G Is For Giraffe

One of my wife's friends got her a bunch of wall decals for our baby. I picked them out. Hell, I picked out everything. But especially these wall decals. I'm making a point of pointing this out, so that it's clear when I start getting angry at these wall decals, it is clear that my anger is not towards this friend, or her wonderful gift. Rather, my anger is directed at the makers of these wall decals, Blik.

My wife didn't want a baby shower. My wife didn't want to buy anything for our baby really. Which is at times aggravating. Yesterday, I told her we still need to get a mobile for the baby's crib, and she rolled her eyes and said, "Really? More things? You need to get your spending under control."

That really happened. Two days ago, I hear her on the phone with her cousin lamenting that I went out to the store and bought the baby "more clothes." By "more clothes," she meant pajamas. The baby has no pajamas. The baby has I think 8 onesies and two pairs of pants. I own probably 30-40 shirts and at least 8 pairs of pants/shorts. I also don't shit on my clothes and throw up on myself several times a week. So I'm thinking "more clothes" are necessary, and that I married a weirdo. But that's neither here nor there. (Love you lady!)

So I made her have a little shower. When she relented, she said, "But I'm not registering for anything." So I proceeded to register for all of our baby's shit. (In fairness, my wife did go to the registry and criticize EVERYTHING I put on there. "A mustache binky? Really? What if it's a girl?" "Then she'll have a mustache. It's a baby.") In my registering, I became a complete and total weirdo.

I started looking for rugs that had learning agendas. I found a giant rug that was a map of the world. The names of each continent are on there, and each ocean. I remember in 1st grade, a girl named Laura made fun of me because I didn't know how many continents there were. Not my baby. My baby's going to know his/her geography.

I see a wall map of the United States. Each state peels off the map, so you can play pin the state on the country! Brilliant! My child will be as smart as a whip!

And what's the first thing? The pillar upon which all learning comes from? Reading! Which is based on... the ALPHABET!!!

Which brings me to the wall decals that I was talking about before I decided to make fun of my beloved. I find these wall decals of the alphabet, and my eyes light up. "Perfect! Each letter has a picture of an animal on there. The child will learn the alphabet, the states, and the world just by osmosis!"

Unfortunately, baby's father never learned what osmosis means. Wah, wah. (That's a trombone sound, not crying. It's also not true. I know what osmosis means, and I understand that I'm using it wrong, but it's also kind of right. I actually wouldn't be surprised if definition two or three of osmosis was something like "learning through immersion or being surrounded by a thing that is being learned about." Probably worded better than that. But whatever. I'm off the rails here.)

So I'm really pumped about these letters. I put them on the registry. Ellen's friend gets them for her. I'm pumped. Ellen's pumped. The friend is pumped. But I'm also realizing what a pain in the ass it's going to be to put these things on the wall.

I'm going to want to make them look reasonable. So I'll want to measure the wall, divide a wall into 26 equal lengths, so the letters are perfectly spaced. Each one will need to be measured to the ceiling as well to ensure they're all level. Suddenly, this seems like a lot of work, and my parenting skills fail me for the first time.

"Hmmm, I really think this will be great for my child. But it will require work... Nope, not gonna do it."

And so the letters have sat there for weeks without getting put on the wall.

This evening, though, after a pretty productive cleaning day, I get ambitious. "Honey," I say, "let's put up those letters."

"Hooray!"

I survey the room, and briefly discuss with my wife that I don't want to do all of the work that I mentioned above. The stuff about measuring and leveling. I will, however, put them in an abstract up and down on one of the walls.

"Yeah, for sure. Don't measure. That seems hard." Glad to see we're both failures as parents. I knew I could count on her!

So we decide on a wall. I get up on the ladder. And she peels off and hands me the letter "A."

"Here's 'A'."

"Let's see, what's 'A'? An antelope. 'A' is for antelope. Seems a little high concept for a child. But okay, there's not a lot of animals that start with 'A.'"

B is a bear. C is a cow. D is a dolphin. E is an elephant. All reasonable. F is a frog.

"Here's 'G'."

"Ooo, what is it?"

"Guess?"

"A... goat?"

"Nope."

"Gorilla?"

"No, that would be good though." She hands me the 'G' animal. "It's a goldfish."

"'G' is for goldfish? Really?"

"Yeah, I would have thought giraffe."

"Right, totally, that makes more sense than goat or gorilla. It should totally be a giraffe."

"Definitely not a goldfish though."

"Agreed. That's weird. Well maybe they didn't want to confuse the kids by doing an animal with a soft 'g.' Kids might think it's a 'j'."

"Yeah, maybe. That's possible." We move on. It threw me for a bit, but we moved on. I accepted it. G is a goldfish. H is a horse. I is an iguana. Which gave me pause, except then it dawned on me there really aren't a lot of I animals. Ibex. But if antelope is pushing it, ibex is waaaay pushing it. So good call. I is for iguana.

J is for jellyfish. Not jaguar? Whatever. Jellyfish is reasonable. K is for kangaroo. Of course. L is for lion, king of the jungle, even though they don't really live in the jungle. But that's not an issue for the wall decals, but for society at large. Can we stop it with the king of the jungle business? It's very misleading. I thought lions lived in the jungle for a really long time. There are probably a lot of people who still think lions live in the jungle. Newsflash: No jungle. Also, I would take a gorilla over a lion in a fight any day. Lions aren't king of shit.

M: Monkey. Duh. N is for narwhal? Really? Again I have to stop. (Also, now as I'm writing this, it occurs to me that A is for alligator in real life. Not fucking antelope. What kind of stupid animal alphabet ranks antelope higher than alligators? Why wouldn't you introduce a child to an alligator before you introduce them to a goddamn antelope? It doesn't make any sense.) "Narwhal? The unicorn of the sea? That's what we've got for 'N'? It's so obscure."

"Yeah, but what else is there?" My wife asks. We stop and think. I come up with nothing.

"All right. Narwhal it is. I just think the kid's going to be bummed out when we go to the zoo for the first time."

"Ha. It's true. Mommy, where's the narwhal? Sorry honey, you're never ever going to see one of those."

