Quote Unquote: Daytime

"It's daytime and I have poopies . . . Hey look!  There's my purse!" ~ Lulu

Standing in her crib, holding a blanket, and pointing to her pink plastic purse laying on her rocking chair; this was my two-and-a-half-year-old's morning "greeting" as I entered her bedroom.     

Good morning to you too, Sweetheart!

Watch Your Step (Elvis Costello - 1981)

Just the other night . . .

Deep in slumber, I heard a jingle.

Or maybe it was more of a jangle.

The sound was foreign to my dream, but very familiar.

I knew the sound, but not what it was.

I had heard it many times before, but I couldn't place where.

As I slept, my mind worked to incorporate the jingle-jangly sound into my fantastical, mutated, freakoid world of sweet dreams --

It was the sound of coins in my pocket, as I ran out the side door of my childhood home, hoping to catch the circus going down an unfamiliar street . . .

It was the sound of my rattling car keys, borrowed by my twelve-year-old daughter, as she heads out the door for dinner and a movie with Hannah Montana and Michelle Obama . . .

The known but unidentified jingle-jangle is joined by a new sound, a thumping sound, "Jangle-ba-dum, Jingle-ba-dum, Jangle-ba-dum."  

It was now the sound of Elizabeth's charm bracelet as she hopped down the stairs in a furry bunny costume and stiletto heels, on her way to work . . .

The sound was becoming more distant, slowly moving out of my dream, and down, "jingle-ba-dum," down, "jangle-ba-dum," down, "jingle-ba-dum," the stairs . . .     

The stairs? . . . The stairs?

A little voice in my head screamed, "WAKE UP SLEEPING BEAUTY! THAT SOUND IS THE SOUND OF YOUR DOG, BUCK!  GET UP!  GET UP" 

The little voice was right, what I was hearing was the sound of my sixteen-year-old dog's metal tags, jingling and jangling on his collar. The thumping sound was him slowly making his way down the carpeted stairway, sideways, one stair at a time. 

Holy dog poop, Batman!  This could mean only one thing.  Buck sleeps next to Elizabeth's and my bed, and in recent months he's been sneaking off in the night to crap in the dining room. 

Batten down the hatches, we were in a code "brown."

(I know what you're thinking, "disgusting," right? Yes, an animal is defecating in my dwelling, and in the dining room of all places. Hey, it just proves that age-old addage, "Shit happens." I just thank God he prefers "doing business" on hardwood floors rather than persian rugs -- in the words of Carl Spackler, the assistant greenskeeper in the 1980 comedy classic Caddyshack, "So I got that goin' for me, which is nice.")

I needed to stop him before he got to the poop deck.

I jumped out of bed and in complete darkness, headed for the stairs.

From the top of the stairway, I could make out Buck's little white body at the bottom. He was just hitting the hardwood foyer floor when I took off running.

There was still time -- so I thought.

I was wrong. About half-way down the stairs, I felt something on the bottom of my bare foot that I had never felt before. It was a warm, moist, mushy sensation. I knew in an instant what it was -- I had just stepped in Buck's freshly laid crap.

Like a horse stepping on a rock, my foot instinctively recoiled. But it was too late, Buck's poop was plastered to my right foot, just short of my toes. If there was still any question of what I stepped in, the foul smell of the excrement hit me like a ton of , well, excrement.

Not wanting to further soil the carpet, I placed the weight of my right foot on only the heel, and resumed my mad dash for Buck. I felt like Captain Ahab, limping on my ivory heel, crashing blindly down the stairs to exact revenge on Moby Poop (or simply, The Dog), with each step the possibility of another fecal landmine.

Truth be known, my only real concern was stopping the poopage. Swabbing the poop deck was not something I enjoyed. Furthermore, I surprisingly felt bad for the ol' boy. The Dog had to go so badly that he couldn't even make it to the dining room, instead settling for the steps.  This was a first.

(What dog poops on the stairway? I'll tell you: a sixteen-year-old dog [I think that's like 1,126-years-old in dog years] who's having trouble with his aged bowels and going down steps. That's who. As is written in the annals of anal warfare, "He that is over 1,000-years-old and has never shit on a stair, let him cast the first stone." I don't see anyone tossing stones. "Judge not lest ye be judged," is what I always say.)

I safely navigated the remaining stairs and scooped up Buck. Holding him under his front legs, his butt down, snout forward, I briskly moved to the back door. Down the darkened hallway, a sharp left into the kitchen, around the rug, and to the sliding glass doors I gimped.

I threw Buck outside, slid the door closed, and took a deep breath. The greenish light emanating from the digital clock above the oven read "4:02." Standing in the dark, poop caked on my foot, and surely with poop clean up ahead, I thought to myself, "It's going to be a great day."

"This is what dreams are made of." ~ Hillary Duff, What Dreams are Made Of

Say What? . . . Idaho? I Don't Know?

My twelve-year-old called home asking to sleepover her girlfriend's house.  I was on the phone long enough to find out from Lauren that her friend's parents would not be home, and they would be watched by the babysitter who "is like thirty-years-old."

This was fine by me, saves me from having to go pick her up a little later.  It was just before 10:00 PM, and I was sunburned and tired.

Elizabeth was seated next to me, piecing together the conversation, she wanted to do a more thorough investigation.  I gladly handed her the phone and went back to my e-mail.

A couple of minutes later, she hung up the phone.

She said, "Lauren's sleeping over.  I spoke with the babysitter.  Her name is 'Candice,' and when I asked her last name she only said 'it's Spanish.'  And by the way, she's twenty-six, not thirty."

"Do we know where her parents are?"  I asked.

"Yes, she said 'Idaho.' " answered Elizabeth.

Having just returned from a summer family vacation in Idaho, I said, "Wow, Idaho."  Thinking not too many people from Illinois head to Idaho, especially without their children.

Elizabeth paused, replaying her discussion with Candice "Something-Spanish" in her head, she said slowly, "I hope she didn't say 'I don't know'."   

Adding, "Yeah, I said, 'We just got back from Idaho,' and she said something like 'I don't know.'"

Realizing the possible miscommunication, Elizabeth and I started laughing.

I don't think Lauren's friend's parents are in Idaho.  Although, I-da-ho. 

