he will slip up on national TV.

I am heading to one of the DNC parties tonight. There are tons of them, but this is the only one I have a firm invite to so far. Here is the description:

Join special VIP guests including Matt Damon and Ben Affleck while listening to performances by the Railbenders and Something Underground. Hors d'ouevres, beer, and wine are provided by the best local restaurants and breweries. Special guests scheduled to speak at the event include Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi, Governor Bill Ritter, former Congressman Bob Beauprez, and Mayor Gavin Newsom of San Francisco. Surprise appearances by other honorees of the Democratic National Convention are also possible.

Yep, when I think politics, I think Matt Damon and Ben Affleck!! I should watch Good Will Hunting today so I can memorize a bunch of lines. That way if they are actually mingling with us little people, I can try to talk to them using nothing but movie lines. How do you like them apples?

Let me know if you have any questions for Matt Affleck or Ben Damon. I’m sure if anything, I’ll only get access to the former congressman Bob Beauprez, but you never know. Worst case, I’ll ask Beauprez if he thinks J-Lo has a sweet ass and speculate together why chicks dig Ben Affleck so much. That confuses me as much as John McCain doesn’t know how many houses he owns.

I am going to run at lunch time. My route takes me through the Central Platte Valley which includes a bunch of parks. Some of the protests are set up around there so I might get to do some sweet people watching. No matter what the protest is, I’m going to yell, “Oh yah, but what about the great paella debate?! Should chicken and seafood EVER be mixed in one paella?”

And then I will shake my fist and continue my jog.

A Blog For Kimmie

This Ride Is Making Me Dizzy

Today was a roller coaster. I had to go to an 8a-Noon meeting for a mentor program I am joining. Mandatory training. Four hours of my life I can never get back. They could have given us the handouts and I would have read everything I needed to know in fifteen minutes.

The meeting was at a breakfast place. I should have known it would be one of those days when I walked in with my giant Starbucks chai tea and got the evil eye from the hostess and wait staff. I guess that was like bringing in Krispy Kremes in to a Dunkin Donuts.

Within the first ten minutes, it was clear this meeting would suck. I may act twelve sometimes, but I am not twelve. A friend of mine was sitting next to me. We started texting each other. We thought that would be inconspicuous compared to scribbling notes to each other (like most twelve year olds). And it might have been if we weren’t giggling so much. At one particularly remedial part, she texted “kill me.” I texted back “I will use my pen,” and proceeded to obnoxiously click my pen over and over close to her ear. At that point, the presenter was on a slide about ‘good listeners’ which made us giggle even more.

We got through the meeting and had a good lunch. As I drove back to the office, I heard on the radio that Colorado is the skinniest state in the county. 18% of Coloradoans are obese. All 49 other states have obesity rates of over 20%. In 1991, none of the fifty states were over 20%. I rubbed my Buddha belly and said, “Good belly.”

I got to the office and soon received a phone call from one of our biggest and best clients. Make that ex-client. They are moving their business to another agency. I was shocked. I asked why, what did we do wrong, what happened, whose your daddy, what is the meaning of life, why are the Olympics in China, where’s Waldo, what is up your no no hole? They said they were happy with us, we did nothing wrong. But some other agency supposedly has some expertise they want to try out. They said maybe they are making a mistake but they want to try this and will definitely stay in touch.

I couldn’t help but be bummed. I often take things in business personally because I tend to lead with my heart. It has worked for twelve years and I can’t change it. I wouldn’t be surprised if we continue working with them in some capacity, but it still stings. And the people working most directly on the business are devastated. I felt bad for them even though it doesn’t affect their bottom line!

Much more importantly, I have referred recently to some looming health problems with people close to me – family members, employees, employees’ family members and friends. Another whopper just hit last week. A friend lost a friend in a terrible accident. These things make a big great client firing you for no apparent reason very inconsequential.

But I still came home bummed out. In part because this is no big deal compared to those other things, so why am I sad? It seems wrong.

The wife had a girls’ night out tonight. So it was just us boys. Those boys were extra sweet to me tonight. They have no idea about any of this. Their life consists of having fun and tormenting each other. It was hot outside and they were running around in just their shorts. We walked around the block crushing bugs in our bare feet. Poor bugs had it worse than most of us. We drew some chalk art on the sidewalk. Monsters were the main theme, although Will managed to work in a unicorn. I gave them a bath and washed my feet in their tub.

