16 Years Later

Ella and I recently celebrated our 16th anniversary. Not our wedding anniversary, but the 16th anniversary of the day we met. And fireworks. And all that.

There was a time when we spent our weekends going to concerts and movies. Now? We watch youth sports and visit the farmers' market.

Upgrade?

Pretty much.

Although I wouldn't mind getting back to the Cradle every now and then.

Creature From The Church Pond

"OH GOD! DID YOU SEE THAT?" Ella screamed in a volume normally reserved for orgasms or when one spots a Chupacabra or Bigfoot.

"See what?" I asked.

"THAT CREATURE NEAR THE POND!"

Creature? She definitely had my attention. "What did It look like?"

"I don't know. I just saw It out of the corner of my eye. It was down by the pond, drinking water."

I asked my daughter and son if they saw It, but they were no help. So I turned the car back around, hoping I could catch a glimpse of the Creature.

"THERE! LOOK! THERE IT IS! DOWN BY THE WATER!"

I saw It standing at the edge of the retaining pond in front of the church. It was a grey Beast, as big as a medium-sized dog. As we got closer to the Creature, I noticed something. "Honey, that thing's not moving."

"That's because it's drinking water!"

"No. I think it's because it's a statue."

As we pulled up next to the pond, we discovered that I was right: it was just a statue that looked like it was drinking from the pond. But we still couldn't figure out what it was supposed to be. It was grey and had an arched back, like a cat ready to strike. "What the hell is that thing?" she asked.

"I don't know. A Chupacabra?"

"You wish, Monster Boy. I think it's a wolf or something."

"Yeah, it looks kind of like a small wolf. But what the hell is it doing down here?"

"No idea."

This was not an isolated incident. We have noticed several of these statues at different retaining ponds around our town, usually at churches. While I initially wrote it off as cult activity, a little Googling showed that the statues are coyotes.

What is the purpose of these coyote statues? To drive away geese.

But there's one little problem: the geese are just as afraid of the coyotes as they are of me. Every time we see one of these statues, there are always at least two geese nearby. Hell, even the teeniest goslings aren't afraid of the stupid coyote statues.

But the coyotes do serve a purpose. Every time we drive by one of the statues, my daughter will yell from the backseat, "Mommy! I see a Creature!" I laugh. Ella glares. It never gets old.

The family that rags each other, stays together.

So Today Sucked

My Gift To You

One thing about summer I never could stomach… all the damn sunscreen.

Growing up in the South, I participated in more than my fair share of greased pig contests. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with this barbaric activity, it starts with a pig that has been covered with lard. Ten to twenty kids would chase the pig inside a pen for ten minutes, which meant that ten to twenty kids would fall flat on their faces in the mud for ten minutes. Eventually, the pig would tire and some lucky kid would trap the pig in the corner of the pen and win an apple pie or something like that.

Surely PETA has outlawed this activity by now, right?

Even though I never won a greased pig contest, one might think these events would have prepared me for putting sunscreen on my children. No such luck.

Thankfully, Zoey realizes if she wants to go outside and play, she must wear sunscreen. Zed's a different story. Every once in awhile, we're able to put sunscreen on Zed while he's lying on the changing table. But I think he enjoys watching us chase him around the room, cursing and falling as we try to apply sunscreen as he slips from our grasp.

When we were at the beach earlier this year, in the middle of our third marathon sunscreen session of the day, Ella came up with a brilliant idea. You know those fake suntanning booths they have that spray you with "sun" that turns you all nice and orange? Imagine if there was a booth that covered you with sunscreen.

Or more importantly, your children.

You just step inside, don those tiny little eye thingies, and push a button. It's a Million Dollar Idea. I'm a cheap bastard and I would gladly pay $5 per kid each time they need to be lathered in sunscreen. Every beach, pool, and park would buy one of these machines. People would be lining up around the block just so they didn't have to deal with slippery little kids.

I'm just not smart enough to make such a contraption. If you can, go for it. Just do me a favor: call it the ChagMaster 3000 or something like that.

And if you feel like sending me a buck or fifty thousand, I won't stop you.

