Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Mack has found a new passion in life- he makes weapons. I guess I should be worried that my 8-year old son has fashioned a completely functioning crossbow out of rubber bands and old chop sticks. Or maybe I should be alarmed that he acquired the knowledge to build such a weapon from You Tube videos titled “Homemade weapons”. Lastly, maybe I should show a little parental concern because Cayden just shot through the kitchen with a pie-tin-sized bullseye taped to his back. But I’m not concerned. This statement probably makes me sound like a horrible parent, but I can explain.

The reason my panties remain un-bunched is that, so far, every weapon that Mack has built is pathetically inadequate for taking down Cayden-sized prey. I’ve seen several of his creations throughout the weekend and I believe the majority of them are as benign as a feather duster. He has a homemade BB gun made from a mechanical pencil, a dart gun which used to squirt water, and the above mentioned chop stick hurling crossbow. He told me the other day that he was “born to make weapons”- that admission was a bit unsettling. No parent wants to announce that their child is an international weapons manufacturer at the local garden club meeting, unless of course the club meets in Baghdad.

The one piece of his newfound fascination that is alarming is that the Marine in me can’t stand to see an ineffective weapons system and the tinker-er in me has the technology to make those weapons better, stronger, faster- sort of like the guy who rebuilt Steve Austin after his spaceship crashed in the 6-Million Dollar Man.

So when Mack wasn’t looking, I tinkered with his dart gun and increased the muzzle velocity on the damn thing by approximately 300%- enough to fire a toothpick clean through a ½ inch piece of sheet rock (our dining room wall happens to be made of just such a substance- this is how I know the thickness- oops). Smelling a potential lawsuit, I quickly reversed the modifications I had made and put it back on the counter.

Note to self- deny my services if Mack finds “You Tube” directions for homemade hand grenades.



5 minutes to Blog….

March 13, 2013

Connie is in Italy I am alone with the boys.  I do not have time to edit.  I do not have time to re-read my dialog to see if I am appropriatley witty.  I have had a half dozen glasses of wine, six Motrin and half a chicken pot pie (home made- kiss my ass Swanson; I took an hour and a half to do what you could have done in 3.5 minutes in an 1100 watt microwave and it tasted almost as good).

So far the adventure, or what the boys and I refer to as “Man-cation” or “Man-Camp”, has not resulted in any irreversible damage.  However, there have been some memorable moments.

1.  33 minutes after Connie’s plane left the tarmac Mack broke his middle finger playing basketball.  The 7 and 1/2 hours in the emergency room was well worth it.  Mack now has a giant splint on his social finger which he loves to display to passing motorist.  I’m pretty sure his road rage was a hereditary gift from his mother’s side of the family.

2.  Cayden lost a priceless gem he found on the playground.  According to him the rock was worth more than my life and if he found out that I pimped it on “On-Hard Core Pawn” he will feel compelled to gouge my eyes out with a claw hammer.

3.  My nightly relaxation time was spent watching “Duck Dynasty”.  What little bit of intelligence I once possessed has been sucked from my soul as easily a Dyson sucking a “Ghost Turd” from a hardwood floor.

4. Carlo ate an entire roll of toilet paper?  I guess that’s how dogs celebrate a “Man-Cation”.  As far as I’m concerned this scenario is the perfect “self-licking ice cream cone”.   The boy can now wipe his own ass when he shits on the neighbors lawn- little blue baggies be damned…

5.  Cayden just announced that he’s starting a “Harlem Shake” movement in his 4th grade class.  He is telling me this as I type.  I am encouraging him to do so.

I am now going to break away from blogging to show him some Harlem Shake videos on YouTube- I really want to be the only Dad with a fourth grader suspended for starting a dance revolution in the halls of his school.

I love my life, I love my boys…




Pajama Bottoms

March 6, 2013

I question a lot of today’s fashion trends.  For instance, I don’t necessarily understand the fascination some people have with piercing every flap, fold, crease or protrusion they happen upon while taking a shower.  And I’m particularly perplexed by those who decide that it’s not really a piercing unless you can drive a small sedan through it without scraping the side-view mirrors.  This fashion statement, or quaint little act of self-mutilation, is referred to as “gauging”.   I’m not exactly sure why this trend has caught on with the younger generation.  Maybe it’s their way of bringing attention to global issues such as hunger, poverty or the hole we’ve created in the ozone.  I’m not really sure what message they’re trying to convey but the one that speaks loudest to me is “I have no aspirations of earning more than minimum wage”.  I consider this to be one of the dumbest trends I’ve seen in a long time- which means a lot coming from a guy who owned more than one pair of “super fresh” parachute pants and a piano themed black leather tie.

