I’ve never really liked Play-Doh. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only parent who feels this way about the classic toy, but to me it’s right up there with Lego bricks. Ever stepped on a piece of Lego in the dark? Fucking hurts. Fucking hurts so bad.
But Play-Doh doesn’t hurt when you step on it. It just sort of squashes. And it’s non-toxic these days – at least that what it says on the container. It’s almost like they’re daring someone to eat it.
Go on… have a bite or twelve… it’s non-toxic…
You know, I don’t think I remember a single kid growing up who ate Play-Doh. Not even my friend Dale – and he ate my sister’s birth control pills when we were seven years old. So you now have an idea of what that kid was like. He was awesome, that’s what. Growing up, I had the Play-Doh Make-A-Meal thing. You remember that fucking thing. It squeezed out different shaped clumps of the stuff and you could cut it up into shapes and PRETEND to eat it.
I never really liked Play-Doh because it gets everywhere, and I’m a bit of a neat freak sometimes. Lots of stupid parents get hung up on the drama that erupts from having two colors of the shit mix together, too. “Look at this, little Johnny! The blue is all smudged together with the yellow – it’s practically ruined and I’ll never buy you any Play-Doh ever again!” I don’t know little Johnny (other than the fact that I just made him up in my imagination now), but I’m pretty sure his mom is a cunt. Really, a small container of Play-Doh can be purchased at the Dollar store.
And that’s what I did the other day. I bought a handful of Play-Doh at the Dollar store. The real stuff, too. Not some knock-off. And I sure ain’t making it myself. My mother always made her own with some magic, ancient, old lady recipe. It wasn’t the real thing. It didn’t have that beautiful Play-Doh aroma. It had that awful homemade stank. Salt. The stank was salt. And it always went hard. Real Play-Doh stays soft and smooth.
We opened up the five canisters of Play-Doh – blue, orange, pink, purple, and green – and got to work. I even had fun with the stuff, making the Love Symbol with purple Play-Doh. Within three minutes, Grayson had a bunch of those colors smudged together, in some new swirly psychedelic design. I wasn’t the least bit surprised. If it was going to get mashed, it would be at the hands of the boy. Ryleigh, naturally, got upset that the colors were blended together by her brother.
I hope this isn’t a sign that she’s going to grow up to be like Little Johnny’s mother.
So what’s the big deal if the colors get mixed together? It makes for some neat-o creations. Ryleigh went on to build some beautiful roses and a few characters from Trolls. I don’t know all their names, so I kept referring to them as Poppy, Cummerbug, and Fluttershy. This just ensured that she’d give me the look she gives me when I’m a friggin’ idiot about something. The important thing, though, is she had a great time making her creations and she did a really great job on them.
Grayson… well, he just stretched a bunch of Play-Doh out and let his Hot Wheels cars drive on it. Then he shoved a bunch of Play-Doh inside those Hot Wheels and got really upset when he couldn’t get it back out. Man, it must be awesome to be three years old.
We laughed, we had fun, and by the end of it all, the shit was fucking everywhere. And since it was already smudged together – forming new colors unseen by the human eye – it was actually kind of easy to clean up. We just grabbed big chunks and used them to pick up the small bits.
It was in this moment that I realized I don’t dislike Play-Doh at all. It’s a lot of fun. It turns out, I just didn’t like the authoritarian regime that demanded colors never be mixed. And that messes should not be made. And, accordingly, fun must be structured. But mixing colors together, we learned, only makes new forms of beauty. And messes (most of them, anyway) are easily tidied. And fun shall be had.
And really, if time is infinite, then wouldn’t bedtime be able to last forever? I wish my bedtime could last forever. As in, the amount of time I spend in bed. When it comes to my kids’ bedtime though, sometimes that seems to last forever.
Bedtime – or the time of the evening where we force the children to go to sleep so us adults can watch some TV shows with naughty words in them – is different in every household. I think it’s safe to say that most small children go to bed sometime between 4 pm and 2 am, depending on a variety of factors. Age, parenting, routine, and how fed up the parent is with the child that day. Oh, and sugar. Sugar will mess a bedtime routine up real good.