Song of the day: Down Together by The Refreshments

I'm Married To An Eighty-Year-Old Woman

"Why do they wear those tight jeans?" Ella asked as we were watching the Jonas Brothers portion of the Hannah Montana/Miley Cyrus Best of Both Worlds Concert with the kids.

"I wore tight jeans when I was their age."

"Yeah, but you thought you were Jon Bon Jovi. It's a good thing you grew out of that stage before we met."

"…"

"So why are their jeans so tight? Is it because they think they're emus?"

Emus? I thought. What the hell is she talking about?

Not a Jonas Brother

And then I realized my pop culturally ignorant wife meant emo.

I'm going to have to get her a subscription to CosmoGirl if she has any chance of conversing with our daughter in the future.

Song of the day: Connection by Elastica

[Thanks to Kate for letting me know that preteen girls no longer read Tiger Beat.]

The Jerk Store Called And They're Running Out Of Me

Zoey graduated from kindergarten last week. I believe a bunch of the girls are headed to Cancun for Grad Week.

They had a nice little graduation ceremony for the kids (yeah, who the hell am I kidding -- we all know it was for the parents). Right before they received their diplomas, the kids marched onto the stage of the auditorium and acted out the lyrics to a song.

I recognized the song, but couldn't place it.

When the kids got to the chorus, the light bulb went off above my head. I rolled my eyes and whispered to Ella, "Oh my God. I can't believe they're doing Celine." When she didn't answer me, I looked at her.

She was crying.

Of course, it doesn't take much to tug at her heartstrings. She's the heart and I'm the head. It makes for a good balance.

So I turned to the person next to me to see if she was a little bit freaked out to see the kids doing this strange Celine Dion pantomime. She was also crying.

I scanned the room and noticed there wasn't a dry eye in the house. It was like everyone was watching the last few minutes of Rudy.

It was then that I realized that I'm a heartless bastard. And while I've come to that conclusion before, it's never been as apparent as it was that day.

Song of the day: Because You Loved Me by Celine Dion

Four Minus One

The wife left yesterday morning for Austin. While I'm quite adept at taking care of the kids by myself (at least that's what I like to tell myself), it's those last three hours of the day, from 5:30 - 8:30 PM, that kill me. I'm used to tag-teaming the kids with her during supper, baths, and bedtime, so when I'm flying solo, it feels like it lasts six hours.

I'm a wuss.

I miss her assistance.

I miss her.

But my daughter? I'm not so sure she misses Ella.

When we told Zoey that Ella was going out of town on business, her first reply was, "Will you bring me back something?" After she was assured that Ella would be returning with gifts in tow, Zoey said, "Cool! We can be like Hannah's family!"*

I'm sure that made Ella feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

*For those of you who are luckily not as well-versed in all things Hannah Montana, Hannah's mother is dead. It's just her, her father, and her brother. I don't know how Hannah's mother bit the dust, but I did see a flashback episode in which Brooke Shields played Hannah's mother.

Song of the day: Teas'n, Pleas'n by Dangerous Toys

It Was Way Too Early For This Conversation

Ella was getting ready for work this morning when Zoey came waltzing into our bedroom.

Zoey took one look at the thong Ella was wearing and said, "Mommy! Your underwear's on backwards. The little part goes in the front!"

And that's when I pretended to be asleep.

Song of the day: Teenage Dirtbag by Wheatus

Will You Lend A Helping Hand?

This morning, I was loading the dishwasher when I saw a little hand made of construction paper lying on the kitchen table. I picked it up and noticed it read, "A helping hand was here." I went and found Ella and asked her about it.

She told me, "It's for the Daisy Scouts. Zoey is supposed to help out around the house without being told to do so. When she does something helpful, she leaves one of these hands."

"Cool," I said. "Random acts of kindness."

"And we're supposed to set a good example," Ella continued. "We're supposed to leave these hands around the house when we lend a helping hand, too."

"Hmmm," I said. "Any chance you'll be leaving one of those here tonight?" I asked, nodding at my crotch.

Her reply?

Silence.

And eye rolling.

