Lollipop

Hello 2009.

I'm writing you from my new office which my wife got me for Christmas.  As I may have mentioned, my old office was a desk at the foot of our bed approximately six inches from the place where our children train for futures as shot putting opera singers.  At least I assume that's what all the screaming and block throwing is about and precisely why I haven't stopped it.  I don't want to stunt their growth.

My NEW office is still a desk at the foot of the bed inches from Twin Town, but it comes with Noise Cancelling Headphones.  Unfortunately, there's not a pair of noise cancelling headphones on the market that can handle twins, so to actually drown them out I have to plug into a white noise channel and turn it up.  Way, way up.  My new office sounds as if it's located in a Class 5 hurricane that spins directly around my head.  The upshot?  Turns out you can't hear twins in a hurricane.

Anyway, 2009, I really wanted to sum up 2008 for you, reflect on all the awesomness, tell you about the twins first Christmas, etc., but I feel like what we really need to talk about, 2009, is the horrible sickness and diarrhea you've brought me.  It's actually erased my memory of everything good that came before it.  I go to the bathroom and I have to check my wallet to remember who I am.  It is unpleasant.

To save us from repeating the word diarrhea over and over, I will from now on replace it with the word lollipop.  Unfortunately, at first, I didn't know I had lollipop.  I would be sitting around and think, 'oh, I have some gas, I should clear that out'.  And then I would think, 'uh-oh.'  If there's anything more embarrassing than crapping your pants as an adult I really, really, really hope never to find out what it is.  It's times like this that I'm thankful I work out of a small hurricane located only feet from the bathroom.  You know that you're ill when you're packing for a two day trip and you find yourself thinking, 'how many pairs of underwear should I bring? 4? 10?  You know what, I better just bring them all'.

UPDATE:  My dad took me out for a chili-dog once I thought lollipop was behind me.  Let me just say that if you've had days of lollipop, and you're walking around the world with all of your underwear in a bag that you never let beyond arm's reach, chili-dog is not the right answer to any question. That's like trying to find out if your swim lessons have been effective by jumping off a bridge with a Volkswagen around your neck.  For the next 30 minutes it pretty much looked and sounded like there was a live animal trying to eat its way out of me.

The irony of all this is that I've traveled away from the safety of my hurricane simply because someone offered me a free meal, and when I RSVP'd I just naturally assumed I would be able to digest it.  My understanding is that the restaurant is a tough ticket, the kind of place where you can't turn around with whacking a celebrity with your bag of underwear.  If Russell Crowe asks why I keep running to the bathroom, please tell him I'm training for a marathon.

UPDATE:  Its now my birthday and, as a present, I seem to have retained last night's dinner.  This is shaping up to be the best birthday ever!  

Blacklisted

In recent years various producers, agents, and other people with nice offices and access to free snacks have been voting on what Entertainment Weekly calls the "Hollywood equivalent of the Rookie of the Year Award" or what one producer described to me as the "D-girl Heisman".  It's called the Black List.  My working theory is that economic depressions must spark renewed interest in woodland creatures, otherwise I'm at a loss to explain how we ended up on top of it.

If you've been reading this blog for any length of time then you know how improbable this is.  If you read the previous blog and saw the wayward and stupefying way that the script came together amid much angsty twin baking then you no doubt shared my feeling that the only lists I would top would be ones in gas station restrooms signifying who was responsible for their last cleaning.

I'd be lying if I said that I hadn't read the Black List in years past, then scrounged around for the scripts on it, and been inspired to imagine how awesome it would be to end up in such a spot.  I have no idea what will happen to The Beaver in the future.  My hopes are high, but we'll see.  What I can say without reservation is that I never imagined more than ten people would try to read it, and of those, more than five would finish it.  So starting with the sixth person who said they not only completed, but liked it, I've been pretty sky high.  

I see the world in very simple terms.  I'm a lucky idiot and the rest of you are geniuses.  So while the value of being on the list is certainly debatable, the value of the kind and supportive words I've gotten from all of you as well as the people who put me there is not.  I treasure them every time I clean that gas station bathroom.

Suspects

Amy:  I don't know if it's you or the cats, but whoever is peeing on the rug in the bathroom, it has to stop.

Long pause

Me:  Are you seriously suggesting that I might be peeing on the rug in my own bathroom?

Amy:  I just don't think the cats would do that.

Long pause

Amy:  I'm not saying you're doing it on purpose.

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.