My son Grayson usually goes to sleep at 8 pm, and my daughter Ryleigh follows up around 8:30 or so. This gives me just enough time to read Grayson a story, perform a set list of lullabies, then argue for a bit that it’s actually time for bed before doing it all again with Ryleigh, minus the arguing because she’s the good one.
“No it’s not,” he replies to me when I tell him that of course it’s bedtime because look at how dark it is outside. It’s like he’s trying to use the fucking Jedi mind trick on me. We both know the sun has set and I’m not falling for that shit. He tries the same crap when he comes into my room at 5 am to tell me it’s time to get up. My son is one of those creatures that can function just fine on only a couple hours of sleep. He’s going to make a fine college student someday.
But for now, the books he crams are those touchy-feely books. You know the ones? That’s not my ___________ (giraffe, snowman, camel, tiger, kitty cat, etc etc). I love those books. I think they’re awesome. I especially love the twist ending each one has, where – SPOILER ALERT – it turns out, that is my _____________ (dinosaur, puppy dog, baby seal, poisonous spider). I also like that we can read the book seventy times in ten minutes. Because, just once isn’t enough. Grayson is all about “That’s Not My Lamb”. It’s pretty cute when he reads along. Well, the first three times. Eventually, it’s lullaby time.
I never thought in a million years I’d have a set list of lullabies, though. To Grayson, these songs are my greatest hits. If I don’t perform them all with the Rock-a-bye Baby CDs, he feels like he didn’t get his full ticket’s worth. I can actually understand how Aerosmith must feel when they play Dream On for the 1,258,665,598,745th time because I’ve been singing that song every night for the last six years. Still, it’s all worth it when Grayson sings along and even does the screaming parts. That must be what it feels like to be a real rock star.
Every night, I have to perform I Don’t Want To Miss a Thing, Welcome To The Jungle, Cryin’, Paradise City, and Dream On. Sometimes there’s an encore of Walk This Way. You need to catch me on a particularly rare night.
If all goes well, the boy falls asleep during the lullabies. But sometimes – and this is probably where the grey in my beard comes from – he just ain’t having it. “Daddy stay,” he asks, then pleads, then shouts, then screams. It’s odd, because he doesn’t leave his bed. “One morrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrre song!” I bet my neighbors just love him to pieces.
As he does his best banshee imitation, I alert Ryleigh that it’s time to hit the hay – which is a stupid expression in modern times, what with the lack of hay within the average household and the attitudes we have towards violence these days – and then she whines for about ten seconds, then goes and gets in bed. It’s the same old song and dance (see what I did there rock n’ rollers?) for her, but her book of choice is “Henry In Love”.
Okay, I was planning on doing a whole blog post on this book, but let’s break for a second to talk about Henry In Love. I goddamn love this book. Peter McCarthy has done a darn tootin’ amazing job of charming me immensely with this little tale. When I ask what book she wants to read, and she answers with Henry In Love… I get giddy and excited about it too. The joy it brings my daughter and I at bedtime is the type of memory I’ll probably think back on when I’m laying in my death bed and the kids are arguing over who gets the inheritance of fifty-five bucks and a pack of peanut butter cups.
Ryleigh used to get the same lullaby routine that Grayson gets. She’s heard them all before, and more. I told her I’d write her a lullaby just for her, and it’s a work in progress. I’m having a hard time finding a rhyme for, “Grayson, quiet down now your sister is trying to go to sleep too! Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!” I mean, yeah, sure there’s lots of easy rhymes but this is going to be my masterpiece. These days Ryleigh just gets some music on in the background. Daddy has left the building. No more singing required.
I won’t do two shows a night anymore. I won’t. I won’t do it.
On the weekends they get to stay up late. “Past their bedtime”. The best part about that is how Grayson usually falls asleep on the couch while watching a movie. And we have popcorn.
So this week we’re doing something a little different.
Ryleigh is obsessed with YouTube videos and has been wanting to do one of these Candy Challenge surprise videos for a long time now. I finally said yes to the idea.