"Heartbreaking. All right, hit me with 'O'. Let me guess, octopus?"

"Yeah, that's pretty obvious. Guess it could have been an owl."

"Otter."

"Lot of 'O' animals."

"O R there? Get it? Like in Rushmore."

"I have no idea what you're talking about. 'P.' Guess what 'P' is."

"It's gotta be a python."

"Guess again."

"Oh duh, a panda."

"Nope."

"Piranha?"

"It's a pig."

"A pig? What the fuck is that? Pigs suck. That's so boring."

"Pigs are cute."

"Pigs are dinner!"

"You're really getting worked up about this."

"Well, I mean come on. The giraffe was a goldfish. Now we've got another opportunity and it's a pig? I mean come on."

"Yeah, it's true."

Q is a quail. Again, mildly disappointing. Not because I expected there to be any cool 'Q' animals. But just because quails kind of suck. They're pretty obscure. But whatever. R will be cool.

Only R is a rooster. Why is R a goddamn rooster? How about a rhinoceros? That's way cooler than a rooster. A raccoon. A rabbit. A rattlesnake. Well, it can't be a rattlesnake, because S is going to be a snake.

My wife hands me 'S.' "You're not gonna like this."

"A sheep?! What kind of farmyard bullshit is this? The package didn't say farmyard animals A to Z. It said animals. Sheep! That also throws off the whole 'G isn't for Giraffe because we don't want to confuse the kids with the soft 'g' sound and they mix up the 'g' and the 'j' theory.' So now I'm back to that. If 's' is sheep, 'g' should definitely be giraffe."

"It's true," she says, shaking her head.

"'S' is for snake. Everybody knows that 's' is for snake. It's biblical. It's thousands of years old. S is for snake. S is not for sheep."

"Sheep are okay. It's not so bad."

"It's not so bad? Our child is going to go to the zoo and want to spend all of its time at the bullshit petting zoo with those stupid smelly animals that are boring and don't do anything except get harvested."

"Hey, I like the petting zoo."

"No son or daughter of mine is going to like the petting zoo! They're going to like snakes! Because snakes are fucking cool. And sheep are bullshit."

"Settle down."

"Just give me 'T'."

"'T' is for turtle."

"NO TIGERS! What kind of shitty alphanimals are these!" I can't wait to not be looking at these stupid decals anymore.

U ends up being a thing that I don't know what it is.

"It's an urchin."

"I knew that."

V is a vulture instead of a viper, another snake thrown under the bus. W isn't a wolf or a whale, because those would make too much sense. It's a walrus. Which in hindsight is okay. X is some fish I don't know what it is. It should just be a xylophone, right? Even if everything else is an animal, x is always a xylophone. Y is a yak. Fine whatever. And Z is a zebra.

"They're a little silly looking."

I get off the ladder and look at my handiwork. It's true. It's a complete catastrophe. The A and the B are super spaced out, and everything else is scrunched together, zig-zagging up and down, and you can't really tell which letter is next in some places.

"The baby is going to be stupider for having these up."

"Well, it'll know that Q comes sometime after P. It might not think it comes immediately after P, but it'll know it's either right after P, or right after R."

"I suppose that's good enough."

"Yeah, maybe tomorrow I'll move the antelope and the bear closer to everything else. But I'm still really mad about the farm animals. S is for sheep my ass."

"You're going to be a ridiculous father."

I look down at my feet. I'm standing on Africa. My wife is on the Pacific Ocean. "Yeah, but our baby will know its geography."

Saint, Ellen

If you've ever been in an amazing relationship, then you've probably had this experience. You're sitting there, doing some thing or another with your partner, and you take a moment to ask yourself, "What could I possibly have done to deserve this person?"

"How am I so lucky and fortunate to have found this woman?"

And not just to have found her (or him). But for some serendipitous series of events to have been triggered that made them think you were somehow reasonable too. A chain reaction that led to that moment of bliss. 

I'm not talking about wedding day moments, or first dates, or that kind of thing. Not that I mean to diminish those situations by any means. But for all the romance of a wedding day, let's say, it isn't one of these moments. You don't get married to someone because of a connection you felt on your wedding day. And you can't force these blissful connections on a wedding day. That's a different thing. I'm talking here about something divine and unexpected. A moment of clarity on a sofa somewhere, wearing sweatpants, and you blink. And in that blink you understand that something magical is happening.

Last night, I had one of those moments of bliss.

My wife and I had gone out to dinner with her family on Saturday. And dinner was followed by drinks. Nothing crazy by any means, but somewhere in the night, baby names came up. At that point, my father-in-law mentioned that he had been born on his Saint's Feast Day. For those of you not in the know, Catholics are all named after saints. If you know a Catholic, there exists at least one saint after whom that person is named.

The conversation didn't have anything to do with any of that. It turned to me giving my father-in-law a hard time, and saying that we really liked the name Karl for a boy, and wanted to give him the middle name of Mark, after him.

Karl Mark.

Ellen's father is hilariously not a communist. This has nothing to do with this story. I just think it would be really fun to name our potential son Karl Mark Dagostino.

So the night carried on, the conversation moved to another thing, and the entire episode was forgotten until last night.

I had just gotten home from a rather long day, and Ellen and I were hanging out on our sofa. At my greedy prodding, we began looking at our baby registry, to see if anything new had been bought. (It had... very exciting. [I'm a ridiculous person.]) Some synapse fired in my wife's brain, and she recalled the Saint's Feast Day comment from the night before.

"I wonder if I was born on a Saint's Feast Day," she said.

"Yes. You definitely were."

"Really?"

"Yeah, every day is a Saint's Feast Day."

"Really?"

"Yeah, probably a whole shit ton of Saint's Feast Days, actually."

She was intrigued, and pretty quickly, we were on Google: "Saints Days September [Enter]."

We were brought to a Catholic website, and sure enough there were like 15 Saints Days on my wife's birthday.

"Some of these names are silly. I'm glad I wasn't named after a saint," she says.

"You were..." At this point, I tell her what I told you above. All Catholics are named after saints. Ellen isn't currently Catholic, but she was Baptized. 

She becomes super intrigued. And now she's looking for Saint Ellen.

