Hey everybody!
I'm still here in case you were wondering, but I have some work to do. LBN is soon to go through some changes, (new color scheme! New photo! and New topics... and other exciting stuff that will make you want to pee a little. Or not, who knows what makes you pee? For me it's PBR and the sound of newly shoed Clydesdales on cobblestone roads. I once had a traumatic experience while visiting Mackinac Island ). Thanks for liking, I'll be in touch.
Jim
Friday, September 24, 2010
Thursday, August 5, 2010
An Agument for Nice Things
“Why do you have to argue with me?” Yes!!!!! The fact she’s suggesting we’re currently engaged in a verbal joust of right and wrong should be all the information she needs to swallow her pride and walk away, but it’s too late…
My eyes widen. Like a lion whose spotted a three-legged gazelle, my mouth begins to sweat. My heartbeat… Boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom begins to speed up. A euphoric release of adrenaline has started to speed up my breathing and numb my extremities. Sweet Jesus, it’s exhilarating!
It was a grievous error on her part and she knows it. I tilt my head back ever so slightly; just enough to open up my nasal cavity and allow the salty smell of fear to penetrate my innards. She’s anxious. Her eyes have begun to wildly shift back and forth. She’s plotting moves, gathering information, calculating, waiting and wondering when it will begin. Just above her brow, dewy beads of perspiration begin to form and her knuckles whiten as she slowly squeezes the life from the shopping cart. The tension is palpable. She waits…
You see, I don’t lose arguments, not to her. That’s not to say that I’m right all the time, ‘cause I’m not. In fact, I’m mostly wrong… about everything (nocturnal land-walking cannibal mermaids). But - - over the course of 10 years, I have generated an unprecedented number of quality wins, against a worthy adversary who at times, seems more concerned with humiliating her husband than she is with the facts. Bottom line: I refuse to set foot in ANY argument, unless I’m absolutely, positively, one-hundred percent sure I can win. She knows this, yet she continues to test my knowledge, common sense and reason. Though notoriously wrong, she’ll never concede. Instead, she’ll erroneously poke and prod until the argument in question, is ultimately settled by an unbiased third party, or Google. Nothing, and I mean nothing would please her more than a win; a solid no-doubt-about-it bona-fied victory. She’s out to destroy my reign of righteousness, end my streak of arrogance and adorn her head with the Crown of Never Wrong.
I take a deep breath in, lick my chops and pause. Something doesn’t feel right. This is different. As much as I want this victory, I’m not sure this is a winnable argument. Hell, I’m not sure it’s an argument at all. We’re defiantly in disagreement and it’s obvious that I’m right, but there’s no google-bility. Am I being set up? Could it be that somewhere behind one of these aisles, there are a whole slew of three-legged gazelles waiting to stomp a mud hole in me.
Every silent moment that passes begins to intensify. The longer I wait to pounce, the easier it will be for her to assume she’s right. If I don’t do something fast, she gonna do the unimaginable she’ll win a SILENT ARGUMENT! That’s like winning 500 regular arguments in one and it’s never been done, not in this relationship. As a matter of fact, I think the last time it happened was in 2003. Some guy in Ohio was carrying on about this, that and the other. Anyway, story goes they were in Walmart when she did it. Without saying a word, she spun her head a full one-hundred eighty degrees, looked that dummy right in the eye with the intensity of a thousand suns - - and ended it. Five minutes later his brain fell out of his ass. His brain. Fell out. Of his ASS! It was the ultimate game over. Last I heard he was hooked up to a machine that feed him kibble three times a day. True story.
I know, once the credit card is swiped, my streak and dominance will end. I’ll quietly slink back into a population of defeated souls. There’s gotta be a way out, a loop-hole. Something I can do to that will keep my high horse from falling off its pedestal. I need momentum, the upper hand. I’m a winner. I can do this. I can do this. I can… I’m…I’m…..
“I’m not arguing… I’m discussing.” Oh, SNAP! Boom-shaka-laka! You’ve been served, (insert stereotypical uncoordinated white man’s wedding dance here). Oh, weep the salty tears of defeat into the palms of your superior. I am flawless. You are perplexed. I have foiled your coup with some powerful grammar high-jinks. Rule number 1: Don’t mess with a wordsmith young lady or your tail will become a fail and your argument will turn into a discussion. Thus my streak shall live on. I own you!
