Jewy Mannish

I don't know if you guys knew this, but I am a manly man. Burly. I have hair on my chin-y chin chin. I have so much hair I need to use Nads. Not, you know, on my nads, but still, if you had to remove unwanted hair, you'd have to use a product called Nads, wouldn't you?

Anyhoo, the Bears beating up on an old man on Monday night emboldened me and my manness. And my manness had taken a hit recently, due to staying home, mommy-style, with the Child all week, and not being able to fight in the War on Christmas this year because of some lingering laziness.

The Fancy Family was presented with a crisis this week - our gloriously large TV stopped working. And now we were supposed to "talk," and "be a family," and "not ignore each other's slowly intensifying rage." So quickly I responded, and determined what the problem was - the lamp needed to be replaced. And instead of succumbing to the whim and schedule of some electrician, I decided to fix it...myself.

I could build up more suspense, but I don't want to screw over my readers who are afflicted with heart conditions. It was super easy, and took about 5 minutes.

But my manness has returned! Yay!

But it still isn't working, which means that I need a new color wheel, which, from the internets, seems to be a much more complicated process. But with my manness, I shall overcome. Or cry trying.

In the meantime, it's back to "pretending to listen to Wife's crazy patient stories." Wait, that shouldn't be in quotes.

HOU

We're buying a house in Pittsburgh. I cannot decide if, long term, this makes me happy or excited or what.

I know it's the most adult thing I've ever done (other than that movie I was in that's now all over the internet. Just google "cable guy," and "karl hungus." You can't miss me.), and that includes fathering a child. This is all documents and numbers and investments and steel flashings and junction boxes and sconces. So if I wasn't bald already, I'd be losing my hair.

And that's on top of the fact that we're taking a seriously permanent step. In Pittsburgh.

Now, I love being able to afford a house, and daycare, and student loan debt. And Child loves his grandparents, and all the kids he gets to beat up at school. And Wife loves her best friend.

But I just bought a house in a city in which I have no real friends, and has a subpar music scene, and the only book store within walking distance is closing in three weeks, and whose communal commitment to education is, shall we say, somewhat less than I'd prefer.

A house means we're here at least another 5 years. 5! Years! That's a long time to have to call someone about great Community lines instead of relating them in person, or having just one person who likes to drink beer and ogle college chicks like a dirty old man (and no, my father-in-law doesn't like to drink beer). So as much as being an adult is cool and all, and now I get to play music however loudly I want to, I'm still not sold on this whole Pittsburgh thing.

Also, whine whine whine, blah blah blah. I bet this was a hoot and a half to read. Well Merry Hanukah to you too.

Weep for me. I SAID WEEP.

We parents are a shifty bunch. We make single people feel bad about their freedom, and all the sex they get to have, and we allegedly do not (I'm not implying anything, I'm just saying people I know keep having kids, so SOMETHING'S got to be goin' on, right?), and all the sleeping in they get to do. And even within our own tribe there are hierarchies and prejudices - working moms, non-working moms, fathers who are more and less involved, parents who can't wait to smoke up until their kid is asleep and end up hiding in a closet with their bong made out of a PBR can - cataloging these subgroups is way too much trouble.

But I'm here today to dispel a particularly insidious and effective myth. And that is the MYTH OF THE GUILTY DAYCARE DROPOFF.

The conventional wisdom goes something like this: Mom or Dad drops off Child at daycare or preschool, and Child proceeds to pitch a fantastic fit. Screaming, lunging precariously out of teachers' arms, full-on tantrum on the floor with punching and kicking and snot and tears. Mom or Dad, after bearing this outburst with a saint's patience, kiss their child goodbye and walk out the door, looking to one and all like they've made a tremendous sacrifice -

"Good for you, helping your child learn the value of independence, and time away from his/her parents! It's so tough, but you're a modern parent! You HAVE to work, otherwise you'd totally be with your child 24/7. You must be a VERY strong person. I am in awe, sir/ma'am!"

Balderdash.

That tantrum is a point of pride. Sure, we have to look all distressed and anxious as we walk away - gosh, I hope s/he's ok without me! However will s/he handle the day without his Mumsy-wumsy? But deep down, we're cheering. Because that conniption is Exhibit A of our child's love.

If you're walking out of preschool, and your little Emma Bailey Aiden McFeminism-Smith isn't turning beet red and passing out, you're obviously a crappy parent. Maybe if you were more fun, or had better, non-plastic toys constructed by union workers at carbon-footprint-free factories, and fed your child hormone-free organic fruits and vitamin-infused soymilks and -cheeses, s/he would actually be said to see you go. Instead, they're all excited to go and bite that Asian kid, then hurt animals in a blatantly proto-serial killer sort of way.

Here's a hint if you want that awe-inspiring tantrum when you drop off your kid - tell him you're never coming back, and that his Mommy doesn't love him.