News Flash! There is NO Saint Ellen!

Who knew?

In searching for Saint Ellen, we found a blog called thereisnosaintellen.tumblr.com, which seems semi-reasonableish. But more importantly, we found Ellen Saint. The number two Google hit for "Saint Ellen" is the Wikipedia page for a porn star named Ellen Saint. Hit number three is her Twitter account!

"Holy shit! She's Czech and she shares my birthday!" I exclaim.

Ellen clicks on the page.

"What if she bares a strong resemblance to you? How crazy would that be?!"

"A series of wild coincidences," Ellen responds. "Hmmm... no picture on Wikipedia." Ellen (wife) brings us to Ellen Saint's page on imdb.com.

"Still no picture! Come on!" My wife exclaims. "Dripping Creampies 6!" And she explodes into laughter. We both giggle, as my wife scrolls down Ellen Saint's filmography.

"Oh man, she was super productive in 2007," I notice.

"Yeah, no kidding. Prolific." More laughter. "Sperm Swap! It's gold!"

In my excitement at hilarious porn film names, I skip over the best one. "Canibales Sexuales 4," I say in my worst hispanic accent. We giggle. But then Ellen's giggles turn into an explosion of laughter. Spittle flies from her mouth as she reflexively brings her hand to cover her mouth. Her face is bright red. There are tears in her eyes. She has found the gold mine that I missed.

"THE ART OF THE CUMFART!!! THE ART OF THE CUMFART!!! SOMEONE MADE A MOVIE CALLED THE ART OF THE CUMFART!!!"

Our eyes connect in laughter. And I feel God's light shining down on me and my Ellen, as we laugh at the exploits of Ellen Saint. What grace has brought this woman into my life? This perfect soul with whom I can casually note that Ellen Saint had a solid streak of anal films in '05 and '06.

This woman who responds, "Yup. They're all there: Ass Drippers, Cum Filled Asshole Overload, Cum In My Ass Not In My Mouth 3, and Elastic Assholes."

I note that she made her film debut in Cum In My Ass Not In My Mouth 2 back in 2003. Then I rest my head on my wife's pregnant belly and whisper to my unborn child, "I hope you never tell someone to cum in your ass, not in your mouth."

And Ellen follows up my first parental advice with some of her own, "Please don't do anal."

Sweet bliss!

An Enema for Grandpa

So I'm cleaning out my old shitty computer in preparation for the coming of my baby. The last thing that's got to get out of there is the computer. But I found a whole bunch of nonsense I wrote years ago. It was kind of fun finding it and rereading some of it. Most of it us unpublishable. But this little story is semi-reasonable. Not the best writing, but kind of a funny story about me witnessing my grandfather getting an enema.

An Enema for Grandpa

“Can someone bring some soup to Grandma and Grandpa tomorrow?” The request was simple enough, and since I’m currently unemployed, I figured it would be the least I could do to help out. Besides, they’re old and lonely. It’ll be good to spend some quality time with the grandparents. I volunteer my services.

“I’ll go. It’s not like I’ll be working.”

“Well, you might get a call to substitute in the morning.” Ah, my mother, ever the optimist. Or at least ever pretending to be the optimist.

“Let’s be honest here. No one’s calling me tomorrow morning. I’ll take them the soup.” It’s settled. Sometime upon the ‘morrow, I will set out on a quest to deliver soup, and beef stew, to my grandparents. It seems simple enough. Show up, chat for a while. Listen to my grandpa bitch. Listen to my grandma respond to a question I didn’t actually ask. It’ll get me out of the house. And that’s a definite plus. In reality, there is nothing that could have prepared me for what I would witness that fateful Winter day.

I wake up in the morning around ten. As is the routine, I make my way to the shower where I marvel at the sheer hilarity of soap. No more than a few hours ago, my brother no doubt was rubbing this object on his balls, ass, and the rest of his body. Now, I rub it all over mine. No way does that seem right. But that’s soap for you. I turn off the shower and dry off. As I’m putting on my attire for the day, my father tells me that he’s going to the store and has left the soup for my grandparents on the kitchen counter.

“All right, see you later,” I yell back. I begin contemplating my day. First, I’ll eat some cheerios so I have an excuse not to eat the microwaveable Tyson chicken my grandmother is undoubtedly going to offer. Then, I’ll have the house to myself for a bit, so I will probably sit around with music on. Probably around noon I’ll drive out to the school district office to make sure all my substitute teaching paperwork is in order. Finally, I’ll go spend an hour with the grandparents. I’ll get there at about 12:30, put in an hour, and tell them I have a 2:00 racquetball game to get to. I’ll have gotten out of the house. Sounds like a reasonable day.

So I stick to the plan. I read the newspaper while eating my cheerios. There’s really nothing in there that’s very exciting. I put on some music, sit around for a bit, and I’m finally off.

When I get to my school district they tell me that my fingerprints, which they lost once already, have not yet arrived, but should tomorrow. “So I’ll get a phone call?” One lady laughs. I don’t know why. I was supposed to get a phone call a week ago when I originally got fingerprinted for the job. They “misplaced” them. Somehow I’m supposed to feel better though, because they lost somebody else’s too. Now it’s a week later, and I still haven’t been called to substitute. One more week, and I abandon substitute teaching altogether. Life.

So now it’s time for my surprise visit to my grandparents. Deliver the soup. Oh boy. I put on the Talking Heads, which is weird, because I don’t like them. I think their music is generally trite, dishonest, and absurd. But I can’t stop listening to “Road to Nowhere.” It’s troubling. “Psycho Killer” is ending as I pull into my grandparent’s driveway.

The front door is unlocked. It’s not supposed to be unlocked. They’re old. They’re really old. Pushing 90. My grandfather had a heart attack a few months back, has something like a 99% blockage in the artery that goes to his brain, he doesn’t move well, and my grandmother had recently fallen down the stairs again. They’re old. There are people who prey on old people. Rob them. What have you. The door should be locked. When I enter the house, I soon find out why it’s unlocked.

It’s nothing but delight to see me, though my grandfather looks considerably worse than he did when I last saw him, one week ago. I’m soon informed that my cousin Timmy is coming back from Walgreens. Tim is a couple years older than me. He lives closer to them, so he gets charged with lots of errands.