“Well, keep your ‘discuss’ to yourself, ‘cause unless you can come up with a good reason for putting it back on the shelf, it’s coming home with us. End of story.”
End of story? End of story! What in the name of Tony Danza is going on? I gotta tell ya, I’m kinda floored. I thought I was in the driver’s seat. Not only are my instincts telling me that I’m wrong, I’ve got a sinking suspicion that I’m in for the fight of my life. This is no ordinary argument. This is “The Argument,” the one that’s been brewing for years. At this point the only way to keep the steak alive and save our meager souls is to run, cry, or drop dead of a massive stroke. I look down at my feet which are sporting a pair of 7-Eleven flip-flops and realize that a short gallop would probably accomplish all three. I’m not going down like this. I’m a fighter, (in the distance thunder or a well timed pot drop shakes the floor). Oh, it’s definitely on- - right here, right now between the sheets and shower curtain. I crack my neck, grab the front of the cart and tighten my butt cheeks.
“There is NO WAY we’re buying an olive tray.” I’m fuming, and the more I look at it, the more hysterical I become. In the past my M.O. was to stay clear of anything that upset the delicate balance of power and happiness in our household. As a result I’ve reluctantly conceded to her a number of household items that I thought were perhaps a waste of money (cherry pitter), unnecessary (napkin rings), or indulgent (2-ply toilet paper). But this- - this foot long piece of porcelain impracticality takes the cake.
“I think it’s nice.”
“No, it’s insane. What- - pray-tell… what do we need this for?”
“For when we have a party.”
“No way. Uh-uh. Not once in 11 years has there ever, been any mention, before, during or after any party, a need to display our olives in anything other than the jar they came in. Not once!”
“Well sometimes it would be nice to have nice things when our friends come over.”
“Our friends? Who are we The Rockefellers? We have friends that drink wine out of empty beer bottles. There’s a pretty good chance that they’re not wondering why we don’t have a thirty-dollar olive canoe next to the crock pot of Sloppy Joes.”
“Well you never know.”
“Yes, I do know, that’s the whole point. In fact, I’m certain that once in your possession, it will never ever get the chance to cradle those little green oblongs. Instead it will sit silently forgotten until the end of every party when you’ll say something like, ‘Dammit, we forgot to put out the olive tray.’ This will happen, I promise you. It will destroy our marriage.”
“I think your overreacting; it’s just an olive dish.” I wish it was that easy. It’s obvious she’s blinded by the allure of Crate and Barrel and not looking at the big picture. This stupid dish is our existence.
All those arguments, those wins have led to this moment. The basic fabric of society is teetering on the brink of destruction, and it’s up to me. For years, I’ve been secretly doing my part to make sure that we have the perfect balance of functional and unnecessary indulgent kitchenware in the house at one time. This simple, sleek and oddly hypnotic olive tray will open the gates to Hell. It’ll only be a matter of days before I’m drowning in a sea of gravy boats, relish dishes, cheese knives, meat tenderizers, food injectors and chop stick holders. Our house simply cannot support this change. The explosion of luxury items will be impossible to sustain, causing ill tempers, short fuses and separate sleeping quarters. It’ll be cataclysmic. It has to end, it must be destroyed. The weight of our sacred vows is beginning to bury me. It ends now, and she’ll thank me later…
“Okay, I’ll make you a deal. You let me buy the olive tray and I’ll let you get that ice cream maker you keep whining about.”
Dammit! Ice cream fixes everything.
The streak: 265-0-1.
My eyes widen. Like a lion whose spotted a three-legged gazelle, my mouth begins to sweat. My heartbeat… Boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom begins to speed up. A euphoric release of adrenaline has started to speed up my breathing and numb my extremities. Sweet Jesus, it’s exhilarating!