Song of the day: Christmas Time (Don't Let The Bells End) by The Darkness

Pillow Talk

"Your hair's really getting long, you know?"

"Hmm?"

"Your hair is really long."

"I know. I had two people call me ma'am this week."

"When are you planning on getting it cut?"

"April."

"APRIL! Why April?"

"Because Zoey's school is having a fundraiser. Locks For Charity, or something like that."

"There's no way you're waiting until April."

"Of course, by then, it might be so long that I might be tempted to tease it up and start a glam cover band."

"Good night."

"You'll still be my #1 groupie."

"Good night."

Song of the day: The Joke: The Musical from Mr. Show

Women Are From Venus, Men Eat Buffalo Wings

On Saturday, Ella and I were able to go on a rare afternoon date! This was our second date this summer, so we need to be careful before we spoil ourselves.

We caught Superbad, which not as funny as we had hoped. I wanted to see Rob Zombie's Halloween and Ella wanted to see The Nanny Diaries, so we compromised. The first twenty minutes of Superbad were quite funny (especially Jonah Hill's "art problem"), but it all went downhill after they went to the liquor store.

The theater was about half filled, but we had two Hetero Guys seated near us trying to out-hetero each other during the sleeping bag scene near the end. "I'm feeling uncomfortable," said Hetero #1. "This just ain't right," replied Hetero #2. Grow up, fellas. It's 2007.

Before the movie, we had lunch at Buffalo Wild Wings. I'm always on the search for the perfect buffalo wing, so we decided to give them a try (verdict: decent wings, but far from perfect). The place was packed with Appalachian State fans cheering on their team. We were able to see the first half of the Greatest Upset In The History Of Sports before leaving to see the movie.

On the way to the theater, I was telling Ella how I'd like to go back to the restaurant. "I bet you would," she said. "There's a billion televisions with sports and all they serve is man food." "Man food?" I asked. "Buffalo wings, potato skins, cheese sticks, deep-fried appetizer crap," she replied. "If that's man food, what's woman food? A salad?" I asked her. She didn't have an answer for me.

So, if buffalo wings, potato skins, cheese sticks, and the like are "man food," what is woman food? I know most of my readers are women, so I'd really like to hear your thoughts.

And if anyone knows of a chain that makes great wings (spicy, but flavorful), let me know.

Song of the day: Valerie by The Zutons

The Bubble Master's Father's Day

I'm Officially Done With Parenting Tips

At Zed's first speech therapy session, his therapist brought out a little pig that blew bubbles. He was enthralled. He laughed. He couldn't get enough of the damn thing.

Needless to say, we rushed out to Target that night to buy him one.

We've used it in both of his therapies since then. Whenever he gets a little pissed off, we come back to the bubbles. It always calms him down. It's our safety net.

Today at his education therapy session, we decided that we would start using the bubbles as a reward and not as an actual tool. Once he completes a task, we blow the bubbles for a little bit while trying to get him to sign "More" or, God forbid, actually say the word.

This evening, I was telling Ella the way Zed prefers his bubbles. "He likes it best if you blow it in his face, then raise pig up in the air, and then lower the pig. That way he gets three separate waves of bubbles."

"Who are you, The Bubble Master?" she asked.

Thanks Ella!

The Best Father's Day Present Ever

This is my sixth Father's Day (I celebrated my first while Zoey was still in utero). I've received plenty of gifts over the years (never ties, though), but this year was the best. What did I get?

A scrapbook.

Zoey, Zed, and (mostly) Ella made a scrapbook with some of my favorite photos. On each page, Zoey would write something about the picture. Like "I like it when my Daddy dances the polka with me."

She must be talking about her other Daddy. I've never done the polka in my life. Unless you count that one drunken night in college. But even then, I think it resembled The Humpty Dance more than the polka.

And on pages where she didn't have photographs to illustrate her feelings, Zoey drew pictures. And Zed would scribble on a few pages here and there.

Thanks Zoey, Zed, and Ella!

And If I Haven't Babbled Enough

Leo at Mommy Tracks was kind enough to interview me recently. And believe it or not, I don't think I sound too idiotic (at least no more idiotic than I usually do). Give it a read if you're interested.