“Yeah? How’s he doing?”

“He’s getting Father a Fleet Enema.”

And there it is. Too much information. Lately, the point of “too much information,” T.M.I., as I’ve come to call it, is usually reached within a half hour. That’s how long it takes for my grandmother to start telling me about my grandfather’s bowel movements, or lack thereof. Today, though, the T.M.I. has been breached under the minute mark, a new record.

And it continues.

“He hasn’t gone in three days now. So Sally, the nurse who comes, told us we had to get a Fleet Enema. First I thought she said ‘Speed Enema,’ so I wrote that down here-” She holds up a notepad that, sure enough, says, “Speed Enema.”

“-but then she spelled it out for me. Fleet.” She makes an effort to pronounce every letter. “Fleet Enema. It’s supposed to help get the bowel movement going.”

“Do you know what that is?” My grandfather chimes in.

“Nope.” I don’t know what a Fleet Enema is. I know what an enema is. But not a Fleet Enema.

“It’s to wash out your rectum.” Now every word is pain. Part of me wants to say, “Yup, well, there’s the soup, and I’m going now. Have a good enema.” But part of me doesn’t want to offend. Maybe even a small part of me wants to be able to tell this story. No. No part of me wants that. But I stay. After all, I’m not going to have to deal with it. They probably won’t even do it while I’m here.

I hear the door opening. “Timmy!” My grandmother is delighted. Sure enough, Tim comes walking up the stairs with a bag from Walgreens. And a cluster of emotions is on his face: embarrassment, regret, awkwardness, surprise, and countless others.

“Hey, what’s going on.”

“Hey, what’s up.” We exchange pleasantries.

“Uh, I got your enema. Two pack. Easy squeeze.” He says it all with a smile. We’re both in on the joke. It’s pretty funny.

“Oh, how much was it, honey?”

“Uh, two dollars.”

“Really? That’s it?”

“Yeah, I guess the enema market is pretty flooded this time of year.”

“Two for two dollars. Wow.” My grandmother is genuinely surprised. But it’s a plastic bottle filled with salt water. How much could it cost?

My grandmother retrieves two dollars, and out of the bag comes the two pack of Fleet Enemas. Fleet, it turns out, is the company cashing in on the do-it-yourself enema market. Somewhere out there, people produce enemas for a living. That’s pretty funny.

She takes one out of the box and shows it to me, “This is in your future.”

“Not if I start smoking again.”

She starts reading the directions. Out loud.

“Remove orange protective shield from enema comfort tip before inserting. With steady pressure, gently insert enema tip into rectum with a slight side-to-side movement--oooh, side to side--with tip pointing toward navel.” She stops. “I don’t think it’s going to get all the way to there.” “Insertion may be easier if person receiving enema bears down, as if having a bowel movement. This helps relax the muscles around the…”

She looks at me. “A-N-U-S?” I blush. “What’s ‘A-N-U-S?’”

I’m too…horrified, I suppose? To respond. Apparently so is Tim. So she continues to spell out the word she doesn’t recognize, “A-N-U-S.” Finally, my grandfather informs her, “It’s your hole.”

“It’s not my hole. It’s your hole.”

“Anus.”

“Oh, anus.” She laughs. Then continues, “Do not force the enema tip into rectum as this can cause injury. Well if I’m not supposed to force it, how is it supposed to work?”

Tim, braver than I, offers, “I think they mean to be gentle. Just don’t force it.”

Trying to help out, I make a stabbing motion with my hand, and say, “Not like this. Soft.” Immediately, I laugh as I realize that I just made a stabbing motion, referencing sticking something up my grandfather’s ass. It’s pretty funny.

“Squeeze bottle until nearly all liquid is gone. It is not necessary to empty the bottle completely, as it contains more liquid than needed. Well, why do they have so much then?“

“Probably just in case. It’s better to have more than you need, than not enough.“

“Remove Comfortip from rectum and maintain position until urge to evacuate is strong (usually 2 to 5 minutes).”

“There’s a diagram on the box of how you do this,” Tim says.

She struggles to find it.

“It’s underneath your hand.” He has to forcibly remove her hand from the box and point out a diagram of a man in two positions. First, he’s lying down on his stomach. Below that, he’s on his hands and knees with his ass in the air like he’s going to be mounted from behind. Either way, there’s no way my grandfather can do this.

“Well he can’t do that. He’ll never get up.” The entire time this is going on, my grandfather is growing more and more nervous, embarrassed, and tense. But my grandmother just won’t stop talking about it. “Well this is no good. We’ll never be able to do this like this.”

“Well I’m going to go,” Tim says. “I’m probably going to go to work. Then I have to go to welding class later tonight. But call me if you guys need anything.” Then he looks at me, “You really picked a great day to visit.”

“Oh yeah.”

But my grandmother continues asking questions about the administration of this enema. “But how much do I do? How will I get it in him?”

So, Tim sticks around. He tries to explain everything to her some more. I’m still smiling, but trying not to. I can’t help but let out the occasional giggle as memories of Sex Education class run vividly through my head.

Suddenly, I’m back in Mrs. Kufta’s classroom in the 5th grade. The teacher says the word “penis,” and I can’t help but laugh. My laughter is followed by everyone’s laughter is followed by Mrs. Kufta yelling at the top of her lungs, “Babies! Real babies!”

Back in reality, I know I need to get this laughter under control before my grandfather has an aneurysm from embarrassment. But my grandmother keeps making light-hearted remarks about the whole thing. “An enema a day keeps the doctor away.” Finally, he yells at her, “Stop making jokes about this Hank!” (Short for Henrietta.)

She defensively turns to Tim and remarks that she has to try and keep it light. Which is true. He calms down. She takes off the cap of the enema bottle and is in awe, “It’s all greasy.”

“Yeah, I would imagine it would be,” I say. Meanwhile, Tim has moved to the bathroom to scope things out. When he returns, he mentions that it would probably work if grandpa leaned up against the metal bars they have in the shower. Handrails cover the walls of the shower in pretty much all old people’s homes. It seems that age and safety precautions are inextricably linked in life.