Notice I didn’t say “the dumbest”.  I didn’t say “THE” dumbest because for the most part the folks who engage in this practice are young people that haven’t developed the analytic skill to weigh the consequences of their actions.   I imagine this development will occur in their mid-30’s once they’ve grown tired of tucking their ear lobes into their socks to prevent them from being mangled in the latte machine they’ve been hired to operate.  But the truth is most of these clowns will eventually figure it out.  Their stupidity is reversible; albeit with the assistance of a good plastic surgeon.

But I don’t know if there is hope for another group, of which I’m closely affiliated, to reach a similar level of self awareness.

It begs the question, when will middle-aged men reach the conclusion that pajama bottoms are not an appropriate substitute for “big boy” pants in the public domain?

If you’re a ten year old girl you can get away with it, some might even consider it cute.  But I contend that if you’re a 40 (+) year old dude trying to pull off the same look “creepy” will quickly replace “cute” as the adjective that most would use to describe you.  I personally think that most of these jokers are simply searching for an intervention that they can call their own and PJs are nothing more than the banner by which they can advertise their disturbing, perverse cry for help.

The trouble with my theory however, is that I see this cry for help almost every where I go.  It often makes me wonder if I’m behind the times, the out-liar, the Tyrannosaurus Rex destined for extinction because my wee-tiny arms refused to keep pace with the evolving environment?  I don’t really think that’s the case, I sort of doubt that it’s just my intolerance for change that’s driving me to the conclusion that these guys are wrong and I am right.  I think it’s a lot more likely that there are just a shit-ton of stupid pajama wearing people in the world and apparently all of them live within close proximity of me.  But, I’ve been wrong in the past so for the sake of equity I decided to re-evaluate the whole pajama bottom phenomenon with complete scientific objectivity and here are my completely unbiased conclusions.

Airport:   Nope, the airport is not an appropriate venue for sporting your “warm and comfies”.   Remember my “fleece and flannel” loving friends, you will be sitting in close proximity to other passengers who, unlike you, have chosen to dress like adults.  It is highly unlikely that they will look at you with anything less than utter disgust.  I know this from personal experience having given that look for 5-continuous hours on my return flight from California last month.  The look of “utter disgust” takes significant energy to maintain making the provider, of said look, tired and irritable.   Increased levels of irritability, fueled by inadequate airline sustenance and condescending flight attendants, increases one’s chances of having their lips pulled over their head like a hockey jersey.  Not saying it will happen to you; but your “Lord of the Rings” themed sleepwear is definitely putting you in a position of increased risk.

Grocery Store:  Nope, not there either.  First of all, the only person I know that likes grocery shopping is my father.  The trouble is my father doesn’t like many other things and, unlike me, wasn’t blessed with an unlimited supply of tolerance.  I can assure you that if you tarnish his experience by prancing past him in your PJs he will crush your gourd with the first frozen pot roast he can lay his hands on; he’s not to be trifled with.  Secondly, everyone else I know has a hundred other places they would rather be than shopping for groceries.  If you think strolling past them in your jammies is going to lighten the mood and bring a smile to their pursed, unhappy lips think again- you my friend are throwing kerosene on smoldering tinder and rest assured you will be burnt.