This isn’t one of those old man rants about walking thru snow, uphill both ways, blah blah blah. I was a fat kid. My parents drove everywhere. We always drove to McDonald’s, except of course for that brief period in which McDonald’s had delivery and pizza. It’s true; I grew up in a test market for that shit. Some things you just can’t forget.
But we didn’t have Happy Meals. I thought about this while I was at Mickey-Deez with the kids the other day. Sure, in Canada we always had access to the Happy Meal toys – you could buy one for an addition 99 cents or something like that. I had all the Muppet Babies, Batman Returns cars, Upper Deck hologram cards, and the other ones that don’t stand out so well in my memory. We just couldn’t get those toys inside a little box with a burger or nuggets. We had meals. We were happy. But there were no Happy Meals to be had in Canada until the late 90’s or early 2000’s. Long after I was too old to have a Happy Meal.
It really is a fucking happy meal, though, isn’t it?
The minute you tell a kid that you’re taking them to Ronnie Mac’s Burger Shack, all they hear from that point on is ‘Happy Meal’.
“Should I get a hamburger or chicken nuggets?” My daughter asks me. I want to reply with, “It doesn’t really matter sweetheart, they’re both terrible for you.” But instead I poke the bear a bit and try to tell her she’s too old for a Happy Meal. “You can’t have a Happy Meal. You have to eat the cheap 79 cent hamburger like Daddy does because you’re getting too old for the Happy Meal.”
She’s six. She’s not too old at all. Hell, if I couldn’t feel the weird stares of strangers on my skin, I’d order myself a Happy Meal just to see what all the fuss is about. But I can’t do that. “Did you see that 50 year old guy order a Happy Meal and get excited about the Superman toy inside? I bet he still pees the bed at night too and is afraid of the dark.”
“I’m in my mid-thirties!!!!!!”
My daughter, Ryleigh, flip flops between the hamburger and the chicken nuggets. It always comes down to a very suspenseful game of Eenie-Meenie-Miney-Mo. It’s like a life or death situation. Kinda like choosing between saving the damsel in distress from a tub of alligators or the rest of the city from poison gas. You can’t save them all Ryleigh! You have to choose!
Well, Mo always means no (unless she secretly has her heart set on the other option and she keeps rhyming until she gets the choice she wanted) and this time Mo was no for the burger. So she had the nuggets.
Grayson, the boy, always has nuggets. It may seem predictable but I appreciate the way he doesn’t hold up the line the way Ryleigh does. He knows he wants the nuggets, so just give him the nuggets. He doesn’t even care if he has sauce. It’s in this moment that I can see into the future, and realize that someday Ryleigh will have a boyfriend or husband who has to wait thirty minutes after asking her where she’d like to go for dinner while she does the Eeenie-Meenie-Miney-Mo method while wearing a fancy dress and nice shoes.
The nice teenage girl working at this McFranchise asks if the kids would prefer french fries or apple slices. I just stare back. “Yeah, nobody picks the apples,” she says as she laughs to herself. I truly believe there aren’t even apple slices physically there in the joint. One of these days I’m going to insist on the apple slices just so I can see what happens. “Uhh… let me check with my manager…”
“Fuck shit piss! Someone – you – quit battering those filet o’fishes and run to the grocery store and buy an apple! No, I don’t care what kind of apple, just get an apple before the customer realizes we don’t have any! No, wait! Just tell the customer they can’t have apple slices because we’re currently cleaning the apple machine so it’s turned off.”
Well, it always works for the McFlurry.
I will say, though, that the yogurt tube thing is kind of a nice touch. And the kids seem to really like it. You can tell it’s the only semi-healthy offering at McDon Juan’s simply because of how hard the packaging is to open. Double Quarter Pounder with extra cheese and bacon? No problem! Here it is in a little box that barely stays closed. Super-sized salty fries? They’re practically falling out of the red box and into your mouth. Coca-Cola? Serve yourself with free unlimited refills! The yogurt tho? I can’t open that shit without wearing half of it. And the kids think it’s hysterical. And I have yet to see a wet nap in the Happy Meal box, so I have to start licking lukewarm red yogurt off my arms and thumbs. It might be strawberry, but it’s likely a plain yogurt that’s been mixed with powdered ketchup.