Travelin' Blues (Loggins & Messina - 1973)

"Only he that has traveled the road knows where the holes are deep." ~ Chinese Proverb

I always fancied myself as a savvy air traveler. Years of domestic and international travel for both business and pleasure, prepared me for the pitfalls and potholes of this popular method of travel. I confidently and efficiently navigated the airport jungle, boldly going where only the experienced traveler knew to go.

My travel now limited to a handful of leisure flights a year, I more often find myself timidly going where only the inept go. I'm now that poor guy I used to pass by and privately scoff, thumb my nose, or feel sorry for . . .

I'm the man leaving his Photo ID with the Sky Captain
I'm the man scrambling to take his laptop from his computer bag
I'm the man explaining why liquid hand sanitizer is in his diaper bag
I'm the man sitting in seat 16C instead of his rightful seat in 17C
I'm the man forgetting his video bag on the airplane
I'm the man waiting for his luggage at the wrong baggage claim
I'm the man without a crisp dollar bill for the cart rental machine
I'm the man taking another family's carseat off the baggage carousel
I'm the man looking for the rental car desk (that has moved off site)
I'm the man wandering the Economy Parking Lot looking for his car

Well, a new chapter was written in my sad story Memorial Day weekend at Washington's Reagan National Airport . . .

With our suitcases piled high on the rented luggage cart, Elizabeth, Lauren, Jessie, Lulu, and I set out across the two lanes of traffic for the shuttle that would take us to our rental car. Typically, I leave the family at the terminal while I Han-Solo-it for the rental car. What possessed me to drag the family along this time, I don't remember. I like to think of it as simply a rookie mistake, a freshman folly, the misguided steps of a plebe. Unfortunately, I'm afraid it may be the early stages of something much worse, Airzheimer's Disease.

Airzheimer's Disease: a progressive neurological disorder that leads to routine changes, memory loss, intellectual slowing and difficulty with regular activities when traveling in airports or on airplanes. The disease causes the areas of your brain dedicated to air travel to shrink.

People afflicted with Airzheimer's show a range of responses to their own behavior and condition. They include but are not limited to: denial, blame, frustration, agitation, self-awareness, and vacant despair.

Lauren pushed Lulu in the stroller, and Elizabeth held Jessie's hand, as I struggled to push the cart with one arm while balancing a carseat on top of the jumbled cluster of suitcases and travel bags with the other. Taxis and limousines sat idling as the family circus slowly passed. Only after we crossed the two-lanes of traffic did I realize the rental car pick-up area was designated for Enterprise Rent-A-Car only. Of course, we had reservations for Budget.

Okay, I'm sure this happens to a lot of people who are new to this airport or just don't travel frequently. 

I looked back and saw a bus with "Parking / Rental Car" electronically plastered across it's front.  We must have walked right past it.

Son-of-a-bitch! That's goofy. Why have the shuttle buses in different locations? 

I told the family to stay put as I ran to the bus to make sure it was ours.

"Hey, is this the shuttle bus for Budget?" I asked, standing outside the driver's open window.

"Yup," he said.

Damn! A little better signage would have been helpful.

I ran back to the family and gave orders to march back across the road to the now waiting bus (yelling to Lauren not to forget about Lulu, who she already had left abandoned in her stroller). The circus rolled back into town, again stopping traffic temporarily.

The girls got seated on the bus as I hustled to load our bags: two large suitcases, two large black duffels, a carry-on bag, a "diaper" backpack, stroller, and video bag. All black, and half pushing the fifty pound travel limit.

Hey! Mr. Bus Driver! How 'bout getting off your butt and giving me a lil' help? The sooner I get all this crap on the bus, the sooner we can get out of here.

Thankfully, except for an elderly man sitting across from my family next to the storage shelves, the bus was empty. As Elizabeth sat with the children and I rushed in and out of the bus loading the luggage, the man asked her, "Is that your husband?"

Elizabeth smiled and said, "Yes it is."

"He's the man," he said. Elizabeth politely nodded in agreement.

As I brought on the last bag, the man said to me, "You're the man."

Sweating my ass off and slightly out of breath I smiled and gently corrected him, "No, I'm the mule," I said. I sat down toward the back of the bus in the nearest available seat.

I took a moment to catch my breath, and pulled my rental car confirmation from my pocket. As the bus began to slowly pull away from the terminal, I read the first line of my confirmation printout in horror, "From: Enterprise-Rent-a-Car Reservations . . ."  We were on the wrong freakin' bus.

I jumped up with the unfolded confirmation in hand, ran to the front of the bus, ordering the bus driver to stop.

"Hey, I'm sorry, but my family needs to get off. We're on the wrong bus," I said firmly.

The bus driver stopped the bus halfway into traffic.

"You're on the right bus. This is the bus for Budget."

"I know. We have Enterprise."

"That's not what you told me. You said Budget."

"I know. I made a mistake."

Not pleased, the bus driver backed curbside again, and the doors flew open.

The family looked at me in disbelief as I ordered everyone off the bus. As they filed off, I hustled to remove our luggage. Back and forth I went, up and down the stairs, five and a half round trips in all.

As I grabbed the last bag, darkened perspiration stains now forming around my underarms, I looked at the kind elderly man and said, "I'm the ass." He smiled that now familiar disarming smile, but did not have it in him to disagree with my assessment.

As the bus pulled away and drove out of sight, the family stood curbside, mortified. Thankfully, our $3.00 rental cart was still where we had left it just moments earlier. I retrieved it and brought it over to the pile of luggage to began the task of re-piling.

I immediately saw we had a problem, or should I say, somebody had a problem. There, in the middle of all our bags was a smaller suitcase: black, nylon, wheels, handle system, very similar to ours -- but not ours.

More to myself than to anyone in particular, I muttered, "This is not our bag."

Oh my God, I am an idiot.

An official looking ground transportation guy stood only a few feet away. He had witnessed the spectacle of my family loading and unloading from the bus, and had even lent a hand with the unloading of a bag or two.

I said to the guy, "This is not our bag."

With what sounded to me like a heavy Caribbean accent he said, "What do you mean Mon, it's not your bog?"

"It is not our bag," I repeated.

"Mon, whose is it?"

"I don't know. I accidentally took it off the bus."

"It belongs to someone on the bus, Mon?"