At bedtime, Will told me a story he made up for school. He is five. A little seed was planted in the ground. It grew into a big green tree. But the green tree was sad and was crying. A little girl came by and asked why the tree was sad. The tree said it was lonely. The little girl planted another seed by the green tree and soon a second tree was there to keep the green tree company. The green tree was happy.

I ran on the treadmill tonight. I cut thirty seconds from my pace per mile. I have energy to expend.

I just ate three giant spoonfuls of chocolate filler meant for a chocolate cream pie my wife was making. She left the crust out and was going to fill it later. We have a party to go to tomorrow night. That pie is gonna be a little shallow. The spoon was one of those giant ones for tossing salads.

I followed that up with a beer and some string cheese.

I happen to be blowing off work tomorrow. I am going to play in a vendor golf tournament. It is more like a drinking festival on nice grass with errant round missiles flying overhead.

Let me sum up. Roller coaster. Boring meeting. Obesity everywhere. Lost client. Sickness and death. My sweet little boys. Stories with happy endings. Exercise. Bad eating. Drunk golf. Disjointed blog.

My mind is racing. I need to blow by the bad stuff and slow down for the good stuff.

A Pleasant Text Convo with Kimmie

It started off innocently. Kimmie sent me a text about baseball. It all took off from there. You may want to do a little background reading before continuing on here. Read the last three blogs, including comments, on Kimmies page. They are called Experience Life 7 & 8, and then Scott’s contribution appropriately titled Kimmie Bugs the Shit Out of Me. Click here: Kimmie's blog

Did you read them? No? Go read ‘em and then come back.

Ok, ready? This is not for the faint-hearted or easily offended. I will let Kimmie have one little disclaimer – she only talks this way for a select few. But it doesn’t surprise me that she quit the convent.

Text messaging from yesterday:

Kimmie text: Shit, the Dodgers acquired Greg Maddux from the Padres for two players to be named or cash considerations.

Brett text: I know. They are going to be tough.

Kimmie text: I keep trying to follow him but he ditches me every time. Did you see Scott’s comment to yours? He’s an ass.

Brett text: No, I’ll go check.

Brett text: Haha! Not an ass. That is good. Replying…

Kimmie text: He sent me an email saying he was going to write a story about how nauseating I am.

Brett text: Should be a long one.

Kimmie text: Shut it.

Brett text: You only have yourself to blame.

Kimmie text: What part of shut didn’t you understand?

Brett text: The first part. So I ignored the rest.

Kimmie text: Shut: to close your f’ing mouth! Got it now… He he

Brett text: Tacos

Kimmie text: Did you see his other comment? Duct my ass?

Brett text: Not yet. He is like a bully that really loves you so he harasses you instead.

Kimmie text: He made a comment on you saying you were throwing up in your mouth.

Brett text: Lmao! I love how he calls you the beast.

Kimmie text: You two would be a great homogeneous couple.

Brett text: I’m getting the duct tape. Commented back.

Kimmie text: You might want to duct tape your mouth to his unit.

Brett text: You wish! Get your fingers out of your no no hole.

Kimmie text: I will check it out later. I am actually working.

Kimmie text: As soon as Santiago pulls his cock out I will.

Brett text: Yah right. You have that zone closed for bidness. Glad you are so focused on work.

Kimmie text: He he. Grossed you out tho the thought of my no no hole being invaded by the burrito. Have I told you that his cock is HUGE

Brett text: Save this convo for Scott. Luckily I skipped lunch & have nothing to hurl. Hey this whole text exchange would make for a great blog.

Kimmie text: Haha. You are playing with a fiery irish beast.

Brett text: So is Santiago and your lubed up fingers.

Kimmie text: Maybe maybe not. You want a picture?

Brett text: No I’ve got the web cam on you. I’m good. You have spinach in your teeth.

Kimmie text: No that is Mexican sperm. You know they shoot guacamole.

Brett text: Is that why you love sloppy Mexican?

Kimmie text: That and his HUGE cock. I love me a burrito supreme.

Brett text: What is your dad’s email address?

