You Know It's Not In the Dictionary

We're at an interesting time in the Bean's development when he's becoming less gullible, which threatens to make this whole parenting thing more challenging. So far, we've been lucky enough to have a kid who doesn't question the world around him. He was a typical toddler, who would point to things and ask, "This?" But once that subsided, he stopped asking questions.

This lack of inquisitiveness has offered us some freedom--mostly financial. He has never wanted to go into a gift shop at a museum, even though his friends could not pass one by without needing to visit. Trips to the mall have been more about the play area than the Disney store. In the Bean's world, all beverages that are not water or juice are "coffee" even though they may look nothing like coffee. But the biggest misconception he has is that ice cream trucks are "music trucks." He coined this phrase early in his life and we've happily never corrected him. He's never stopped to ask why there are always kids hanging out around the music truck, nor has he asked to join them. Thus I've avoided having to be the bad guy by constantly saying "no" every time we see one. (Seriously, ice cream trucks stake out the kids in a park like a panther hunting a deer.) Amazingly, the Bean has never noticed the numerous pictures of icey treats pasted on the side of the trucks. It's like having an infant who has not developed the notion of object permanence.

But this is all coming to an end. Soon.

The Bean is learning. He's asking questions. He now knows that sometimes Daddy drinks wine or soda. In stores, he asks if we can take things home. He's learned about souvenirs. And the ice cream man isn't helping, either.

At approximately 3:00 every day, the ice cream truck arrives. You can hear it long before it appears on our street, its chimes playing the obnoxiously peppy "Turkey in the Straw" over and over. The Bean's ears prick up like a dog and he presses his face against the window, frosting it with his breath. The truck comes down the road, and the nefarious driver, knowing that there is a ice-cream deprived kid inside, slows down and practically hovers in front of our house. From my vantage point, I can clearly see his assortment of bomb pops, strawberry shortcakes and the irresistible Spongebob bar (with gumball eyes). I stare into the evil ice cream man's eyes with a look that says, "Move along mister. We don't take kindly to your kind 'round these parts." As the truck sluggishly passes by, he stares back. A tumbleweed blows by. Soon he is gone.

For the time being, the Bean remains gullible, continuing to believe that there is such thing as a music truck. But it's just a matter of time before he really studies the side of that truck. And on that day, my job as a parent will become that much harder and the ice cream man will have won.

Here's Why I Don't Have a New Post Today

Three days at Comic Con. Wonderful, crazy, hectic, tiring days. I get home Saturday night at 8pm, with hopes of spending the rest of the evening with WonderWife™, who I missed while mingling with my fellow nerds in San Diego. But this was not to be. Sprout had been sick earlier in the day with a stomach flu and the Bean had been giving her hints that he was next.

I barely had time to unpack and settle into bed to spin my geeky tales of the past few days to an indifferent WW™ when a cry came out from the Bean's room. I'll spare you the details, but know that his bed needed to be stripped and changed.

Thus begun a night where neither WW™ or I got much sleep. After a few more incidents, the Bean refused to go back to his bedroom and only wanted to sleep on the floor of the den, refusing even a pillow or a blanket. It was much too late and he was much too sick to fight with him. Lying there, sleeping fitfully, he looked like a puppy. I "slept" on the couch next to him, which was only big enough to hold two thirds of my body. Neither of us logged in many hours in dreamland that night.

By the time dawn broke, WonderWife™ informed me that she too had succumbed to the dreaded stomach flu. The day's plans were scrapped so she could sleep. I tried very hard to keep two recovering kids happy and alive while not falling asleep myself.

So there will be no new post today. I'm tired.

Gone to San Diego

A Porn Story

I'm over at Hot Dads today, talking about my life in the porn industry.

Here's a taste:

Watching two people have sex in front of a camera isn’t nearly as exciting as you’d think. I know this because I was in a porn movie. I was just out of college and when the opportunity to earn a little extra cash came up, I jumped at the chance.

You really want to click over there now, don't you?

The Tough Negotiator

"Can I have fruit?" the Bean asked as he was nearing the end of his dinner.

"Eat four more pieces of chicken," said WonderWife™.

The Bean scrunched his eyebrows and looked up as he pondered this offer.

"Tell you what," he said in the tone of a used car salesman. "I'll eat one carrot aaaaaaand...four pieces of chicken."

"Hmm," I said. "Let me think about this." I waited a moment. "You've got yourself a deal."

Bacon Vodka

When I got home from work, there was a package waiting for me on the kitchen table. It was adorned with a sticker that said there was alcohol inside. Naturally, this piqued my attention.

Inside was a bottle of this:

This is a bottle of Bakon--bacon vodka. Yes that's right, bacon vodka.