Oh, the tears will flow like rivers! And everyone will know what a great parent you are. Jealous much?

Sugar? Why yes, thank you. Gluk WOOOOOOOO zzzzzzz

Wife is a harsh mistress. She rules with an iron fist, demanding this and expecting that. "Stop wandering around the supermarket without pants," she says. "Don't feed Child Soylent Green! It's PEOPLE!!!" "Go make me some pie, and feed the dog, bitch. We don't have a dog, you say? Get off your ass, find a dog, and give it some Kibbles. Do I have to think of everything?"

Golly I love her.

Her nemesis is Big Sugar. Oh, she loves the sweeeeetz. There is no bigger fan of ice cream, or cake, or cake with ice cream and an apple pie chaser. But she's got what the ancients called "self-control," and has rigorously and effectively controlled her intake.

But she cannot do this alone. No sirbob. We are a team - just check out my jersey and matching sneakers. Thus I too must limit my enjoyment of the desserty goodness. And Child, who gets exactly one cookie a week (that she's aware of). If Wife spies either Child or I gorging on an extra cookie or brownie or pint of ice cream, she deploys her most potent weapon - the repulsed eyeroll. Subtly different from the exasperated eyeroll, in that it contains all of her disdain and aggravation with our respective food choices.

Obviously, this is less than ideal.

But there are domains, locales where I can enjoy a Swiss Cake Roll in peace. There's my office, and in the basement behind our laundry machine, and Papua New Guinea (LOVE those Papua New Guinean cannolis!). And occassionally I partake.

The problem with randomly mainlining sugar is that your body and your brain are completely unprepared. I'm moving along through the week, energy levels barely exceeding "lethargic," and then

I'lleattwoKINGSIZEReece'sPeanutButterCupsandallofasuddenIcan'tfeelmycheeksandeverything
isblurryandwhydoeseveryone'sfacelooklikeBarryManilow'sarmpits....
(inhale)
IhavesomuchpeppopvivvigormaybeI'lldosomeactivitiesandwhathappenedtomyspacebar?And
whataboutMatthewLillardishestillalivehewasgreatinthatmoviewiththehighschoolkids...
(inhale)
MyassistantthinksI'mhavingaheartattackamIhavingaheartattack?Myarmsfeellikebananasand
myheartsoundslikeahelicopterthupthupthupthupsomedayI'dliketorideinahelicopter,maybe...
(inhale)
rescuesomesoldiersfrombehindenemylineseventhoughIdon'tlikegunsbutIlikegunsinmovies.And

then

suddenly

the

sugar

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and

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In Steeler Country, no one can hear you belch

I thought I would totally be down with Cally. I thought I could groove on their laid back vibe, float happily on their self-righteous extreme liberalism, gorge myself on their free-range tofurkey.

How very wrong I was.

I can never live in California. Not even San Diego, allegedly possessing the most wonderful weather on the planet. False. There is no snow, there aren't even clouds. There is only sunshine and smiling, tan people. And do you know why everyone is smiling? Because it sure as hell ain't natural. We had to shop for food for Child while we were there, and the supermarket we entered had a larger vitamin department than its food department.

But now I'm ready for Child to be rejected from every top university. It's because we abuse him by neglecting to provide him with invaluable supplements and boosters and Power Gels. There are Achievement Supplements (15 drops a day adds 1.6 IQ points, on average), Attention Focusing Minerals, and Brilliance Boosters! Whether this will lead to an epidemic of teenagers trying to inject extract of exotic insects sometime in the future, only time will tell (now that's a fun sentence to read out loud. Go ahead, try it. I'll wait.).

So for fear of superhuman overachieving insect junkies, we're not moving to San Diego. Also because it allows certain relatives to subject their 5-year-olds to acupuncture. Now don't think I'm one of those old-school folk who think acupuncture is hoodoo. One of my good friends is an acupuncturist, and he's not even one of the weird ones. But maybe wait on the needles until your kid is old enough to read? Perhaps. Just a suggestion.

A quick word on La Jolla. There are certain cities and neighborhoods whose property values make no sense whatsoever. Case in point - Skokie, IL. It should cost about $1.25 for those ugly ass houses. What an eyesore (sorry, Arica's parents. But then, that's why you're moving, isn't it?). Or Brooklyn. Or any of the non-Manhattan boroughs, for that matter. Someone would have to pay me to live there. To be fair, I'd make the same demand to live in Manhattan, but at least I understand why people like it there. It's exciting, and fun, and you never know who's going to assault you, or in what new and interesting way. Also, someone should take an eraser to Florida, and just start over. It's no wonder most of the residents are elderly - they're the ones who can't see how hideous their neighborhoods are.