Thanks Leo!

Song of the day: Just A Friend by Biz Markie

Iron Man

Six years ago today, Ella and I exchanged wedding vows. It was a lovely affair and everyone had a good time. Everyone except the members of the bridal party who did not make it to the reception until seventy-five minutes after the wedding ended because the photographer insisted on taking 18,432 pictures.

You know how something always goes wrong at a wedding? Stuff that make people say "One day you'll look back on this and laugh" or "You'll have something memorable to talk about in twenty years."

Just because something is memorable doesn't mean you want to remember it.

Everything was fine until the pastor introduced us to the invitees. "I am honored to introduce you to Mister and Missress…"

Time stopped. I had never heard the term Missress. I still have no idea how to spell it correctly (Missrus? Mizrus? Mistake?). Apparently, it's some old-school Southern word for Missus.

If you watch our wedding video, you can see a strange look come over my face and my head whip back and look at the pastor. But it was nothing compared to the next word that came out of his mouth.

Our last name. Only it wasn't our last name. Sure, it sounded close to our last name, but the first vowel was an a instead of an o. Once again, I looked at the pastor like he was insane.

And one by one, every bridegroom came back to the holding room, shook my hand, and said, "Congratulations, Mr. Halland." Jerks.

But hey! At least we'll have something memorable to talk about in twenty years.

And would you like to know how we spent our anniversary? We tried to have a romantic getaway last weekend, but you know how that turned out. So today, we decided to stay home and take care of Zed who was diagnosed with chicken pox this morning.

Feel free to share any personal wedding-gone-awry stories you may have.

Song of the day: Ballroom Blitz by Sweet

Two More Things To Be Thankful For

At Least Black Friday Only Comes Once A Year

Ella wanted to go shopping in the wee hours this morning. Since we were at her folks' home, she asked me to go with her. Ordinarily, I (and any other sane man) would say, "NO WAY!" But since someone was shot and killed outside the mall three days ago, I decided to go shopping with her. Why? I've seen my wife's survival instincts, or lack thereof, in action.

A few years ago, we were shopping at a thrift store. We had just loaded our haul into the backseat and were in the process of getting into the car when two cars came racing down the road. The passenger of one car was holding a gun outside his window, firing shots at the other car. I ducked behind my car door. I looked over and saw Ella standing tall, mouth agape, watching the whole thing. "GET THE HELL DOWN!" I screamed. She did. We lived (but I'm sure you guessed that already).

But back to our Black Friday shopping: it was fairly uneventful. There were some long lines at a few stores but for the most part we were able to go in, get what we needed, and get out without too much difficulty. Of course, it helped that my cell phone's alarm didn't go off so we didn't actually get started until 9:00 AM, hours after the crazies had already rummaged through the stores.

Still A Family Of Four

Warning: I'm sharing entirely too much in this section!

My wife's periods are very regular. Two months ago, she went off The Pill and began using The Ring. I had some issues with it, fearing that operator error could lead to a surprise bundle of joy. And if you're a regular reader, you already know my feelings about having more children.

Well guess what? She was two days late this month. Two L-O-N-G days of panic, desperation, fretting, pacing, sweating, cursing, and worrying. Thankfully, for no good reason.

Better late than never, you know?

The Scariest (Or Mushiest, Depending Upon Your Perspective) Halloween Story Ever Told

My apologies if you read the condensed version of this last year.

As I wrote last week, I absolutely love Halloween. In addition to the aforementioned reasons, Halloween holds a special place in my heart due to two momentous occasions.

Eight years ago, Ella and I moved into our very first home on Halloween. We had been living together for four-and-a-half years, moving from apartment to apartment to rental home. Finally, we had scraped together enough money to buy a nice little starter home in a new subdivision.

We moved boxes and furniture into the house all day long. That evening, we sat by the door, waiting for all the cute little Trick-or-Treaters. But since we were only the third house built in that subdivision, we only had two visitors all evening. But we still had fun. IN OUR VERY OWN HOME.

Life was good. Really good.