On a side note, that Michael Keaton movie was awesome! Did you see it?
Okay, back to the Happy Meal and the piece de la resistance – the toy. The goddamn fucking toy. The whole reason for the Happy Meal. Did you know that Ronald and the Fry Guys sell more toys every year than Toys R Us? Crazy.
Happy Meal toys are pretty cool. But they are always the cause of some kind of problem. When we were in line, Ryleigh was looking at the Pokemon toys on display. “I have this one, and this one, and this one already. I hope I don’t get them.” I let that sink in for a moment, as these Pokemon toys are fairly recent in the great tradition of McPlay-things. “How often does your mother take you to McDonald’s?”
If you want a guaranteed, 100% chance of seeing a child be upset (and who doesn’t like those odds?) then watch them pull out a McDonald’s toy from the box they already have. In that moment it’s like the entire trip – the journey of adventure and amazement – was all for nothing. Might as well just go home, get jammies on, and straight to bed because it’s clear that life in this moment has no real meaning whatsoever. Same old toy. Same old fries and nuggets, my friend. That’s when Super-Dad (played by me cause it’s not so much the role I was born to play as they were born and now I have to play it…) Super-Dad here has to take the little Pokemon up to the counter and try to sweet talk some minimum wager into caring enough to give me a different toy.
“I’m sorry the McFlurry machine is turned off for cleaning. Oh wait. A different toy? Sure. No problem.”
I have two kids so I always run the risk of them getting the same friggin’ toy at the same time. I have nightmares of this scenario that play out in my sleep on a fairly regular basis. And it’s always like playing Russian Roulette with their emotions. It’s either gonna be an excited rendition of, “Hooray! We both got Pikachu! Samesies! Besties! BFFs!” or it’s the coming of the apocalypse and life as we know it is about to end. Ryleigh getting the same toy as Grayson might be worse than getting the same toy she already has. It’s almost demoralizing. If we go back to the idea that the Happy Meal is an adventure, not unlike Indiana Jones, in which the toy inside the box represents the Holy Grail then imagine if Dr. Jones and Short Round each got their own Holy Grail.
Yeah, I know Short Round wasn’t in that movie but I sure wish he was.
Anyway, you get my point. That toy just ain’t special if your sibling has the exact same one. Usually, when this happens I have to take one of them to counter for another sweet talking of a McEmployee. But sometimes they don’t have any other toys because the toy machine is turned off for cleaning. So I have to come up with a way to make keeping both of the same toy a great idea.
“You know, having two Pikachus is great, cause, like… if one breaks, you can just steal your the other one from your brother.” Wow, I’ve watched enough Full House in my lifetime to know that was the worst Danny Tanner dad talk ever. But, hey – it worked!
We tidy up our garbage, clean up the reddish tinted yogurt from the table, the walls, and my pants, and then head on our way. Happy with the meal we’ve had. And yeah, it was a happy meal. Until an hour later when I had a massive case of the McGurgles in my stomach that made me run for the potty. How come that never happens to the kids?
-ryan
“This ain’t no McDonald’s!” (A&W is better anyway)
Like, if I start cleaning the house they fight over who gets to clean the floors for me. All those hours of making them watch Danny Tanner on Full House are clearly paying off. Well, mostly. Getting my daughter Ryleigh to make her bed every morning requires some hostage situation-like negotiation tactics. She does a great job when all is said and done, it’s just the getting there part.
It feels good, knowing that the kids take some pride in cleaning up. There aren’t many feelings quite as nice as just sitting down in your clean living room. It’s relaxing. And it feels good to know that you did it.
Cooking perogies, cleaning floors, and making sammiches. These kids are A-OK.