Kimmie text: kimberlilovesbigcock@bigcockmexicans.com

Brett text: You are not well.

Kimmie text: I am cockalicious.

Brett text: I read that on the bathroom wall.
Kimmie text: Duh I wrote it.

Brett text: I figured since it was at a strip club.

Kimmie text: My stripper name is chaquito burrito.

Brett text: I thought it was la stinky jalapeno.

Kimmie text: That was before I went bald below. It had a tang back then. Now I am all about the burrito.

Brett text: Clam taco? What?

Kimmie text: Magic jumping bean.

Brett text: Mole sauce squirter

Kimmie text: I need to get Deb involved as I haven’t mastered squirting yet. Soon as I get santiago’s cock out of my mouth I will call her.

Brett text: So that will be next week?

Kimmie text: I am good but not that good. Mmmmm: yummy more guacamole

Brett text: Don’t scrape.

Kimmie text: I know I need to remember that. I just switched to swallowing – thank for the advice (from Santiago)

Brett text: I hope they let you out of the asylum soon. How did you get access to a phone?

Kimmie text: I am blowing the guard.

Kimmie text: And with that I will say good nite, my next show is at 10, don’t forget to tip your waitress. Try the veal.

Brett text: I was at a client event – a hospital. How come 75+% of the parking spaces are NOT handicap?

Kimmie text: Because they are tards is my guess.

Brett text: Its not a mental hospital you idiot.

Kimmie text: I simply assumed cuz you were there…

Brett text: Well your picture was on the alumni wall…

Kimmie text: I am not in the mood for your tom foolery. Grow up already. You are so childish.

Brett text: Whatevah!

Kimmie text: Cubs beat the Reds 5-0. WP: Rich Harden (8-2) LP Johnny Cueto (8-12)

Kimmie text: Typical response from the immature.

Brett text: Yah and your contribution here has been sophisticated and classy!

Brett text: Night night burrito luvah!

Kimmie text: I am rubber you are glue whatever you say bounces off me and sticks to you.

Brett text: What? There is a rubber glued to your bouncy sticky ass?

Black and White

I’m not sure how it happened, but somehow I found myself dancing to hip hop at a suburban bar Saturday night. I don’t like hip hop. I don’t like suburbs. I don’t like suburban bars. And I don’t really like to dance because I suck at it. But I will bust some moves if I’m in the situation. If you can’t beat 'em (or leave the bar), you may as well join them (and dance).

We met up with two other couples at a new Asian restaurant. We came from a client’s BBQ (we didn’t eat), so we chose a place out in the burbs that was close by. The food was great. The bathrooms were even cool. The walls of the stalls were clear, but they magically frosted over when the doors locked. It felt like Vegas, despite it being a suburb of Denver.

We asked the waiter for a cool place to go for after-dinner drinks. He sent us to the Tavern, about a mile away. It was great. Tons of televisions, good beer selections, great people watching, pool tables, shuffleboard, and even a mini bowling lane.

We were standing by the empty dance floor when a few women, probably out for a girls’ night, started dancing. I sipped on my Red Stripe thinking this would be a good place to hang out if I were single.

One of the dancing gals noticed me checking them out and she started watching me while she danced. She was hot, but she was wearing one of those pull-over dress tops that looks like a muumuu. Which is fine, but it had really big black and white stripes all over it. This made her look like a zebra. At first, I was watching them dance because they were good looking women and had some nice moves going down. But then, I couldn’t get over thinking of the one as a hot zebra. And then I thought of the photograph a friend sent me of a national park sign that said something about how you aren’t allowed to molest the animals.




The hot zebra strutted her way toward me and beckoned me to dance. I glanced over at my wife and the others. They all happened to see this invitation. The guys were smiling ear to ear, beads of drool dripping, tongues hanging out. One of the wives was smiling and beginning to get her groove on. The other wife looked angry. And my wife looked surprised. I would have danced with the hot zebra, but there were too many reactions from my posse to process if this would be a good idea. I raised my Red Stripe to the dancing hot zebra and walked over to my friends.

My wife had a few vodka-tonics under her belt and jokingly said she was gonna go kick the zebra’s ass. She referred to my potential dance partner only as the zebra. I corrected her and said she is the hot zebra.