I love bacon. But let’s face it, saying you love bacon is like saying you love chocolate. There aren’t a lot of people who are going to disagree with you. I also love vodka. It’s my booze of choice. It’s my parents’ booze of choice. This is most likely because of the Russian blood that flows through our veins. So what’s not to love about bacon infused vodka?

I knew there was only one person who would have sent this to me—my mother-in-law. She not only knows my obsessions, but she indulges them, much like her daughter. She’s quite a lady. (I’m not just saying that cause she reads my blog.)

Immediately after tucking in the Bean, I splashed some over ice into a cocktail shaker, shook liberally and poured it into a glass.

I took a sip.

A half hour later, WonderWife™ came home. I was in the other room, in my usual evening location—eating dinner in front of the TV.

WW’s™ voice called from the kitchen, “Did you try it?”

“Uh huh,” I said through a mouth full of food.

“Is this it in this glass?”

“Uh huh.”

“Uh, it smells terrible.”

“Uh huh.”

“Ew. It tastes horrible.”

“Uh huh.”

She was quiet for a moment.

“Ugh, the aftertaste!”

“Uh huh.”

So... I’ve got a nearly full bottle of bacon vodka, anyone have ideas about what I should do with it?

Sweep the Leg

At 9pm there was a soft knock on our front door. WonderWife™ asked me who it was. I reminder her that when the knock occurred I had been sitting beside her on the couch, so there was no way for me to know who was behind our opaque wooden door since the laboratory accident I was involved with earlier in the day unfortunately did not give me any super powers.

I answered the door to find a meek woman with a dog standing on my porch. She softly said, "Excuse me sir, there’s a bag and some keys..." and pointed to the trunk of my car parked in the driveway. I peeked out and sure enough, there was my work bag, my iPod and my keys on the back of the car in plain sight to anybody who happened to be strolling past our house. Although I stood there staring at my keys, I instinctively patted my front pocket which confirmed that the keys were not some sort of mirage on the trunk of my car, but a careless mistake made three hours ago. I thanked the woman and brought my stuff inside, grateful that there are in fact decent people in the world.

I turned sheepishly inside to find WW™ with her head cocked to the side, like an inquisitive puppy, still wondering who had been at the door. Turning around with my bag and keys in my hands, I was forced to explain what I had done.

The worst part about this story is that it totally diffuses the power of one of the great stories I had over WW™. When she was pregnant, she was notorious for leaving her keys dangling from the lock on the trunk of her car. One time she left them out there all night, only to discover them when she went searching the next morning. I did what any good husband would do in a situation like that and mercilessly teased her about it. Until this very moment.

Now I have no leg to stand on.

Just a Little Patience

For 15 minutes, I sat beside the Bean as he struggled to put on his socks. I listened to the constant refrain of, “I can’t do it!” while he made half-hearted attempts to slip them over his feet. Bouts of crying were punctuated with the inappropriate giggles of a boy who was obviously tired. It would have been so easy to intervene and put the socks on for him, but I stayed next to him nudging him back on track whenever he tried to procrastinate from the task at hand. Many times he wanted to give up, but with steadfast conviction I refused to let him. I knew that he could do it because, as I told him, “I’ve seen you do it before.”

Like every parent before and after me, I sometimes have no patience for my children. But there are other times when I find that I have the laser sharp focus to guide them through the minute tasks of life. It becomes a challenge to me that’s not unlike playing a video game. Though I love video games, I’m not very good at them so I’ve often found myself spending hours trying to get through a level—refusing to give up until I’ve gotten past it. The same patience and perseverance that allows me to tirelessly repeat a board in order to figure out the exact timing to land Mario on the platform also allows me to not grow frustrated as I watch my son learn how to do something like get dressed by himself. Getting that pixilated figure to stick the landing comes with a great sense of accomplishment. However, when the Bean achieves his goal, we both share in the success.

As the evening wore on and the Bean was still barefoot, I had a choice to make. I could end his frustration and whining by putting the socks on for him, or I could make him stick it out. It was the end of the day and I was tired and hungry, fantasizing about the tasty chicken dinner that was waiting for me in the next room. My choice was easy. There was a lesson to be taught here. If I let him give up on this simple thing, what's to stop him from giving up on the bigger things? It took some time, and a few tears, but the Bean was eventually successful. His face beamed with pride as he padded on his now sock-adorned feet down the hall and into his bedroom. As I finally bit into my meal, my face did too.

On Compatibility

When I asked my wife if she thought we were compatible she said, "We are. We shouldn't be, but we are."