But La Jolla makes sense. It's the most beautiful, most expensive place I've ever been to, and it's completely understandable. At least until an earthquake shakes it all away. But until then, you've got mountains, and coastline, and weather, and really hot women.

As much as I love Brother S, and new Sister...S (what can I say? They both have names that start with S), I can't live in LA. My profit motive just isn't that strong. Not even with Jeff's Gourmet Glatt Kosher Sausage Factory. And not even considering how great a gay porn title that would be. Because seriously, you should stop reading this right now, fly to LA, fill your mouth with a hot beef injection of cased meat, and feel awkward about how much you enjoy it. Then go back for more. Then get on a plane and go home, because you can't afford to live there.

Wife and I also went to Rodeo Drive, for Wife's Pretty Woman montage. I think we went into one store, and that was because we were lost, and needed directions. It's a little bit ridiculous.

Child, in case you were wondering, was fantastic. He slept, he ate, he flirted with anyone who made eye contact. He's a complete baby whore. Strangers don't even need candy to entice him into their cars. All they need is to play peekaboo, and he's gone. "Parents? I have parents? Hey look, a sketchy guy in a baseball hat! dadadadadadadadadadadadada!"

Brother S's wedding was fantastic. Smorg, molten chocolate cake, good scotch, smoking band, crazy, crazy people. And also beautiful bride, and flowers, blah blah blah. The corniness was effectively countered by wildly inappropriate honeymoon suite care packages. I feel dirty just thinking about what was in that bag.

And now we're back in Pittsburgh, where evidently a local sports franchise is competing in a high level match of epic proportion. I will say this for Steeler's fans: they're not nearly as annoying as Patriots fans. But I will miss rooting against those cheating, model banging bastards. Wait a minute - who said I have to stop rooting against the Pats? Or any Boston team, for that matter?

G-d, it's great to be back on the East Coast. Excuse me while I go chisel my car out of the ice and pay $15 for an avocado.

That's right, I eat avocados. What, you wannafightaboutit?

Random thoughts while I prepare to give Child jetlag for his birthday

At this time last year, Wife was clutching her enormous belly and trying not to poop out a baby on our nice white couch. Our couch was located in our apartment in Boston, which we could no longer afford.

And now...Child is a year old tomorrow, Wife's belly is so taught you can bounce quarters off it, and I'm gainfully employed by one of the few non-profits not completely decimated by Bernie Madoff and his band of Shylocks - making Jewish stereotypes persist for another thousand years! - living in an apartment we can afford in Pittsburgh.

This is not a list of resolutions. Nor is this all cheesy about Child somehow surviving his first year with me as his father. If you want me to be honest with you, this is a post crafted out of guilt and obligation to cover my ass while I jet off to LA for a week to watch Brother S may a girl that's WAY out of his league. Don't you feel the love all over? Sorry, that's a rash. You should get that looked at.

A friend mocked me this week for not watching one of the 754 bowl games. It could be that I was instead watching the Devil Wears Prada (how come no one told me that's not the movie where Anne Hathaway gets naked?). Or it could be that college football is a poor excuse for a genre of sport. It's nowhere near as compelling as the NFL, the skill level is exponentially lower, and the BCS system is so bad that Obama won the election simply by saying he'd fix it. There might have been other reasons, but I don't remember what they were. Something about hope, or dope. Were we promised a bong in every home?

Anywhoo, college football blows unless it's overtime. They have the single greatest overtime system in sports. Better than hockey's shootout. Better than your extra innings. Better than your closest-croquet-mallet-to-the-testicles-wins croquet. Even better than cricket's Animal House-style ass-whacking Rochambeaux. It's exciting, each team gets a fair shot, and the score runs up absurdly into the 70-64 range. Plus there's no punting, and we all know punting is for pussies who play rugby.

Meanwhile, I'm reading Beckett and this guy Gary Lutz. If you've ever read either one, you will wonder why the hell I'm reading both at the same time. Well Watt is funny, no doubt about it. But it's also dense, and boring, and not a whole lot's happening right now. So sue me, I got antsy. So I picked up Lutz only to discover that he treats English like a salad. He tosses some verbs here and there, and thinks adjectives are just super over anything, without regard to context, or definition. So you'll get a sentence like

"I disturbed the pages of my newspaper, spoiling them, melancholizing them with sudden prosperities of eyesight, despecificating the stories until all that was still binding in them was a vague and ungiving sense of people motioning dimly toward me from within their own cumbersome towns."

What the fuck does that mean? It makes me feel stupid, and jealous, and exhilarated. Turns out, I enjoy things that make me feel like an idiot.

E.g., being a dad. Child went through a period of eating nothing but frozen pancakes and waffles. Couldn't get enough. And then we got a note home today - "Please do not send any more frozen pancakes or waffles. They make him scream." Well alrighty then. Of course, Child will eat just about anything if you distract him with fun toys like paper, or a magnet. So we tag team him for dinner - Wife shoves food into his mouth, and I try to do the weirdest, most bizarre things I can to keep Child's attention until he realizes he's full. He lets us know by vomiting.