"Yeah, are you able to call the driver?"

"Yah Mon, no problem, I'll take it." he said, pulling out his two-way radio.

Thanking him, I handed him the bag and turned to face my family. They stood silently, just staring at me. I believe they were in a form of shock, probably wondering how the hell they got stuck with me.

My six-year-old Jessie broke the silence. "Dad, who's bag was that?" she asked innocently .

Before I could plead the Fifth, Elizabeth saved me from any self incrimination and said, "We don't know. Daddy took it by accident."

But I knew, it had to belong to the man who said I was the man.  I was now the man who took his bag.

We just stood there, speechless, momentarily staggered by my buffoonery. With mutiny a distinct possibility, I needed to regain control of the situation. There was only one thing to do.  Raising my voice I said, "Let's get out of here before the bus comes back!"

Bound by humiliation and a common goal, without a word the family immediately sprung into action. There was an urgency and cohesion like I've never seen before. I threw the luggage on the cart while Elizabeth quickly setup the stroller, and Lauren gathered Lulu. With Lulu in her stroller we were out of there!

I brought up the rear as we briskly moved in mass once again across the two lanes of traffic.

"Come on Dad!" Lauren yelled.

We gathered under the Enterprise Rent-a-Car sign, and anxiously waited for the getaway shuttle to arrive, nervously looking over our shoulders to see if the bus had returned. Less than two minutes later our shuttle pulled up. We piled in and got situated quicker than you can say "Pick Enterprise, We'll pick you up!" The doors closed and we sped away.

I guess the guy on the shuttle bus was right in more than one way,  I'm the man . . . getting on the wrong rental car shuttle, and snatching other people's luggage.  Add these to my list of air travel ineptitude. 

And to think I was once an American Airlines AAdvantage Platinum Frequent Flyer . . . or was that somebody else?

"Half the fun of the travel is the esthetic of lostness." ~ Ray Bradbury, American Writer

Quote Unquote: Sleepy

"Daytime for wake up, night time for sleepy!" ~ Lulu

My two-and-a-half-year-old's rallying cry during the Battle of the Nap.

Lost! (Coldplay - 2008)

"Toto, I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore." ~ Dorothy Gale, The Wizard of Oz (1939)

As I changed out of my Sunday best, the phone rang - it was "FindToto."

FindToto (www.FindToto.com) is a national alert system for lost and stolen pets. Basically, the service notifies "neighbors" with an automated message describing the missing pet, and where to call with information. I didn't know this when I picked up the phone.  

I listened as a sober, young, female voice left the following prerecorded message:

"This is your neighborhood specific lost pet alert. Your neighbor Mike lost his dog "Tiger" on June 6th. Tiger is a black and white Pit Bull. If you have seen him and can help, please call your neighbor at 877-PET-TOTO. He is offering a reward. You can also view Mike's dog and his contact information at FindToto.com. Thank you."

Wow . . .

Mike lost Tiger . . .

Cool service . . .

Who the hell is Mike?

Okay, I think I would care more if I knew who "Mike" was; I absolutely, positively, do not know a Mike in my neighborhood. The only Mike I know who owned a Pit Bull (actually about fifty of them) is ex-NFL star, and now imprisoned, Michael "Cruel and Inhumane" Vick.

Mike Brady has a dog named "Tiger" (and three boys of his own), but The Brady Bunch live in California and I'm pretty sure Tiger is not a Pit Bull. (Oh, by the way, I'm also fairly confident Sam and Alice are having sex out of wedlock.)

Besides, a lost Pit Bull? Are you kidding me?

I have no problem trying to find Toto. You know, the cute little dog from The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, described by his creator L. Frank Baum as "a little black dog, with long, silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose." Call me a sucker for dogs that twinkle, have wee noses, and can be carried in a picnic basket; we would search hither and yon for Toto.

But please excuse my family if we don't even look hither for Cujo. I know, I know, "Tiger" may be a kind, gentle, face licking, Pit Bull. Yeah, he also may have been bitten by a rabid bat and has already attacked and killed one of Mike's war hero, alcoholic neighbors.

Armed with this important information, I headed downstairs to alert my family, now congregated in the Family Room.

"Our neighbor Mike has lost his Pit Bull and there is a reward if we find him," I shouted while going down the steps.

Jessie (my six-year-old) was the only one to respond. Obviously not hearing me correctly she said, "Lost his nipple? What is that?"

"No, he lost his Pit Bull, not his nip-ple," I said starting to laugh.  "A Pit Bull is a type of dog."

We were soon all laughing. Except poor tired, overly sensitive Jessie, who began crying.

Dorothy Gale was right when she said, "Oh Auntie Em, there's no place like home!"

And according to FindToto, I was happy to learn is where Tiger eventually found himself.

"Toto, darling! Oh, I got you back! You came back! Oh, I'm so glad! Toto! . . . " ~ Dorothy

Quote Unquote: Leg Bump

"Dad, I have a big bump on my leg! . . . Oh, never mind.  It's my knee." ~  Jessie

Self observation and diagnosis made by my six-year-old while riding with Dad to get the oil changed (and a tail light fixed).  

Life is Like a Box of Whores (You Never Know What You're Gonna Get)

"Life is like a box of chocolates, you never know what you're gonna get." ~ Forrest Gump, Forrest Gump (1994)

[Part 2 of 2]

Due to its personal and lecherous subject matter, I think it best I express the second part of my two-part series on prostitution in a one-act play.

_______________________________

NOW PLAYING

_______________________________

Holy Crap! Didst She Say Whore?

Chicago, Illinois USA

This ribald tale, showcases the effect of prostitution on society, and indirectly on the everyday language of children. A tawdry modern day story set in Old England, follows a stay-at-home Knight as he struggles with Elizabethan Era verb conjugation, and the use of the word "whore" by his seemingly innocent young girls. Remarkably, this sassy, timeless family classic is based on a whores d'oeuvres of real life events which took place within a 24-hour period in May, 2008. The unrehearsed and uncensored, one-act play, will give the audience a voyeuristic view inside a bawdy game of Closh, the pages of a titillating children's classic, and an unseemly lesson in rhyming.