The rest of this post is over at VENUS VS. MARS today. The theme of the week is compatibility, if you haven't already guessed that. Check it out, it's a good one.

I'll be back here later this week with some fresh new geeky goodness. Promise.

Year Gone By

From the moment she was born, I knew she was going to be trouble. Sprout was bright purple, screaming angrily even after she was placed on WonderWife’s™ chest. My prediction turned out to be right and during the past year Sprout has certainly kept us on our toes. For the first eight months of her life, she refused to drink from anything that wasn’t WW’s™ nipple. She would not sleep in anything but her swing. She was moody. She was stubborn. She wanted only to be held by her mother.

But for as much as she's a pain in the ass, she’s also a sweet girl with a big smile who will flirt with anyone who looks her way. She's bold and fearless and wants to interact with every part of the world, taking it all in with her wide-eyes. She loves music and loves to dance. She loves animals. She loves her big brother more than anything else in the world.

It took longer for me to bond with Sprout than it did with her brother. But sometimes the relationships that start out rough grow to be the deepest and most fulfilling. I love my daughter. Her passionate spirit reminds me of her mother—another girl I love dearly. It has been a wild first year with Sprout. I can hardly wait for the next one.

Happy 1st birthday, baby girl.

Morphing Into What I Feared Most

I couldn't be more excited to present my first ever guest post, written by none other than WonderWife™ herself. You've come to know her through me, so I wanted to give her a chance to speak for herself. I'm thrilled she took me up on it. Please enjoy...I think that you will.

It’s been well documented that not only am I a self-proclaimed “not geek,” but that I have a great disdain for most things geek, including but not limited to: Comic-Con, gadgets, anything Sci-Fi, video games, and most pop culture. Unless you’re the 20-something bachelors of The Big Bang Theory (No, I do not watch it. But DGB does. Of course.), then there is simply not enough space in any one abode for more than a single geek. The place would be overwrought with gizmos, not to mention the cacophony of gadgets, each with their own beeps, whirls, and various other annoying sounds. I imagine that the noise would cause some sort of aneurysm and I would die a slow death as I bled from my ears.

It was this past week that I bought a new toy for myself – a hoity-toity sewing machine that I’ve been jonsin’ on for quite a while. Unlike DGB, I did not research the thing to death. I did a quickie web search, found one that had the capabilities I wanted, was a price that I knew to be reasonable, read a few customer reviews, and was satisfied. All in the span of 5 minutes. I assure you, it really is that easy to make a purchase. As I added the machine to my shopping cart, DGB asked if I had read the online reviews on it. The he clarified, “From multiple sites?” I just sighed. I was nearly ready to complete my transaction when all of the sudden DGB yelled, “Wait! Have you bought it yet? No? Go to Pricegrabber. Quickly. Just to make sure you’re getting the best price.”

The man simply cannot help himself. He was practically twitching knowing that I was buying a machine without going to at least 7 different cross-referenced websites. So I did it. For him. I looked at reviews for this model at another website and checked the other online prices. It was 10 minutes of my life that I’ll never get back only to find out that I already had the best price and that the reviews on one site were just as glowing as the reviews on the next. Which is to say, I learned nothing new by cross referencing to death. Vindicated, I finished my transaction.

I typically don’t give instruction manuals much more time than it takes to toss on the floor as I’m tearing the packaging off of whatever it is that I just bought. I might go back to reference it if I have a question, but by and large, instruction manuals are neglected by me. DGB, on the other hand, cracks ‘em open first thing. He’ll leave a new toy alone and forgotten for hours as he meticulously pours though every word of his instruction manual. By the last page, he knows every single function of his new gadget. I might figure out how to do about half that just by tinkering with it, but half of the thousands of functions that most electronics come with these days is plenty of function for me.

Three days later, my new machine arrives. And this puppy is unlike any machine that I’ve ever used. Short of plugging it in, I don’t even know where to start. It’s not like when you give up your old digital camera for a new one and so you pretty much know how to use the new one. This was like receiving a package from Mars. So I sat down, took a deep breath, and opened up the instruction manual. I read. And read. And read. At last I tried sewing with it.

As DGB came into my studio to have a look, I couldn’t help but to exclaim, “Look! Look at this! Look what it does! And here – look at this function. And see this? It can do this, too.”

Always the pragmatist, he asked, “How did you figure all of this out already? You just got it today."

I looked up from my sewing rather sheepishly and admitted that I had read the instruction manual cover to cover. His eyes widened and the beginnings of a smirk appeared at the sides of his mouth. But true to gallant form, he simply nodded and turned to leave. As he reached the door, he turned back, walked over to me and whispered in my ear, "Booyah! You're a geek too."