Walking your child to school–  Personally, I’ve always considered it mildly pathetic when middle aged men/women attempt to recapture the glory days by wearing clothing they obviously lifted from their teenager’s closet.  Take my sage advice men, unless you’ve got Abercrombie endorsed abs leave the Under Armor high-performance compression shirts alone.  Ladies,  hip-huggers are a no-no after 40; sporting 14(+) inches of visible ass-crack has nearly ruined the plumbing profession so my guess is it won’t work out well for you either.  Point being, dressing several generations younger than you are is bad; applying said practice to sleepwear is worse; combining the two and taking it beyond the threshold of your own home is “Amber Alert” alarming.    If you’re wondering why I went to such great lengths to explain what should be considered an obvious cultural norm it’s because some people work really hard to not embrace the obvious.  Driving through my neighborhood a couple of weeks ago I saw a man about my age walking his child to school.  Awesome, we need more involved dads right?  Wrong.  This was a malevolent Dad waging an evil vendetta against his child that would surely result in emotional instability that would require years of therapy to repair.  And how did I come to such a insightful conclusion in such a short period of time you might ask?  I know this because he was clad in bright yellow Sponge Bob lounge pants and was adorned with multiple piercings.    But, for the sake of argument lets say he wasn’t trying to inflict deep emotional wounds, maybe he was just trying to be “Cool-Fun-Dad”.  If this is the case then why hasn’t anyone told him that one morning, approximately the exact moment his child turns twelve, his antics will no longer solicit a favorable response.  It’s just the nature of the parent/child dynamic.   One minute you’re a rock-star; the next your kid will swear on a stack of bibles that they’ve never seen you before in their life and “have no idea officer why that creepy guy is following me”.   Sadly, if you’re wearing this type of attire in the first place you’ve already demonstrated an inability to decipher even the most overt social cues- so I guess that discussion would probably fall on deaf ears.

I was really concerned going into this that I wouldn’t be able to keep an open mind and objective eye, but as I review my conclusions I feel confident that the rigor that I applied to my research ensured that the scientific integrity of my observations have been maintained; and that my friends is something to be proud of.    Maybe for my next venture into the world of scientific exploration I’ll examine the elusive Big Foot, possibly the LochNess Monster, or my wife’s personal favorite, women who mistakenly assume “tights” is just another word for “Leggings”.


Inflatable Hell…

December 30, 2012

Every other year or so Connie and I pack up the Groah family sleigh (minivan) and venture North to Ohio so the kids can spend some much need quality time with their Grandparents. Fortunately, both sets live within a few miles of each other so we score a “two-for” for the 7 ½ hour driving investment. The car ride isn’t as heinous as it was when the kids were younger; in fact, now that our oldest has hit the “Teenage Angst” phase of his adolescence we’re only vaguely aware of his presence at all. I believe most of his inner turmoil and lack of desire to engage in witty banter can be attributed to IPhone induced hypnosis; but, I’m pretty sure puberty (accelerated alarmingly by the synthetically engineered hormones pumped into skinless chicken breast) plays a role as well. Cayden doesn’t own an IPhone (yet) and he doesn’t eat nearly as many mutant chickens as his brother so we still get the occasional, albeit brief, burst of interaction during the drive. Silence, especially when confined in close quarters with our boys, is unprecedented and to be quite honest a little unsettling. We’ve gone 12(+) years with two boys determined to eradicate peace on earth by filling every waking moment with unnecessary white noise; now when I look into the backseat I can’t help but feel like I’m riding to Ohio with two Amish kids sitting patiently for a “Children of the Corn” casting call.

I digress.

Ohio is a wondrous place filled with blue eye-shadowed Nymphs and lumberjack-esque men clad in every pattern of flannel in the Hillbilly rainbow. Add in some good old fashioned Hockey Hair, a couple of rusty 70’s era Camaros and a healthy dose of red-neck dysfunction and you’ve got enough material for a full season of Springer. It’s also quite possibly the only place left on the planet where you can still redeem your “Marboro Miles” for an 8-ft plastic kayak fashioned in the shape of an unfiltered cigarette. I always found it amusing that in order to qualify for the really good free fitness equipment offered in the Marboro Miles catalog you had to commit to smoking at least 12-packs a day for 11 straight years. This seems like a contradiction to me. How can anyone, regardless of their dedication to fitness or acquiring lung cancer, be expected to keep their cigarettes lit while paddling a kayak or burning calories on their Marboro inspired “Tony Little Gazelle”?

But these aren’t the true reasons why I love Ohio. What I really love about Ohio is how stoked my boys get when they know we’re making the trip. They absolutely
adore it and here is one of the reasons why.

Ohioans love Christmas decorations. Notice the terms quality or tasteful were not included in the previous sentence. Nope, folks in Ohio aren’t worried about either of those characteristics when they gear up for the holiday season it’s all about quantity and mass “Bling” effect. In Ohio, Clark Griswold is heralded as a visionary, even though there is a small but vocal minority that considers his decorating skill a bit on the conservative side. The following observations are dedicated to that small vocal minority.