It was a grievous error on her part and she knows it. I tilt my head back ever so slightly; just enough to open up my nasal cavity and allow the salty smell of fear to penetrate my innards. She’s anxious. Her eyes have begun to wildly shift back and forth. She’s plotting moves, gathering information, calculating, waiting and wondering when it will begin. Just above her brow, dewy beads of perspiration begin to form and her knuckles whiten as she slowly squeezes the life from the shopping cart. The tension is palpable. She waits…
You see, I don’t lose arguments, not to her. That’s not to say that I’m right all the time, ‘cause I’m not. In fact, I’m mostly wrong… about everything (nocturnal land-walking cannibal mermaids). But - - over the course of 10 years, I have generated an unprecedented number of quality wins, against a worthy adversary who at times, seems more concerned with humiliating her husband than she is with the facts. Bottom line: I refuse to set foot in ANY argument, unless I’m absolutely, positively, one-hundred percent sure I can win. She knows this, yet she continues to test my knowledge, common sense and reason. Though notoriously wrong, she’ll never concede. Instead, she’ll erroneously poke and prod until the argument in question, is ultimately settled by an unbiased third party, or Google. Nothing, and I mean nothing would please her more than a win; a solid no-doubt-about-it bona-fied victory. She’s out to destroy my reign of righteousness, end my streak of arrogance and adorn her head with the Crown of Never Wrong.
I take a deep breath in, lick my chops and pause. Something doesn’t feel right. This is different. As much as I want this victory, I’m not sure this is a winnable argument. Hell, I’m not sure it’s an argument at all. We’re defiantly in disagreement and it’s obvious that I’m right, but there’s no google-bility. Am I being set up? Could it be that somewhere behind one of these aisles, there are a whole slew of three-legged gazelles waiting to stomp a mud hole in me.
Every silent moment that passes begins to intensify. The longer I wait to pounce, the easier it will be for her to assume she’s right. If I don’t do something fast, she gonna do the unimaginable she’ll win a SILENT ARGUMENT! That’s like winning 500 regular arguments in one and it’s never been done, not in this relationship. As a matter of fact, I think the last time it happened was in 2003. Some guy in Ohio was carrying on about this, that and the other. Anyway, story goes they were in Walmart when she did it. Without saying a word, she spun her head a full one-hundred eighty degrees, looked that dummy right in the eye with the intensity of a thousand suns - - and ended it. Five minutes later his brain fell out of his ass. His brain. Fell out. Of his ASS! It was the ultimate game over. Last I heard he was hooked up to a machine that feed him kibble three times a day. True story.
I know, once the credit card is swiped, my streak and dominance will end. I’ll quietly slink back into a population of defeated souls. There’s gotta be a way out, a loop-hole. Something I can do to that will keep my high horse from falling off its pedestal. I need momentum, the upper hand. I’m a winner. I can do this. I can do this. I can… I’m…I’m…..
“I’m not arguing… I’m discussing.” Oh, SNAP! Boom-shaka-laka! You’ve been served, (insert stereotypical uncoordinated white man’s wedding dance here). Oh, weep the salty tears of defeat into the palms of your superior. I am flawless. You are perplexed. I have foiled your coup with some powerful grammar high-jinks. Rule number 1: Don’t mess with a wordsmith young lady or your tail will become a fail and your argument will turn into a discussion. Thus my streak shall live on. I own you!
“Well, keep your ‘discuss’ to yourself, ‘cause unless you can come up with a good reason for putting it back on the shelf, it’s coming home with us. End of story.”
End of story? End of story! What in the name of Tony Danza is going on? I gotta tell ya, I’m kinda floored. I thought I was in the driver’s seat. Not only are my instincts telling me that I’m wrong, I’ve got a sinking suspicion that I’m in for the fight of my life. This is no ordinary argument. This is “The Argument,” the one that’s been brewing for years. At this point the only way to keep the steak alive and save our meager souls is to run, cry, or drop dead of a massive stroke. I look down at my feet which are sporting a pair of 7-Eleven flip-flops and realize that a short gallop would probably accomplish all three. I’m not going down like this. I’m a fighter, (in the distance thunder or a well timed pot drop shakes the floor). Oh, it’s definitely on- - right here, right now between the sheets and shower curtain. I crack my neck, grab the front of the cart and tighten my butt cheeks.
“There is NO WAY we’re buying an olive tray.” I’m fuming, and the more I look at it, the more hysterical I become. In the past my M.O. was to stay clear of anything that upset the delicate balance of power and happiness in our household. As a result I’ve reluctantly conceded to her a number of household items that I thought were perhaps a waste of money (cherry pitter), unnecessary (napkin rings), or indulgent (2-ply toilet paper). But this- - this foot long piece of porcelain impracticality takes the cake.