Running Time: Approximately 8 minutes

_______________________________

"During this performance, please feel free to let your cell phones and pagers ring willy-nilly. However, do remember that there is a heavily-armed knight on stage and you might well be dragged up and impaled." ~ Pre-curtain announcement, taken from Monty Python's Broadway musical Spamalot (and adapted ever so slightly)

HOLY CRAP! DIDST SHE SAY WHORE?

CHARACTERS, in Order of Appearance:

Narrator

Sir Jagger

Leigh

Luella

Jonesy

NARRATOR:

Once upon a time, there lived a stay-at-home Knight named Sir Jagger. The handsome, although admittedly slightly overweight, Knight had three beautiful young girls. Each pure of heart, and until this cursed day . . . pure of tongue.

SCENE I - W-h-o-r-e Play

[The noble carriage]

NARRATOR:

One day, as Sir Jagger accompanied Leigh on a trip to see her Dance Master, his twelve-year-old shared a most salacious story. Good God. Let's watch!

LEIGH:

My Lord, I know not if I durst tell you this tale. But 'tis oh so funny. Doth I have your blessing?

SIR JAGGER:

As you will, my young and saucy daffodil.

LEIGH:

While playing Closh today with friends Gleda and Shandy, I hath a terrible time with my Klos-beytel and quickly fell behind H-O to naught. My next shot I was nary the hoop. Burdened with H-O-R, and without thought I said, "I am a HOR."

SIR JAGGER:

Pray pardon?

LEIGH:

(excitedly) Aye, then Gleda screamed, "Thou churlish clay-brained dewberry! Canst thou wit what thou just spoke? Thou said thou art a 'whore'! "

To which Shandy added, "Aye, come thou impertinent tickle-brained tart!" .

Having realized what I hath said, red faced I shouted "I trow not! But I am a mammering fool-born giglet, I am."

(laughing) We didst laugh, until we didst cry!

SIR JAGGER:

(laughing uneasily) E'en so?

NARRATOR: Bawdy indeed! . . . Although using this same sophomoric "whore" joke himself hundreds of times before, the Knight was not amused. His forced laugh an attempt to cover up his discomfort with his twelve-year-old referring to herself as a strumpet, even in jest.

SCENE II - Onions Gone Bad

[The noble nursery]

NARRATOR:

That evening, Sir Jagger sat reading the children's classic The Tale of Penley Rabbit to Luella, his two-and-a-half-year-old daughter. Another off-color tale of ribaldry? Let's find out!

SIR JAGGER:

[reading aloud]

"Suddenly, Penley heard the noise of a hoe -- scr-r-ritch, scratch, scratch, scritch. There was Master McGregor hoeing onions -- and just behind him was ye gate!

Penley started running as fast as he could go."

LUELLA:

[pointing to the picture of Master McGregor]

He hor-ing?

SIR JAGGER:

What say you my darling poppet?

LUELLA:

He hor-ing?

SIR JAGGER:

I crave your parden?. . . Oh, he didst hoe? Yay, he didst.

[he quickly turns the page]

NARRATOR:

Ooooohhhh! Naughty, naughty! Sir Jagger was staggered by this last whore-ah! He began to question the true meaning behind the classic children's book. Might have author Lady Potter intended for Master McGregor's garden to represent the temptations of society? Master McGregor, a pimp? The onions, cocaine and myristic acid smoking trollops? How lasciviously scrumptious!

SCENE III - For, Your, Whore

[The noble den]

NARRATOR:

It is the next morning and Sir Jagger reads aloud his six-year-old's carefully scrawled list of rhyme words. Is there one more surprise for Sir Jagger? Let's hope so!

SIR JAGGER:

[reading aloud]

time

Rime

lime

fill

Gill

Bill

sore

more

NARRATOR:

The next word brought Sir Jagger to a dead stop. . . Are you thinking what I'm thinking? Oh, yes! . . . There, written in #2 pencil was that naughty word. Dare I say it? I dare not!

SIR JAGGER:

[Pointing to the word on the paper]

(playing dumb) What word is this, h-o-r-e?

JONESY:

"Whore?"

SIR JAGGER:

Whence did you learn this word?

JONESY:

I don't know.

NARRATOR:

Delightful! Paranoia begin to creep into the mind of the whore-iffied Knight. Oh, how delectably tawdry!

SIR JAGGER:

Didst you learn it from your sister?

JONESY:

No. . . 'Tis a real word?"

DAD:

Eh, no 'tis not. (mumbling) As far as thou art concerned. (speaking clearly) Find another rhyme my golden marigold.

[Jonesy takes the paper and runs from the room. Sir Jagger sits thinking.]

NARRATOR:

Oh, no, no, no! Is that it? No more? . . . Not as tawdry as I had hoped. (tired and dejected) Jonesy, like Leigh and Luella before her had innocently used the word "whore." There, I said it. Whore, whore, whore. [sigh]. . . But still, Sir Jagger sat wondering how all three of his uncorrupted girls could have spoken this same not-so-naughty word within a twenty-four hour period.  Was it mere chance? Or perhaps somebody's twisted idea of magic? Or possibly, the work of witches? 

He could come up with only one answer: it was the witchcraft of the two old crones that propositioned he and a fellow Freshman classmate twenty-five years ago, as they walked to a Dunkin' Donuts in San Antonio. . . (excitedly) Oooohhh! A possible tale of ribaldry? We'll have to save this for another day! Until then, goodbye!

"No, no, no, no, we'll have none of this! You've gone too far! You've ruined it for me! Well, this tale is over, but you must admit it was a ribald tale, wasn't it?" ~ Evelyn Quince (Jon Lovitz), Tales of Ribaldry (Saturday Night Live)

In Case You Were Wondering . . . My Pimp Handle?

I interrupt my two-part series on prostitution to bring you this special announcement . . .  

According to playerappreciate.com's pimp name generator, my pimp handle would be "Big Plahah J. Wicked."

On the Radio (Donna Summer - 1979)

[This post begins a two-part story spotlighting the world's oldest profession and its impact on a suburban trophy husband, and his three children.]

PART I

From the backseat came the voice of my six-year-old daughter, "What's this song about?"

Holy prostitution, Batman!

Playing on the radio was "Roxanne," the 1979 hit by The Police, about a man who falls in love with a call girl.