On Sunday we get on a plane to fly across the country. Child has flown before, but never for this long. Can anyone tell me how much Benadryl - aka baby heroin - will it take for us to make it to LA with our sanity intact? One bottle? Three? In the meantime I'll try to remember funny things about the trip, and maybe when I return I'll regale you with tales of the Left Coast, and all their vegan hilarity.

Don't tell me I don't love America.

Thanksgiving, according to a wise man, is a special night.



It is my favorite holiday. Better than Passover, better than Kwanzaa, better even than Hobo week. And don't tell me that's not a real week, because Google says it is. And if you've never gotten down in August during Hobo week, then you have not lived. But despite all that frivolity and bindle-weaving, Thanksgiving is the best.

Is it the history of brutal oppression of an indigenous people? Maybe. Is it the awful football games? Doubtful. Is it the airing of grievances over heaping piles of white and dark meat, fueled by liquor and stuffing? Bet your ass. Mostly, though, it's the quintessential America-ness of the day.

You can have your 4th of July, your Memorial Day, your Arbor Day. Thanksgiving is the only one that combines gluttony, sloth, greed, wrath, lust, pride and envy. I don't know what it means that I associate America with the seven mortal sins. Could be that I just love Brad Pitt. Or maybe it's that I celebrated this holiest of days by participating in all 7 capital vices.

Gluttony - this is almost too obvious, but to wit: I ate an obscene amount of turkey, fought viciously against Brother A for the stuffing, and inhaled an entire chocolate pie. "Good pie, Ma." Damn skippy it was. And that was before Friday night, where the family dined on raw beef and leftover turkey.

Sloth - so much turkey, so much napping. And as for those terrible football games: did I watch them? Hells yeah. What am I going to do, get off the couch to find the clicker to change the channel? That sounds an awful lot like work, buddy.

Greed - this is the one I'm most embarrassed about. So you know how some malls opened Thursday night at midnight to bring in Black Friday early? And you sat at home wondering how unbelievably avaricious some whackos could be, how addicted they could be to good deals? Yeah, that was me and my family. Ostensibly the idea was to go at night, so we could have fun on Friday. That didn't actually work out, and we ended up going at night and during the day. This led to...

Wrath - wherein I cursed the gods, my own brothers, my wife, my child, capitalism, and the other whackjobs shopping at 3 in the morning, and almost stabbed a poor checkout girl with a cufflink. Plus the sleep deprivation gave me a nice short fuse right up until the holy Sabbath.

Lust - I'm just saying, Thanksgiving does some weird things to your brain. One minute you're staring at the perfectly cooked turkey, all gold and stuffed with stuffing, and then next your shirt is across the kitchen, you've got gravy all over your naked belly, and all the stuffing is gone.
(Note: that came out a lot more disturbing than I thought it would be when I started writing it. And yet...I'm not deleting it. So I guess the lesson is that I have no shame.)

Pride - Carving the turkey is a grand tradition in my family, passed down from my grandfather to me and Brother S. And I have to say, I carved the shit out of that turkey. It was magnificent. There was nothing left but gristle and bone, because I have the hands of a surgeon.

Envy - I'm pretty certain that, in the end, Brother A got more stuffing than I did. And I had to leave all that extra beef in Florida to be consumed by the rest of my family. And Brothers S and Z got some sweet-ass clothes. Should I care? Shouldn't I, who has talked up socialism and disparaged the free market all these months, let it go?

I should. And maybe if I'd been able to eat some more turkey I'd be ok. But you know what? While the rest of the country is gorging on leftovers this week - turkey sandwiches, turkey loaf, turkey burgers, turkey soup, turkey salad, turkey jerky, turkey stew, turkey chips - I've had to subsist on non-turkey roughage. And that's not cool.

My resolution for next year? Ether for the brothers, turkey for me. And lord help Child if he ends up liking dark meat instead of white...

Different ways to "pop the question"

To celebrate America's birthday Brother S proposed to his lady friend, and she accepted. So they're getting married, which is fantastic. But really it was the way in which the question was asked that makes Brother S the man he is (man? He's 22. Is he a Mormon?).

See if you can guess which was his method:

Brief tangent: I know there's been a lot of lists here lately. Too many, in fact. So if you want, I can cut back, and only write solid posts that aren't set off by any sort of bullet point whatsoever. Or I can not care what you think and keep writing whatever I want. Second choice? Excellent.

- Alien crop circles spelling out his special lady's name, and actual little green buggers singing the wedding march in harmony as he etches the proposal into thin air.