I viewed homes in Ohio that assaulted all five of my senses at once and will likely give me night tremors for years to come. Lights of every size, color and wattage glowed so brightly from every conceivable direction that I was sure we had driven clean through Ohio and straight into the Aurora Borealis. But that wasn’t the most distinguishing facet of Ohio holiday décor by a long shot. Apparently, if you wanted to be an accepted, card carrying member of the Christmas loving community it was an absolute necessity to have an enormous, inflatable, holiday themed creature prominently displayed on your front lawn. Nothing says “Merry Christmas” like a menacing, 12-foot tall Santa Claus staring down at you while an industrial size leaf blower shoots air up his ass to keep him standing erect. I’ve seen these abominations before, they aren’t unique to Ohio. What is unique however is the reckless abandon and sheer volume by which these inflatable nightmares are used. By my estimate folks in Ohio believe that any object capable of holding air can appropriately represent the spirit of the season if placed in close proximity to a single strand of garland. I personally observed the following inflatable items placed haphazardly throughout my In-Law’s community:

Snowmen of various heights and nationalities (yes, I saw what I believed to be an Hispanic snowman)

Sleighs pulled by reindeer, border collies and what appeared to be the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

“Merry Christmas” wishes in giant Day-Glo colored bubble letters

A quartet of 4-ft tall squirrel Christmas carolers

An octopus flying a bi-plane pulling a banner wishing me a “Happy Hanukah”

An enormous inflatable swan pool toy and at least a dozen water wings

A few over-achieving households had at least one of each, while others decided to stick with a theme such as a gaggle of snowmen in military formation. Let me beat all of you critical types to the punch. Yes,  “gaggle” is a term used in reference to a grouping of geese, but apparently I’m the first person to witness a similar phenomenon with snowmen so I had to use a little literary license to paint the picture for you. Either way it was a sobering sight to witness; which is good because I tend to indulge in a little vino when I’m up that way.

I’m not sure how or why this trend took hold so I’m left with questions that may be forever unanswered. Who was the courageous Ohioan that possessed the fortitude and pioneering spirit to initiate this movement and bring this inflatable landscape to fruition? Are inflatable decorations appropriate for other holidays such as Easter, Kwanza, National Teacher Appreciation day? Does an octopus have any true seasonal significance? Is an Ohioan’s socio-economic status measured by the PSI rating of their most prominent inflatable decoration? If the Mayans had inflatable calendars would they have reached beyond 2012?

Maybe some mysteries are best left answered.

Super Powers….

June 2, 2012

Mack was assigned a project when he was in 1st grade where he was asked to draw a picture that represented what he loved most about his family. My son, drew a picture of a rather robust stick-figure holding a house over its disproportionately large head. The title of his project- “My Dad can pick up our hose (sp)”- I’m pretty sure he meant “house” because being able to hoist the average garden hose isn’t really that extraordinary.

His statement may have been slightly embellished. Although I am in fact curiously strong, I’m fairly certain that I would fail miserably if asked to live up to Mack’s claim. But, kids can be pretty damn convincing and if you listen to them long enough their ideas go from outlandish to completely plausible in a rather short span of time.

I didn’t fare well against the house.

In my defense we live in a 2-story colonial complete with finished basement. I pointed this fact out to the rather large group of kids that had gathered to witness my awesomeness- but the little smart ass from up the street was quick to remind me that Mack’s picture said “our house” and not just “a” house.

My ego attributes the failure more to physics than lack of pure, unbridled, physical power. In fact, I’m somewhat confident that had there been a couple of sturdy hand-holds down close to the foundation my chances for success would have been substantially greater.

But whether I can, or cannot, pick up our house isn’t the point; the point of this anecdote is that my boys genuinely believe I can, simply because I’m Dad.

At this phase in my boys’ lives I’m pretty close to perfection incarnate, I have unlimited ability and there isn’t a topic in existence that I don’t have subject matter expertise in. I don’t register on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs until the third tier as I don’t require sleep, food, shelter, security or oxygen. I am invincible; impervious to cold weather, pain, injury, weapons of mass destruction and the smell produced by Maryland stink bugs when you crush them between your thumb and forefinger. I’ll never age because that’s what happens to mortal men (a thought most likely attributed to them being unable to process what life would be like without their Dad). I’m what they hope to one day become, what they strive to emulate and the yard stick by which they’ll measure all others; at least for the moment.