Roxanne, you don't have to put on the red light

Those days are over
You don't have to sell your body to the night
Roxanne, you don't have to wear that dress tonight
Walk the streets for money
You don't care if it's wrong or if it's right

Roxanne, you don't have to put on the red light
Roxanne, you don't have to put on the red light

Sure, sex acts for money is a perfectly reasonable topic of discussion for a six-and-a-half-year-old. Don't you think? I could have easily turned the radio station and given Jessie the standard "inappropriate for a six-year-old" response.  But no, having just read in Rolling Stone Magazine about Michelle Braun, "The Sex Queen of LA," and her "celebrity" escort service, I believed I had this one under control. So in an Eliot Spitzer minute of judgement, I tried explaining it to her.

(Now, don't worry) I used a twisted, G-rated, pay-for-friendship illustration. It was one of those explanations that half-way into it you have a Talking Heads, "Once In A Lifetime" moment and ask yourself,"Well, how did I get here?"  The rest of the explanation is spent just trying to get back to where you started; an attempt to explain away what you've already explained.

This is usually achieved by deliberately confusing the hell out of the unsuspecting child in a maze of gibberish -- the bigger the words, the better. The goal is by the end of the anti-explanation, the poor child is so utterly confused she can't remember what the question was; or if asked by an adult, cannot coherently articulate anything you've spewed.

(What's she talking about? Oh, I have no idea Auntie Tina. It sounds like some song about friendship. . .  I don't know maybe she's thinking of "You've Got a Friend," or "You're My Best Friend," or some other age appropriate song she learned in school. . .  Red light? Got me. Where in the world do kids get this stuff?)

Jessie was not shaken. "Is this based on a true story?" she asked.

"Nah, it's just a song. You know, like 'Mary Had a Little Lamb.' Sure, somewhere a lamb could have followed a girl named Mary to school, but it's not why the song was written."

Nodding her head Jessie said, "Yeah and if it did, I don't think the teacher would allow a sheep in the class."

"Exactly. Right. Good point.  You got it."

Jessie was silent, and "Roxanne" ended none too soon. Thank God the next song was the wholesome rock ditty, "I Love Rock N' Roll," by Joan Jett and The Blackhearts. A good ol' fashioned song about meeting someone at a bar, and taking that nameless someone home -- the all-American way, FREE of charge. I quickly turned the station. Sure, I didn't want another question, but more importantly, I hate the song.

Little did I know that Jessie's innocent question was a mere portend of the whore-id things to come in the days ahead.

To be continued . . .

Traffic Light (The Ting Tings - 2008)

"Let sleeping dogs lie." ~ American Proverb

I was having a nice relaxing drive home on a beautiful Spring morning. Having dropped Jessie at school minutes earlier - I was lost in thought as Lulu sat strapped in her carseat quietly watching Piglet's Big Movie on DVD.

What I was thinking about I can't remember. But I do remember a feeling of bliss; thinking how rare, peaceful moments like this are in my stay-at-home day. I was with child, a terrible-twos-year-old no less, and there was no talking, yelling, screaming, singing, banging, knocking, kicking, running, tooting, asking, telling, crying, sneezing, wiping, picking, drinking, slurping, burping, or eating.

The only thing missing from the moment was The Eagles playing their 1973 hit "Peaceful Easy Feeling" over the car radio. In its place was Carly Simon's voice coming from Hundred Acre Woods, singing the playful "A Mother's Intuition."

It's a mother's intuition
To make a little space
It's her quiet mission to tidy up her place
A mother's intuition is like a kangaroo's
She hops around, she mops the ground
She fusses over you

A mother

With her intuition
Will know just what to do

As the song played, I remember thinking how cute it is that Lulu always breaks into a smile when she hears it. I have to believe it's because she's thinking of her own "Mama," and how she too "fusses" and always knows "just what to do." (And not because, like me, she finds the image of Elizabeth mopping, comical.) Listening to the song is the last peaceful, easy, feeling I would have for the remaining fifteen minute ride home.

All was right in the world . . . that is until my FATHER'S intuition kicked in and I had to open my BIG FAT YAPPER! . . .

I stepped in it while stopped at a traffic light. It was there that I tragically broke from nirvana for a teaching moment.

Pointing to the red traffic light I said, "See Lulu? When the light is red, Daddy stops. And when it turns green, Daddy can go."

Peeking over the passenger side front seat, unexpectedly Lulu screamed, "Dad, I see a green light! Go! Daddy go! Go!"

With a number of cars ahead of me in the left turn lane, I couldn't yet move. I chuckled and calmly tried to explain this exception to the green light rule, "Okay, okay, okay. But I can't go yet, I have to wait for the cars in front of me to go first. Then I can go."

Lulu would have nothing of it. The light was green Amsterdammit, put the pedal to the metal! She continued screaming, "Daddy go! Daddy go! Daddy go!" Thankfully the cars cleared and seconds later I was able to turn.

Although she was a tad (or two) overly enthusiastic, I was impressed with how quickly she picked up the concept. Yes, it was kind of annoying, but cute in a childhood Macaulay Culkin kind of way.

Less than a minute later we approached another traffic signal. Lulu, the newest member of the the Traffic Light Nazi Party, was at it again.

"Daddy go! . . . Yellow light! Red light! Stop! Daddy stop! Stop car stop!"

Okay, not cute anymore. Just kind of annoying in a teenage Macaulay Culkin kind of way. I told Lulu to "quiet down" and to use her "inside voice." But the kid was obsessed, she wouldn't listen.

"Green light! Daddy go! Daddy go! Green! Go!" she screamed.

Oh man, what had I done? I yearned for the good ol' days of a minute earlier. Everywhere I turned, more traffic lights, accompanied by more screaming. In my mind I frantically navigated the route home with the least number of traffic lights. It didn't really matter, six one way, half a dozen another.

"I can't see see the green light! I can't see! I can't see! . . . Daddy, I see a green light! Go! Go!

Light after light. . .

I can't see the light! I can't see the green light! Over there! Red! I see a red light. Stop! Stop! . . . Go! Green Daddy! Go! Green! Go!"

After light. . .

"You've got to wait for a green light! I see a red light. Stop Daddy stop!

"Lulu shhhh! Daddy can see the lights." I countered, but I had lost control many lights ago.

