Video Killed the Radio Star

Here is my first attempt of a video podcast.
It is fairly large, so it may take a few minutes. iTunes will accept this video. It is my fun little video featuring the Barenaked Ladies' "Jingle Bells."

In case you don't get my semi-transparent humor, the dings indicate drinks of the eggnog. Some gulp it down, others choose to sip.

If you are not able to view this. Please leave me a comment... my first time and all.... Enjoy.

Santa's Helpers Aren't Elves

Walking across campus in my bright red Santa hat that I use to keep my bald head warm during this cold month, I attracted hoots and hollers from three construction workers from across a chain link fence.

"Give us your best Ho, Ho, Ho, Santa!" The biggest man of the group boomed to me with his pearly white smile. His two buddies grinning beside him.

"HO, HO, HO!" I bellowed immediately.

They applauded me with thumbs-up and an onslaught of "Merry Christmas's" from each of them.

Later, at the gas station, I was pumping my petrol when a man was returning to his work truck across from me. His hands were full of drinks and snacks. Looking at his dirty and exhausted face, his jeans and heavy work boots, I could tell he was a coming home from a physical hard day at work. I noticed his truck full of tools and ladders just about the same time he saw my hat.

He shuffled his items to one hand, smiled, and with his free hand he clenched, he nodded at me with approval and threw his fist to his chest.

"Keeping the Christmas real," he declared by beating his chest repeatedly, "Keep it real man."

"Merry Christmas!" I returned.

"Merry Christmas!" he echoed.

Ironic
Just a block away from Emma's school lies a series of old single-floor cinderblock apartments. I use to have some college friends that lived in these scummy dwellings that resemble early 70's government housing. Abbie use to live in the apartments across the street with Gina. In college, it was a fine neighborhood. As homeowners and adults now, it is horrifying. The graffiti is everywhere and there is always an overflow of parked vehicles on that east side of the street. Debris, empty boxes, and stray toys are strewn about, not showing ownership to any specific household. Iron bars over the windows and doors have become more common on these olive drab stone buildings. Some home improvement has occurred to a couple of the homes, including an explosion of tropical ferns and trees that seems to enclose the tiny front yard of one with a rod-iron fence. I assume it is an attempt to hide the dry brown and dirty yards of the next door neighbors who are most likely renters.

During the summer, this area is flourishing with half clothed, unbathed children running and screaming every which way. Wide and short mexican women usually stand in the doorways emotionless watching the seemingly out-of control youngsters.

Slow Down, Children Present warnings and low speed signs are reinforced during this half mile stretch of low-income housing for good reason. I always fear an unexpected lunge of a chicito from behind one of the countless multi-color Ford Escorts or pastel station wagons, and curse the young drivers that race by in the opposite direction. Soccer balls kicked too hard, fly into the street with the goalies in tow. "Where's the supervision." I thought every time before I encountered the "Bus Stop Goodbyes."

I discovered the "Goodbyes" about a month or so ago. The temperatures outside were already getting low. The warm breath could be seen in the dry cold. I dropped Emma off about 15 minutes later than usual; about 7:45 a.m. I let an oncoming school bus go ahead of me. The bus turned right. I turned right. The bus stopped in the middle of the green homes, where dozens of people, were standing and waiting for it's arrival. I was sort of in a daze, not paying a lot of attention at first. Then when I realized that another five minutes had passed and the bus still had not moved, I began to observe the phenomenon.

There were babies in the arms of mothers and grandmothers and fathers and grandfathers, wrapped in heavy blankets with hand-knit hats. There were smiles and hugs being distributed to each and every boy and girl before they boarded the school bus. The elderly that could not walk to the curb waved joyfully, almost tearfully at the young passengers through the foggy windows.

Although the insistent blinking of the rear lights of the yellow bus before me created an annoying delay of time, this large group of families continued to systematically hug and kiss their school children, unaware and unconcerned with the growing traffic on this single street. Laughter and love could be heard through the hum of my defroster. Minutes later, the last student boarded the idling bus, the doors closed, and the slow acceleration began. Curbside the group loudened. Smiling, waving children could be seen bouncing up and down on the bench seats from inside their transport. Smiling, waving adults could be seen with frozen red checks and noses sharing in the excitement.