- Pixies, harvested from the nearby wood, build a mindbogglingly intricate scaffolding of pure sunlight and spiderwebs. The webs catch the morning dew in such a way that Brother S and his chiquita's names, birthdates, and future life together are mapped out in pristine droplets of rain.

- A personal show of fireworks exploding against an inky black sky, proclaiming to the gods themselves the passionate and unassailable adoration felt by Brother S for his maiden fair. Then the question, spelled out in colored flame to connote the burning love in his heart. Flashbulbs, confetti, and drunkenness ensue.

Brief note #2: There are many possible nicknames for the Future Sister-in-Law. LA Gear, for those 80's nostalgics...and that's the only one that comes to mind right now. I'm sure there are others. It may take me a while to settle on one. Let's all recall what happened when I rushed into naming something like, I don't know, this very blog. What a terrible name. But now I'm stuck with it. Goes to show that I'm often a moron.

- Mermaids construct, over decades, a coral reef that spells out the proposal. In calligraphic Latin.

- Buddhist monks craft symbols representing Brother S, the lady, the day itself, America, and the stores at which the couple will register. These symbols are then painted all over the body of Brother S, who performs a kabuki monologue entirely in Mandarin, wearing nothing but the Chinese symbols.

- A bus pulls into town with a dozen sinister-looking guys in masks with guns. They corral everyone into the dining hall and proclaim that the entire camp has been taken hostage. Ransom will be four tons of barbecue beef, and 20 jerrycans of bug juice.

Sorry, that last one was Color War breakout. My bad.

- Brother S, having written an ode to his g-fry, has it translated into all known languages, and each copy is read simultaneously in a cacophony of love and betrothal. The resulting atonal poem becomes the one true method of declaring one's undying love for another, and must be pronounced before the beginning of each United Nations session.

- "Will U MarE Me?" is spelled out in barbecue sauce on the ground. The resulting swarm of mosquitoes gives the question a life of its own, a life of fleeting existence and vibrancy, but also itchiness.

- Already drunk, Brother S vomits on his woman. Looking up at her while wiping drool and chunky snot from his mouth, he flicks the ring at her, and says "you tell your pops that if it's not big enough, he can kiss my ass." Brother S completes the grand slam by passing out on his future mother-in-law's lap.

I think I'd have liked to see the pixies one, but I'll settle for the one he did. So Mazel tov, Hermano.

Contrary to popular belief, there are no leftover pygmies

Living with the In-Laws is...an experience. Everyone has their own idiosyncrasies, and I certainly don't begrudge them theirs. In fact, sometimes their unique habits can lead to exciting adventures. For example:

Mother-in-law is afflicted with the hoarding gene. She has thousands of foil pans, sauces and dressings that go back to Wife's infancy, and a veritable mountain of plasticware. But her true packrat genius reveals itself in her freezer. She is of the "starving children in Europe" generation, so nothing left over is ever discarded. God help you if you throw out that chicken - throw some mayo and pepper on there, and you've got yourself a salad! Leftovers are poured or forked into a burpable Tupperware, sealed with plasticwrap, zipped into a freezer bag, and labeled for future generations. In 8,000 years, when crawdads will have replaced us as the dominant species on earth, they will glean from the ancient writings that within this frozen receptacle was stored several hundred gallons of "Brisket (Passover)," "Brisket (regular)," "Chix soup (boneless)," and "farfel (matza)."

We commoners throw stuff in the freezer haphazardly, and pray it lasts more than a couple of months without getting freezerburnt. But with Professor Father-in-law's engineering ingenuity, food lasts for years in the In-Laws' home. And with the labeling system, Mother-in-law knows exactly what she has, and where it is.

This information is sometimes not shared with the rest of us, however. On Friday I was sent down to the icy depths to retrieve a certain poultry dish. Was it on the bottom shelf? On the door? No one would say. So I packed a headlamp, two pairs of long underwear, a goosedown jacket, GORE-TEX gloves, moon boots with removable crampons (it's a real word, and has nothing to do with vaginas. Look it up if you don't believe me), and seven pairs of wool socks (my tosies are sensitive).

I kissed Wife and Child goodbye, opened the hermetically sealed freezer door, and tromped inside. Within I found a barren wasteland reminiscent of Hoth, or Milwaukee in January. Swirling winds hurled needles of ice at my face and loins. Snot froze on my upper lip.

After wandering for a few hours I found the first of many leftovers. These were remnants of this past Passover, so I knew to I had to delve deeper into the ancient Maytag. The turkey I was looking for had been stored just before the turn of the century, in honor of the Y2K-caplyse. The only information I had to go on was that it was marked as "Y2urkey," and it was "somewhere in the back, near the cocktail weenies." By this time I'd been hiking for most of the day, and I decided to set up camp near a block of ancient cholent. I hacked off some of the kishka outcropping, and settled in for a cold, dark night.

