Boredom

 “We are bored, Daddy.”

“Why don’t you guys play together?”

“We don’t have anything to do.”

I looked over their pint size shoulders and saw toys spilling out of their rooms all over the floor, splattered on the walls, hanging from the ceiling, overflowing the garage and taking over the world.

“Really?”

“No.  Nothing.”

I kicked aside an art set and drawing tablets to step closer and kneel down so I could look them in the eye.  This is not easy when there are four sparkling blue eyes beaming back at you, but I’m a professional Daddy; I know what I’m doing.  “Sons.  I feel you.  I am sorry you are so bored.  All these stupid toys sure get in the way of having fun.  And your wild imaginations are stifled by your busy schedules and obligations.  Sure, you don’t even know what time it is because every second at home is play-time but that sounds stressful to me.”

I put my hands on their shoulders and put my head down so I could weep.  “Daddy, why are you pretending to cry?”

“Because I am so sad for you.  Boredom at ages almost 7 and 9.  There is nothing to do, oh my!”

“Daddy, are you joking?  You aren’t being serious are you?”

“Well, you could do homework.  That takes about 15 minutes.  You could read.  You could play with any number of your millions of toys.  You could go outside and play.  You could ride bikes.  You can hit tennis balls.  You can make up a game. You can eat bugs for all I care.  But you have got to be kidding me - you are bored?!!!??”

“Umm, can we watch TV?”

“Fuck no!”  Okay, I didn’t say fuck, but I screamed it on the inside.

“Can we have a snack?” 

“Sure, there are fruit and vegetables in the fridge.  Have at it.”

“Can we have a real snack?”

“Hell to the no!”  Yes, I did actually say that.  It slipped out.

“Can we play the Tackle Daddy game?”

“Only if I can tickle you.”

“NO TICKLING.”

I proceeded to tickle them mercilessly.  Even saying “I’m a monkey’s bottom” (our version of Uncle) didn’t stop me.  Once I had them both securely pinned to the floor under my arms and legs, I said, “Boys, I’m bored.  I have nothing to do.”

“Don’t you have to pack?”

“If you mean for New Orleans (Jazz Fest) this weekend; yes.  If you mean for moving into our new house next week; yes.”

“You are all done with work though, right?”

“No little men.  It is Tuesday.  I have to work all week.  We have tons going on.”

“It seems like you have lots to do Daddy.  You shouldn’t be so bored.”

“Really?”

Facebook Baseball aka How Many Friends Have You Licked

I don’t write about dating.  Unless there is bacon involved.  I break rules for bacon.  I’d take bacon from a baby.  I was out all day and night on Monday because it was opening day.  For those non-baseball fans, that means I was at the Rockies game which entailed pre-game parties starting before noon, in-game partying, post game parties and into the evening partying.  Around 9p we were getting tired and about to call it a night when we stumbled into El Chapultepec.  Five hours later they closed up on us.  The jazzy blues band was phenomenal – it reminded me of Chicago live music.

What was I talking about?  Dating?  Bacon? Baseball?  Yes, yes and yes.  Hang in there. I’m going to tie all this together.  Even if you aren’t a fan of baseball, I’m going to assume you grew up a horny adolescent and often talked about girls or boys with your friends.  Back in the day when we were all discovering each other and exploring body parts, progress by us guys was sometimes measured in baseball terms. 

For example, you could sheepishly admit you got to first base if you played kissy face.  If you scored any boob action, that was second base.  Fans of the real game will argue that the triple is the most exciting play in baseball.  Well, in our little sex analogy, getting to third base was a really big deal and just as exciting.  Follow up questions would be if you slid in to third or just rounded it and came in standing up.  Of course the big score is a home run – going all the way. 

Meatloaf’s Paradise by the Dashboard Light is a pretty fun song.  He captures this well in the lyrics and play by play.  Good stuff.

Dating and baseball.  We are getting to the point folks.  The dating world today is way different than it was my first time around.  Nowadays when you meet someone new, whether they are a date or maybe a potential date, or when a friend becomes a friend with benefits, or you date someone numerous times; inevitably you are going to have to figure out how to handle Facebook.  If you aren’t on Facebook, congratulations, this isn’t an issue. 

I finally succumbed to Facebook a couple years ago.  My friends list grew quickly since Facebook is a fucking freak of no privacy and will suggest you friend everyone you have ever known from birth to today.  It finds every classmate you ever had, every girl you ever kissed, every co-worker you ever had and even relatives you’ve been avoiding like a plate of lima beans.  I wasn’t too picky about who I friended, other than trying to keep clients and work people out of the mix.  Facebook has even connected me with many of you in the blog world – some of whom I actually know in real life or at least know well virtually.  And some of you I really don’t know at all.  It’s a giant mixed bag.