This went on until we passed the last signal about a half-mile from home. By the time we pulled into our garage, I had a splitting headache and Lulu was showing symptoms of traffic light withdrawal: exhaustion, sweating, and a runny nose.

My parental teaching moment turned into a parental learning moment. I learned that "father's intuition" can't be trusted, sometimes a dog should just "Let sleeping puppies lie," and there are a lot of frickin' traffic lights between home and Jessie's school.

“On a traffic light green means go and yellow means yield, but on a banana it's just the opposite. Green means hold on, yellow means go ahead, and red means where the hell did you get that banana at...” ~ Mitch Hedberg, American Comedian (1968 - 2005)

****************************

The editors of "Confessions of a Trophy Husband" are telling me this is where the story should end. A tired, screamed out toddler; a Dad vowing never to utter the words "traffic" and "light" together again; and an unconventional quote comparing traffic lights to bananas, from a dead unconventional comedian. But no, this is my blog and I'll run-on if I want to . . . and I want to. Because this last piece of the story is not just coincidental, it's a little freaky deaky doo . . .

So, I carried Lulu from the car to my bedroom and plopped her down on the unmade bed.  Propping her head on a king-sized pillow, I told her she was going to watch a little more TV while I took a quick shower. She was happy about this, and I was just happy to have the whole traffic light, stop and go incident behind us.

I turned on the TV and changed the channel to PBS Kids Sprout. "The Sunny Side Up Show" was on, hosted by Kelly and Chica, the squeaking chicken puppet.

As I began to undress I heard Kelly say, "Today, on The Sunny Side Up Show, we are talking about the meaning of the words 'stop' and 'go'. . ."

Say what? I froze in horror, holding my breath as I waited for her screaming to begin again. I slowly turned to look at Lulu. She was watching the TV with a big smile on her face.

Let sleeping puppies lie.

She turned her head and smiled at me with the same cheeky smile.

Let sleeping puppies lie.

I gently smiled back.

Let sleeping puppies lie.

She continued watching the show.

Exhale.

And I let the sleepy puppy lie, as I took a shower.

"Let sleeping puppies lie" ~ Jack Butler, American Stay-at-home Dad

I'll Get You, My Pretty, And Your Little Book, Too!

INT. DODGE MINIVAN (MOVING) - DAY

The rented 2007 Dodge Caravan creeps forward, caught in a Memorial Day back-up on I-95 . DAD drives and MOM sits in the front passenger seat.  Dad fidgets nervously, obsessively glancing at the portable GPS sitting on the dashboard.  Mom is relaxed, slouched in the passenger seat reading the paperback, Take the Cannoli: Stories of the New World by Sarah Vowell.

An iPod Nano connected to a power outlet sits in a cubby below the radio console.  "Pull My Hair" by Bright Eyes plays over a staticky radio frequency. 

The family is dressed in casual summer clothing matching the summer like temperature outside the air conditioned minivan; except for LAUREN who is dressed in a long-sleeve gray Bucknell shirt, worn blue jeans, and sneakers.

Lauren sits in the passenger side bucket seat directly behind Mom, playing with her pink Nintendo DS. JESSIE sits behind Lauren, quietly flipping through the pages of a children's book. LULU is across from Jessie in the third row seat singing loudly to her cloth "Colonial Betsy" doll; the words are mostly unintelligible and the song unidentifiable. 

Surrounded by traffic, the minivan comes to a stop.

DAD

Wow.  This is not good.

He nervously taps the steering wheel four times and glances at the GPS.

DAD

(continuing)

It still estimates a 12:46 PM arrival at Reagan National.

He looks at Mom.  She does not look up from her book.

DAD

(to himself, barely audible)

"Brutal. I'm going to pull my hair. Talk about a fitting name for a song."

He abruptly picks up his iPod and advances to the next song before turning down the volume completely on the dash panel. He looks back at his twelve-year-old daughter.

DAD

Lauren, you've been playing on your DS long enough. I want you to read your book for awhile.

He looks forward as the traffic begins to creep forward again.

LAUREN

But, I'm pretty much done with my book.

The minivan moves slowly with traffic.

DAD

So, what does 'pretty much done' with a book mean?

LAUREN

What do you mean?

DAD

Are you finished with your book or not?

LAUREN

What book?

DAD

(exasperated)

The book you're 'pretty much done' with.

LAUREN

Yeah? I am.

DAD

Lauren, what book is it?

LAUREN

Oh, Lunch Money. [By Lauren Clements]

DAD

Haven't you . . . 

LULU

(yelling/singing unintelligibly)

DAD

Lulu! Quiet! . . .  Haven't you read that before?

LAUREN

Yes.

Surrounded by traffic the minivan stops.

DAD

(looking at Lauren)

Then why are you reading it again?

LAUREN

What do you mean?

DAD

Why are you reading the same book twice?

LAUREN

I'm not.

LULU

(yelling/singing unintelligibly)

JESSIE

Dad! Lulu's not being quiet! I can't concentrate!

MOM

Lulu, inside voice.

DAD

Lauren, you just said "yes," you had already read it.

LAUREN

I did already read it. I mean, I've read it before today.

Dad takes a deep breath.

DAD

Okay. Have you finished it?

LAUREN

No.

DAD

I want you to put your DS away and read it now.

LAUREN

Okay.

Dad turns the volume back up.  The radio plays The Whitsundays singing "It must be me . . ."  Lauren leans over putting away her DS and looks for her book in her bookbag. Dad and Mom look at each other. He roles his eyes and sighs. She smiles.

CUT TO:

Overhead of red Dodge Caravan surrounded by cars and trucks, slowly moving forward in the middle of a three lane highway.

  

LULU (V.O.)

(screams)

JESSIE (V.O.)

Lulu! I can't concentrate!  Dad make her stop!

PULL BACK TO REVEAL:

The red Dodge Caravan in a traffic jam winding as far as the eye can see.

DAD (V.O.)

(optimistically)

Hey, I think it might be picking up, up here.

"I'll get you, my pretty, and your little dog, too!" ~ The Wicked Witch of the West, The Wizard of Oz (1939)

Subject: The Coyotes

E-mail from my Mother-in-law . . .

