The Eye-Closed Talking Doctor

I’ve been complaining for the past three weeks about the plague that’s over-taken our lovely square-shaped abode.

The boy kicked things off with a stellar four-day 103-temperature caused by a lovely viral infection.

I quickly followed by becoming victim #2.

I’ll save you the details and leave you with the knowledge that my wife is a freakin’ saint for having to deal with sick me.

Then…the girl caught it.

Envision Gary Coleman stuck in quicksand, wearing a straight jacket, while saying the ABCs backwards and trying his hardest to take steroids away from Hulk Hogan. That’s what my daughter’s immune system is like trying to fight any sickness.

For five days she’s been dealing with a fever, pink eye in both eyes, and yesterday morning…puking.

So, yesterday afternoon we decided enough’s enough and that’s when we took her to the doctor.

I’m a bit of a germ freak…for the main reason that I don’t want to get sick. So walking into a pediatrician’s office is like asking me to lick just one ball from a Chuck-E-Cheese ball pit.

My visits usually start with me walking in holding all the door handles so my already sick daughter doesn’t – stupid, I know.

I walk up to the counter and immediately locate and use the hand sanitizer thingy.

I then sign in and get another squirt after putting the pen down.

This is followed by me having to pick the pen back up to sign my co-pay receipt which is quickly followed by another sanitizing squirt.

I’m exhausted just writing this.

We make it back to the waiting room and that’s when the doctor rolls in.

Completely ignoring me he walks up to my daughter and asks her what’s been wrong. Knowing damn well my six-year-old shy-as-hell daughter wasn’t going to give him the blow-by-blow of her illness I chimed in.

He looks her over, does some kid-friendly stuff to get her to cooperate, then gets on the computer to log-in the diagnosis while we wait.

That’s when it happens.

The man turns to me, looks me in the eyes for a split second, closes his eyes and proceeds to explain to me his diagnosis of my daughter’s current condition without opening his eyes again.

I’m sitting there all “is this guy for real? Is this a joke? Should I wave my hand in front of his eyes to see if maybe he’s just got lazy eyelids? Should I look at my daughter and ask her if she’s watching this freaky shit go down too? Should I kindly reach out and thump him in the forehead? Is he broken?”

I was overwhelmed with what was happening right before my eyes!

He was an eye-closing talker.

People who close their eyes for extended periods of time while talking to you scare the shit out of me.

As do:

• The person that looks ever-so-slightly above your head and to the left as they’re talking to you. It freaks me the hell out! Do they see dead people behind me?
• The cold limp handshake giver. That will seriously get you throat-punched.
• The mumbler. Nothing more needs to be said.
• The crowder. I need my space damn it. Respect it.  Just because we’re sharing words doesn’t mean I want you to see, smell and almost taste what you had for lunch.
• The pontificator. The guy who talks to you with his hands behind his back the entire time. Why? It’s not even comfortable…not since you were in the third grade!
• And of course the antithesis of the eye-closing talker…the starer. Every conversation to this person is a staring contest. When you look away just so you can freakin’ blink again you expect this person so scream “I WIN!!”

Finally, the eye-closed talking doctor opened his eyes scaring the ever loving shit out of me because I was leaning so far forward trying to figure him out.

Fumbling around gathering my daughter and my things I thanked him and left in a huge rush, even forgoing the hand sanitizing as I leave ritual.

Walking to the car in the parking lot I got the wife on the phone.

Wife: “So, what’s wrong with her?”

Me: “The doctor closes his eyes when he speaks, honey.”

Wife: “What ?”

Me: “Yeah…I got the doctor who keeps his eyes closed the ENTIRE time he’s talking to you. Do you realize how insanely freaky that is to me? Have you seen this guy?”

Wife: “Wow…really? Seriously? Can you not just tell me what is wrong with our daughter?”

Me: “Oh shit.”

Wife: “What? Where’s Macy? Did you leave her in there?”

Me: “No, I have her right here but I was so busy obsessing about the eye-closed talking doctor that I didn’t hear anything he said.”

I quickly concluded that since I didn’t walk out with any prescriptions it must be a viral infection. Genius…I know.

I also concluded that not only do I hope to never come in contact with freaky eye-closed talking doctor again…but I’m definitely going to be him for this Halloween.



Thanks Super Moon

So, this past weekend we got a big ole fat taste of Super Moon.

This wonderful phenomenon only comes around every 18 years according to the Interwebs.

Let me just say I’m a huge believer in that full moons screw with people’s minds. Anything capable of controlling the ebb and flow of massive bodies of oceans is one badass mother and surely able to toss our little watery brains off kilter.  

And it’s not just that Super Moon is a one-night phenomenon – no! It’s a slow build-up and release.

Prove it?