Grayson loves using the Swiffer Wet Jet thing. No, this isn’t a paid advertisement for their product. I can’t think of anything to call it other than it’s name. It’s not really a mop, so I can’t call it a mop. Anyway, his favorite part is making the cleaning solution spray out. If I don’t stop him, he’ll empty the entire friggin bottle onto one spot of the floor. He loves to mop with it (or wet jet with it…?) but the thing is just as tall as him, so he struggles a bit to maneuver it around. If I try to step in and help him though, it’s like I’m taking away his first-born child. He insists on doing it himself.
Awesome, yes, but it means I need to finish the job later when he’s not looking.
They also fight over washing the windows. I mean, I’ve got lots of windows in my place, so there’s plenty of window washing to go around. Deep down I think it’s a metaphor for them fighting for my love. Makes sense to me. Then again, neither of them have offered to clean the toilet yet. That job is still reserved for me. To be fair, Grayson still isn’t potty trained, so it’s not like he contributed to the toilet needing cleaning.
(Note to self – get the boy potty trained ASAP so he can clean the poo-bowl instead of me doing it)
More child labor disguised as fun times.
They’re also starting to get interested in cooking. Nothing crazy yet – I’m not expecting them to rush into the kitchen and prepare me a Beef Bourguignon with a red wine reduced demi-glaze. They’ve gotten pretty good at making pizza, sandwiches, and Kraft Dinner. (Note: If you’re reading this outside of Canada, Kraft Dinner is Kraft Macaroni and Cheese. The blue box stuff.) They’ve also been making their own muffins, instead of buying muffins from the bakery. And Ryleigh says her homemade ones taste better anyway.
When I became a single parent I realized that I’d have to learn some new recipes. I didn’t do much of the cooking when I was married, but I had a few signature dishes up my sleeve for when it was my turn in the kitchen. So I’ve been trying to learn a new recipe each week, and when they can pitch in and help, it’s even more enjoyable for everyone. Ryleigh helped me make meat loaf a couple of times, and she’s also aided in a delicious chicken alfredo.
I’ve noticed that when the kids help cook, they’re actually more inclined to eat the food without a fuss. Sometimes kids can be picky eaters (we all were at one point in our childhood) and they don’t want to eat what’s in front of them. “How can you not want to eat this? YOU made it! It’s gonna be the best supper ever!” You’d be surprized how well that kind of positive suggestion works.
Now, if only I could train Ryleigh to get up early and make her lunch for school every morning so I don’t have to do it anymore. And then I could sleep in. Put those kids to work, indeed.
-ryan
This was me as a kid, doing the dishes. I was pretty freakin’ cute.
Don’t let the title fool you. This isn’t a post about some higher form of parenting, or a new age way of thinking – nope, it’s about good ol’ barf. Vomit. Puke. You know, real high brow literature.
You see, a few years ago whenever my daughter Ryleigh would get sick to her stomach – which is one of the most saddening things to see as a parent, your poor child turn completely white or green in the face and they look to you for comfort and support and you know there’s nothing you can do about it – so whenever she’d get sick to her stomach and barf, I’d do my best impression of a Red Sox player crouched down at home plate.
I’d totally, 100%, catch that barf in my fucking hand. Like a champ. Nay, like an Olympic athlete who played for all countries together, united as one in the good name of sport.
I know it was gross.
And yet I can’t explain for the life of me why I would do it. Every time.
“Daddy, I’m going to be sick…” and here comes Super-Dad to the rescue with his magic cupped hand, ready at the chin to catch that hot, steamy, stinky, chunky puke. You hungry yet?
It was important to never make eye contact either. If I made eye contact, she would see my own fears about catching the puke and she needed me to be strong for her. Or something like that. I always just looked off in the distance and let my inner monologue remind me, in a British accent for some reason (probably to make it more convincing to myself), you’re doing this because you love this child more than anything and will do anything to keep her safe and comfortable. Even catch a handful or two of puke.
Apparently I’m not the only Dad who dabbles in a game of pukey-palm. I’ve asked around, and it’s more common than I thought. Must be an instinct we all have. The moms, not so much. Another reason why women are superior to us men: they have very little interest in catching puke in their bare hands.