Not to say Moms aren’t cool- because they are; and they’ll have their time upon the pedestal. But for a little boy, if his father lives up to the responsibility of his title and sincerely commits to the investment of raising his son there’s a good chance he’ll get there first. How long he stays there depends on him- but I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the value of his character, the consistency of his message and the example he provides through his actions, both large and small.

I know that I’m not perfect. I know my faults better than anyone, so I’m not worried about falling in love with my press clippings. But I’m smart enough to recognize the significance of this moment. Right now I have their attention. My boys value my opinion, allowing me to influence their development and hopefully lay the foundation which will define the type of men they will one day become. I’m also smart enough to realize that parental influence is a perishable commodity. As they enter their teenage years and begin to discover themselves my stock will likely fall a few points. They’ll see the wrinkles that crease my eyes and the grays that pepper my head and beard. They’ll come to realize that Dad isn’t as tall, strong or as fast as they once believed him to be, but none of that will matter.

It won’t matter because as they mature all of the “super powers”, that seemed so important to them as children, will be replaced with something much more significant. They’ll come to recognize the sacrifice, commitment and unconditional love that Connie and I have invested in them, and when they do they’ll come to the conclusion that raising a house is nothing compared to raising a child.

Dad, I’d like a hamster for my birthday.

A hamster? Really buddy? Tell you what, before I make any rash “heart breaking” decisions I want you to try this simple exercise.

Clench this piece of bacon between your teeth and let it hang down to your chin.

Now, lean forward and shake your head vigorously from side to side.

There you go- shake it good?

Quit screaming buddy, that’s not an angry bacon-eating badger; that furry “ball-of-love” hanging from your lips is actually the “Must-Have” Puppy your Mom and I felt obligated to purchase in order to make your childhood complete.

Remember him?

Of course you do- he’s the guy who’s poop you promised to clean up. He’s also the guy that you promised to walk everyday after school. If I remember correctly you actually came to blows with your brother over who would get to walk him most. Funny, your Mother and I didn’t even participate in that fight but somehow we won? isn’t that strange?

So forgive me if I’m a bit perplexed by your request for a Hamster. The puppy is five times the size of a hamster and given the relative size of his brain (compared to that of a rat’s) is likely 10-times more intelligent. In fact, he’s so smart you could probably teach him to do all the tricks a rodent can do (eat garbage, befriend crack addicts, carry Bubonic plague) in a single afternoon. So you see Honey, having a puppy is just like owning a hamster- only more rewarding and hygenic.

But honestly Son, I don’t think a hamster’s in the cards this year; and just to avoid any tertiary discussions- the same goes for kittens, parakeets, baboons and koala bears. Truth be told, I wouldn’t let you have a friggin “Sea Monkey” if it came marching out of my ass banging a pair of cymbals and singing the title track from “Ghost”.

You have a puppy- his name is Carlo Rossi- cherish him, for he is a great and gracious being who loves you dearly in spite of your silly talk of usurping his position in our home with a Hamster.

Don’t eat string…

August 14, 2011

Run Carlo Run!

I just learned that if you eat a bunch of thread all of your poop will come out linked together like a giant string of cultured pearls. Apparently it’s scary as hell too, because no matter how fast you run to escape you can’t gain any distance on your poop because it’s attached to your ass like a kite tail.

Yes, I agree this is a nasty predicament to be in and the guy that gets recruited to cut the string will likely feel the same- but the good news is everyone else who witnesses you running through the back yard trying to outrun your own excrement is going to think it hilarious. Don’t be surprised if they break out their cell phones in an attempt to memorialize your plight on “You-Tube”.

I don’t eat string so this has never happened to me. And though my boys have flushed an entire roll of dental floss down the toilet creating somewhat similar results to the plumbing in my home- I don’t think they’ve actually ever eaten any- at least that Connie and I know of. But my youngest boy- Carlo – well let’s just say he has a craving for hemp that his digestive tract doesn’t support. Luckily, Carlo also likes to consume toilet paper so the whole cycle of events that unfolded in my backyard was a wash. Sort of a “self licking ice cream cone” if you will.

Don't be fooled by my cuteness- I'm deadly!