Many storied journeys into undiscovered lands include the appearance and invaluable guidance of secret natives, hidden tiny men and women with wings or pointed ears or forked tongues. When planning for my trek I just assumed I'd find some prehistoric leftover Yeti, or an ancient shaman who worshipped (or worshiped, depending on your browser's spellcheck) the forgotten stack of pancakes on the top shelf.

Instead all I found was Tupperware and plastic bags. My eagerly anticipated meeting with ancient peoples turned into a boring-ass journey into myself, with plenty of time for self-reflection and meditation on the fact that I was walking through a freezer looking for turkey. After many hours contemplating this truth, I learned this: I really don't like climbing into a freezer full of prehistoric leftovers.

Maybe if I'd brought more socks I'd have felt differently. But my toes were icy, so I'm bitter. From now on, Mother-in-law can search her own hidden stores for dinner.

Some links, you know, for the kids

Here is the Balloon Brother, amazing David Letterman and Biff like sugar-crazed toddlers:



Back in the day I had to wait breathlessly by the radio for the prefect songs to come up, then mix them with my meager tape collection to explain to any number of special ladies how I felt, being too lazy to come up with an original thought. Now, just go to Muxtape, and you can post your mixtapes for all to see, including the girl who sits behind you in French, and who odds are will not actually enjoy Conor Oberst's whining. My recommendation? ABC, "Aisha."

In yet another sad political twist, Obama and Liberal Blogs File for Divorce, all because he went on Fox News. All I want to know is who is going to buy my love with a Playstation 3 and universal healthcare.

Freedarko is being annoying, but it doesn't matter. If you don't love your basketball lightly salted with Kierkegaard and Ghostface Killah, then I don't know what to say to you.

Yeah, it's a short post, but it's really all in the name of getting Brother Balloon some extra hits. Check out his website, The Twisted Balloon Company, and be amazed.

Erasers - ever so much cooler than dumb old stickers

When the Pants Wearing Family left Boston, we didn't actually have a house or apartment waiting for us. Instead we moved into Wife's parents' house, where Wife insisted we live in her old bedroom. Obviously a certain amount of decluttering was involved - Luke Perry posters trashed, bus notes from old boyfriends tossed into a pile and ritualistically set aflame - which reawakened all kinds of Wife's memories and experiences.

"Hey, there's my Grateful Dead concert ticket! That was a great show...I think."

"Do I have to throw Luke away? Look at those eyes, that hair, those tight jeans...here, I'll just put him by my pillow, you won't even see him. It. The picture. Not Luke Perry, obviously, ha ha! He's not actually here. But if I wish it, with all my heart...what? No, I said I was fishing for, um, a dart. Yeah, I had this dartboard, and I lost a dart, and now that I'm cleaning my room, I'm looking for it. Like fishing. But no pole. I love you Lu- Pants Wearer!"

One hidden treasure was truly unique, dare I say more unique than the rest of Wife's collected doodads: her eraser collection, stored lovingly and carefully in a set of tiny plastic drawers on top of her bureau. Needless to say, this discovery prompted several questions. Here, then, for your edification, the Eraser Interview:

Pants Wearer: So, why erasers?

Wife: I don't know, I guess cause it was different than other people, who did stamps, or stickers, or whatever. Those are dumb. Erasers are much cooler. What? You know they are. Don't make that face. They are so cool.

P: I didn't say anything. So how many erasers are there, exactly?

W: I don't remember (walks to the shelves). Wow, I DO have a lot. Over 30, easy. And not boring old red ones, for math homework. Boooo, math!

P: Absolutely. What do you mean boring?

W: For example, look at this moose. It's a moose! How much fun is it to bring that out in class?

P: I honestly wouldn't know. But it doesn't look like you used it.

W: Of course I didn't use it, that would kill its value.

P: It's trading value?

W: Yup. Who wants a nasty old moose, streaked with black graphite? Gross! Ooooh, check this one out, it's a piece of coal! Or this one - would you like a rubber cookie? It's delicious!

P: I didn't think it was possible to have this much fun with erasers.

W: Well, not all of them. Look at this stupid sailboat. Blah.

Suddenly Wife's eyes lit up, as she reached for a drawer. Slowly bringing it out, she carefully carried it over to me, and presented her most precious eraser.

W: Look at this...isn't she gorgeous?

P: Is that a Cabbage Patch doll?

W: Uh, yeah (rolls her eyes). Not only that, she's exactly like my Cabbage Patch doll! Hair, and clothes, and everything!

P: That is...special.

W: She gets her own drawer, because I know how to take care of my erasers. See this one?

P: Is that a gun?

W: It used to be, before Brother T ruined it. He used it, like, every day. And now look at it. Yuck. Look! I could serve a whole eraser meal! Strawberries, a hamburger, lollipop... this is so fun! What other cool stuff do I have in here?