So recently, my son Grayson had an upset tummy. At first I thought he was faking to try and trick me somehow. He’s in that stage where if he doesn’t get his way or if I give him trouble his go-to fake-out is, “My tummy hurts.” So I did my best to explain the story of The Boy Who Cries Wolf. If you’re not familiar with the tale, I suggest checking it out. It’s a riveting romp of an adventure that might just have you rooting for the Wolf in the end. Sometimes it’s just nice to cheer for the underdog.
Anyway, back to my son and his upset tummy…
So we’re sitting at the table having pizza for dinner (a pizza that Ryleigh and Grayson made themselves; so proud of my kids!) and he’s not eating it. “My tummy hurts. My tummy hurts.” I sternly let him know that if he doesn’t eat his supper there will be no treats later. Bam! Ultimate parenting card played!
He then cuddled into my lap at the dinner table. “My tummy hurts.” I looked in his eyes. He looked in mine. I knew that look. I had seen it before. And there was the Wolf. All over my shirt, all over my pants, and all over my dinner.
Not a single drop in my hand.
I am so getting better at this whole parenting thing with each passing day.
-ryan
This isn’t the puke (I ain’t that camera trigger happy), it’s icing from another day, but you get the idea.
I honestly can’t think of anything that’s made me happier than giving my son my old Star Wars toys from when I was a kid.
When I was a kid, playing with Star Wars figures was the most fun. Well, until He-Man came along. Then, in the late 80’s and early 90’s Star Wars toys turned out to be collectible – full of value and blah blah blah. I fell for it too, and bought a bunch of new Star Wars toys in the 90’s and kept them in their packaging. When I sold them all two years ago, I made a profit of about a dollar per figure.
I’m here to tell you that the true enjoyment of toys is playing with them. No matter your age.
Sitting on the floor with Grayson and playing Star Wars with him was amazing. He’s only three, hardly knows the movies, and that doesn’t matter one bit. His favorite was clearly the Luke Skywalker figure in the X-Wing pilot uniform. (Mine was always Bespin Luke, in case anyone cares)
Grayson is actually obsessed with cars right now of any kind – Hot Wheels, Lightning McQueen, and riding on the City Bus. So when he got his hands on the Millennium Falcon, his first instinct was to push it across the floor.
“Grayson,” I casually interrupted. “That’s not a car. It’s a spaceship.”
“A spaceship…?”
“Yeah,” I continued, taking the toy from his hands. “It made the Kessel Run in twelve parsecs, or something.” And then I showed him how to make it fly. That’s when he shot me a dirty look for taking his toy away from him. But something came over me in the moment – holding the Falcon in my hands and making it soar thru our imaginary galaxy in Grayson’s room. I wanted to keep playing with it. I made spaceship noises. Laser noises. Wookie noises. And a little, “I am your father,” for good measure. There may have been some whistling of the John Williams themes.
It was weird to give him something of mine that I’ve had for so long, because I think maybe the real reason I kept all of my old toys and comics and crap like that was to give to my kids someday. But I also knew he was ready for this toy. I passed the torch to him, like Excalibur in a way, and the toy became his. And he made the Falcon fly thru space.
I mean, I know why: For them it’s fun. They get to jump around in it, make snowmen, build forts, have snowball fights, catch snowflakes on their tongue, and that first snowfall pretty much symbolizes the coming of Christmas – which in turn, means presents for them. Okay, so that was actually an easy question to answer.
It could be -34 degrees outside (and it was last week where I live) and my kids would still want to go out in the stupid snow.
Fucking lunatics.
Have I really become so jaded over the years when it comes to the winter weather? Was it those years of shoveling it and trying to find places to put it so a car could rest nicely in the driveway? Could it be one too many slippery walks that resulted in embarrassing falls to the ground?
Maybe. But I think as adults we get too caught up in having to shovel that heavenly dust, and having to deal with driving in it, and putting on those extra layers.
I don’t like wearing winter boots. I find them heavy on my feet, and thus I hate winter because of it. Yeah, I realize that’s a pathetic set of terms and conditions in my iTunes of life, but thems the ways I wants it. If I can’t wear Converse All-Stars or flip flops, I’m not in a good mood.
