Perfect Angels

by Fat Daddy, Esq. on January 31, 2014

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Once upon a time Hot Momma and I lived a carefree newlywed life where we could stay up late; sleep until noon; and walk around our clean house in the nude, not that I ever did for obvious reasons and sadly she didn’t nearly enough. Nowadays we may stay up too late from time to time but we pay for it in the morning. We can’t remember the last time we slept past 9:00 AM on a weekend morning. Our house is so dirty that it’s hard to walk around regardless of our level of dress. I still refrain from horrifying any onlookers and she goes au naturel even less than before.

What has changed? Things 1, 2, and 3. And just like their Seussian namesakes they prance around doing just as they please leaving destruction and despair in their mischievous wake. Now that they are on the scene Hot Momma and I don’t stay up late because we are passed out from exhaustion at 10:30. It’s hard to sleep in when there is a toddler sticking his feet in your face while groping his mother’s milk bar while his older sisters are professing their hatred towards each other at the top of their lungs. And we gave up on having our home featured in anything other than Cluttered Homes and Weeds magazine a long time ago.

Toys and clothes scatter the floors while arts and crafts litter every horizontal surface available and three sides of the refrigerator. Dirty towels lay on the water soaked bath rug after once again the bath water mysteriously couldn’t contain itself in the tub. Food wrappers pile up under the bed because the wastebasket across the room is just too far of a trek.

It’s not like we don’t care. It’s not like we don’t try. But with school and work, dinner and homework throughout the week it piles up. Saturday morning has become the time for cleaning up the accumulated mess. No big deal, we’re a family of five, we can knock this out in no time. Right? Wrong. For some reason when Hot Momma or I ask them to help clean the house the older two seem to hear “we are going to slowly tear off your fingernails with rusty pliers while we waterboard you.” That’s right, cleaning up is tantamount to torture. Thing 3 is starting to pick up on his sisters’ protestations and is realizing the magnitude of unfairness he soon faces.

We’ve tried being nice, we’ve tried being mean. We’ve tried taking away privileges. We’ve tried taking away electronics. During our last clean your room battle royale I threatened to take away every item but their mattress from their room and explained it would be like being in jail. They finished cleaning their room late Saturday night to escape their jail sentence. By Tuesday the room looked worse than it did Saturday morning.

Which is why it thoroughly pisses me off when I get a report from friends, family and teachers who interact with our children. We have seen how they can suck the fun out of a room as they fight, whine and thumb their nose at authority and respect so we kind of cringe when we ask how the kids were while they were out of our presence. And then we get the report that they were “perfect angels.” A kid that doesn’t listen at home gets glowing reviews at the parent teacher conference. A kid that won’t pick up a single dirty sock in her room helped tidy up her friend’s living room after a sleepover. A kid that screams and cries for mommy when it’s just me around goes to sleep without a hitch for the babysitter.

I suppose we should be proud that we have such well-behaved, thoughtful children. We should be happy that they get these glowing reviews from others. It’s as if the kids are allergic to their parents. We bring out the worst in them. Or maybe we just spend a lot more time with them.

I don’t want anyone to get the wrong impression. We are very proud of our kids. We cannot imagine a life without them and are constantly amazed at their intelligence, ingenuity and compassion. They excel at many activities and can be very loving towards their parents and each other. For all of their slobby, lazy, shitty behavior there are plenty of times when they are truly delightful. Sure most of that time occurs between 11:00 PM and 5:30 AM and they are unconscious, but to watch them sleep you would agree they are perfect angels.

photo credit: National Library of Ireland


Pumpkin Pie

by Fat Daddy, Esq. on November 29, 2013

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Thing 2, my beautiful 6 year old daughter, spent the past week talking about pumpkin pie. Not turkey, not dressing, not cranberry sauce. Pumpkin pie was her sole focus. Oh, and whipped cream.

Thanksgiving day arrived and the pumpkin pie talk went into overdrive. Our family gathered for lunch at a local event space large enough to accommodate our crew and then moved the party to my aunt and uncle’s house for football and dessert.

When we arrived at the house we were greeted with a large spread of sweets. Pecan pie, chocolate cake, apple pie, pineapple cream pie, cheesecake, and a particularly tasty bread pudding with bourbon sauce. But no pumpkin pie. I looked around the kitchen to see if the holiday staple was waiting in the wings. No luck.

