What I Really Want to Say

Parenting is like a yoyo.  Ups and downs.  And sometimes you just want to chuck the yoyo through the window.  Don’t get me wrong, my little boys are angels and I love them more than anything, even sex, although sometimes the latter is necessary to be able to handle the former.

As a single parent with in-person kid responsibilities half my life, there are times when I’ll have my little guys for days on end, without a ton of adult interaction.  In those circumstances my vocabulary is shortened as I need to leave out plenty of key words and phrases that I normally dish out like soup at the soup kitchen. 

For example, I eliminate the f-bomb when I have my kids.  This is not always easy.  Many times they seem to be purposely doing things to get me to say it.  But I refrain and then when I drop the boys off with their mom, I inevitably find somebody over 17 to swear at. 

17+ year old: “Welcome to Jimmy Johns, what can I make for you?”

Me:  “Yeah, give me a fucking number ten with cheese.”

Or a random stranger will make eye contact, probably because I’m smiling ear to ear being free of the rugrats after four straight days and they will say hello.  I will respond, “Fuck yeah hello.”

I might not have this problem if I could say what I want to say around my kids all the time without regard to them repeating any of it, being scarred for life, taking offense, or telling their mother.

Take a typical situation around the house.  Will and Drew are being normal brothers and pushing each other’s buttons.  They engage in the world famous banter that results in non stop harassment such as Will saying “DrewPoo” and Drew saying “stop” and Will saying “DrewPoo” and Drew saying “stop” and Will saying “DrewPoo” and Drew saying “stop” and this goes on about a dozen times with increasingly louder cadence before I say in a calm voice, “kids, please knock it off.”

Ideally, I could say what I was thinking which was a bellowing, “Would you two shut the fuck up? Geezus, you can be such irritating little assholes!”

Another good example.  “Hey guys, go get ready for bed.”  They are supposed to get in jammies, brush teeth, feed the fish and get in bed.  This should take five minutes or so.  Fifteen minutes later, one kid is running around in his underwear, the other is fully clothed and nobody has brushed his teeth.  I remind them to please settle down and just get ready for bed.  Then there is a loud thump in the bathroom with one kid laughing and one kid whining while they wrestle for sink space.  I say, “Can one of you feed the fish and put on jammies while the other brushes instead of both trying to brush at the exact same time?” 

If only I could say what I want.

“Hey guys, get ready for bed.”  Fifteen minutes later one kid is running around in his underwear, the other is fully clothed and nobody has brushed his teeth.  I remind them to settle down and get ready for bed by saying “Settle the fuck down, do your shit and get in the fucking bed!”  Then there is a loud thump with one kid laughing and one kid whining while they battle for sink space.  I say, “I am going to kick your little asses if you don’t get your act together!  Leave each other the fuck alone and one of you brush while the other feeds the fish before I decide to have late night sushi.”

And then of course I’d tuck them in and tell them how much I love them.  Little fuckers.

Advertising is Important

Advertising executives are very important.  With out ad men (and ad women), consumers would have no idea what products to buy.  They’d have to make decisions based on their own uninfluenced minds.  The horror! 

I thank the Baby Jesus, Buddha and Yer Mama for the advertising industry’s affect on packaging.  Clients and agencies spend hours and huge dollars perfecting colors, copy, layouts, sizes and every single detail of all packaging.  Without some of this valuable information, consumers would be utterly clueless. 

Case in point comes from the fine folks of Ozeki Corporation in Japan.  They make the sake I enjoyed last night while out for sushi.  By the miracle of modern technology, magic and pure bullshit, I was able to obtain transcripts of what went down in the Ozeki offices as they were designing the label on their “Hana-Awaka” Sake (say that ten times fast), particularly the copy that was meant to, well, I don’t know what it was meant to do.  But here are the translated transcripts nonetheless:

Ozeki Product Manager:  We are shipping a thousand cases of Hana Awaka Sake to the stupid Americans.  We need some copy on our label telling them about our shit.

Ozeki Marketing Director: Sex sells in America.  We will call our sake Sparkling Flower, like the stripper’s hoo-ha. 

Ad Executive: We will test that name in ten focus groups and have our research results done in three months. We will charge you a dragon boatload of money only to confirm Sparkling Flower is the perfect name.

Ozeki Marketing Director: Great!