Tim’s got a plan. And I’m all for it. As long as I don’t have to witness anything. And it seems that this is the case. My grandmother is going to take care of everything. Tim and I are going to hang around just in case the old patriarch falls down or something. Bottom line is, I am not going to have to see my mother’s father naked. I’m pretty excited about that. I’m pretty sure that Tim is too.

So, the two of us clear out the bathroom. I move the hamper into the bedroom, and Tim takes care of some other stuff. I really don’t know what, because I was moving the hamper into the bedroom. And taking my time with it at that. As my grandfather made his way over with his walker, I made sure that Tim was closer, just in case.

Now the two of them are in the bathroom. I stand in the doorway.

“Where is she?” Barks an anxious old man.

“Grandma?” I call. “Uh, she’s coming. She’s getting something or another.”

“Well, I guess these are going to have to come off.” And that’s when it happens. That’s when he drops trout and I see my grandfather’s ass in all of its wrinkly, veiny glory. If there is a God, he is playing the greatest joke of all times at that moment. The pathetic history of the Chicago Cubs, a second President George Bush, Scientology, laserdiscs, Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch, and the Bible being taken literally can’t compare to the punch line that God has been setting up my entire life. Because in all the cosmos, I exist, and have now seen my grandfather’s 89 year old ass. A glimpse of things to come. My ass in 66 years. That is not pretty funny.

And like that, I am down the hallway. That is a glimpse I am not ready for. If he falls, I’ll be there a little bit later. My grandmother is in the bathroom with the enema soon enough. Tim joins me in the hallway immediately thereafter. And are our faces red. Laughter. Awkward laughter. Apparently, he recognizes that we’re the butt of the greatest joke of all times too. So, we take our minds off of what is happening. Which is, my grandmother, separated only by two thin layers of drywall, is sticking a squeeze bottle into my grandfather’s, “A-N-U-S.”

“Is that okay?” Goddamnit.

“I guess. Is it in?” Goddamnit.

“Yeah. Here it comes.” Goddamnit.

“Oh!” Goddamnit.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt?” Goddamnit.

“No. It’s just cold.” Really Goddamnit.

Tim, “I suppose maybe I should be timing this.” Smiles. Laughs. Pulls out his watch. The sound of water splashing on the floor rings in my ears.

“Oh no.” Goddamnit.

“Well I guess that’s going to happen.” Goddamnit.

“What are you taking it out for. Just leave it in there.” Really really Goddamnit.

“Well I don’t know if it’s in there.” Did I mention, Goddamnit?

“Just leave it in.” More water splashing. “Oh no.”

“I have to take it out to let more air into the squeeze bottle.” Understandably. He’s supposed to be lying down. From the sound of it, he’s mostly upright, which can’t make it easy to drain the salt water solution from the bottle.

“It’s getting all over the floor. Is anything even getting in there?” Goddamnit.

“I don’t know. I hope so. I don’t think it’s coming out of you, it’s just spillage.” I shouldn’t be hearing this.

I start looking at pictures of all the grandkids as babies. Underneath the pictures, there’s everyone’s birthdates. Anything to take my mind off of reality. I didn’t know that Andy was born in July. Interesting.

“I’m all wet now.” Goddamnit.

“All gone. Now just get on the pot.” Godblessit. It’s finally over. And he didn’t fall over. No sweat. I practically sprint to the kitchen. The worst is behind me. Tell yourself again. The worst is behind me.

A few minutes pass and Grandma reenters the kitchen. “Nothing.”

“Oh no?” Tim inquires. But it’s not an “Oh no,” meaning, “Tell me more,” so much as, “I’m obligated to inquire, but spare me the details as much as possible.”

“Just a couple little-” she indicates a small amount with her thumb and forefinger.

“Nuggets?” I finish the sentence.

“Yeah. Nuggets.” She agrees. That’s pretty funny.

So it didn’t work. All of that for nothing. And the next day, they’re going to have to do it again with the help of Sally, the nurse. Let her deal with it. I’m scarred. What was supposed to be an excuse to get me out of the house turned into a joke of cosmic proportions at my expense. Contemptible Prankster, you’ve won this round.



As I explain these happenings to my father, he delights, “You should turn that into a story.” When life gives you lemons, make lemonade. Or in this case, cut them up and put them in a pitcher of margaritas. Maybe that will help mellow the sounds and images forever scarred into my brain. “What’s A-N-U-S?” That’s pretty funny.

Avoidance Learning

A few years ago, a coworker of mine and I were having a conversation about movies. It was a pretty light-hearted conversation, "Have you seen such and such movie?" "I have." "What'd you think?"

All that jazz.

Just the kind of easy-going water cooler banter that makes the day pass a little faster. Especially on a day when there's not a lot of work to do.

At some point, though, the movie conversation got weird.

"Have you seen Taken?"

"I have," I replied. "I just saw it the other day. I thought it was pretty good. I couldn't really picture Liam Neeson in an action movie, but I bought it."

"Oh my God. I loved it. I watched it by myself because my husband gets anxious about kidnappings, but I thought it was badass. Did you see The Taking of Pelham 123?"

Wait. What? I did see The Taking of Pelham 123, but what was that thing in there between the "I loved it" and the question? I kind of make a funny face, but ultimately decide not to get weird and press her on her husband's aversion to mainstream action movies.

"I did see that. I didn't really like it. But it was what it was. I've actually seen a lot of movies lately that I'm indifferent to."

"Oh yeah, like what?"

"The Road, The Book of Eli, The Lovely Bones. Meh. Meh. And big meh."

"I REFUSE to watch The Lovely Bones. REFUSE. I just can't handle stories like that."

Wait. What? I'm all for "it take all kinds," but that's a weird thing to say, right? Stories like what? The husband has an aversion to action films, and she's adamantly against ghost stories? I know this woman has a penchant for Adam Sandler movies, so I wasn't expecting her to be a movie nerd, but this is weird I think. Right? It's weird. I can't let it go.

"Stories like what? Ghost stories?"

"Anything that has to do with killing or molesting children or rape REALLY bothers me. It makes me sick that someone is out there writing stories like that."