I do not try to spare my children from any and all disappointment and pain. They have heard me tell them life isn’t fair more than once. But this injustice could not stand. My daughter wanted pumpkin pie and pumpkin pie she would have.

I got in my car and headed to the local Walmart. Just earlier that day I had negatively remarked about another Walmart that was open on Thanksgiving. Now I was thankful to see those doors sliding ajar. I hit the bakery department and spotted an orange custardy pie gleaming on the shelf. Thanksgiving was saved. Just before I triumphantly removed the pie from the rack I noticed the disappointing label. Sweet potato. The bakery shelves were otherwise decimated by the holiday shoppers.

Plan B sprung into action. Time to gather the ingredients and as my soon to be three year old, Thing 3, says “I do it me-self.” I hadn’t grabbed a cart because I thought I was just getting a pie. I found a few remaining cans pumpkin pie filling and located a can of evaporated milk. Next was a six pack of eggs. a box of pre-made pie crusts and a can of whipped cream. Then I made my way through the gathering shoppers to the home furnishings section for a pie pan. The pie filling can called for an hour of baking time for a standard pie. We did not have that kind of time. Instead I opted for two mini cupcake pans to minimize cooking time. Just as I was about to find the round cookie cutters to complete my list, the can of whipped cream fell out of my arms and went rolling down the aisle. At least it wasn’t the eggs. I picked it up and cautiously walked to the front, trying not to drop anything else. The cashier did not seem particularly troubled to be working on a holiday and I made sure to thank him profusely for scanning and bagging my eight items and pushing the credit card button on his computer.

I drove back to the house, ready to complete the mini pumpkin pie project and save the day, and found Thing 2 joyfully eating pumpkin pie. Apparently shortly after I left on my hero’s journey, my aunt arrived home and retrieved a pumpkin pie from the back of her commercial sized refrigerator. It wasn’t entirely a wasted trip. Thing 2 was excited to make the desserts and said they tasted great. She appreciated my efforts and thoughtfulness. Although she would have appreciated it more if it weren’t for that damn pumpkin pie hiding in the back of the cooler.

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by Fat Daddy, Esq. on November 17, 2013

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“Help control the pet population. Have your pets spayed or neutered.” So said the coolest game show host of my youth, Bob Barker. Hot Momma and I had many talks and decided that we didn’t want any more puppies. We had grown tired of cleaning up their messes. And it’s difficult to take a long weekend vacation without finding someone to watch them. Sure they’re great, but they are undoubtedly a lot of work and commitment.

The day finally came and we drove to the clinic. After a short wait we found ourselves in the doctor’s operating room and soon thereafter I found myself sitting on the table trying to reassure the patient. A few Valium seemed to be aiding the process as well. Hot Momma sat in the corner and watched, anxious over the trauma her little guy was about to endure.

The doctor entered the room and went right to work. For a split second I considered telling him “you’re going to feel a little prick down there” but thankfully my Valium-clouded judgment was still adequate to prevent making the doctor laugh while he held sharp instruments near my scrotum. He did his best to warm the prep solution before application but to no avail. The second he started spreading it around things started shrinking faster than George Constanza could say “I was in the pool.”

I managed to keep my thoughts to myself. And there were plenty of thoughts. First and foremost was the realization that this is really happening. Like, “holy shit I can’t believe that I am laying naked on a table while some guy I just met is grabbing my balls while his assistant, who I also just met, looks on.” And “I know I said I don’t want any more kids but this shit is permanent.” And then there was “I’m glad I didn’t get a boner when he started because that would be awkward.”

After a few minutes of fondling for the spot, he injected lava into my vas as I bit down on my molars and contemplated how I would get my pants back if I ran for the exit. A brief period of discomfort and the sound of scissors snipping came next. Then more fondling and lava on the other side. More thoughts of seeking dental attention in case I crack a molar and then giving in to the situation like a dog zapped of his fight by the shock collar around his defeated neck. More discomfort, more snips, all done.