The dance floor began to fill up and we all ended up getting out there. Luckily they mixed in some good stuff (GNR, AC/DC for example) with the hip hop. Good thing there weren’t any park rangers around. Dancing these days appears to be a series of molestations.

Now, my kids are on their fourth episode in a row of Sponge Bob. That show seems to be on 24/7. I am not hung over at all (I was the designated driver last night), but definitely feeling lazy. Plus, Sponge Bob is good stuff. The Cubs are on in five minutes though, so I’m making the kids go play in the basement. My wife is still sleeping. Some animals are nocturnal I guess.

I am going to Vegas in two weeks. The bar last night was good practice. Like spring training. It is fun to put myself outside of my comfort zone and see what happens. I’m not saying I’m going on a safari or anything. But now I’m ready!

Batter up, which means Bretthead out!

Say Cheese

I know it’s wrong, and Mandy will yell at me again, but I can’t help being fascinated by midgets. This is already going to be a politically incorrect blog, so save the uproar and picketing for a rainy day. Please replace midget with your preferred moniker: little people, dwarfs, munchkins, oompa loompas, tom thumbs, etc. I love people (although I hate crowds) and mean no harm or degradation to the midget world. I am simply writing what is on my mind, knowing I am probably offending somebody, but hoping for a hall pass of understanding that I truly am a respectful human being (of tall stature).

I was talking to Kimmie about Flight of the Conchords and dating Mexicans when I drove by a midget riding a bike. For the record, I am not thinking of, or partaking in, dating any Mexicans. Kimmie’s new boyfriend is Mexican. Oh and Flight of the Conchords has nothing to do with dating Mexicans either. It is just a damn funny comedy duo that has one season of shows under their belt on HBO. I highly highly highly recommend you watch all of them. Highly. Hi-ho, hi-ho. I still have midgets on my mind. You will cry with laughter more than once per episode of FOC.

Anyway, she (the midget, not Kimmie) was on a really big bike with the seat down low so she could reach the pedals. She had on a child size backpack that made her look like a Sherpa. I was driving on a really busy road in rush hour with Kimmie rambling about bad Mexican music, surfing and the Cubs. Typical chatter for you as well, I’m sure. I had to interrupt her so I could try to get a picture of the bike riding midget. I know. I am an idiot. But you should have seen her. She was practically tip-toeing on the pedals to make the big bike go while seemingly having the weight of the whole world on her shoulders in her Dora the Explorer replica backpack.

I unrolled the window and stuck my arm out with the camera phone pointed at the back of the midget. I didn’t want to get her from the front because I preferred to be completely rude without her knowing it than doing it in front of her big face. Have you noticed how midgets have big faces? Between the traffic, my excitement, the unsteadiness of my iPhone, and the moving target, I had only one shot at capturing the moment. I missed. All I got was the parking lot in front of her and possibly the wrath of the midget if she happened to see my arm sticking out the window pointing a cell phone at her.

Where was the bike riding midget going? What was in the backpack? Where does she buy her shoes? No photo and so many unanswered questions.

Getting back to the likelihood that this is all very offensive, just know that I have been running around with a big zit on my nose that was entirely picture worthy. What? That goes away you say? True. Well then compare my midget sighting with something I just saw this morning.

I saw a nun, in full gear; black robes, white habit, wire rimmed glasses, white wrinkly face and scary scowl. She was driving a white mini-van, quite fast down the street in front of my office. I would have taken her picture if my camera was ready. Why was she in a mini-van? Do nuns pile in vehicles together for road trips? What was her hurry? Do nuns ever get Road Rage? Speaking of Kimmie, too bad I didn’t have my ninja nun puppet handy. It would have been perfect if I could have waved the ninja nun at the speeding nun frantically while trying to throw my voice to make it look like puppet nun was yelling at her to slow down. Another missed opportunity.

I once saw a goat standing on top of a horse. This was in college. I was not on anything. Nobody had a camera. It was in Arcola, IL and I will never forget it.