Okay. It's confirmed. That's weird. Because that's an event that happens in the book/movie. But it's not a story about raping and murdering children. It's not a snuff film. If it were two hours of a 10-year old girl in a basement getting raped, that would REALLY bother me. But it's not. It's a 30-second scene where a terrible thing is alluded to, and then magical realism sets in and the dead girl reflects on how the lives of her loved ones change because of this horrible event.

I mean, I thought the movie was shitty. But only because it bored me and didn't really break any new ground for me. It didn't shed light on any Truths or challenge my thinking. It was just meh. But it wasn't offensive. And to be sickened that someone is out there writing a story about a terrible thing that actually happens? That kind of sickens me. Well, no, it doesn't sicken me. But it makes me sad.

If the author was at home fingering herself as she typed, "...and then the bad man became aroused as he thought of murdering the child..." and then at the end of each sentence drank a pint of baby's blood and drowned a kitten, that would be weird. That would be grounds for sickening. But that's not happening. At least I don't think it is. Alice Sebold seems like a reasonable person. Not a pervert.

I mean murder, rape, molestation, genocide, incest, etc.... These are things that happen. They're bad things. And I wish they didn't happen. And the fact that they happen makes me mad, sad, and disgusted. But acknowledging that they happen seems almost like, I don't know, an important thing. Right? Am I crazy?

Of course, I say none of this.

"Oh. What was the last Adam Sandler movie you saw?"

I then avoided talking about movies with that coworker ever again.

Recently, this came up for some reason with my sister. My sister has two kids. And we were talking movies. A synapse in my brain fired and I remembered this conversation.

"Oh man, how weird is this..." I then went on to recount this entire story to my sister. My thinking and my retelling of it was completely from an angle of, "You'll totally be on my side, and I'll be able to say all of the things that are in the above paragraphs about how this person is a weird. And you'll agree, because you're a thoughtful, reasonable human being who's not at all sheltered and weird."

Only my sister cuts me off as I'm getting into how the author isn't fingering herself and drinking blood.

"Kids, Lou. It's kids. I'm the same way. The thought of violence towards children just disgusts me."

"What the fuck are you talking about?! No one is advocating violence towards children! The husband wouldn't watch Taken because of a kidnapping! Taken! He saves her and kills the bad guys!"

"I know. I get what you're saying. But it happened to me. It's biological. Once you have a kid, something happens, and you can't watch that stuff anymore."

"But it's not even 'stuff.' These aren't even mildly challenging films we're talking about. It's not the Lord of the Flies and kids are killing each other for survival, and it's dark and it's weird. It's not Hostel where it's just an orgy of violence for no real reason. It's not even Sleepers, that shitty movie about the kids who get raped and then get vengeance and it's got heavy themes and shit."

"I know. But I can't watch Law and Order: SVU anymore because it sickens me."

"What the fuck are you talking about?!" The conversation ended with me getting mad at the world, and vowing to prove everyone wrong.

When my baby is born in eight weeks, I'm going to keep watching movies where kids are harmed. I might do it exclusively. If a child doesn't die, I'm not watching. I will not raise my child to believe in a fictional world where nothing bad happens, and no one has to think about anything challenging or disturbing. I will not teach my child to bury his/her head in the sand.

On this day, I put forth this proclamation to the world. If you ever hear me say anything along the lines of, "I can't watch movies like that, because the content matter disturbs me," I hereby give you permission, nay, I encourage you to kick me in the nuts.

Unless it's an Adam Sandler movie. It REALLY bothers me that someone out there is writing stuff like that.

"Those Chinese Have Done It Again"

Back in high school, I ran into a friend of mine as the 4th of July fireworks were coming to an end.

"Those Chinese have done it again!" he exclaimed, tongue planted firmly in cheek.

Every 4th of July, as I watch the fireworks, I'm reminded of that. It made me laugh. It's a funny statement, but it's also true. The Chinese invented fireworks. And for all I know, most of the fireworks we see every year are probably manufactured in China. I say that with absolutely no knowledge of where fireworks are manufactured.

But there is something about fireworks that still mystifies for me. Colored sparks in the sky, burning bright, and then they're gone. Watching them disintegrate into smoke. Watching that smoke hang in the air, and slowly drift in the wind until it disappears. Better yet, before it disappears, another firework goes off and my attention is stolen away from the smoke.

I've become jaded about a great many things. Cynicism often gets the best of me. And I'll be honest, last night when my wife wanted to go up to our roof to see the fireworks going off 360 degrees around us, all across Chicagoland, there was hesitancy in my mind.

Who cares. Seen it. It's just sparks. And on and on and on.

But I went to the roof. And the Chinese did it again. The fireworks took me back to being a kid. The first time I saw the fireworks, I was terrified. I thought of how we couldn't leave, because I was the youngest and it would have ruined it for my siblings. So I buried my head in my mom's lap, covered my ears, and probably cried until they ended, every once in a while working up the courage to look at the green explosions in the sky.

I thought about the next year, going with my younger cousin. This time I was the older kid to someone, and I watched him melt in fear and hysterics, while I watched every firework, guessing which color would come next.

Last night, it sunk in that my favorite thing about the fireworks is the distance between the sight and the sound. Every year, we witness this simple spectacle, and it's scientific law in action. I do not know how fireworks work. Some combination of chemicals add color. Gunpowder makes them blow up. I don't know. But I know that light moves faster than sound. And you can see the canister reach its peak in the sky, start to sink a little, then there's a flash of light. Moments after you see the colors begin to separate from each other, you hear the boom.

I don't know why, but it's really comforting to me. It's reassuring. There are laws of nature. And the boom will always come.

Fireworks have been around since the 7th century. People have been watching them light up the night sky for 1400 years. How many billions of people have stood under the darkness and watched in awe as the darkness gave way to the colors? How many different occasions have been celebrated? Revolutions. New years. Ends of wars. Baseball games.

It's a pretty amazing thing that fireworks are a constant. There aren't many constants across the world. Christmas has all kinds of different traditions from country to country. Rites of passage from childhood to adulthood differ from culture to culture, religion to religion, and place to place. Within a culture, things evolve over time.