“I think it’s nice.”
“No, it’s insane. What- - pray-tell… what do we need this for?”
“For when we have a party.”
“No way. Uh-uh. Not once in 11 years has there ever, been any mention, before, during or after any party, a need to display our olives in anything other than the jar they came in. Not once!”
“Well sometimes it would be nice to have nice things when our friends come over.”
“Our friends? Who are we The Rockefellers? We have friends that drink wine out of empty beer bottles. There’s a pretty good chance that they’re not wondering why we don’t have a thirty-dollar olive canoe next to the crock pot of Sloppy Joes.”
“Well you never know.”
“Yes, I do know, that’s the whole point. In fact, I’m certain that once in your possession, it will never ever get the chance to cradle those little green oblongs. Instead it will sit silently forgotten until the end of every party when you’ll say something like, ‘Dammit, we forgot to put out the olive tray.’ This will happen, I promise you. It will destroy our marriage.”
“I think your overreacting; it’s just an olive dish.” I wish it was that easy. It’s obvious she’s blinded by the allure of Crate and Barrel and not looking at the big picture. This stupid dish is our existence.
All those arguments, those wins have led to this moment. The basic fabric of society is teetering on the brink of destruction, and it’s up to me. For years, I’ve been secretly doing my part to make sure that we have the perfect balance of functional and unnecessary indulgent kitchenware in the house at one time. This simple, sleek and oddly hypnotic olive tray will open the gates to Hell. It’ll only be a matter of days before I’m drowning in a sea of gravy boats, relish dishes, cheese knives, meat tenderizers, food injectors and chop stick holders. Our house simply cannot support this change. The explosion of luxury items will be impossible to sustain, causing ill tempers, short fuses and separate sleeping quarters. It’ll be cataclysmic. It has to end, it must be destroyed. The weight of our sacred vows is beginning to bury me. It ends now, and she’ll thank me later…
“Okay, I’ll make you a deal. You let me buy the olive tray and I’ll let you get that ice cream maker you keep whining about.”
Dammit! Ice cream fixes everything.
The streak: 265-0-1.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
An LBN Anniversary
A year ago today I sat down and wrote about an experience I had at a grocery store and released it on a blog I called Life Between Naps. Since then I have written and placed many more of my experiences as a full-time, unemployed, stay-at-home dad here, there and everywhere else I could. To my surprise LBN got pretty popular, acquired many fans, was on the radio and slowly a following was born. Thanks to all my friends, family and loyal followers LBN has become the 97,546 most popular blog about parenting on the web. With a few more hits I'll pass the blog about The farting Cats of Myanmar... My dreams are finally coming true.
I still have high hopes that one day a celebrity other than Oprah, Ellen, Rachel Ray and to my utter amazement Tyra (all of whom have failed to respond to my stalking tactics with anything more than threatening letters, stupid lawyer talk and a one time shot of pepper spray) will endorse my writing invite me on their show and surprise me with a car, a house, a job or pay off my student loans. Alas,I might have to actually do this fame thing on my own. So as I get ready to unleash a second year of LBN on the world. I'll give you the original, unedited, updated and newly proofread version of the story that started it all. It's bigger, better and basically a stall tactic until I get my newest story finished. Thank you all for being fans.
A Disturbing & Terrifying Event (Anniversary Edition)
Location: Jewel, Lincoln Ave. Chicago
Date: For legal purposes I'd rather not say.
Upon entering the doors I promised Lucy (although, never again) we could get one of those stupid big grocery carts with a car attached to it. I buckled her in on one side and secured her stuffed duck into the other. Ruby was locked down in the wire basket facing me. Both girls seemed happy, so happy I spent extra time in the produce. The cart was giving me a few steering problems, mostly when turning left; but ehh, I’ll manage? We grab some ham at the deli; take a left through bread and crackers and then a whimsical gait through coffee and cereal. Suddenly our cart is getting pretty full and I'm starting to feel a sense of accomplishment.