I once wrote about my adventures in people watching at the gym. Don’t worry; I won’t talk about the midget that used to work out regularly. I was equally fascinated by Puffy Coat Girl. She would work out for over an hour, going from machine to machine, carrying her big puffy coat around with her. What was in that coat? Why couldn’t she just shove it in a locker, or leave it in the car? Does she bring her puffy coat everywhere? I wanted to take her picture, but that is a good way to get kicked out of the gym and I need the exercise. So I refrained.

Last time I was in Vegas, I saw a man about 70 years old wearing a long sleeve yellow shirt tucked into red and black plaid shorts. He had on brown loafers and a black belt. His black socks were pulled all the way up to his knees. I took about five pictures of him from behind. I lost them all when I upgraded the software on my phone. He reminded me of my dad a little. I prayed that I will never turn into him. The Vegas guy or my dad.

I have a whole imaginary photo album with great stories attached to each picture. What about you? What is in your imaginary photo album of missed shots?

Five Pack of Kick Ass

Somebody started a Kick Ass Blogger thing. I believe that soon enough, everyone will be a Kick Ass Blogger because once you are nominated, you are supposed to pay it forward and nominate five more. Mel Heth Mel Heth clearly has some mental issues and questionable choice in entertainment preferences because she nominated me for this soon to be all inclusive club. I think she went soft on me when I took her own words from one of her blogs and told her she is a durkle of yellow monkeyflowers.

I don't want to mess up the Karma, so I'm playing along with this.

To join the list of winners, you must go to mammadawg.com Kick Ass Blogger Award and add your name to the Kick Ass queue. Then:

• Choose 5 bloggers that you feel are "Kick Ass Bloggers."
• Let them know in your post or via email, twitter or blog comments that they've received an award.
• Share the love and link back to both the person who awarded you and back to www.mammadawg.com.

My fab five were hard to choose. Everyone on my blog roll rocks. But in the spirit of the task at hand, I'll choose Kimmie, kimmie guaranteed to embarrass herself in five minutes or less Moi, Bite The Apple -1-, -1- Loves Leather Pants Helen, Sexy Librarian in Stilettos and Kara Condis Hair

Really, everyone on my blogroll rocks, but some are already on the list (I bet some of my picks are there too, but I'm too lazy to check and I had to just do five).

There are also some great writers that aren't on blogger or really anywhere that I can find them (I'm not going to MySpace!!). I hope they come over here and get something started. I know they read now and then, so this is my shout out to Deb, Staz, Tits, Alan, and Casteroni to get their respective asses over here and fricking start writing your own blogs on blogger!!!

Ok, I've been in a funk - hopefully I'll write you all something good soon.

PS - Thanks Mel - you really are a durkle of sumthin sweet.

Peace Out

This has been a strange week in the Bretthead family. It can’t be something in the water because this includes the extended family too. I don’t think there is a full moon. Although my youngest was just running around butt naked before I put him to bed. He is such a toe head pasty white rascal. The glare from his shiny rear end is blinding in the light. He needs some sun on that rump! Are there nudist colonies for three year olds? Oh wait, that is just called my backyard, isn’t it?

I found out last week that my godmother has breast cancer. She is eightyteenfourseventy something years old. In other words, nobody really knows her age. All I know is she has been in the family longer than I have. I always called her Aunt even though she isn’t a relative. And then she became the godmutha to my sister and me. She has never been an easy person to talk to. She seems to have been living at this exact same age for the last twenty five years or so. Her primary interest in life is dogs. I can go on and on about my kids to her and get just a few head nods back. But mention dogs and she lights up. Every birthday and Christmas card we have ever gotten from her has a dog on the cover.

Anyway, information is sparse on my godmother. She doesn’t really tell us much and since we aren’t really related, the docs won’t tell us much either. She was supposed to get a double mastectomy last week. She checked in the night before and the doctors quickly discovered they couldn’t operate because she had a broken arm. They had to set it and need it to heal a bit before they go after the cancer. She said she fell down a few days earlier. You now know as much as I know. She has a friend taking care of her and my sister works nearby and is checking in on her.

Speaking of my sister, her eleven year old son was keeping an injured rabbit in his bedroom closet. The bunny was there for three days before my sister found out about it.

My cousin was on a week long Harley trip with his buddies. He had to come home early because Green Mountain caught fire from lightening and his wife had to evacuate their house. Plus, one of their cats is sick and has a tube inserted in its stomach. His wife was freaking, so he cut his trip short.