The biggest hit song 200 years ago sounds absolutely nothing like the hit songs of today. But then, as now, some 4-year old boy buried his head in his mom's lap because he was terrified of the fireworks. Maybe he was okay with the flash, but scared of the boom. I don't know. But I do know that the boom always comes. And that's pretty cool.

The Increasingly Poor Decisions of Me

I recently accepted a job offer at a new company, so I will be leaving my current place of employment after seven years. I've got one week left to go, and I'm pretty stoked to be leaving. But at the same time, I've worked with my coworkers for a long time, so I thought I would try to go out with some style. Apparently, "go out with some style" in my world means "bring donuts to work." I don't know what it says about me that buying donuts is my version of a classy gesture, but I do know that I love long johns (vanilla).

So I drive an hour away to go to work, and when there's about one mile left to go, I pull into the Dunkin' Donuts drive through. (I'm now wrestling in my mind as to whether it's drive-thru or drive through. I think drive-thru is pretty stupid, but I also think I have seen that on actual drive throughs quite a bit. And I've officially spent too much time thinking about this.)

There's a line of cars in front of me, which is mildly frustrating. Despite my classy gestures and going out with style, I don't have it in me to show up on time for a job I'm leaving in a week. So the long line is going to make me more than the 30 minutes late that I already am. Were I not at Dunkin Donuts, this time in the drive through line would be dedicated to me hating myself while debating how much of a fatass I'm going to be on this trip.

Well, I definitely want two double decker tacos, because those are my favorite. But I'll need a third thing as well... It IS a Taco Bell slash KFC... Don't want the colonel to feel left out. Of course, I am really fat. And though the joy that all this food will bring me will be satisfying, it will probably leave me hating myself and feeling greasy pretty shortly thereafter. Maybe I'll just get a cheesy gordita crunch then. That won't be as bad as three chicken strips. It is less things. One gordita. Three strips.
Of course, my lunch is then going to be a series of not real food... double decker tacos? Cheesy gordita crunch? Fuck it, I'm getting the chicken strips. And three tacos. To balance it out.

At Dunkin Donuts, it's so much easier. I just have to say, "Give me a dozen donuts, mix them up. One extra vanilla long john. And a large coffee: black." End of transaction. Well, I have to pay still. But there's no debate between my fat voice and my self-respect voice.

The car in front of me pulls up, and I get closer to the little black box with the muffled voice. And I see a problem.

You see, this Dunkin Donuts is a Dunkin Donuts slash Baskin Robbins. This has never in my life been a problem for me. But on this day, there is a sign up next to the little black box:

"Small soft serve cone! 99 cents!"

And just like that, my sleepy morning has taken a wild turn.

FAT VOICE
Soft serve ice cream! What a great idea! I haven't had a soft serve ice cream cone since I was a little kid! It would be summertime at Ridgeland Commons, the swimming pool in Oak Park. My siblings and friends would all be there swimming in the summer heat. Even though it was probably only an hour or two, in my mind it always seemed like we were there for a gloriously long day of water games and jumping in. And when the day ended, I would wrap a towel around myself, put on my flip flops and beg my mom to buy me something from the concession stand: a soft serve ice cream cone. I should totally get one now. It's been so long!

SELF-RESPECT VOICE
You. Are. Fat.

FAT VOICE
Yeah, but nostalgia!

SRV
But nothing! But jelly rolls! You've got stretch marks on your love handles, you fat piece of shit!

FAT VOICE
Touche. But, it's 99 cents. It's going to be so small. It'll be just a little taste. Not even 100 calories.

SRV
You sit at a desk all day. You don't burn 100 calories in a day. Because your job requires you to do nothing.

Now at this point, I need to explain a little bit about this job that I'm leaving. It's true. I sit at a desk in a cubicle for 8 hours. I would get more exercise if I were working at a sleep clinic taking naps under observation. At least there I might work up a sweat while engaged in R.E.M. The most I exert myself in a day at the office is when I fart.

Beyond that, my job is such that I am required to make zero decisions. I never have to make a decision at work. I have a series of tasks that I need to accomplish. Each task is dictated by the result of some prior task. At no point is creative thought coming into play. Never do I need to debate the merits of one possibility versus another. My job is actually designed so that I do not need to make any decisions. Critical thought is discouraged.

This is a key piece of background to this story, because as I sit in line at the Dunkin Donuts drive through, I am actually facing the biggest decision I will make all day long. The effect of the decision of whether or not to buy the 99 cent ice cream cone will be felt all day. If I fuck this decision up, I'll have the rest of the day to think about it. At no point will I make another decision that will make up for or make me forget about a poor decision here.

FAT VOICE
But ice cream...

SRV
Look. I'm going to break this down. Fat is energy. Pure and simple. Right now you have massive amounts of energy reserves. And that can be a good thing. If you're going to get stuck in the desert and all you have is water, you'll tap into that energy. In which case, this ice cream cone would be a great idea. You'd be helping to build up your energy stores.

But you're not going to get stuck in the desert. You're going to a cubicle farm where you will sit in front of a computer and play sudoku online when no one's looking. And you're not going to go to the gym today. And you're not going to go for a run. And you don't need any more energy. Because you DON'T. DO. ANYTHING.

FAT VOICE
Okay. You win this round.

And a feeling of pride washes over me. It's weird. I've made the decision.

The car in front of me pulls forward, and I pull up next to the crappy stupid speaker. A muffled voice come out.

"Welcome to Dunkin Donuts, can I take your order?"

"Yes, I'd like a dozen donuts, just mix them up. And can I also get a vanilla long john as well. And a large coffee."

"Cream and sugar?"

"No, just black."

"So it's a dozen donuts, a long john, and a large coffee?"

"Right."

"Will that be all for you today?"

Shit. Will that be all for me today. That's where it all goes wrong, isn't it? When the stupid voice asks if that will be all. Are you sure? Nothing else? It's almost like the voice is implying that you haven't ordered enough.

"Will that be ALL? Really? That's it? We have lots of other things you could also be ordering, you know."