You got it! Here are some concrete examples:

1) This past Saturday I woke with a somewhat typical “morning man issue.” I got up, managed to use the facilities, got back in bed and slept for another hour. When I woke…my morning man issue was still “standing strong.”

For the next four hours my little buddy stood proudly making even a heavy-duty prescription of Viagra jealous of me. Only two things have the capability of doing that to me….Jennifer Aniston, or Super Moon.

2) I got a zit…ON MY KNEE!

Who in the holy hell gets a zit on their knee?

I immediately called Guinness World Record s and was all, “yeah, that’s right, on my knee. A zit, on my knee. Whitehead, red around the sides…I’d take a picture, but that would require me to move and I’m scared to bend my knee cause it might make it pop!”

Apparently they don’t keep track of odd zit locations on people’s bodies. Picky bastards.

3) Rebecca Black is sweeping the world with stardom. This talentless 13-year-old girl whos mommy paid $2,000 to have a professional video made of her daughter’s horrific celebration of a Friday has dominated the internet AND is climbing the top 25 music downloads on iTunes.

Only Super Moon has the ability to sway that many people into making such a horrific choice in music.

4) Super Moon saved Charlie Sheen!

Think about it…he’s rumored to be getting his old job back, Fox is supposedly offering him something, his wife dropped the restraining order, he broke a world record for selling out his one-man show tour…

Charlie Sheen’s luck didn’t start turning around until Super Moon rolled up!

I could probably go on for hours, but I’ll spare you.

The point is, 18 years from now when Super Moon starts making its badass journey to a nighttime sky near you, remember what it’s capable of.

Respect Super Moon.

My Loud-Ass Son

What’s a normal morning like in our humble little abode?

Our family slumbers peacefully as dreams of bunnies, cotton candy, and Jennifer Aniston fill the air.

My eight-year-old son slowly raises his head, steadies his eyes and surveys the room to see if there’s even the slightest smidge of sunlight creeping through the blinds.

He then climbs backwards down the ladder from his loft.

Half way down he stops, places feet side by side, then leaps landing firmly on the ground as if this swan-like move would set-off sparkles, lights, and song birds filling the air with joyous sounds celebrating Grayson’s entry into a new day.

Instead, I leap five feet in the air screaming “WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!!!” as the windows still rattle.

Just then the boy walks by our room naked except for his little tighty-whities on his way to the bathroom.

I lay back down trying to calm myself as I listen to his pee randomly hit the floor, then the toilet water, then the floor, then the toilet water. I try to figure out what he’s spelling.  

Just as I begin to find a happy place, WAM!!!!  The sound of the toilet seat and lid slamming onto the porcelain of the bowl has me clawing at the sheets.

My wife…sleeps through every second of this.

As he walks by I firmly whisper, “Grayson!! Stop being so loud. Your sister doesn’t go into school till 11 a.m.!! We want her to sleep AND you’re gonna wake up the dog!!”

“Fiiiiiinnnnuh daddy!” he says in a louder than normal tone reeking of “what the hell’s your problem old man?”

I look at the clock and see he’s up 15 minutes before the alarm was set. I reach over and just as I start to turn the alarm off I hear, RUFF….RUFF…..RUFF!!!

Followed by my son screaming at the top of his lungs, “DADDY???!!! I CAN’T FIND A MATCHING SOCK!!!”

The wife picks her head off the pillow reaching for her phone to see what time it is just as a tear forms in the corner of my eye.

I slowly rise and throw on some clothes. As I walk out of my room I run smack into the daughter who’s carrying her blanky and headed towards the stairs.

“Morning daddy! Can I have cereal? I’m hungry?,” she says in her precious little princess voice a mere four-and-a-half hours before she needs to be at school.

“DADDY?!!,” screams the boy who’s standing literally seven feet away, “did you find a sock? And I don’t want cereal…can you make waffles?”

“I don’t want waffles!!!,” screams the darling six-year-old girl as the dog is now clawing at his cage while yipping and barking to join in the hellish ordeal taking place at 6:30 a.m.

And from there it continues.

All because of my loud-ass son.

My 2012 Bucket List

Yesterday I had a guy come up to me and ask, “are you ready for 2012?”

Looking around to make sure someone was witnessing this insanity, I quickly said, “Ummm…yeah, I guess so. I mean, I’ve saved-up a few bucks so I can afford to see the flick.”

“No…the REAL 2012. We’re all gonna die. You know that you will die in 2012, right? We all will. You, your family, your neighbors, all the countries…literally millions will die. Humankind will be nothing but documents and badly done museum exhibitions.”

Then it clicked…you know, I COULD actually take a dirt nap in 2012. Maybe the Mayans had a little something something going on with their magical mystery calendar.

Twenty minutes later my man finished shoving my brain into the depths of depression and allowed me to frantically sit down, digest all that was said, and conclude: “I need a fucking 2012 Bucket List!!!”

