Teen Wolf

Perhaps you're one of the many people who has written me to say that while you personally don't visit places like Perezhilton and the like, someone you know sent you a story about The Beaver which seemed to indicate that it was either awesome or the worst thing ever and that in either case I was certainly an unqualified wacko. Or maybe you were a commenter who mentioned South Park for the millionth time. Or maybe you're one of my countless new facebook friends who I don't actually know but was afraid to turn away and so now I'm keenly aware of when you're watching Heroes and what you think of your latest haircut. Whatever the case, allow me to clear the air.

First of all, I recently bought a pair of slacks. In fact, I have two pair. I wear one for a week and then the other for the next week. I've been doing this for like, a month. So obviously, I'm a professional, and any indication otherwise is libelous.

Second, the movie is nothing at all like South Park. To say so is insulting. It's actually exactly like Teen Wolf but I changed all the instances of 'Wolf' to 'Beaver' and all the instances of 'Teen' to 'Steve Carrell'. The point is, screenwriting is extremely simple and should be done by everyone.

Third, let's all just agree not to use the word whimsical unless we're referring to a musical about Cool Whip.

Hopefully that squares everything. Can't thank those of you who've had swell things to say, about me or my slacks, enough. When and if there's real progress to report I will certainly let you know. At this point the process is mostly a lot of people telling you to chill champagne one minute and then instructing you to beat yourself over the head with it the next. But I've been doing that for years because a) I persoanlly feel that clubbing yourself with champagne is preferrable to drinking it, and b) I'm a professional.

In slacks.

Covered with baby vomit.

Mission To Mars

I have been convinced that we need more children.

I think it went like this.  I said emphatically that I didn't want any more children.  Actually, I think I said I didn't want any children at all, and then I had two and didn't sleep for three months and then said I wanted someone to chop my penis off.  

But then I came up with a name.

Being a writer, which is how we've decided to label my particular mix of napping and checking my email, words are of great importance to me.  Not all words.  I don't like the long ones.  Or any of the ones that start with C, but certain words, and especially names, have a great impact on me.

For instance, I recently realized that I could save time and confusion by just combining the twins' nicknames, Nixie and Ripples, into Nipples.  I would say that this has increased the number of times I address the girls by name, or at least by single unified nickname, at least a hundredfold.  Good morning Nipples.  Nap time Nipples.  Nipples, stop eating Nipples' hair.  I eagerly await the days when they play in the neighborhood and I can stand on the front porch and scream, DINNER NIPPLES!

But I digress.  As excited as I was about the Nipples breakthrough, it didn't make me feel compelled to add another human to the global pile.  That happened when the metal slot wheels all hit on Mars.

I should briefly point out that really, its Nipples that's really driving this train.  At this point they're like little salespeople for the very idea of babies.  They laugh, sleep, and pretty much stay where you put them, which is a pretty compelling pitch for getting all Mormon with your numbers.  Once they start walking and whining and telling me to get a job, I'm sure they'll seem more like 20 pound vasectomy advertisements, which is why their mother is eager to move before we regain our senses.

Anyway, all of this was on the table when I hit on Mars.  At first I was convinced that Mars was a boy name and so I was only interested if I could be sure we'd have a boy.  I looked into the various options and presented them, pointing out that the leading option (microsort) was used all the time to control livestock populations and available for humans with just a short trip to New Jersey.  Amy did not share my enthusiasm for cutting edge science.

I did some soul searching and within days realized that I didn't so much want a boy as I wanted a Mars, and as it turned out, Mars was obviously also an awesome name for a girl and so the whole New Jersey cow impregnation route was just a red herring.  I said this to Amy.  That we didn't need cow science to make a baby and that Mars was totally a great girl name.  She said that she wasn't really aware that it was a name for a human, boy or girl.  But all great things seem appalling and wrong at first, and I knew the greatness of Mars would eventually sink in (although I have to say, Nipples is really not catching on with her).  Lawyers were called, deals negotiated, agreements reached.  Bottom line, we're making a Mars.

As we really have no room for more people in this house, at present the plan is to let Mars live in the backyard and hopefully be raised by some sort of neighborhood animal.  Mostly we've got cats and squirrels running around, so it's a safe bet that he/she will pick up some wicked tree skills.  Amy feels uncertain about this and is suddenly all about finding a house and letting the baby live inside.  I say with resume padding and college admissions getting tougher all the time, 'raised by cats/have large nut collection' would look pretty compelling on an application.  