But we weren't married yet. So the next year, I decided to propose (yes, for those of you doing the math, we had been dating five-and-a-half years at this point). But I didn't want to just take her out to dinner and put a ring in a fortune cookie or something like that. So I decided to propose to her on Halloween.

I had it all worked out in my head: I would take a trick-or-treat bucket, fill it with candy, and hide the ring inside. Pure genius! And semi-romantic, right? I would have our next-door neighbor's two-year-old daughter deliver it to us under the guise that she got "too much candy." Like there is such a thing to a kid.

The only problem? I forgot to tell my neighbor about the plan. I went over there about 7:00 PM on Halloween evening and told him what I wanted them to do. But his daughter had already had her bath and was getting ready for bed. I begged and pleaded with him, and he finally agreed to put her costume back on and come over to our house (I did buy him a six-pack the next day).

I hurried home. Five minutes later the doorbell rang. My neighbor said, "Susie got a lot of candy tonight. We figured you guys might like some." After Ella made a fuss over Susie's Tigger costume, they left and we sat down. Ella said, "Let's see what we got!" She started rummaging through the bucket and found the ring box. She pulled it out and smiled. I opened the box, got down on one knee, and... well, I guess you can figure out what happened next.

Poor Ella. She should've just eaten the candy.

Happy Halloween, everyone!

Not Knowing When To Quit

Sometimes I do things to purposely piss of my wife. It's fun.

But when she brings it on herself? That's even more fun.

Tonight, the four of us went out to dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant. We had been sitting in our booth for 3.6 seconds when Ella hissed at me, "Don't say a word."

I had no idea what she was talking about. I looked at her like she was crazy, wondering what I had done wrong. Then I looked around. I noticed an elderly gentleman sitting at the table right next to us. Dude looked exactly like Santa Claus.

I grinned. "Zoey," I whispered.

I looked at Ella. She was sending me one of her patented shut-the-hell-up-if-you-know-what's-good-for-you glares.

Unfazed, I continued to try to get Zoey to notice Santa. "Zoey," I whispered again. "Look at the booth next to us." My daughter, always the brightest bulb in the bunch, looked up.

I received a sharp kick to the shin. There was no turning back at this point. "Zoey! Look over there," I said as I nodded my head in the direction the man was sitting.

Zoey followed my head and saw the man. "SANTA!" she joyfully screamed. The man smiled at her and waved.

"HONEY!" Ella yelled. "What is your deal?"

A few minutes after the man left, I explained to Ella that he wanted the attention. He was making a concentrated effort to look like Santa Claus. Zoey probably made his day.

Didn't matter.

Now if you'll excuse me, the couch is calling.

Monday Bloody Monday

I've been a parent for almost four years now. In that time, I feel I have met every challenge presented to me. True, I may have felt inept at times, but at least I didn't panic. At least I wasn't useless.

Never have I felt that I failed one of my kids.

Until today.

I was in the kitchen, putting the dishes in the dishwasher after lunch, when I heard Zoey cry shriek wail... I really have no way of accurately describing it. It was a sound I had never heard her make. And a sound I hope I never hear again.

I rushed into the living room and found her covered with blood.

Her face, forehead, and right arm had blood all over it. Blood was on her dress. Blood was on the floor. She was frozen, standing in the middle of the living room, screaming.

I was frozen as well. I just stood there, trying to grasp what was happening, what had happened, and what to do. I have seen plenty of blood in my life; I've had lots of broken bones and my share of stitches. But I had never seen that much blood on my daughter.

I just stood there.

Finally, I pulled my head out of my ass and rushed over to comfort her. I took her to the kitchen and washed most of the blood off her body. I was then able to tell that the blood was coming from her forehead. In between her sobs, I was able to discover that she had hit her head on the corner of our entertainment center.

I asked her if she needed to go to the doctor. Of course, she screamed, "NO!" So I took her back to the living room and put her on the couch. I put a washcloth to her forehead. She had a tiny hole in her forehead which, in my mind, looked like a gaping wound that left me wondering how her brain was still inside her skull.