----- Original Message ----

From: Grandma Maudie 
To: Jack Butler 
Sent: Saturday, May 10, 2008 8:32:50 AM
Subject: The Coyotes

Hi Jack,

Don't let Buck or Lulu outside alone - There is a
problem with Coyotes in the midwest and California.
They are attacking kids. One went into a convenient
store in Chicago and they are coming up to houses.

Have a good Mother's Day.
Maudie

----- Reply Message ----

From: Jack Butler 
To: Grandma Maudie 
Cc: Elizabeth Butler
Sent: Saturday, May 10, 2008 9:56:12 AM
Subject: Re: The Coyotes

Oh, thanks for the Coyote warning -- I saw two of them in a 7-Eleven yesterday buying beer, and one came to my door asking if Buck could play. Don't worry about the kids, I have them packing heat.

Your Yankee Son-in-law,

Jack 

Still The Same (Bob Seger - 1978)

"The quickest way to know a woman is to go shopping with her.” ~ Marcelene Cox

Having a little bit of time before having to pick-up Lauren from dance class, Elizabeth stopped into a local retailer. She soon found herself at the sunglasses display with not one but two twenty-something sales girls attending to her.

With each pair of sunglasses Elizabeth tried on she received varying levels of approval from Sales Girl #1 and #2, amazingly mirroring Elizabeth's every comment or facial expression.

"Those look good. I saw Angela Jolie with a pair just like them." said Sales Girl #1, referring to a pair of black oversized designer sunglasses Elizabeth was trying on.

"Don't you think they are too wide for my face?" Elizabeth responded.

"Yeah, maybe like a little too big for your face." said Sales Girl #1, shaking her head.

"What about these?" Elizabeth said trying on a pair of light beige framed and brown lensed glasses.

"Ooh, I like those a lot . . ." said Sales Girl #2.

"I don't like the the color." Elizabeth interjected.

"I was going to say, except for the color. Yeah, definitely do not like the color." said Sales Girl #2.

This went on as Elizabeth continued trying on glasses either chosen personally or by the sales girls, discarding those she already tried, onto the glass countertop. She had gone through nearly a dozen sunglasses, when she picked-up an Izod two toned brown lensed pair, looked in the mirror and said "I like the black and brown two-tone."

"Oh, those are cool! Yeah, two tone. They look fantastic on you!" said Sales Girl #2.

"Do you think?" said Elizabeth.

"Love them!" said Sales Girl #2.

Sales Girl #1 adding, "Oh yeah.  Like they are so you."

Elizabeth looked in the mirror and agreed, they did look good. She took them off to look at the price, but there was no tag. Upon further inspection she noticed a small scratch on the frame.

She wasn't concerned, the glasses were generally priced the same, and the scratch was not a show stopper. Elizabeth showed the scratch to the sales girls and being half Italian, asked if they might take a percentage off because of the damage.

Sales Girl #2 was game, "Yeah maybe. Let me ask my manager." She paged her manager overhead and as quick as you can say "Discount Designer Sunglasses, Great Choices for Under $100," the manager was at the sunglasses display rack.

Elizabeth with the backing of the sales girls asked for an additional discount due to the scratch. The boss woman studied the glasses and said, "These are not our glasses. We don't sell Izod. Someone must have switched them."

Sales Girl #2 gasped. 

Sales Girl #1 stood speechless, her mouth open before temporarily closing it to whisper, "We've been scammed."

Elizabeth was also surprised. Surprised she had been touched by an apparent crime, but also that the Store Manager said they didn't sell Izod sunglasses.

"You do sell Izod. I bought a pair here before." Elizabeth said.

"If we did, we have not sold them for a long time." said the Sales Manager.

While the Sales Manager chastised Sales Girl #1 and #2 for not keeping a closer eye on the store merchandise, reminding them that they were not to remove the tags on the glasses when customers are trying them on, a horrifying thought entered Elizabeth's mind.

She rummaged through her bag in search of something. It was not there. She looked again, double checking all pockets. It definitely was not there; her worst fear materialized.

Interrupting the Sales Manager she said, "Oh, you know what?. . . Those are my sunglasses."

"Excuse me?" said the Sales Manager.

Chuckling, Elizabeth said, "The Izod sunglasses are mine. I bought them here awhile back."

"There like yours?" said Sales Girl #2.

"Yes." said Elizabeth, now laughing. "They are mine."

"Oh my God." whispered Sales Girl #1.

Elizabeth had just tried to purchase her own sunglasses. She wore them into the store on her head and must have placed them on the counter, mixing them with the store owned sunglasses. Elizabeth failed to recognize her own glasses, and the sales girls and manager failed to recognize the humor.

It was time to go pick-up Lauren. Elizabeth left with her really cool, two tone, Izod shades. And she didn't have to pay a dime for them.

"Same as it ever was. . . same as it ever was . . . " ~ Talking Heads, Once in a Lifetime

All's Well That Ends Well (Aberdeen - 2008)

It's been a bad day.
Please don't take a picture.
It's been a bad day.
Please.

~ R.E.M., Bad Day

Ding-dong.

The front doorbell rang and I was not answering it.

It was about 6:30 PM and my two-and-a-half-year-old and I were home alone. I was on my knees, a wad of paper towels in my hand and a role at my side, frantically working to soak up the blackened water spewed across the rug.

Lulu thought she was saved by the bell, more than ready to escape the scene of the accident to answer the front door. I told her in a no uncertain tone to "Stay here," a couple of "You're in big trouble Missy" looks later adding, "No-no Lulu. You paint only on the table, not on the floor. The water glass stays on the table. Do you understand?"

"Oh-oh. I sorry Daddy" she mumbled, looking down at the dark blotches.

Ding-dong. The doorbell rang again.

Who was at the door? I didn't know, and didn't care. I had a rug to save. About a minute earlier Lulu kicked over the glass of yuckety-muckety paint water on an expensive Persian rug . Why the glass was on the floor? I don't know. How we let that interior designer lady talk us into buying a very expensive wool rug for under the kitchen table? I don't know that either -- I just work here. I do know I should have purchased the "Brawny Man" big roll instead of the wimpy generic "on-sale" roll.  For absorption's sake, I at least should have gone with the 2-ply.

Ding-dong. The damn doorbell rang again.

I thought it had to be either my six-year-old being too lazy to walk around to the garage, a little friend of hers looking to play, or the Omaha Steaks guy. Who else would ring the doorbell three times?