The other morning, my kids were playing on a snow mountain before school. I think we should clarify that by “mountain” I mean it’s about three and a half feet tall. It’s less of a mountain, and more of a pile that was put at the side of the road by a city plow. But to a six year old girl, it’s a friggin’ mountain – so we’ll call it a mountain.
“Daddy, look at me,” my little angel shouted to me from the top. “You gotta come up here! It’s so awesome up here!” Of course, I walked up the side to the top – but not before thinking about how her and I were actually on eye-level with each other. She was now seeing everything as I see it, but without all the thoughts of bills, payments, and what to cook for dinner. How magical, that must be. To be that innocent again. To not have those cares. To just enjoy the moment as it is and exist within the fun that is the moment. Beautiful. Fucking beautiful.
And then I came to the understanding of the magic that kids feel when they play in the snow. It’s easy to say why kids love playing in the snow – it’s better to understand it, though.
And as I walked up the side of the “mountain” and stood next to her to see what she saw, I could start to feel it too.
And then I sank into the mountain.
You see, Ryleigh is six years old and about 55 lbs soaking wet. I clock in at one-ninety-five. This mountain was not meant for me. As I slowly went deeper into this dirty snow, I felt it go into my boots, up my pant leg, and stain my soul. Reality set back in, and I thought about how after dropping the kids off at school, I’d have to either change my went pants or sit in them all day. Stupid snow.
So here’s the thing – the snow is pretty fun. Even for us adults. There’s no reason we can’t build snowmen, have snowball fights, go tobogganing, or throw our drunk buddies into piles of yellow snow when we’re pub crawling. The problem is we all consider ourselves too busy, and we think we have more important things to do. We see snow as something we need to shovel in order to get in the car and get to work. We see it as a detriment to our daily lives. Maybe if we, as adults, weren’t such fucking idiots all the time we’d enjoy more things in life.
Big shout out to Erica at The Ginger Effect for nominating me for a Liebster Award. Check out her blog. She has a pretty cool writing style.
Ooooh, there’s even some pink on it! My favorite color!
I’m supposed to share 10 Random facts about me, but my blog is more about looking at all of the crazy “what the f…s” about being a single dad from the inside out. You don’t need to know that my favorite color is pink, my favorite food is pancakes, I know all the words to all the Aerosmith songs, my Converse All-Star shoe size is 9.5, I can take my socks off with my toes and roll them up in a ball, I have one tattoo that I love and one that I’ll probably never get finished, I’ve seen Superman II over 200 times, I never grew any wisdom teeth, I think every day is a lovely day for a Guinness, or that I’m a Boston Bruins fan. Why would I even bother sharing ten random things about me?
Now I have to answer these questions (rules are rules, I guess):
If you could only visit one place ever, where would it be? – Ireland
If you had to spend the rest of your days as an animal, which would you pick? Why? – a really cool bird, so I could fly.
What are you most proud of? – I try not to be proud of very much. There’s too much pride out there and it gets people in trouble. I’d much rather be happy with outcomes and accomplishments.
How long would you survive a zombie apocalypse? Why? – probably just long enough to finish answering these questions.
What is something you’ve always wanted to do, but haven’t? – stand up comedy. I don’t know why. It’s not like I’m shy or nervous. Just haven’t gotten around to it yet.
What’s the weirdest thing you have in your home? – other than my kids? Some people think that my having over 30 different Monopoly boards is weird.
What’s the most ridiculous fact you know? – the dude who invented the lie detector test also created Wonder Woman, hence her lasso of truth.
What do you think the closest thing to real magic is? – probably that trick where you make it look like you’re ripping your thumb off your one hand, but really, it’s just the thumb from the other hand, and you make people gasp and scream wildly in amazement while you laugh to yourself. Definitely that or hot fudge sundaes from Dairy Queen.
What is the most useless talent you have? – I didn’t know this was a competition… I can play my harmonica with my nose.
Is a hot dog a sandwich? Why? – I’ve always thought of it as more of a sammich. Because I like sammiches better.
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