Now I’ll admit, I was a bit leery about taking on such a chore without backup, whether it be my wife or a cattle prod. I’ve been in stores where the kids were being dragged through the aisles, screaming like savage animals and throwing tantrums over brightly colored cereal boxes. I pitied those parents who couldn’t control their teary-eyed spawn; it made me sick to watch full grown adults give into the needs of a toddler. It was then, I made a promise to myself that an outburst like that would never happen when I have kids, and as it were, my kids were doing great! In fact, the longer I shopped the more confident I became, that this would be an incident free trip. And then… I heard what sounded like a drain unclogging…. I stopped and waited a few seconds before slowly starting again. It couldn’t have walked more than three steps when I heard a troubling, “Burgaloop-blup-blup-blup…”
Halting immediately, my hands began squeezing the chipped plastic steering bar of the stroller. I’m scared. The sound I heard, is (Gulp) internal! Suddenly I felt this entity, this plumbing problem muscle its way south of my belt line. It was at that very moment I realized two things: An incident was about to occur, and it had nothing to do with my kids. I began to methodically step down the canned goods. I had a feeling this was gonna be one of those life changing moments that will either turn me into a “born again” Christian, or discarding religion altogether. I needed to find the bathroom, and I needed to find it yesterday.
Now with one child a bathroom run can be a chore, but with two? Well I’m walking a fine line, especially when only one can stand, and grocery carts full of food are not permitted into the restrooms. I’m only ten feet from where this whole thing started and again I’ve stopped walking. This time I start to breathe slowly (you know that Lamaze breathing technique we use to prevent throwing-up and other forthcoming unpleasantries, “Who-ha… Who-ha…”). Anyway, I hate using public bathrooms, nothing good happens in there. No one casually uses the grocery store bathroom; they are there for emergencies, only when you are 100% positive you will not make it home. Lucy soon asks why we are stopped in front of the soups. I don't answer… I can't- - I'm frozen- - I’m concentrating. My mouth begins to sweat and I gradually lift myself onto my tippy-toes. Oh boy, I’m done trying; I can't breathe this one off. Dammit! This is happening, this is going down! I am at Defcon 9, the sirens are blaring and now my whole body has started shaking...
"Daddy? Are you OK?" Lucy asks as she peers out her driver’s side window. I don't answer for a few seconds, and then I whisper to Lucy, "Hold on." I gather all my strength and push, hard! After a second or two, the big red menace has successfully reached that impossible speed where all individual items are blended into a cosmic stream of random colors. I’ve done it, we’re moving at the speed of light. As our skin begins to peel away from our bones I’m not sure what’s scarier; the fact that I am breaking the laws of physics, or the possibility that even light-speed will not get me to the bathroom quick enough. Ruby is crying. Lucy is laughing. Both are out of fear. Wailing, "Whoo-hoo, beep-beep!" Lucy grips the roof as I turn left toward the bathroom which is now 11 aisles away. Suddenly, “Ping- BAM!”
The wheel (driver’s side) buckles under the cart and we begin to gouge up the rubber flooring. From a technical standpoint both Ruby and Lucy appear to be screaming, somehow neither are able to produce a sound. I’m having a full-blown panic attack. Seconds away from exploding my legs are beginning to give out on me. I drag the cart full of kids and groceries sideways pass the cashiers, no one seems overly concerned, but someone in a green vest is dangerously close to saying, "Umm... we need a cleanup in aisle 8 and you might want to bring a mop and a Hazmat suit."
I "park" the cart next to some ice cream cones. I unbuckle Lucy, her duck and Ruby. I grab the diaper bag (I do this for effect. The diaper bag gives others the impression one of the kids has had an "accident"). I open the door to the world’s most outrageously odd bathroom, it was huge! It had a toilet, a sink, a trash can and a changing table and to be quite honest, there was still enough room for a Mini Cooper, a Futon, a vending machine and a Fichus tree. But I had no time for space planning or logistics. I came here to do one thing and one thing only… dispose. Little did I know that this cavernous bathroom and its wall-to-wall tiles would have a diabolical effect in the coming minutes.
I tell Lucy to stand in the corner, "Don't touch anything," I scream. The proximity to my relief seat now has my body doing an involuntary dance of spastic gyrations. By now I was almost completely drenched in sweat. It was as if gravity itself had decided that it was gonna try extra hard to push my insides out through orifice number 2. The problem now became Ruby, what the hell was I gonna do with her... Hold her on my lap? For reasons beyond my control, I begin to cry uncontrollably. I decide that the best course of action was to strap her onto the changing table (which was so conveniently located on the other side of this ridiculously large bathroom) and pray. I pray for the safety of my girls, pray that this "event" will be over with soon, and pray that no one, not one soul outside this room can hear what is about to go down.