The bus continued on its route as the hurdling masses began to return to their dirty brick homes, sending departing, seemingly cordial words to each other as they departed. Most of the men handed the infants to women and gave kisses as they collectively merged to choice vehicles along the road. Their day was beginning, just as mine.

I thought that maybe it was just a special occasion. After the second and third witnessing, I realized it was; it was the specialness of another day, a ritual of love, expectations, hope, and appreciation that most do not ever express. I sat so high, pitying the situation of these poor people, when their understanding of importance is displayed continually, not just for special occasions. Of course, this is just as much a wide generalization as my thoughts of them before the "Goodbyes". Sitting in my car watching this strange scene does not make me aware of their reality, but I much prefer the idea I have conjured up over my previous one.

Dick Butkus

The ritual of the growing two-year old fascinates the onlooker. For a number of reasons, I watch Ellie as if she is a wild specimen, like Jane Goodall observed gorillas. How she develops around this bunch of monkeys is pretty hilarious.

Ellie is amazed by the male anatomy; more specifically, mine. Emma was at this age too, and both Abbie and I are not prudish about out naked bodies around our girls. When we bathe or change clothes, we do not shun their eyes.

Ellie will run into the bathroom after I step out of the shower and nearly jab her finger through my groin asking, "S-that, Daddy?".

To which I always reply, "That's my penis."

"OOOH." she says, as she turns and runs back out of the bathroom. That is all she wanted to know.

This morning, Abbie asks me, "Do you know why Ellie keeps calling her privates 'peanut'?"

"Wha?" I stood in disbelief.

"For the past couple of days she has been grabbing herself and calling it her 'peanut,' and I don't know anyone who says or does that. Maybe at the babysitters?" Abbie explained.

"She isn't saying 'peanut' Ab, she's calling it her 'penis.'" I informed my wife.

"OOOH." Abbie replicated the amazing knowledge, just like Ellie in the bathroom.

We'll have to start working on that one, maybe after this one:

Today marked about the twentieth time that Ellie has said "Goodbye" to me, given me a Hollywood fake cheek kiss, a hug, and then made me turn around so she can kiss me right in the crack of my buttocks. She bounces her forehead right in between the rear pockets of my pants, giggling all the way in and out of it.

Because of the uncomfortable situation of having my two-year old kissing my ass, albeit funny as hell, I have, at times, not allowed her to do it. She she gets uncontrollably angry and breaks out in blotches from the fit she performs.

For the sake of her complexion, I now let her proceed with her special goodbyes.

I am a great Dad.

You Say It's Your Birthday

Her eyes were wide with curiosity. Her mouth tensely shut. Her head panned from one side of the dark room to the other as the candles flickered before her, bright like a campfire; the heat reflecting from her cherub cheeks and moist lips.

Her little body jumped when the group began to sing.
"Happy Birthday to you."

You could see the familiarity of the song flush the surprised expression from her face.
"Happy Birthday to you."

Having heard the tune with her name inserted only once her entire life, the soft smirk and sideway glances expressed a new level of appreciation for the ritualistic melody. The friends and family continued. A camera flashed.
"Happy Birthday to Ellie"

More transfixed on the booming words around her, no attention was given to the burning wax sticks just inches from her chin. The two year old sat motionless, simply absorbing the moment; unaware of the expectations soon coming.
"Happy Birthday to YOU!"

Suddenly, her older sister who had been sitting at her side during the entire serenade leapt forward and blew out all of the candles. Only a second in time transpired from when the last note was sung to when all the light was extinguished in the kitchen.

The heat of the moment consumed Emma while the pregnant pause, pimp-slapped her back into the reality of what she had done. In replace of the accustomed cheering and clapping, there was a deafening silence, broken only by the embarrassed outburst of tears from her eager sister.