And I don't totally know how to describe it, but I guess I would say I was in a panic. I could literally feel my temperature rising as the fat voice reengaged my self respect. I momentarily forgot how to function, because I was so desperately battling myself in my mind. I wouldn't have been surprised if my ears started bleeding. It was nuts. And almost against my will, a voice rose up from within me and words spilled from my mouth...

"I'll also have the, uh, small soft serve ice cream cone as well, please."

SRV
FAT VOICE! Damn you! It's 9:30 in the morning!

FAT VOICE
I believe I've spoken. What's done is done. And this morning, we shall relive childhood in a tiny wafer-like cone.

The decision has been made, and I fucked it up. And I couldn't even embrace it. I'm sitting in my car waiting to get to the window to pay for my mistakes, and I'm just ashamed of myself. I had one decision to make, and I fucked it up.

So I pull up, after what seems like eternity, and the window opens. And there's some snotty little Northbrook/Deerfield high school kid with a shit-eating grin on his face. And when he opens the window, the first thing he does is look me over. Like he couldn't wait this whole time to see what fat asshole ordered the ice cream cone at 9:30 in the morning.

We exchange money, and he's smiling his acne-scarred smile the whole time. He hands me the box of donuts, then a bag with my long john and my coffee. I set them all on my passenger seat. Then, I shit you not, he puts one finger up in front of him, like he's saying to himself, "Oh yes, one more thing I nearly forgot about," smiling the whole time. He disappears from the window, and when he reappears, he's handing me a little soft serve ice cream cone.

He reaches out the window to hand it to me, and he says, "You're making great decisions on breakfast this morning, sir."

I started to hang my head, as I accepted my shame. But then I ultimately looked back up at him, shrugged, and said, "Yeah, well." And drove away.

I will say that I did enjoy the cone. Even though I hated myself afterwards. But more than I hated myself, I hated that I didn't have a better response to his comment. So as I replay my terrible decision over and over, I also replay that interaction.

He reaches out the window to hand it to me, and he says, "You're making great decisions on breakfast this morning, sir."

I reach out the window, accept the cone, look him dead in the eye, and respond, "I had pancakes for breakfast."

That Charles Darwin Is Full of Shit

I believe in the theory of evolution. Bold statement, I know. But I want to get that out of the way up front. Darwin makes sense to me. I also want to come right out and say that I make no claim of being an evolution expert. So much of what follows may be a complete and total misinterpretation of the theory of evolution, actual facts, and science in general. Having said that, I would really like to sit down and talk natural selection with old Chuck Darwin about flightless birds.

I don’t understand flightless birds. To be clear, I’m not talking about ostriches and penguins here—birds that can’t fly, but remain mobile. I’m talking specifically about worthless, immobile birds. And really not even all worthless, immobile birds. The chicken, for instance, I get. Chicken, you were probably mildly useless, but then were domesticated by humans. You were bred to be more worthless as animals, because we ruined you. But dodos? How could you have gotten so worthless?

Now before you go getting all explainy on me, I understand the evolutionary argument. The story goes like this: Birds that could fly landed on an island. There were no predators on the island. There was a whole lot of food on the island. The flying birds didn’t need to fly. And so they evolved into flightless, worthless pieces of shit.

But that’s crazy, right? Is it just me? In order for that to have happened, every bird, when faced with the choice between sex with an athlete and sex with a fatass, chose the fatass?

So the theory of evolution isn’t so much, “survival of the fittest.” But rather, “survival of the fittest, until survival isn’t a challenge, and then just become the laziest pieces of shit you can be”? Does that about sum it up Darwin?

Because it seems to me that’s the case. The dodo bird could fly, once upon a time. It certainly didn’t swim. And since it existed only on an island, Mauritius, off southeastern Africa, it must have flown to the island, right? Upon getting to the island, 4 million years ago, these flying birds noticed how much awesome food there was. Well, they probably didn’t consciously notice. Regardless, they began gorging themselves.

For 4 million years, the dodo had what I would describe as a food and fuck orgy on the island. They lived like Nero, or as I call him the orgy emperor. All of this I understand. Survival of the fittest doesn’t require you to be a puritan. But there’s still no disincentive to flying, right? I mean, if I could, I would totally fly. That would kick ass. Who wouldn’t choose the ability to fly when presented with that option?

I’ll take it a step further. If I met a woman who could fly, it would be “adios wife”!

“Sorry lady, I want my child to be a superhero. And right now, Flying Francesca is really my best shot at that possibility.”

“Yeah. I get it.” My wife responds understandingly. “If there was a dude who could fly, I’d totally be all about that.”

Flightless birds had that option! But their conversations (in bird language) went totally differently.

“Hey ladies, I know there’s a ton of food all over the ground, but check it out. There’s some apples up in the trees. And I can fly up there and get them.” Flying Frank the Dodo says, beating his chest a little.

Tubby Tommy, King of the Island, puts down an over-ripe apple that fell from the tree long enough to say, “There’s more sugar in the ones that fell already. Those ones up there are bullshit.”

“Yeah, you’re a show off Frank,” says Fat Francine. Then she turns around and gives Tubby Tommy a B.J. (beak job).

“Hey guys, what has two wings and doesn’t use ‘em? This guy!” Tommy says.

All of his friends in the orgy laugh in unison.

“Look at Frank. He’s expending energy unnecessarily!”

“What an asshole!”

The barrage of insults continues until Frank leads all of his flying friends back to Madagascar, where life is slightly more difficult, but where their biological makeup remains fundamentally sound.

Fast forward to the 16th century, when humans show up on Mauritius and within 100 years every single fat, stupid bird is eaten.

Right before getting clubbed to death, Tubby Tommy stares at his assailant and says drily, “Dear God, I have wasted my life.”

That scenario just doesn’t play out in the real world. Look at us. In the United States, no one goes hungry. (Incidentally, that’s kind of cool. We’re pretty fucked up with poverty, racial inequality, homelessness, etc. But you can’t really starve to death here.) There’s food a-plenty, always available at your local grocery store, food repository, or boutique foofy specialty store. And while we have become the fattest pieces of shit in the world, we still make fun of fat people! I have yet to see an 8-year old obese kid pick on somebody for running.

“Don’t you understand! You don’t need to do that!”

When I see that? It’s time to move to Madagascar.