Copywriter: We need to bullet point the Hana Awaka Sake strengths so the Americanos will know how to enjoy our beverage.  How about this:

You are drinking our sake.  You will love long long time.  Your tongue will lap up the Sparkling Flower of bursting sweetness.  Bubbles will give you happy ending.

Ad Executive: I love it.  It says Hana Awaka.

Ozeki Marketing Director: Let’s go thru a few dozen rounds before we settle on something. 

Ozeki Product Manager: We must tell the Gringos when to drink our sake.  We don’t want them to drink our product during work!

Now imagine round after round of writing and editing. Until finally the executives at Ozeki knew they hit paydirt.  Copy on the label that is useful and enticing.  I’m sure the agency was paid handsomely for this.

The Date

I don’t blog about dating.  I know, it seems stupid that I’ll plaster pictures of my kids all over the World Wide Web and write about my balls but I won’t write about girlfriends or dating.  I’m funny like that. 

A few months ago I went on a first date over a late breakfast.  Oh wait, I mean a friend went on a first date over breakfast.  To make this flow better, I will pretend I am actually the friend, even though I’m not cuz I never write about dating.  Anyway, breakfast - I don’t know why I agreed to this other than the fact I love bacon and everybody knows that bacon is worse than alcohol when it comes to making poor decisions in conjunction with consumption.  Of course I made this decision without having had the bacon yet, but the simple thought of it made me instantly say yes.

I got to the diner first and busied myself with a few games of Words With Friends while I inhaled the sweet smell of bacon.  The date showed up and we had to wait five minutes for our table. 

I talk a lot.  And I’d like to believe when I talk a lot that I actually say interesting things.  During the five minute wait for our table, I didn’t speak a word, other than a few guttural acknowledgements and a periodic “okay” or “right” with accompanying head nods while the date rambled on and on and on about her ex and his drug problems.  Yep, the first five minutes leapt right into his usage and possible manufacturing of various illegal substances.  I suppose all that is interesting.

I eyeballed the front doors and thought about a fake limp I could add to a hectic escape while I held my kidney and frantically told the date how sorry I was that I had to leave and have an emergency appendectomy.  But then a waitress walked by with a plate of bacon and the hostess said our table was ready. 

We sat down and her conversation moved on to her many talents.  Yes, it was her conversation.  I spoke more to the waitress than to the date.  Apparently the date was at one time awesome at everything.  She used to model, she was a top cadet in the police academy, she saved the Bank of America account when she was an intern writing copy for an ad agency and she apparently was on the road to being a professional soccer player as she played with Mia Hamm all the time and was just as good or really probably much much better.

She quite effortlessly shifted her conversation to her vehicle and actually said, “I’m a very good driver.”  Under normal circumstances, I would have Rain Manned her ass but  A) she would have never gotten it and 2) she didn’t deserve my cleverness and III) I couldn’t get a word in anyway.

I hoped the deer in the headlights look I was giving her wasn’t misconstrued as gazing deeply into her eyes.  I was so stunned, I couldn’t decide how to intercede so I mostly didn’t, other than those head nods, raised eyebrows and questionable sounds of bewilderment.  She finally asked me a question.  I think it was about my playing basketball.  I think I said, “Yes, I play,” and then was interrupted by her saying, “I play basketball.  I’m really good actually.  I play at the park, shooting around with my daughter.  People would even stop to comment and tell me how good I am.” 

After she gushed on and on about herself she actually asked me a second question.  I think it was about what else I like to do.  I told her I like to write.   This is how it went down:

“I like to write.”

She interrupted and said, “I write.  I have written books and articles and have had lots of things published.  I’m a great writer.”  Then she talked for a few minutes about her copywriting for an ad agency again and somehow the modeling, top cadet, and soccer came up again.  And then she told me how crafty she is.  She makes things all the time and her friends buy them from her for lots of money.

My plate was empty and all the bacon was gone.  I ate fast.  Really fast.  It helped that I wasn’t able to talk, nor did I want to.  She managed to shovel a lot of food into her pie hole while she told me how she was the smartest person in her school, she is a really good bowler and she loves to rock climb and that she is awesome at it.  She’s apparently a really good eater too and I can’t fathom how many years ago she modeled much less that she broke a sweat doing anything other than walking up stairs.

I asked for the check and the date asked what I do.  I said I run a small business and she said, “I ran a small business.  It was really successful.  I’m a great business owner.”