The bleeding had stopped, but I still phoned Ella. "COME HOME NOW!" I screamed. "ZOEY'S HURT!" Ella came home and calmed me Zoey down. "She's ok," Ella told me. "She doesn't even need stitches." I didn't believe her; I had seen all the blood that had come out of Zoey's head. Blood like that requires stitches!

I spent the rest of the afternoon s-t-a-r-i-n-g at poor Zoey. She was fine. She was dancing and playing as usual. But all I could see was her covered in blood.

I watched for signs of dizziness. I looked at the wound again and again, trying to determine if it needed stitches, praying that it didn't reopen.

Finally, after about two hours (actually, it was only ten minutes), I drove to my mom's office. She was once a nurse and assured me that Zoey did not need stitches.

So we came back home. Zed played in my office while Zoey and I spent most of the afternoon in front of the computer, playing games, surfing, and stalking WebMd.

Tonight, she's got a walnut-sized welt in the middle of her forehead. But she'll be okay. As long as her father never has to make a quick decision that may decide her fate.

GHS: 10

And for the two of you that care, I will resume my Top 100 Albums Of All Time tomorrow evening. I promise.

My Wife, My Hero

Note: As I was not present for the following event, I cannot account for its veracity. But Ella assures me what you are about to read is entirely accurate.

Ella rounded up the kids and took them to Target on Sunday afternoon while I worked on a project that has slowly eaten away what little brains I have remaining taken much of my free time lately. She decided to look at the Father's Day cards.

Zoey: First it was Mother's Day.
Ella: Yes.
Zoey: Now it's Father's Day.
Ella: Right.
Zoey: When is Kid's Day?
Unknown Woman Standing A Few Feet From Them: Every day is Kid's Day.
Ella: Ha! That's the truth.

Ella and Zoey turned their attention back to the card selection. Ella picked up one that a button inside which read, "Go ask your Mom!"

Zoey: What does that say?
Ella: Go ask your Mom.
Zoey: Why does it say that?
Ella: It means that Daddy gets to take the day off.
Unknown Woman Standing A Few Feet From Them: Which is also every day.

Now I would love to tell you that Ella turned around, pounced on the woman, and bitchslapped her senseless while the kids cheered her on. But Ella did tell the woman I was a caring, loving stay-at-home dad who seldom received days off as the woman backpedaled, stammered, and apologized.

God, I wish I had been there to witness Ella putting that woman in her place. But of course, had I been present, the following announcement might have been heard over the loudspeaker: "We need all available employees to clean up the headless woman in the greeting card section."

How To Piss Off Ella With One Little Question

Simply ask her, "What did you get Chag for Mother's Day?"

Then step back and watch the sparks fly!

Update: Our next-door neighbor asked her this question. After Ella snapped his neck and devoured his carcass, I foolishly told her that Zoey's preschool teacher asked me the same thing at the drop-off line.

Luckily, I can outrun my wife.

Last Minute Shopping (Is There Any Other Kind?)

Last week, I asked Zoey what she wanted to get Ella for Mother's Day. She thought she was already golden due to the fact she had brought home so many cute crafts from preschool.

No dice, babe.

So what did she want to get her mom?

Flowers? Nope.

Candy? Guess again.

A flashlight. Because nothing says thank you for carrying me for nine months and loving me unconditionally like a flashlight.

I will never figure out how that child's mind works.

Zed, Zoey, and I headed to Target on Saturday morning (Shut up! Life's been way too hectic lately for my taste.). We maneuvered our way to the card section and picked though the remains of the Mother's Day cards with all the other slackers. Next, we headed to the electronics department.

I had threatened to get Ella a copy of Monster Ballads for Mother's Day because even though she claims she hates that type of music and says it's "redneck," I think she secretly jams to this in her car when no one is watching. But we opted for the Grey's Anatomy DVD instead.

And then we went to the camping section to pick up a flashlight. I almost wrote something like You light up my life. Love, Zoey on the package, but wisely decided against it due to the extreme cheese factor.

Quick question for the ladies: how did Patrick Dempsey become a heartthrob? Is he simply part of the George Clooney Theory that states if you put a marginal 80s actor in scrubs, he inexplicably gets elevated to Hunk Status? I need answers.