I will not specifically tell you what happened next, mostly because I don’t quite remember, but prior to blacking out, this is what I recall. Ruby is strapped on the table screaming so hard, her bellybutton is about to go from innie to outtie. Lucy is on the far side of the room marching back and forth, clapping and screaming the word "Echo!" I’m slowly dehydrating, and about to lose touch with reality. Just as I’m about to reach the great white light, a garbled sound from beyond pulls me back to the present.
"Is everything Okay?" Said a concerned voice through the hollow door.
"Ummm… Yeah? We've just had a little accident, no worries, be done in a second.” At this point I’m past horrified. Evidently there was enough noise coming from this room that management had to send some poor unsuspecting food bagger to make sure I wasn’t slaughtering goats or performing an exorcism in their gigantic porcelain palace.
Ruby is growing a shade closer to blue and clearly hyperventilating. Lucy, who is still yelling the word "echo" only now with her hands over her ears, suddenly screams, "Daddy there is some poopie from your butt on your shoe!" I immediately assume this statement to be impossible, so I half-heartedly giggled it off, until I looked at my shoe... sure enough - - poopie. It's hard to say exactly where this poopie came from, or if it was simply a poopie imposter, but it defies all logic that the poopie in question was in fact from my butt. Rather, I am leaning towards a discharge, a magic bullet of sorts. It was unloaded CIA style, by Ruby while she was screaming from behind the trash can. Years from now we’ll all be watching this on Jewel’s grainy version of the Zapruder film.
Finally, with one last gurgle and a pathetic wet fart, it’s over. I pull myself together, splash some cold water on my face and make sure that no where in this room is there an ode to Jackson Pollock. I find a piece of candy at the bottom of the diaper and stick it in my mouth. I console the kids who are now both starring at me in either fear or amazement, it's hard to tell. I finish what is left in the courtesy air freshener and slowly open the door. Once the Lysol cloud of shame had dissipated, I realized they were looking, they were all looking. I nonchalantly hide my embarrassment in what I thought was a playful quip.
“Boy she DID NOT like getting her diaper changed.” I say this to no one in particular; I was just throwing it out there. Then Lucy screamed to no one in particular,
“No Daddy, YOU had a lot of stinky poopies in YOUR butt. Not Ruby? Remember? YOU had the poopies in YOUR butt, and remember, on YOUR shoe… remember?” I smiled at her annoyingly loud correction, to my tailor-made excuse. Then I pat the little truth teller right on her honest little head. Out of the corner of my eye I see an employee open the door to the restroom and stare in awe. I wasn’t sure of the exact damage, but I wasn’t gonna stay around to find out. With the diaper bag hanging around my shoulder and Ruby clutching onto my hip, I grab Lucy by the hand, and we leave. We walk right out door, leaving our groceries sitting in that big red broken down jalopy next to the ice cream condiments.
Honestly, I don’t remember a single word or sound being uttered as we got in the car. We all knew what had happened, and that was that. Ruby was asleep in her seat before we left the parking lot. Lucy appeared to be consoling her duck. I on the other hand, I just drove; I drove all the way to the Jewel on Western Ave., because we still needed groceries. We still had to eat.
I still have high hopes that one day a celebrity other than Oprah, Ellen, Rachel Ray and to my utter amazement Tyra (all of whom have failed to respond to my stalking tactics with anything more than threatening letters, stupid lawyer talk and a one time shot of pepper spray) will endorse my writing invite me on their show and surprise me with a car, a house, a job or pay off my student loans. Alas,I might have to actually do this fame thing on my own. So as I get ready to unleash a second year of LBN on the world. I'll give you the original, unedited, updated and newly proofread version of the story that started it all. It's bigger, better and basically a stall tactic until I get my newest story finished. Thank you all for being fans.
A Disturbing & Terrifying Event (Anniversary Edition)
Location: Jewel, Lincoln Ave. Chicago
Date: For legal purposes I'd rather not say.