And on it went. More revelations about Wife's past, including her time as a bouncer, and her summer as a maker of fine jellies, and maybe some other ones that actually happened, came out as we made our way through the rest of her room. But knowing what I know now, about Wife, and her erasers...I'm just glad she doesn't know about my collection of ceramic bunnies.

I'll tell her, eventually. When she's ready.

Let's leave Egypt, so we can scrape our ovens with our toothbrushes!

I know this will be 2 Jewy posts in a row, but since it's the week of Passover, I think I'm entitled. I have an appropriately bizarre interview with Wife that has to be posted, but first it must be polished to a high sheen, then typed by my helper monkey. Don't think you're going to earn your dinner just by throwing feces and grinning, Rainbow!

Downstairs, as I write this, Wife's mother is banging her head against the Great Wall of Passover. Desperately she tries to clean her kitchen, scrubbing and soaking and boiling and swiffererering. I'm sure some rabbis will commend her, and I'm positive it'll go in her mitzvah checklist, kept by Herbert, the Accountant Angel (sure, you mock him, but Heaven has been in the black for three thousand years. Beat that, Purgatory! Your balance sheets are a mess! Hahahahahahaha!).

But in the end, through all the cleaning and removing by hand the dill from her famous chicken soup, is her Passover any more fulfilling, any more enjoyable? Sure, she wins the OCD category in her local Hadassah chapter's annual awards. And there is indeed a trophy. But, as Mother of the Fancy Pants likes to say, "G-d is sitting up there laughing His omnipotent ass off." I understand the laws, the requirement of eradicating leavened materials from the home. And she does a super job, as do most mothers - because let's face it, there are few men with the patience or inclination to scrub an oven grill until it shines. Who do you think came up with all the loopholes? But why does this holiday turn everyone into Lady MacBeth (and no, I won't quote the line for you. If you don't know what it is, go back to high school, or learn to read. Neanderthal.)?

So, in honor of my mother-in-law, I hereby suggest the following. If

1) you are the principal preparer of the Passover home;

2) you are hosting at least one seder;

3) you are preparing more than 4 recipes that are over 40 years old, one of which requires you to reach into a boiling pot of broth and squeeze out the fresh dill that has been soaking therein for the past 6 hours; and

4) you have a cleaning lady, but you don't really trust her work, so you do the entire house yourself anyway,

you don't have to celebrate any other holiday all year. No fasting, no shaking the fruits and veggies, no sitting in the hut. Because if you're going to blow one holiday out of all proportion, it should cover the rest of the year.

Have a lovely 8 days of constipation and leftovers, my glorious 5 readers.

Today is a glorious, glorious day

The first round of the Tournament begins this afternoon. This is how you know it's the most fantastic sporting event, by the way; it's the only one known as "THE Tournament." Can the World Series make that claim? Well, baseball can't say much, what with all those steroid needles poking out of its gigantic head, and it doesn't really get out much, what with the hip replacement (because it's old, get it? And really boring). The Super Bowl? It's only one game, and it's never as fun as ripping on the $846 million spent on commercials. 

So really this is the best sporting event of the year, and regularly renews my love of basketball and sports betting. Rocco and Luigi love it because they get to come to my house and threaten my family if I don't pay up, and I'm always polite enough to offer them some alone time with Wife in exchange for my fingers. 

Recently Brother S has taken it upon himself to run the family brackets, which we all appreciate, and takes a load off my mind because now I can concentrate on getting the whole brood hooked on Amway (it saves money, and we all make money! There's no reason whatsoever not to get involved! What's a pyramid scheme? Who's Ponzi?). And it means we can talk about George Mason and Kansas' perennially disappointing run at family events, and not get yelled at.

Finally, it's Child's first tournament, and he has his own bracket. And hopefully, like his dad, he'll think enough of the event to lie to his bosses, and tell them there's this new Jewish holiday that happens in the spring, and celebrates amateur athletics, beer, and brings the family closer together through the playing of 65 competitions. And I'm sure, brilliant Child that he is (this morning he discovered a Higgs boson  particle in his diaper), he'll be able to come up with some clever Hebrew name to seal the deal, and get the day off.

Some thoughts while sitting in the hospital watching Child sleep

Of all the unnerving aspects of the birthing process - and there are so, so many - the one that tops the list, and was most unexpected, was the sheer volume of knowledge I got about my mother-in-law's pregnancys and subsequent biological quirks. For instance, did you know that, 30 years ago, they shaved the hair around the birthing area? I put it delicately because you're not old enough to understand, but ask your older brother, he'll be more than happy to explain it with charts and videos. Aren't you glad you know this?