But she has a higher IQ and tends to outsmart me, so we'll probably do it her way.

p.s.  Seriously, if I have more kids than adults in my house, don't really like to drink, and dig board games, can I at least qualify for some sort of honorary Mormon status?  I'm not really into the church part, but if it comes with a lift pass I'd really like to get more info.

p.p.s  You may have noticed the Twitter feed now on the right, because it's important that we all make all of our thoughts available to everyone at all times.  Now you won't have to wonder, you'll know when I'm using the word Nipples.

My Desk, If I Had One, At My Job, If I Had One Of Those

The twins are .5 years old.  Somehow this resulted in me getting a new camera.  I know.  Ipods, cameras, monorails!  How do we afford such luxury?  Two words: baby wrestling.

Strictly local circuit for now, but look at that technique and tell me you don't see dollar signs.

I know I promised not to post pictures here unless I drew them, but since I'm not technically 'employed' and don't have an 'office' or do any 'work', (what can I say? The girls just drink and wrestle all day and I'm easily influenced) I don't get the chance to hang pictures of my family like you.  But if I had a desk, this is the family photo I would keep on it.  So for today only internet, you are my desk. 

A year ago I didn't really think I was the photo on the desk type.  

Five months ago, if I had a desk I'd have been hiding under it to escape these monsters, not covering it with their pictures.

But today, with six months gone in what seems like the blink of an eye, I suddenly feel like a 4x6 in the corner wouldn't do.  I'd want this thing poster size, right behind my head.  

That's pretty much exactly the scenario that I used to be afraid of: getting married, having kids, and becoming just like everyone else; another idiot with his kids on the desk/wall.

But despite the fact that all that's come to pass, right down to this photo on my shiny new imaginary internet desk, when I look at it, not only do I not feel like everyone else, I'm not sure I've ever seen anything that's made me feel more like myself.  

Anyway, as long as I've got an imaginary office for the day, I'm gonna grab a donut, make a few copies of my butt.  

Happy half birthday kids.

p.s. Did you notice that I snuck a colon and a semi-colon (and then the hyphen in semi-colon) into the post?  That's called WRITING my friends.  They aren't just giving these desks away.

Well, The Twins And I Got Hit By A Car

They appear to be completely fine.  They've got some scratches and bruises but it's hard to sort out what's a result of the accident and what's just their normal self inflicted can-I-stick-my-toenail-in-here injuries.  But really, they're fine.

Long story short, we were jogging (stupid ipod) along the sidewalk.  A girl came out of one of the restaurant driveways.  She was on the phone.  She wasn't looking.  She hit us.  The stroller flew out of my hands and ended up upside down in the street.

Then I kind of went bananas.  Maybe you were in the outfield stands at Ranger Stadium in about 1992?  When security came?  And someone suggested I be shot with a tranquilizer?  It was like that but with more cursing.

Once I flipped them over and picked them up I really had no idea what the protocal was.  I can tell you that screaming OH MY GOD! ARE YOU OKAY!!! at crying children does not calm them down.  At all.  

Did I mention that this all happened right in front of a restaurant patio?  So, there were like 40 people instantly on the scene, helping, calling Amy, encouraging me to try holding the babies instead of yelling at them.  All of those things worked much better than my scream therapy plan.

Bottom line, by the time the police and firetrucks got there the babies were smiling and laughing at various people in the crowd.  The EMT's recognized Amy from the hospital and were happy to accept her diagnosis that the babies were going to be fine (I suggest you marry a doctor if you haven't already).  She says we just need to watch out for mood swings, vomiting, and bouts of lethergy.  That kind of describes a typical day with the babies, so I'm not sure what I'm looking for, but I'll keep my eyes open.

Oddly, the person taking it hardest was the girl who hit us.  Once the babies were pronounced fine by doctor mom I pretty much forgot all about her and having attacked her vehicle.  But it turns out that she's also a new mom with a six month old of her own, and that she was on her cell phone arguing with her boyfriend, and she just hadn't looked up.  She just kept saying, I'm sorry, that could have been my baby.  I think that starting tomorrow she's going to be the world's best driver.

And I'll probably start jogging alone.

Ipod Anniversary

Amy and I have now celebrated our 10th anniversary. The following description should give you some appreciation for just what an achievement that is on Amy's part.

You may remember that we were married just over a year ago, but after putting in 9 years, didn't want to start back at one. So we decided that with 10 being our first double digit number we should do fancy extravagant double digit things to celebrate it. Fancy and extravagant of course being relative terms.