My dad just scheduled a hip replacement surgery for the first week of September. My mom is preparing to be even more of a slave for him than she already is.

My wife has had some unexplainable headaches and other symptoms that required her to get blood work done today. Results will trickle in over the next few weeks.

Amazingly, I am at peace with the broken arm, breasts, rabbit, cat, hip, head and body. I believe it will all be okay. Well, the cat and rabbit might be in a little trouble, but I can deal with that. I do kind of feel like I’m in the midst of a social gathering at my parents’ retirement community.

I am 41 years old. I have a zit smack dab on the middle of my nose. It is still in development. It is obviously there, but not to the point of being popped. My last couple blogs were on poop and pee, so it only makes sense to move on to zit juice, right? If you are 16 maybe! WTF? Who gets zits twenty years later? All I can think about now is John Belushi in Animal House. Luckily I don’t have any meetings tomorrow, but I do have peeps in the office to avoid. I can see it now, “Hey Brett, is that a zit on your nose or are you just happy to see me?”

I am not at peace with this.

Worms In Bird Poop

In case you don’t know it, my boys are three and five (and a half). They are at the age where anything gross cracks them up beyond belief. I believe that phenomenon lasts with the male species until they turn 104 years old.

The boys have definitely picked up my sarcastic sense of humor. If they go to a birthday party, I’ll act incredulous that they didn’t bring me home any cake. They will go on to tell me how it was the best cake they have ever had in their entire life and that I would have loved it. But they ate it all and didn’t bring me any so I’d never know how good it was. I’d ask them where the cake is and they’d say it is in their belly. I’d tell them I’m gonna get those bellies and have me some cake!! They’d scream bloody murder as I’d chase them around the kitchen island.

The latest fun game we play has to do with things they love more than daddy. I hope this is a game anyway! We had a good round today. It seems to be Will’s favorite game. Here is how it works. I ask what he loves more, X or daddy. For example:

“What do you love more; dirty diapers or daddy?”

Will cracks up and yells, “dirty diapers!”

Here are some of the doozies from tonight. To save repetitive typing, please note that the answer to all of the following is NOT ‘daddy.’

“What do you love more; worms in bird poop or daddy?”

“What do you love more; rotten eggs or daddy?”

“What do you love more; stinky toots or daddy?”

“What do you love more; licking sweaty toes or daddy?”

“What do you love more; spitting up in bed or daddy?”

“What do you love more; rolling around in cat poop or daddy?”

This goes on for quite awhile. So far, we have only discovered one thing where Will answers ‘daddy.’

“What do you love more; eating broccoli or daddy.”

So I got that going for me. Which is nice.

Pee

Guys tend to have messy bathrooms. I know! Stop the presses! I have uncovered one of life’s deep dark secrets. I still remember my teenage years living at home with my parents. My mom was flabbergasted as to how the bathroom could always be so messy, especially with pee stains on the side of the toilet, floor and sometimes even the wall. I was a pretty responsible kid, perhaps living a cluttered lifestyle, but I wasn’t flat out dirty. She had a good point, wondering why the bathroom often looked like it was bombed by pee-filled balloons bursting in air. But at the time, I couldn’t really explain it.

Well, now that my three year old boy Drew is almost through being potty trained, I have realized many answers to my mom’s flabbergastation. I made that last word up, but I like it. The problem is that us guys are sloppy from day one. And in the beginning we are encouraged so much that perhaps we don’t realize how messy we are. Although we try to be neater as we grow up, it does not come naturally.

Partial fault lies with the inventor of the toilet. My crack research team found numerous references on the inventor of the potty. Sir John Harrington installed a prototype ‘water closet’ for his Godmother, Queen Elizabeth I, back in the 16th century. And here I’ve only been getting my Godmother flowers for special occasions. It is good to be Queen I guess.

J. F. Brondel gets credit for the idea of a potty in 1738 as we know it today. Others mistakenly give credit to Thomas Crapper for inventing the toilet when in reality, he was just a plumber that held nine patents to potty improvements.