Back to dating.  I never ask a date about her Facebook nor do I want to friend her.  But sometimes they will ask me.  I’ll get that little notification saying Sally From the Alley wants to friend me.  And then I have to decide if I want Sally From the Alley to be mixed with someone(s) I am currently dating.  But how did someone I’m currently dating get in there anyway?  It happens because I usually accept anyone that asks, as long as I actually know them.  So I end up with Rosie Rotten Crotch and Sally From the Alley as my friends.  I know; I hang out with some super classy women. 

Is this making any sense?  Put it this way.  My friend list includes ex girlfriends, ex dates, really close friends (wink wink) and so on, of which I have different on-base percentages and total bases.  Those are baseball terms again, but you know what I mean.  And, there may or may not be friends of mine that I’d like to get to first or second base (but really third and home).   I won’t admit to anything unless you give me bacon.  The infamous little black book has become Facebook.

I’ve decided that it isn’t a problem having the mix of friends I have on Facebook.  We are friends because they are cool.  And my friends don’t have much drama which is why we are friends.  But thinking about all this made me go in and see what my batting average looked like.  Remember, this goes back to high school dates too.  For all the bacon in the world, I’m not giving you the stats on the back of my baseball card.  But go check your list and let me know if it’s more startling than you realized. 

Do you have multiple friends on Facebook that you have messed around with?  Are you currently juggling friends with benefits?  Do you have some friends on there that you’d like to circle the bases with? 

During the Next 24 Days

I close on my new house in 24 days.  In the next 24 days I am going on two long weekend trips, working my ass off, being a dad, hiring two new people at work, packing and moving, inventing the cure for cancer, telling your mama hi, scratching myself and helping old ladies cross streets.  In other words, I’m going to be busy. 

Since I have to really hunker down and get some serious shit done, I am going to blow off tomorrow to go to the Rockies home opener. This entails attending two pre-game parties, actually going to the game itself and then meeting up with scores of other revelers after the game for more parties and mayhem.  Yep, I have my priorities straight.

I’m going to opening day with my pal Tom.  We can’t remember for sure, but we think the last time we went to opening day together was a couple years ago when we ended up at a nasty strip club and started walking home at 3am in a shitty neighborhood because we couldn’t get a cab.  So we stuck a thumb out at the random cars that went by every few minutes and actually got a lift from a couple crack-hoes looking for some rock.  I wish I were kidding.  Hey, we buckled up.  No we didn’t.  As I recall, we had hands on the door handles ready to pitch and roll out of there if necessary.  Tom had the 9-1-1 punched in already with his thumb resting on the send button.

The crack-hoes even said something like “What are a couple honkey idiots doing walking around here at 3am?”  I think I said, “Taco Bell?”  And Tom said, “Turn up the music.”  Yeah, that wasn’t all that great of an idea, even if we did have them drop us off a half mile from home. 

I told Tom not to let me hitchhike again.  Friends don’t let friends hitchhike. 

Friends also don’t let friends fall off barstools.  I went out with some guys last Wednesday night.  We had a round at a restaurant bar and were standing next to three women perched on bar stools.  One of them was hammered.  Head on her arm cuddling with the bar hammered.  The bartender stopped serving her, but didn’t kick her out.  Her friends were gabbing away like she wasn’t even there. 

The bartender walked by and poked her with his finger.  He said, “You can’t sleep here.”  Geez, some bars are assholes!  Her friends just laughed and she proceeded to sway and eat tortilla chips.  As we talked, all five of us were watching her.  It wasn’t a matter of if she’d fall; it was a matter of when. 

So we started building a barstool barrier around her.  We figured the bar would stop her from falling forward.  Her friends would stop her from falling to the left. We had to cover everything else.  For some reason we thought we needed to be discreet while surrounding her with barstools.  She seemed like an angry drunk, casting dagger stares at her friends and the bartender.  Somebody slid a stool next to her on her right.  We backed that up with two others behind it.  Then somebody was able to slide a stool next to that one, sort of diagonal to her.  We backed that one up with two more.  There were now six stools around her like flies on shit.  All we had to do was fill in the gap behind her.  Speaking of anal, the engineer in our group adjusted the six stools to what he considered a better safety net. 

Just as we secured another empty stool and were sliding it behind her; BOOM.  Well, maybe more of a PLOP.  She fell straight back onto the floor.  It was just like when Mike Brady dropped the giant book on the floor in the courtroom when that dick in the neck brace was trying to pretend Carol gave him whiplash in a car accident.  The whole bar looked and the drunk chick popped up like she was stone cold sober. 

It was actually funny so thank goodness she wasn’t hurt.  She got back up on the stool and seemed to have forgotten what just happened because she was stunned at the massive number of stools surrounding her.  She looked at them like they were aliens from another planet about to take her away.  Her friends went back to ignoring her.

We left the bar and talked about how we’ve never been that drunk before.  But now that I think about it, what is worse?  Falling off a barstool on a Wednesday night or taking a ride home from a nasty strip club with a couple crack-hoes?

Good thing I’m too busy to get into trouble over the next 24 days (while I go to the home opener or while in Vegas or while in New Orleans at Jazz Fest).  I’m such an angel.