I wanted to tell her I’m a robot to see how she’d respond.  I’m sure it would have been something like, “I’m a robot.  I’m the best robot in the world.  I have bionic arms and legs.  People stop me all the time and tell me what a great robot I am.”

I limped to the cashier holding my kidney.  The date said something about being an awesome limper and how she was in the Olympic Limping Trials while I quickly paid the bill in cash.  We went outside and I said, “Well, that bacon was good.  I’ve got to get going now.”  I think she said she makes the best bacon in the world as I limp-ran to my car while doubled over.

I got in and saw her waving to me.  She said something I couldn’t quite hear, but I’m sure it was “I’m better than bacon.”  

32! And I'm not talking about her boob size.

Colorado has a few old mining towns that have gambling.  Recent laws have disallowed smoking while  finally bringing in craps and roulette along with all the other traditional games so now it’s pretty fun to hit Blackhawk and Central City for an evening of entertainment.

I was in Blackhawk with some friends on Saturday night.  We decided to stay the night so I decided I’d increase my gambling budget since we literally had all night if we wanted it.  I lost my entire budget of $400 on the craps table in about two hours spread over three casinos.  As I contemplated what the hell to do for the next five hours, one of my buddies was doing well on the craps table and I decided to tap into the last amount of cash I had out of sheer boredom and stupidity.  $67. 

I took my $67 over to the roulette table and loudly announced to everyone I wanted one-dollar chips for my entire nest egg.  There were three other people at the table and two of my friends joined me.  Yes, the infamous $67 buy-in. 

I was given my chips and loaded up the number 32 and surrounded it on the corners as well.  I had six bucks on 32 and one dollar on each of the four corners. 

As other people made their bets, I checked out the three strangers at the table.  They were together.  One person was an incredibly gorgeous woman, probably about thirty years old.  She had on an extremely short and tight low cut dress that showed off a spectacular set of fake boobs.  She was tan, had a nose ring, long hair and a sparkling smile.

The dealer called out no more bets and we watched as the ball bounced around and around, and into number 32.  Woot!  It paid me $242.  The hottie was excited too because she had put a chip on one of the corners which paid her $8.  The hottie’s friend was about the same age, overweight, average looking and dressed conservatively, but she was loud and gregarious.

We started placing bets again and the hottie’s friend decided to stack a few chips on the 32 with me.  As I tried not to stare too long (I was definitely staring) at the hottie’s rack, I also watched the ball spin around and noticed the third person in the group of strangers.

The ball bounced around and hit one of the numbers surrounding the 32 of which I had two corners so I won $16.  The hottie’s friend was mad 32 didn’t hit but I told her to be patient.  The third person whispered something in the hottie’s ear and she gave an over-exuberant laugh in response.  It was as fake as her boobs.  Although it was still pleasant; like her boobs.  The ball spun a few more rounds with random small wins for someone most of the time.

I stacked up the 32 yet again, surrounded it and also played 27 and the zeros.  As the ball spun, I watched the third person that had whispered in the hottie’s ear.  He was probably 70 years old.  Tall, skinny and white hair.  He had grandpa skin and wore tan trousers pulled up over his belly button and a cheap looking flannel shirt.  He had on bifocals and I spied a pen tucked in his front shirt pocket.

The ball bounced around and landed in 32!  I was paid $242 again.  The hottie’s friend had three bucks on there and was paid $105.  The hottie was mad she didn’t have a chip on 32 and the old man consoled her by rubbing her back lightly.

We hooted and hollered and I looked at the hottie’s hooters while the ball spun again.  And landed in 32 for the second time in a row and third time since I was playing.  Good thing I added some chips to it while still surrounding it on the corners.  I was paid $347 this time.  Even the hottie got in on the action this time. 

I pocketed most of my winnings and decided to up my bets on 27 and the zeros to four or five bucks.  I watched the old guy and the hottie interact.  It was clear they were comfortable with each other, indicating maybe this wasn’t their first time hanging out.  The old guy would shuttle back and forth between the roulette table and the bar to bring the hottie drinks to circumvent the slow waitress.  There were never more than slight touches; although more than what a father does to his daughter (or granddaughter) but less than what one does with a woman he loves.