Science lied to me once again. And all you people who mocked me for disbelieving the whole baby-hoohaa connection can suck a lemon. It turns out there is a different method for removing children from inside mothers - through the gut. What, is the real story not gruesome enough to release to the general public? Got to scare everyone with tall tales of pooping and baby-sized babies squeezing through hoo-haa-sized hoo-haas? I'll never believe anything science has to say, ever again. Which is why Child had his first pastrami sandwich tonight - because milk goes on cereal.

Also, hospital food isn't terrible. What was it, People Who Make Up Old Sayings, you didn't have time to try the vegetable soup? I wish everyone would stop lying to me.

I never knew that I would see literally dozens of men and women come into my room, brazenly whip out Wife's boob, and start massaging it, and I wouldn't punch any of them. She's like an exhibit in a museum, she is.

Hospital wifi is a revelation. How better to mess with your friend's heads than by e-mailing them while Wife recovers from delivery? The key, though, guys, is to wait for your wife to fall asleep. If she's awake, it will not end well for you.

I am screwed.

Bay State’s going slap-happy

Well, what the hell am I supposed to do now? Fetus is set to burst out of Wife's unsuspecting, innocent uterus like a pumpkin through a buttonhole, and if the Beacon Hill Commies have their way, Fetus will have us all under its control within minutes.

And now I have to return all the tools recommended by the Boston Educational Association for Training and Driving Offspring With Necessary Stimuli. There's no way I'll get a full refund on my taser, and I have no idea which cop I stole that nightstick from. I guess Wife will have to return that EST machine to the hospital.

What? my brass knuckles too? Great. Now we're defenseless. I may as well toss out my baseball bat, while we're at it. What do you mean, that's not what it's for?

Liberal bastards.

Repent! The Hour of Judgment is at Hand!

Tis the season for forgiveness. For those of you who may not know, we are nearing the end of the 10 Days of Repentance, which occurs at the beginning of the 25 Days of Holy Binging, and is followed by the 6 Weeks of Half-Assed Exercise. It is common for many folks to ask forgiveness of others during this time so as to start off the new Jewish year with a clean slate, thereby saying to G-d “see, I can follow your ‘rules,’ your ‘laws.’ It’s not so tough, Big Man.”

In this vein I should like to repent, to atone for the many, many wrongs I have committed over this past year. Forgive me, don’t forgive me, it doesn’t really matter – it just feels so good getting this stuff off my chest. Like that one time I tweezed my four chest hairs, except with less blood.

To the mailman: I’m sorry I sprayed my mail with dog pheromones. How was I supposed to know that the cliché was accurate? And don’t worry; with modern medicine, rabies isn’t fatal.

To the wild turkeys who live on my block: I’m sorry for all the honking. And for posting pictures of you and your brood in local hunting lodges. How about we compromise – I won’t run you over or offer a reward for your tasty carcasses, and you learn to use a crosswalk.

To my super, the Great G: I promise, no more ritual sacrifice. Just so you’re aware, though, that means no more Virgin Meatloaf.

To Random Coworker: it was wrong to sign you up for a year of Teen Meat. But you have so many pictures of young boys in your office…wait, those are you children? I have to make some calls.

To Friend K: I’m sorry I sent your picture to the Department of Homeland Security. But you talk crazy sometimes. And you have to admit, you’re a danger to yourself, and others.

To the Brothers: I know I can’t call off the fatwas against you. But I will pray hard for your deliverance unto the well-deserved 72 virgins. When you hear about how you’re supposed to be killed, though…you’re just going to laugh and laugh.

To Wife: Sorry for the whole pregnancy thing. If you really want, I’m still ok with selling Fetus on the black market. My EBay auction is up to $325.62!

To Parents: That, just before – that was a whole lot of inappropriate humor right there. I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable.

Progress is for suckers

The Brothers are done with CD’s. My friend the Crocodile hasn’t bought an album in years, but he also has his own sitar and recording studio, so we’ll put him over…there. None of the other Pantsy Pals care enough about music to purchase any, so I’m stuck with no role models who remain loyal to the fragile, easily-scratched medium of the not-so-compact disc. Am I reaching my own tipping point? I don’t know what other cliché to use to describe the situation in which I find myself. Rock and a hard place? Rubber meets the road? One hand clapping?

Wife’s opinion, appropriate for a pregnant lady, is paradoxical: CD’s are still worthwhile, but I shouldn’t buy any more because we don’t have any more room, even though we just moved into a palatial 2-bedroom (and comparable to a palace in that it has more than one bathroom).

As in all other instances, I will probably concede to a portion of Wife’s demand. I won’t buy CD’s right now. But this month the New Pornographers come out with a new album, so we’ll have to make room. There are all sorts of plants that take up all sorts of room, but Wife isn’t on me to throw them out, is she? Although maybe that’s because all she has to do is wait a month or two, and they’ll have died. For Krazy, who asked us to plant-sit – that’s what you get for leaving the country. Jerk.