Well, whoever invented it, must have been really short (therefore he was peeing close to the target), never sleepy, never drunk, never had morning wood and must have been weak streamed. If every house had the long wall urinal, we’d probably have no problem. But the standard toilet, designed for sitting and standing, is simply too difficult a target to hit cleanly 100% of the time. Unless we take a lazy man’s piss and sit down instead of standing up.

My theory revolves greatly around the distance factor from toilet to squirter. The further away, the more difficult to cleanly hit home. Drew has the opposite problem. He is not quite tall enough to easily pee down into the toilet. And he doesn’t like standing on a stool. I think he feels like he is a on a pedestal and that whizzing from it is disrespectful.

Drew is a fire hose. He has power. Imagine quadrupling the water pressure in your shower and you are halfway to Drew’s firepower. This pressure release causes him to gain incredible distance. I want to take him to a carnival where they have those squirt gun games – they often make balloons pop or horses race by how long and squarely you apply water pressure to the target. I’d give Drew a few sippy cups of milk, have him drop his Thomas the Train undies, and blast away on the target with a steady stream of pee. He’d win that AC/DC mirror; lock, stock and dripping barrel.

There are two bathrooms upstairs in our house that are shorter than normal. Drew is fairly accurate when he uses one of those toilets. During the day, however, he uses the bathroom off the kitchen, which is standard size. Since he doesn’t use the stool, he tends to blast the back of the toilet seat. The power produces splatter that sprinkles half the bathroom. To his credit, he is trying a little harder to point his gun down toward the water, but usually this just causes him to shoot wide left and/or right. To the left is the doorway resulting mostly in just icky sticky tile. To the right is a wall. And the toilet paper. He has drenched both, numerous times.

Most often, the pee streams down the back of the toilet seat and settles on top of the rim, between the lid and the water tank. We end up cleaning up a yellow pool of pee every time he goes, usually accompanied by wall and floor scrubbing. It is difficult to criticize the little fellah because he is doing a good job choosing to use the toilet in the first place.

He must not like pooping on the pot as much because he tends to save them up and only goes every other day. On the days he has to poop, we are constantly saying, “Drew, do you need to poop?” I think he knows what to do now, but we are still gun shy from accidents early on. So we mix that question in among chatter throughout the day.

“Okay boys, get your shoes on. Drew, do you have to poop? Grab your hat, its sunny out. Drew, are you sure you don’t have to poop?”

We could be at a restaurant having lunch. “Will, do you want the chicken nuggets? Drew, what about you? Do you have to poop? Do you want a fish taco? How ‘bout a poop too? Do you want to go? I’ll take you. Black beans with that taco? Might help you poop! Do you have to poop yet?”

In the car. “Drew, do you have to poop? If you do, can you hold it? You don’t want to poop in your undies in the car. I can pull over if you have to go. Do you have to poop?”

At the park. “You gotta poop buddy? Don’t poop on the slide!”

At the grocery store: “Let’s see, where can I find pine nuts? In the baking aisle or by the other nuts? Drew, you gotta poop? I don’t want you pooping in the cart next to those tomatoes. We can poop here at the store, just let me know. Basil. Shit, I forgot the basil. Oh, haha, sorry. But that reminds me, do you have to poop?”

He usually answers, “No.” Sometimes more emphatically. Of course, we always have follow up questions.

“Are you sure? Okay, well, if you have to poop, where will you go?”

Potty training is a built-in excuse to behave like cavemen. We were at a park yesterday and the boys were covered in sand. I took them home to the backyard and had them strip down to their undies so I could squirt them clean with the hose. They thought it was great fun. Drew had to pee, so I told him to just let it fly. He took his underwear all the way off and peed off the ledge of the patio. He then remained butt-naked playing in our backyard for the next half hour.

There is no moral to this story, other than its hard to teach an old dog new tricks. Our life just happens to revolve around the potty right now, so it is top of mind. You may be happy to hear that Drew is being well trained to always put the lid down. You still probably would want to use one of the other bathrooms in our house though. My wife has three boys in the house. Welcome to the rest of her life.

American History Boston Style

I don’t know if this will be as interesting as ass plugs and pussy plates, but I have more Boston adventures to report. Although I didn’t break out the iPhone camera during the sex seminar, I snapped a few photos on other legs of the trip.