Upon entering the doors I promised Lucy (although, never again) we could get one of those stupid big grocery carts with a car attached to it. I buckled her in on one side and secured her stuffed duck into the other. Ruby was locked down in the wire basket facing me. Both girls seemed happy, so happy I spent extra time in the produce. The cart was giving me a few steering problems, mostly when turning left; but ehh, I’ll manage? We grab some ham at the deli; take a left through bread and crackers and then a whimsical gait through coffee and cereal. Suddenly our cart is getting pretty full and I'm starting to feel a sense of accomplishment.
Now I’ll admit, I was a bit leery about taking on such a chore without backup, whether it be my wife or a cattle prod. I’ve been in stores where the kids were being dragged through the aisles, screaming like savage animals and throwing tantrums over brightly colored cereal boxes. I pitied those parents who couldn’t control their teary-eyed spawn; it made me sick to watch full grown adults give into the needs of a toddler. It was then, I made a promise to myself that an outburst like that would never happen when I have kids, and as it were, my kids were doing great! In fact, the longer I shopped the more confident I became, that this would be an incident free trip. And then… I heard what sounded like a drain unclogging…. I stopped and waited a few seconds before slowly starting again. It couldn’t have walked more than three steps when I heard a troubling, “Burgaloop-blup-blup-blup…”
Halting immediately, my hands began squeezing the chipped plastic steering bar of the stroller. I’m scared. The sound I heard, is (Gulp) internal! Suddenly I felt this entity, this plumbing problem muscle its way south of my belt line. It was at that very moment I realized two things: An incident was about to occur, and it had nothing to do with my kids. I began to methodically step down the canned goods. I had a feeling this was gonna be one of those life changing moments that will either turn me into a “born again” Christian, or discarding religion altogether. I needed to find the bathroom, and I needed to find it yesterday.
Now with one child a bathroom run can be a chore, but with two? Well I’m walking a fine line, especially when only one can stand, and grocery carts full of food are not permitted into the restrooms. I’m only ten feet from where this whole thing started and again I’ve stopped walking. This time I start to breathe slowly (you know that Lamaze breathing technique we use to prevent throwing-up and other forthcoming unpleasantries, “Who-ha… Who-ha…”). Anyway, I hate using public bathrooms, nothing good happens in there. No one casually uses the grocery store bathroom; they are there for emergencies, only when you are 100% positive you will not make it home. Lucy soon asks why we are stopped in front of the soups. I don't answer… I can't- - I'm frozen- - I’m concentrating. My mouth begins to sweat and I gradually lift myself onto my tippy-toes. Oh boy, I’m done trying; I can't breathe this one off. Dammit! This is happening, this is going down! I am at Defcon 9, the sirens are blaring and now my whole body has started shaking...
"Daddy? Are you OK?" Lucy asks as she peers out her driver’s side window. I don't answer for a few seconds, and then I whisper to Lucy, "Hold on." I gather all my strength and push, hard! After a second or two, the big red menace has successfully reached that impossible speed where all individual items are blended into a cosmic stream of random colors. I’ve done it, we’re moving at the speed of light. As our skin begins to peel away from our bones I’m not sure what’s scarier; the fact that I am breaking the laws of physics, or the possibility that even light-speed will not get me to the bathroom quick enough. Ruby is crying. Lucy is laughing. Both are out of fear. Wailing, "Whoo-hoo, beep-beep!" Lucy grips the roof as I turn left toward the bathroom which is now 11 aisles away. Suddenly, “Ping- BAM!”
The wheel (driver’s side) buckles under the cart and we begin to gouge up the rubber flooring. From a technical standpoint both Ruby and Lucy appear to be screaming, somehow neither are able to produce a sound. I’m having a full-blown panic attack. Seconds away from exploding my legs are beginning to give out on me. I drag the cart full of kids and groceries sideways pass the cashiers, no one seems overly concerned, but someone in a green vest is dangerously close to saying, "Umm... we need a cleanup in aisle 8 and you might want to bring a mop and a Hazmat suit."