Every Rose Has Its Thorn

I drove to Safeway, purchased a single pink rose, and went to her school picnic which I was 45 minutes late to attend. I had learned of the event just that morning and was busy all day at work. I had not told her I was going to come because of my ignorance of the lunch festivities.

All the food had been eaten and parents congregated in small circles distributing small talk. Children were spread throughout the playground like busy ants on their hill.

I walked into the school inconspicuously with the plastic wrapped flower and gently inserted it into the dirty purple backpack she had hanging on her hook. As I was zipping up the bag, her teacher, Ms. Aly caught me in the act. She had a mother right behind her.

"Oh how sweet." Ms Aly cooed.
"What's that?" the mother asked.
"Someone is getting a rose." she informed the questioner.

I turned with that broken lump in my gullet and tried to act manly.
"That girl just broke my heart today. She started crying because she is going to miss us this weekend while we are gone."
I turned and quickly walked out the back of the school to find Emma, but not before I saw the same swelling tear I had seen in the truck that in the eye of the questioning mother. My throat clenched more.

Wiping my face, I spotted the familiar pretty dress and the tightly pulled ribbon in her hair. I meandered through the groups of people and approached my little girl who was playing with her friend, Loren in the center of the playground. When I was about 15 feet or so away, she spun right around and caught my eyes immediately.

"DADDY!" she hollered with a glowing happy mouth as she ran right to me. She nearly knocked me off my feet when we met.

I talked a bit with her as she continually smiled at me the way her mother has so many times - with the most beautiful loving smile. The type of patient glance that will forever be embedded in my memory. Soon, out of nowhere, another girl came running over and started to hug me too. It was a good thing, I would of been a blubbering idiot in the middle of that wood chip covered park. Prying the strange kid off of me, I said to Emma, "I am sorry I didn't make it for the food."

"I knew you were going to come." she interrupted me as she hugged me yet again.

I couldn't stay long. I had to return to work, but before I said goodbye, I told her that I had left something for her in her backpack. Something she could look at this weekend and remember how much her mother and I love her.

Then I scurried back to my vehicle and slowly returned to the place that gives me the lifestyle and comfort to make sure that I can afford to take care of my life, my treasures, my roses.

Your Love is Like a Rollercoaster, Baby

It was one of those mornings where you couldn't open your mouth without a song jumping right out! The girls were loving to everyone in the house. There was sharing, kind words, laughter. The coffee seemed stronger with a more exotic blend. It was hotter than usual too. It was Friday. Money had been magically planted into our checking account just hours before through miniscule wires.

Driving Emma to school, the early autumn morn was warmed by the love radiating from my family. I felt proud and claimed, "You and your sister have been so good this morning. You'll need to be the same way at your grandparents' this weekend. They will be so proud of you. All of you will have a great time."

My firstborn's beaming face made the birds sing. "Today is beautiful. I hope you have a great day at school." I said as I turned the radio knob to hear a familiar tune and continued driving.

About a mile or so down the road, I glanced at my rear view mirror. The cherub's face had turned grey. Deep thought hijacked her as she stared blankly out the window. The sudden shift of mood shook me. I turned the volume down.

"What are you thinking about, baby?" I asked.
"Nothing" she croaked out.
"You sure?"
"Hmm, Hmm"

A few seconds passed as I constantly peeked back at her. She did not move. Her eyes were fixed. Tears were beginning to swell on the cusp of her eyelids.

"Honey, what's wrong?" I asked in my most high-pitched tender voice.
"NOTHING!" she hollered at me as a single tear leapt from each eye.

I have had this conversation with several women close to me throughout my life. This go around, however, I knew immediately that something was desperately wrong to make a four year old act so odd at the flip of a switch. A waterfall of questions and terrible thoughts flushed through my mind:
"What did I say? Does she not want to go to school? Did something happen there? That man that works there, what's his name? Dave, Mr. Dave. Emma really likes him. Did he do something to my baby? I will hurt him. I am going to go to jail."