This photo was taken from the Moakley Courthouse, looking back to the city over the water. I’m sure many criminals love the view as they enter the building to get sentencing. Luckily, I was only going there for a catered dinner for our event. I believe the view was the primary reason for choosing to seat us in the stark lobby of a government building for a formal dinner party.

In keeping with the theme, the post dinner party that night was at a former prison, the Charles Street Jail. Having spent a few hours in jail at one point in my storied past, I was happy that the prison had been transformed into a swanky hotel. It now sported one of the hottest bars in Boston along with a club downstairs. There was a private area set aside for us on the 5th floor, high above the lobby where the bar was rocking with mostly 20-something hipsters drinking champagne, and various concoctions containing Red Bull.



The phone cam did not do this place any justice whatsoever, but it is still a cool photo. All those outer walls contained cells. They have done quite a transition in clientele at the Liberty Hotel. Now, instead of prisoners raping each other inside those hallowed walls, guests are raped by the establishment charging $15 per drink.

One of the great landmarks of Boston is Faneuil Hall. Our last keynote speaker session of the conference was held here.



Before the keynote spoke, a Faneuil Hall national park ranger gave us a little history of the venue. It was very interesting and the place had an aura to it. Despite that, I couldn’t help but have wandering thoughts.

Park Ranger: In 1742, merchant Peter Faneuil funded Faneuil Hall as a gift to the city. It became a platform for the country’s most famous orators.

Brett’s Mind: Figures he built it himself, gave it to the city, and of course named it after himself. Don’t name it Boston Hall or the People’s Hall or anything like that. Why wait til you die to have a facility named after yourself. My pal Mo Mo just told me a great line that I bet old Pete Fanny used all the time: “I’m glad you got to meet me.”

Park Ranger: Some of America’s major turning points were discussed in this building. Like when in 1764 the colonists protested the Sugar Act and established the doctrine of “no taxation without representation.”

Brett’s Mind: Mmmm, sugar. There must be a Dunkin Donuts nearby.

Park Ranger: This is where Samuel Adams rallied the citizens of Boston to seek independence from Great Britain.

Brett’s Mind: Man, I liberated way too many Sam Adams beers from the bar last night.

Park Ranger: This is where George Washington toasted the nation on our first birthday.

Brett’s Mind: I sure was toasted last night.

Park Ranger: Faneuil Hall burned down in 1761 and was rebuilt the next year. It was expanded in 1806, doubling in height and width. Those of you on this side (where I was sitting) are in the original building (post fire). Those on the other side would have been sitting in dirt until 1806.

Brett’s Mind: Jesus, are these the original chairs too? My ass is falling asleep and my back is killing me. Can I get a massage around here somewhere? Where is China Town? Not that I’d take one, but it would be cool to be offered a happy ending.

Park Ranger: There is great debate as to the proper pronunciation of Faneuil Hall. Some people rhyme it with manual, others pronounced it like funnel.

Brett’s Mind: Who cares! Bostonians can’t talk anyway. Cah, chowdah, bah-stin. If they talk fast, you can’t understand them at all. You just nod your head and say you have to go to Dunkin Donuts now.

Park Ranger: On the morning after the Boston Massacre, the first public meeting was held at Faneuil Hall. You are sitting where hundreds upon hundreds of colonists discussed the events and rallied to denounce the British rule.

Brett’s Mind: Damn these chairs.


The park ranger finished his march back in time and the keynote speaker gave her talk. This was the only less than satisfactory part of the conference. She didn’t really say anything new or insightful. Plus, my body was folded into atrophy and I couldn’t wait to get out of there. I toughed it out and then bolted to my own freedom through the infamous doors of Faneuil Hall.




I wandered down by the water, near where a lot of tour boats disembark. I have no idea where exactly the Boston Tea Party took place or where many of the British ships set anchor in the Boston Harbor. But I assume some of it took place in these waters and that the Boston Massacre happened nearby as well. I really do love American history and have read many books on the subject. I wish I could remember more from the book 1776 that I read a couple years ago, particularly because it spent so much time covering the battle at Bunker Hill, which was near the fancy prison hotel.



I stood there, gazing over the water and could practically hear the rumbling of cannons and muskets. I realized quickly that was actually my stomach growling. So I went looking for a bowl of chowdah.