So…without further adieu:

Yo…It’s My 2012 Bucket List!

1) I’ve got to spend at least one day wearing adult diapers. I mean come on…those things were engineered by wizards from another world. Un-cloth-like thingies that wrap themselves around your entire torso allowing you to wiz all day long without having to stand, lift lids, or aim for urinal cakes. AND they’re disposable!!

2) Huge fan of the Kinks. I won’t lie. I’d like Jager, a keg, and a karaoke machine rigged to place me on stage in front of 20,000 rowdy friends all singing “Lola” at the top of their lungs.

3) Is there really a place on this planet where you’re asked if you’d “like a happy ending?” I’d love to lie on a massage table just once and be asked “you want happy ending?”

4) Take Sarah Palin on the Maury Show and do a paternity test to reveal who the real “baby daddy” is for Trig. We all know how that’s going to turn out…

5) Drink a beer with Bobcat Goldthwait. But only if he uses his old-school “Police Academy” voice the whole time.

6) Start making love to a Porn Star, then get all Gordon Ramsay on her ass and scream, “it’s like crap, served up with crap, with a side of crap. SHUT IT DOWN!!!”

7) Walk through Grand Central Station singing “come on ride the train…hey ride it! Whoo woo” until I get at least a 100-person train going.

8) Find Erno Rubik (inventor of the Rubik’s Cube) and beat his ass to death with his puzzle.

9) Hear Super Nanny tell me to “get on my naughty step.”

And the final, most amazing feat I’d like to pull off before all human life as we know it rots into this sweet sweet rock in space in 2012…..

10) To go on a shopping spree in Victoria’s Secret with Jennifer Aniston then have her do yoga in front of me while wearing that Cheerleader outfit she wore in that one episode on Friends.

The-to-the-End

The Wife & I Discuss Sex Toys

A month ago I got a Twitter direct message (DM) from the loverly @maniacalmom saying she was headed to Vegas, “send me your mailing address and I’ll send you a care package when I get back.”

Truth be told, I get random DMs on Twitter once in a blue moon but nothing like that. While I love my girl and her blog, I didn’t really know what to do with that DM or how to respond, so I just didn’t.

Two weeks later she sends another DM saying “I’m back – send me your address and I’ll send your care package.”

“Ummm….I’m a bit scared. Are you going to show up, throw me in a well, tell me ‘it rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again’ and then wear me?” I politely asked?

Then I get her virtual business information which looked legit and I folded…I sent my address and today we got the package!!

Wife: “Wow…now who the hell is this woman again?,” she asks as she looks at the package contents strewn across the table while keeping a constant eye on the stairs for any prying eyes from the little nippers.

Me: “She’s that lady on Twitter who said she wanted to send us some gifts after her…”

Wife: “What the hell is this?”

Me: “I can’t tell from the plastic, but it looks like it’s shaped perfectly to fit around my…”

Wife: “And is that a dolphin?!”

Me: “That my dear, is AWESOME! It looks like a hollowed out dolphin thingy that totally hides this little vibrator thingy so the kids have no idea it’s a magical mystery tool designed to send mommy’s eyes rolling in the back of her head!!”

Wife: “What? Why are you bringing the kids into this? You’re sick.”

Me: “No…I just immediately thought if the kids found it they’d think, ‘oh cool, a vibrating dolphin with seven different settings—awesome!’ and we wouldn’t freak out as bad if we saw them accidentally playing with it in the bathtub or something.”

Wife: “Well, what are you going to do with your man-tube thing?”

Me: “You mean, Jennifer?”

Wife: “Holy shit you just opened it from the package and you already gave ‘it’ a name?”

Me: “Ssshhh…she’s sensitive. Look at her bumps and goodness. She exists to make us happy.”

Wife: “To make YOU happy? Poor Jennifery, she has no clue what she’s in for.”

And I thought about it…the wife’s right. If I come on too strong I’d hate to think what would happen. I’d go looking for her in my favorite drawer and she wouldn’t be there. The wife would be laying on the couch and feel a tug on her Snuggie sleeve. And to her dismay she’d see Jennifer…

Wife: “Oh my god what’s wrong Jennifer? Why are you crying?”

Jennifer: “He won’t leave me the fuck alone! Not even for a second!”

Wife: “Oh no!!! He’s following you around the house, rubbing against you and accidentally picking up imaginary things in front of you in the hopes you’ll look at his ass isn’t he?”

Jennifer: “Can you hide me under your blankets and let me watch CSI with you and just hold me for a while.”

Wife: “Come on girlfriend…hop in. Mommy’s got you.”

I’ve totally got to play this one cool. I can’t lose Jennifer the way I lost the wifey to her Snuggie and the couch...