My skin began to perspire, as my thoughts escaped my head in forms of questions for my broken girl in the back seat. "Are you sad?" I asked (duh).
"No." she sharply replied.
"Are you mad?" I tried again.
"No." she repeated.
"Are you glad?" I was trying to make her smile.
"NO." she demanded.
"Then what makes you cry? Do you want to go to school?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't know."

Now my hands began to slip from the wet steering wheel as I kept my eyes fixed on the mirror image of the little one in the back. I slapped the radio off completely.
"You know why, baby. Are you scared to go to school? Did something happen?"
"No."
"You know you can tell me everything. Did something happen?"
"No."
"You sure? Please tell me why you are crying." I begged her.
"I DON'T KNOW!" she bursted with uncontrollable sobs.
"Baby, you are scaring me." I shuttered.

I quickly rewound the words we had just spoken to find some sort of clue.
I shifted gears, for a new approach "Are you upset about us leaving for the weekend?"
"YES!" she screamed with more tears spraying.

I swerved and stopped the truck for both of our safety, jumped out of the vehicle, opened the back door and and was greeted with the biggest hug from the trembling child.

My heart broke into a million pieces as I twirled her in my arms. We said nothing for what seemed like hours. Her grip tightened with each twist. Relief washed the hideous fears that flooded my thoughts. I wanted to just stay there with her on the side of the road all day long.

Eventually we peeled ourselves apart and I consoled her and told her of all of the fun things Grammy had planned for her and Ellie for the short weekend. Her sadness began to fade and smiles emerged again. We buckled up and continued our journey to her school.

As I drove the mile or so to my work in silence, my adrenaline subsided and I drew deep breathes of thanks. The ache of my tattered heart began to lodge itself deep into my throat.

The sun flickered through the golden leaves of the fall-struck trees.

Are You Ready For Some Football?

Tomorrow is the real start of the 2005 NFL Season. I am stoked. I am in another Fantasy Football league this year, but only one... found that I could not keep my teams straight and ended up being mediocre at best last year. Plus, this league will pay money!!

I have my office pool picks. (more money) And I even have Abbie placing her picks too. (backup plan for more money).

I have my snacks all set and ready.

I can't wait.

It is a simple and silly fanatical thing I enjoy, but I always convince myself that it is alright because I am not this passionate about any other sport. I don't wear jerseys "every" weekend as I flip constantly between every single football game, thanks to my Direct TV Sunday Ticket programming.

I don't kick my dog or abuse my family if the Niners lose. Gawd knows that I would be in jail after last season.

Aside from a general derogatory statement usually directed at the arrogant and ignorant Joe Theisman or John Madden, I am typically pretty sane.

I woot and holler just enough to startle the kids and make the old dog bark. This year, Ellie will most likely run into the room to see what all the excitement is about. I will tell her and she will look at me blankly, just like her older sister always did. I can count on Ellie being close by though, because I always have snacks hanging around throughout the day. Emma use to love football season when she was the same age... then regular childhood play with Barbie's and Polly Pockets, and other little girls severed our football relationship - she'll be back.

I am happy that the air is getting colder so I don't feel bad that I am not enjoying the sunshine and beautiful weather on Sundays, because I am NOT going to go outside (after 10 am).

Oh yeah, and all the weight I happened to shave off for my summer vacations will most likely help me with my winter coat because of the beer and cheese I will be consuming, but hey, it's expected, it's officially football season.

What's Grosser Than Gross?

I use to think it was the one time when Emma was just a few months old and I was changing her diaper. That was the time when I pulled her legs up to put on a fresh covering that she shat right before my eyes. It was like a Play-Doh pump toy or a water pump. That was pretty "disdusting" as Emma would say now.