Wanting desperately to flee, Lulu looked towards the front hall entrance and back at me. She never so wanted to answer a door in her entire life.

"You stay right here." I reminded her.

A few moments later the phone rang. The ringtone "It Keeps You Runnin'" by the Doobie Brothers played on the wireless handset nearest me (a befitting ringtone for the day I was having) . Within reach, I picked it up and looked at caller-ID. It was a cellular call from a hazily familiar local number. Who was this?

I reluctantly hit the "talk" button and in a short "this better be good" tone said, "Hello."

A slightly distressed female voice said, "Hello Mr. Butler. This is Yong Chung. I am at your front door and your garage door is open and it looks like your home but . . ."

Shit! Piano lessons! I forgot about piano lessons!

"Oh, I'm so sorry Mrs. Chung! I'll be right there!"

The piano teacher was at the front door and I had no kids to give her.

I jumped to my feet blowing by Lulu to get to the door. I apologized to Mrs. Chung for leaving her waiting and quickly explained we were in a state of rug emergency - threat level red (a severe risk of stainage). Before I finished babbling, I noticed Mrs. Chung's attention diverted to something behind me. I turned to see Lulu standing in the entrance hallway licking a container of Marshmallow Fluff like it was some freakish lollipop. Oh that's just great. I excused myself and snatched-up Lulu, setting her in the Family Room before disappearing with the Fluff back into the Kitchen.

I needed to get a kid home, and fast.

The spots on the rug were looking better but not good. They had gone from black to gray. I had five bottles of tonic water in the pantry, but of course no club soda for the stain (you can't make Gin & Tonics with club soda). Instead I grabbed a jug of white vinegar and poured it on the ashen stains. Again pressing paper towels to rug, I called a neighbor in search of Jessie. Damn! I got voicemail. I hit redial. Damn! Voicemail again. I know Jessie is there and that they are home. Come on, pick-up! Redial. Voicemail. Nottafinga!

With Lulu playing with puzzles quietly in the Family Room and Mrs. Chung waiting in the Living Room, I took matters in my own hands. I figured I could run to the neighbors house two doors down and back before anyone even knew I was gone. Drastic times call for drastic measures and this was obviously drastic times.

I stealthily made my way to the door to the garage. Once out, in Forrest Gump-like form I took off running -- sprinting out the garage, across the driveway, and through the neighbors front lawn.

As I cleared my neighbors front yard I spotted Lauren in the distance on a swing set with her girlfriends.

I stopped and yelled, "Lauren! Get home! You have piano lessons! Run!"

Lauren acknowledged me with, "But Dad . . ."

That's all I needed to hear, I turned and Gumped it back home. Upon entering the house I expected to hear Lulu crying "Daddy!" But thankfully I was met only with the sound of Little Bear's voice coming from the television. Upon entering the Kitchen, I could see Lulu hadn't moved in the minute I was gone [Writer's Note: time frame added for concerned readers and child welfare investigators]. Mission accomplished.

The spot on the rug was "the pee on the toilet seat" on what was amounting to a bad day. Other developments since 3:00 PM:

• Picked Lauren up from the orthodontist where I wrote a $4,821.25 check for braces she not only hates but according to "her friends," she also doesn't need. (Note: an Oreo Blizzard from Dairy Queen on the way home didn't make things any better for her -- although I think Jessie seemed a little happier).
  

• Lulu escaped from the house not once, but twice. The first time falling in a puddle while making a mad dash for our playset. The second time, dressed only in red crocs, a diaper, and Mickey Mouse t-shirt, I caught her before getting to the backyard of my neighbors house (in route to a playset two doors down).

• Protesting an empty food bowl, Buck (the dog) put a whoopin' on his water and food bowl -- spilling water on the tile floor of the laundry room.  I was out of his special GasteroENteric (anti-diarrhea) dog food, and didn't want to leave to get it until UPS came with Elizabeth's Mother's Day present (a portable GPS if you must know).

• UPS arrived at about 5:30 PM with the box containing Elizabeth's gift absolutely demolished. I had no choice but to refuse it. As if he thought it would make me feel better, Mr. Brown told me "I know it was not like this yesterday." Thanks Brown.  I did not have a gift for Elizabeth, and Mother's Day was just two days away. (Although, I did have a "soaker" from stepping in Buck's spilled water when answering the side door.)

In a matter of three hours the day had gone down hill fast.  I also went from a leading candidate for Daddy Blogger's Father of the Year, to an anonymous hotline tip away from a visit by the Illinois Department of Children and Family Services.

Things could only get better, and they did . . .

Lauren came home seconds later and the neighbors eventually picked-up the phone and sent Jessie home.     

The white vinegar appeared to do the trick on the stains.  

Buck was later satisfied with a bowl of Honeynut Cheerios. 

Lauren seemed to be over the initial shock of having braces.  

I told Elizabeth that due to circumstances beyond my control she would not be getting a gift on Mother's Day, as expected she was understanding.

Like the Shakespearean play, All's Well That Ends Well, there are times when the line between comedy and tragedy is blurred.   The same can be said when trying to classify a good day versus bad.

  

And there are times when "all's well that ends well" pretty much just sums it up.  You know?  Maybe it wasn't such a bad day after all.  

"If you don't think every day is a good day, just try missing one." ~ Cavett Robert

Gort! Klaatu Barada Read!

INT. KITCHEN - MORNING

The digital clock above the double oven reads 10:01 AM.  JESSIE sits at the kitchen table busily coloring on white printer paper; surrounded by a mess of crayons and a Disney Princesses cup. DAD is standing at the kitchen island reading the Metro section of the Chicago Tribune. The paper lays amid food containers, cereal boxes, wrappers, unopened mail, and dirty breakfast plates.

The "Wonder Pets" theme plays loudly on the TV in the background.

Keeping her head down while continuing to color, breaking the silence she speaks assuredly.

JESSIE:

I'll know how to read when I'm six.

Distracted by the crappy extended weather forecast, the comment takes a few moments to sink in. Eyes cast downward he replies matter-of-factly.

DAD:

You are six.

Without looking up from her artwork, she too takes a few moments before replying.

JESSIE:

Oh yeah.

Not another word is spoken . . .

"Gort! Klaatu barada nikto" ~ Helen Benson, The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951)