I "park" the cart next to some ice cream cones. I unbuckle Lucy, her duck and Ruby. I grab the diaper bag (I do this for effect. The diaper bag gives others the impression one of the kids has had an "accident"). I open the door to the world’s most outrageously odd bathroom, it was huge! It had a toilet, a sink, a trash can and a changing table and to be quite honest, there was still enough room for a Mini Cooper, a Futon, a vending machine and a Fichus tree. But I had no time for space planning or logistics. I came here to do one thing and one thing only… dispose. Little did I know that this cavernous bathroom and its wall-to-wall tiles would have a diabolical effect in the coming minutes.
I tell Lucy to stand in the corner, "Don't touch anything," I scream. The proximity to my relief seat now has my body doing an involuntary dance of spastic gyrations. By now I was almost completely drenched in sweat. It was as if gravity itself had decided that it was gonna try extra hard to push my insides out through orifice number 2. The problem now became Ruby, what the hell was I gonna do with her... Hold her on my lap? For reasons beyond my control, I begin to cry uncontrollably. I decide that the best course of action was to strap her onto the changing table (which was so conveniently located on the other side of this ridiculously large bathroom) and pray. I pray for the safety of my girls, pray that this "event" will be over with soon, and pray that no one, not one soul outside this room can hear what is about to go down.
I will not specifically tell you what happened next, mostly because I don’t quite remember, but prior to blacking out, this is what I recall. Ruby is strapped on the table screaming so hard, her bellybutton is about to go from innie to outtie. Lucy is on the far side of the room marching back and forth, clapping and screaming the word "Echo!" I’m slowly dehydrating, and about to lose touch with reality. Just as I’m about to reach the great white light, a garbled sound from beyond pulls me back to the present.
"Is everything Okay?" Said a concerned voice through the hollow door.
"Ummm… Yeah? We've just had a little accident, no worries, be done in a second.” At this point I’m past horrified. Evidently there was enough noise coming from this room that management had to send some poor unsuspecting food bagger to make sure I wasn’t slaughtering goats or performing an exorcism in their gigantic porcelain palace.
Ruby is growing a shade closer to blue and clearly hyperventilating. Lucy, who is still yelling the word "echo" only now with her hands over her ears, suddenly screams, "Daddy there is some poopie from your butt on your shoe!" I immediately assume this statement to be impossible, so I half-heartedly giggled it off, until I looked at my shoe... sure enough - - poopie. It's hard to say exactly where this poopie came from, or if it was simply a poopie imposter, but it defies all logic that the poopie in question was in fact from my butt. Rather, I am leaning towards a discharge, a magic bullet of sorts. It was unloaded CIA style, by Ruby while she was screaming from behind the trash can. Years from now we’ll all be watching this on Jewel’s grainy version of the Zapruder film.
Finally, with one last gurgle and a pathetic wet fart, it’s over. I pull myself together, splash some cold water on my face and make sure that no where in this room is there an ode to Jackson Pollock. I find a piece of candy at the bottom of the diaper and stick it in my mouth. I console the kids who are now both starring at me in either fear or amazement, it's hard to tell. I finish what is left in the courtesy air freshener and slowly open the door. Once the Lysol cloud of shame had dissipated, I realized they were looking, they were all looking. I nonchalantly hide my embarrassment in what I thought was a playful quip.
“Boy she DID NOT like getting her diaper changed.” I say this to no one in particular; I was just throwing it out there. Then Lucy screamed to no one in particular,
“No Daddy, YOU had a lot of stinky poopies in YOUR butt. Not Ruby? Remember? YOU had the poopies in YOUR butt, and remember, on YOUR shoe… remember?” I smiled at her annoyingly loud correction, to my tailor-made excuse. Then I pat the little truth teller right on her honest little head. Out of the corner of my eye I see an employee open the door to the restroom and stare in awe. I wasn’t sure of the exact damage, but I wasn’t gonna stay around to find out. With the diaper bag hanging around my shoulder and Ruby clutching onto my hip, I grab Lucy by the hand, and we leave. We walk right out door, leaving our groceries sitting in that big red broken down jalopy next to the ice cream condiments.
Honestly, I don’t remember a single word or sound being uttered as we got in the car. We all knew what had happened, and that was that. Ruby was asleep in her seat before we left the parking lot. Lucy appeared to be consoling her duck. I on the other hand, I just drove; I drove all the way to the Jewel on Western Ave., because we still needed groceries. We still had to eat.
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