But last night I was reminded that child vomit is truly grosser than gross. Ellie helped to jog my memory. The reason why it is the number one on the gross scale is because I am now on my third load of laundry because of her sudden stomach bug. We had to wash countless blankets, three sets of pajamas, two washcloths, a mattress cover, the baby bumper, some towels, and both my and Abbie's clothes. The round that was grossest is a close tie - the initial spew where everything was everywhere and I was choking back my own dinner at about 10 pm, and the 2 am episode where Abbie had it running down all over her chest. Probably the big one wins though, just for sure volume.

I bet you are really excited that I shared this little bit of knowledge, but what can I say, I have had a dry spell of thoughts online.

Let's just say that this is my reminder to everyone to Wash Your Hands, all the time.

You Say Tomatoe
Emma and I were talking about writing a story. I agreed to write it for her, and she could orate.

I said, "Would you like to write a rhyming story?" suddenly remembering that she is not real good with the concept of rhyming.

"Yes!" she declared. "Something with Rainbow!"

"You mean something, like, say, scarecrow?" I said enthusiastically.

She nodded excitedly, "Yeah! And like PIG!"

Panties and Chicken Boobs

Her gorgeous blue eyes began to fill with tears as she looked up at me with a trembling chin.

"Emma, baby, what's wrong?" I asked.

We were simply getting her ready for school when the chipper mood flipped 180.
Her eyelids forced the water from inside her eyes. Her cheeks became stained.

"What is wrong, baby?" I had to ask again.

"They won't .... " she sobbed.

Abbie and I leaned forward expecting the worst.

"The deachers at my dool..." she started over.

Our eyes widened as if to encourage the words from her mouth. "My deachers, won't pull my panties from my crack at dool!" she blurted out, complete with a string of spit flinging to the air in front of her and repelling down her tiny chin.

The following day I was sitting at the dinner table. Emma was coloring a picture next to me and Abbie was standing in between us both. Abbie and I were talking about something. Something that at the time was more important than any of the many reoccurring interruptions we encounter every time we attempt an adult conversation.

During one of our pauses that is usually the cue for Emma to inject a "Mom, Mommy, Mom" she surprised us with a statement:

"Mommy, you have chicken boobs."

Abbie turned her head and stared at the words still hanging in the air.

"Wait did you say?" Abbie asked.

Emma pointed to Abbie's arm.

"Goose Bumps?" Abbie questioned.

"Yeah." Emma replied as if she had stated the question perfectly and began working again on her drawing.

Say, Say, Say

Well it's been a good time using Emma's mispronunciation as a comedic writing tool. We took her to a speech pathologist for an evaluation yesterday. They told me that she does mispronounce certain letters and she could benefit from some meetings with them! I was amazed by the entire process, but our little four year old was the most amazing part of it all.

She really showed affection for the girl named Sarah who immediately distracted Emma from the "adult conversation" I was having with the other student evaluator. Sarah assisted on a puzzle that worked her right into Emma's heart. It was obvious the friendship had quickly matured when Emma began to add comments after each of Sarah's questions:

"What is this a picture of?" Sarah would ask.
"A Duct" Emma replied.
"A duck, right, very good. And what color is this duck?"
"Yeyow" she quickly volleyed back.
"That's right, yellow." Sarah encouraged as she started to turn the page in her picture book.
"My sister noves aminals." Emma added.
"She does? Do you have one sister?"
Emma nodded, confirming an affirmative.
"Do you have a brother?" Sarah followed up.
"No, but we don't know fo' shore if Elwie is doh-ing to be a boy or a dirl when she drows up."
Both evaluators turn to look at me to decipher.

Trying to not laugh to hard I assisted, "Ellie is a tomboy right now."

The smiles cracked, Emma nodded in agreement, and the page of the book turned for the next line of questions.

... The Party's Over!

Besides showing me how she can climb onto the coffee table and stand up with a pencil in her hand, Ellie showed the entire family this morning this fun new trick.

Post-A-Toast Loser

My submission to the Subway Post-A-Toast Contest. I think I got robbed. Check out the real winners that are watching the Superbowl today in Jacksonville. POST-A-TOAST
I think they just picked the first 50 entries, but then again, I am biased.