I should point out that I recently bought and Ipod, which was a HUGE purchase for me. The way you might agonize over spending your life savings on a Ferrari with a trunk full of rare wines is how I wrestle with purchasing consumer electronics that cost more than 10 dollars. Anyway, I did it, and since then I've gone out of my way to make sure that I am CONSTANTLY using my ipod in order to justify the expense. For instance, I now run 300 miles a week. TV shows? Why watch them on the HDTV when I can laboriously convert them and watch them on a 2 inch screen? Podcasts? Of course I'd like to listen to someone read outdated articles from the NYTimes. And music? Well as long as I'm walking downstairs, how about a little soudtrack? Taking the garbage out? Better throw on the Ipod. I literally wake up in the middle of the night and if I don't fall right back asleep I think, 'as long as I'm just lying here I should really be listening to that Ipod.'

But I digress. The real point was that since buying it I now evaluate all prices in terms of how they relate to the Ipod. Hence, when I went to book a room for our super awesome fancy anniversary trip all I could think was, 'holy shit, this place costs an Ipod a night!' If you read the above paragraph you know this is a significant hurdle for me.

Our Ipod per night room was nice, although being in a tall tower it tended to creak like an 18th century slave ship when the wind blew (why a slave ship? I somehow imagine them as the creakiest), but fortunately we went to Seattle where it is sunny and calm almost all the time. The real problem with an Ipod a night room is that I feel the same obligation to use it that I feel to use the Ipod. When we were out, like, actually doing stuff, I thought, 'Christ, we're just WASTING that room'. I wanted to give spare keys to homeless people and say, 'here, room 1735, go watch cable.' And when we were actually in it, I felt an obligation to really soak it in. My thinking is that if your room costs more than an Ipod per night it should have no curtains and you should be unable to turn out the lights. Once you turn out the lights, you could be in a Super 8. If I'm paying that much, I want to SEE what I'm paying for every single second that I'm there, and I want homeless parties every second that I'm not.

Also, a modest proposal regarding income taxes. How about instead of basing it on your income we base it on your use of mini bars? My tax bracket is not low, but I clearly feel uncomfortable just throwing money around. I suggest that if you are willing to pay 8 dollars for a can of Coke then you simply have too much money and you should be taxed accordingly. If however, you share your room with homeless people you should get a credit. These are just things I think about when I'm listening to my Ipod.

Have I actually said anything about the trip? Have I mentioned beautiful Seattle and the boats and water and greenness and doughnuts? No? Well that's because my memory isn't like yours. It's not a mental scrapbook so much as an accounting ledger. For instance, when I look at a menu, this is how I see it:

Thing that might be okay plus some vegetable I won't touch ... .4 IPODS!!!!!!

Thus, I will forever remember Seattle as the place where I slept with the lights on in a beautiful creaking tower, paid more to park my car than I did to rent it, got a killer deal on a rain jacket that I then wore for four days straight, and ate two meals at .5 Ipods a piece. Also, I think there was a monorail (.006 Ipods), a waterfall (.009 Ipods in gas) and an amazing library (FREE!!!!).

Anyway, all of this to say that I'm kind of an awful person and that Amy should be sainted, knighted, bronzed, and then deified for having survived 10 years in my vicinity. How an individual like me has been so lucky is beyond my comprehension. Everyday I wake up and find that she is still here comes as a pleasant surprise. The fact that it has now happened more than 3,650 times makes it no less shocking.

I do not know what's wrong with her, but it is my sincere hope that there is no cure.

p.s.

Did I mention that the rain jacket has a special pocket for my Ipod? Because it totally does.

p.p.s.

If all that wasn't enough, Amy also endured three straight days of my Sarah Palin impression, which is, frankly, awesome.

If I Told You...

That Ripley had cut the inside of her nose with her toenail, would you be scared or impressed?

How Do You Tell Them Apart?

Well, Ripley is the one with the big scratch on her forehead. No, that's more of a gash than a scratch, and it's more on the nose than the forehead, so that one must be Nixon. You can also look at the thighs. Ripley's lacerations tend to run parallel to the bone while Nixon's thighs are shredded in a more perpendicular manner. Also, Ripley has taken off two toes while Nixon is missing her left ear. What? Their fingernails, I guess. No, I think we just use a regular washcloth. I don't even think they even make loofahs out of barbed wire. Knife fights? I don't know. It's not like I watch them every second of the day.