The doctor told me I could get dressed and gave me some after-care instructions. Hot Momma is a nurse so I usually let her listen to a doctor’s medical mumbo jumbo. He said no sex for ten days, and I was so proud of her when she asked him if that just meant intercourse or meant all sexual activity. Even though he said he meant no action, I thought it was pretty cool that she was trying to find a loophole for me.

Next we are standing in the hallway and the nurse hands me a plastic bag while explaining the process for testing my infertility. I looked at the bag and began to smile. I looked at Hot Momma and could see that she knew something inappropriate was welling up in my sarcastic, smart-ass brain. She knows me so well, after all we have known each other since kindergarten. As the nurse talked about returning my sample I looked at the 4 ounce specimen cup and asked “do I have to fill it up?” People are much more forgiving when they think you are still mildly sedated. She just explained that while the doctor does need “enough to test” I do not have to  fill it to the brim. “Well that’s good because I’m not a boar,” I thought, proud of my knowledge of porcine reproduction. I later told Hot Momma I had an even more inappropriate question that I managed to suppress and she assured me she would have slapped me in the face had I uttered it to the nurse. And no, it did not involve my knowledge of porcine reproduction.

My chauffeur delivered me to my door and I limped into the house while she went to pick up my medication and frozen peas. The rest of the weekend consisted of laying around the house watching football and catching up on recorded programs on the DVR. Really the only difference between this weekend and other weekends has been the frequent application of frozen produce to my crotch.

I love being a parent. We love the kids we have. But the time was right to say enough is enough. We have no aspirations for reality show stardom. Soon the hard work begins. Research shows as more “releases”  occur more of the residual swimmers are flushed from the system. The statistics vary but it appears the magic number is somewhere between 15 and 30. Hot Momma says she wants to help me with my recovery. I have six weeks until my infertility test. I have always been somewhat of an overachiever and this is another test I intend to pass.

photo credit: dsearls via photopin cc

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Couple: An App for Two

August 7, 2013
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Communication is key to a healthy relationship. When I was in junior high the telephone was the popular way to talk to a girl. Text messaging is the popular way to communicate these days. It seems only natural that texting your spouse would be a popular way to keep in touch. It is quick and efficient […]

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The Story of Us

July 14, 2013
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Yesterday I went to the car wash to make my vehicle more presentable for the evening. Hot Momma and I were going out with friends to celebrate our 12th wedding anniversary. As I was spraying down the car with the power washer it made me think of the first summer she and I were together. […]

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Happy Birthday, Chica Dulce

May 17, 2013
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The Mexican restaurant in town, like most small town Mexican restaurants I’ve been to, makes it a practice to, upon learning of a diner’s birthday, slap a sombrero on the patron’s head, sing them a tune in Spanish and present them with sopapillas. At our joint they like to smear whipped cream in the face […]

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April 4, 2013
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I’m here. Hot Momma is at home with Things 1-3. I rarely travel alone. I am a homebody. I like my bed. I don’t like cramming my fat ass in a tiny airplane seat. But walking through the airport I began thinking about my previous trips to this event and began to get excited. I […]

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The Case for Electronic Case Files

January 2, 2013
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This is the scene after an associate attorney was rear ended by a tractor-trailer on a snowy turnpike. After his spinning car came to rest, he walked away. But his files were not so fortunate. See that piece of cardboard sticking out from where his trunk once was? That was a banker box full of […]

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Fun With Pleadings

September 7, 2012
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An attorney from Oklahoma alerted me to a recent paper scuffle that took place in the District Court in and for Tulsa County. Apparently a civil defense attorney took issue with the plaintiff’s attorney’s alleged habit of delay in mailing pleadings and filed with the court a “Notice of Failure to Timely Deliver Filed Pleadings” […]

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Fat Daddy’s Submarine Test, Date TBD

August 16, 2012
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John Mayer’s new album, Born and Raised, contains a song that has already become one of my all-time favorite songs. Walt Grace’s Submarine Test, January 1967 tells the tale of a man who wants to escape to a new world and after much study and tinkering finds himself alone in the ocean in a “homemade, […]

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Confessions of an Addict

June 19, 2012
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I have a confession, I’m an addict. It started early on in life but I only recently began to understand the impact of my condition. I don’t remember the first time I “used” but I know by college I was a full-fledged junkie. You might wonder how I kept this from my parents. The truth […]

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