Limited on words used, this is what I came up with:

With 2 girls born the 10th month of the year
Its true the playoffs give me more than just cheer
The family joke is avoid the postseason
Fear of more offspring is hardly a reason
I wont stop no matter what team
If I win this toast we’ll hit Halloween!

Can't Keep It In

I never quite understood my father's need to sit for so long in the bathroom when he got home from work. Thinking now, it probably was a whole ten minutes he would take. I also didn't understand why he would get so angry when I would come and knock on the "office" door to ask him some trivial question, or to tell him that the phone was for him. It truly amazed me at how easily it upset him.

Until today.

The girls were playing nicely. I had been holding "it" in me for at least a half an hour so I could complete giving them dinner. I got them to quietly start to entertain themselves before I made the quick slip to the nearby commode. It was not like I had to really work on completing this task. I was ready to go. But what was I rewarded with before I even got to unravel the toilet paper?

"Daaaa-ddy?"

The heavy breathing of the little one was wheezing through the seam between the door and the hinges, as Emma finger-tapped the door as she called for me. I barely had my pants undone. I hardly had balanced myself on the john and both of them were all up into my business. "Great accountants for the IRS someday." I thought to myself.

Demanding back to the hollow door, "WHAT!?"

"Um, when are you going to give me my dessert?" the innocent cherub voice questioned sweetly from the other side of the water closet door.

Pardon the phrase, but I just about shit. If I didn't have my pants wrapped around my ankles I probably would of stomped out of the room in absolute disgust for the situation. I was just in the same room with her just a minute ago... just 45 seconds ago, and she follows me to the toilet to ask me if I will get her ice cream? Is that before or after I wipe?

Collecting myself, I tell her that she can wait, that I am, "Busy right at the moment."

Of course, Ellie realized that I was having too much fun inside that funny little room with the odd shaped water bowl without her, and her pick-me-up-and-love-me-wail begins. You know the one. The cry that starts deep inside the belly and grows as it escapes the nose and mouth, changing octaves as it reaches the surface.

This little interlude is complete. "Sorry about that Dad," I murmured to myself, remembering my childhood punishments to my father this same way. It really means a lot more than I ever really thought.

Down on the Corner

An effective form of punishment with Emma is to make her stand in a corner. We never "enjoy" punishing our first born, but this method is the quickest and least painful for all parties. It is the most appropriate for poor manners or rude behavior. Of course, it is probably the least liked by Emma. I know this because of the wailing that pursues immediately after the verdict is placed.

A couple of nights ago, Emma was banned to the corner by the garage door, slightly out of the room, but still within my line of sight. She wept her protest and sniveled with her wet cheeks nearly touching the walls; an evil look occasionally piercing me from over her shoulder.

Her little sister, now only 15 months old seemed entertained by the happenings, for as soon as the screeching cries ceased from Emma and the tumultuous sobs waned, Ellie decided to duplicate her sister's actions. She chose to cut out the part that got Emma in this corner. Instead, little sister decided to re-enact the screaming that ensued as she about-faced the drywall. Ellie was mocking the dramatic protest, right in front, (or literally behind) her sister's back.

Being that no eyes were on me for the moment, I silently and violently chuckled with shoulders jumping and with my hand over my mouth to hide all sound of "enjoyment".

Total Eclipse of the Heart

The heaviness of each day has lessened every 24 hours since the solstice. The days get lighter earlier each morning in my room and in my soul. We have shed our surroundings expecting enjoyment because of the general change, but the most amazing outcome is the dissipation of sadness. Unexpected and unplanned, this lifted weight could be awarded to the spinning world or the persistence of time. The tired, worn skin scratches off like a week-old sunburn revealing a youthfulness towards life. The songs seem sweeter. Debates are unwanted and the desire to smile at others and offer handshakes are sprouting more.

The black veil, the lacking will to talk is lifting like the opening curtain.
"Welcome to the new me, please be seated. The show has already begun. We encourage active participation during the program. Do you have your lighters?"
"Freebird!"
"Dance!"