The ball bounced around and hit the zero.  I forget what I won because I had split them and frankly I had a lot of chips tucked away in my pocket so I wouldn’t spend them again. I whispered back and forth to my friends wondering what they thought was going on there with the unlikely threesome. 

The ball spun again and the hottie and old guy did some sort of pinky promise that her number would hit.  The old guy assured her and she smiled with her chest jutting out in eager anticipation while still looking slightly uncomfortable.  Her number didn’t hit, but 27 did.  $175 more for me – right into my pocket. 

We quietly suggested scenarios to each other.  Father with his hot daughter and her best friend?  Stripper with a regular and she informed him he’d have to take care of her friend too?  Escort?  But who hires a working woman and drives her an hour and a half to a casino to play roulette with her friend?

The ball spun and I placed much smaller bets – a few bucks on 32 and one each on 27 and the zeros.  Something else hit and I kept to this same bet for a few more rounds.  The old guy seemed to be getting more physical with the hottie, touching her for longer periods and leaning in closer.  She kept throwing chips all over the table while being bouncy.

27 hit again.  I let the dealer keep the payout of $35 on top of the tips I had already left her.  I cashed out.  My $67 turned into $840.  Add on the $60 of tips and it was nearly $900.  I was happier than the old man’s pants.  Assuming he could be happy.  All we could do was wonder.

So we wondered for the next hour after we left.  I suggested we are all being judgmental and that perhaps the hottie and the grandpa are in love, have adopted orphans and work in philanthropy.  Yeah, we laughed about that for quite a bit.  Then I suggested that perhaps the old man is a stallion and she is using him for sex.   Miracles happen.

We couldn’t agree for sure what the dealio was there at the roulette table, other than it wasn’t natural.  And I’m not talking about the tits.  I just wonder what he paid her, what he got for it, and how her friend was involved.  And whose money were the girls playing at roulette?

All I know for sure is the hottie’s friend is going to play 32 the rest of her life and apparently Blackhawk is a mini Vegas with nothing mini about the boobage.

Get Ready to Rumble

Is this a new blog post in my pocket or am I just happy to see you?

I’ll tell you who isn’t happy with me.  Yer mama.  No wait, she loves me.  She says hi by the way, and I am aghast at your childhood antics. 

It is my downstairs condo neighbor that isn’t happy with me.  Speaking of mamas, he is a total mother fucker, no censoring or softening the blow.   Apparently me and the boys periodically make too much noise and the mother fucker pounds on his ceiling in protest.  Our noise would be a sporadic thump, perhaps when the boys tackle me or a spaz kid running for two seconds on the kitchen hardwood floor.  All between 5:30p and 8p on one of my days I have my kids which is about 50% of the time.

We do not make incessant loud and long running noises.  Nor do we ever realize we are being too loud.  In fact, since the mother fucker has pounded on his ceiling about four times in the last three months, I’ve had to tell my boys to stop having fun.  Luckily we are moving in late March and this guy can go fuck himself.

It’s all fine though really, at least until last Tuesday evening.  We thumped and he pounded.  We stopped and lamented on how impatient he is and why the fuck does he live in shared walls space when he is so sensitive at 6pm noises? And then, this mother fucker that doesn’t want to be disturbed by noise; cranked up his stereo with a heavy base instrumental that was turned up way past 11.  We laughed.  But then he went to his garage which is under my bedroom and started up either a motorcycle or some sort of race car.  He revved it for about five minutes.  The floors were shaking.

The boys were so confused.  Will said, “If the mean neighbor (he doesn’t call him a mother fucker like I do) doesn’t like loud noise, why does he make himself put up with loud music and revving?”  I hugged Will and told him how proud I am of him being so smart.

Then I told Will that the guy is a fucking mother fucker.  No, I said I had no idea but he just learned the meaning of irony.  Will then asked if we should go jump on the floor.  So we grabbed our pogo sticks and had a party!  No, we didn’t.  I told him we wouldn’t stoop to the mother fucker’s level.  If we were staying past March, I’d go confront him whether in person or via a note at some point.  But we get to get out soon and he isn’t worth our energy.

So we laughed again about his behavior and how he is less mature than a first and third grader.  And then we put together our guest list for our moving out party.  We have narrowed it down to everyone and anyone.  Bring pogo sticks, marbles, golf balls, bouncing balls and drum sets.  We look forward to doing the jumping jacks marathon with you.