I’ve finally figured out why new born human infants aren’t graced with a full set of teeth fresh out of the package. Our latest addition to the family, Mr. Carlo Rossi Groah, has been the source of my new found enlightenment. Carlo is a puppy. Carlo has a full set of razor sharp puppy teeth. His razor sharp puppy teeth are strategically located behind his uber sweet smelling puppy breath- an aroma my wife finds irresistible. My theory is that puppies were provided “puppy breath” to assist them in luring their prey closer to their gaping “Puppy suck-hole”- sort of like when a hunter douses himself with “Buck Scent”. Only instead of attracting a horny moose, puppy breath attracts human faces- in my home the potential for nostril reconstruction surgery looms in the not too distant future.

But nostrils aren’t Carlo’s only snack food. Apparently there are all kinds of other great tasting morsels laying around my home that I was never even aware of- for instance:

1. Window sills- I don’t know what kind of wood our builder used to spruce up our window ledges but holy shit does it appeal to Golden Labs! Carlo simply cannot get enough. I took the advice of a friend and slathered it with Cayenne Pepper- but Carlo likes his household trim MUY CALIENTE! In fact, all I achieved from my efforts was a puppy who eats window ledges and farts balls of fire.

2. Shoes- The neat thing about Carlo’s taste for footwear is he believes they’re a dish best served with feet still inserted- so beware when you walk in my home. My advice- remove your shoes before you knock; when the door swings open toss them in; wait 30-seconds and then rush past the feeding frenzy. It should go without saying that when come to the Groah house wear tasteless, cheap footwear- like CROCs for instance. Personally, I believe if you wear CROCs beyond your fourth birthday you deserve to have your feet eaten any way- so don’t act surprised if I encourage Carlo to attack.

3. Little metal door stoppers that screw into your base boards to prevent door knobs from puncturing holes in your sheet rock. If you’re going to own a golden lab I suggest replacing all of your plastic door stoppers with the high end metal ones- they can be salvaged once your dog has his morning BM.

4. Every plant I own. Thank God I’m not growing pot in my back yard- I would have lost my ass. Carlo has eaten every piece of vegetation that I own and that which he chooses not to eat he pees on. My dog must have battery acid in his bladder because my grass has turned to sand and I actually saw a tumbleweed blow past my back door. Friggin awesome!

5. Toes (I’m guessing because they remind him of shoes)

6. Furniture of every description (though he does display a certain fondness for quality hardwoods). My guess is if Carlo ever went to a 5-star restaurant he would forego the menu and request a Restoration Hardware catalog instead- but at least he has taste (good pun I need to write that shit down).

7. Children- Cayden is the perfect snack item because he giggles when you bite him- how fun is that for a puppy. Cayden is like the toy inside a McDonalds Happy Meal- taste good and entertains- perfect.

Funny thing is Carlo won’t bite me- I know I should be relieved but strangely I’m a bit offended.

You may not be aware of this but I’ve been known to dabble in documentary film making. Connie has all of the talent when it comes to capturing “stills” (that’s artistic talk for pictures)- but as far as cinematic skill- it’s all ME baby!

I’ve embedded a little number that I’m submitting to the Cannes film festival this year- I like to call it “zoomy, za-zoom-zoom; bike ride to Armageddon”.

If you’re moved to tears- it’s okay. I intentionally engineered this film to tug at the heart strings while at the same time encouraging the viewer’s soul to soar like an eagle far, far above all of the ugliness that one might experience on a 50-mile morning commute along the DC beltway- I may be projecting- but the bottom line is this movie will change your life. CIAO! “the Shane”

Groah family blurbs

April 29, 2011

Man I’ve been really, really bad about keeping up on this thing- but, when life gets busy you have to prioritize and sadly writing stupid shit on the internet doesn’t rank as high as most other things competing for my limited free time.

That being said I realize if I don’t stop and jot things down they’ll be forever be lost in the abyss that has become my aging memory. I’m sure some day (most likely when I’m back to crapping my trousers and gumming my food ) I’ll have time to indulge in some well crafted creative writing; but for now I’ll have to be satisfied with simply cataloging some key events- bad grammar and all. So my compromise- short “Groah” family blurbs.

Cayden gave up walking about 3-months ago. He now propels himself from place to place with a series of cartwheels, summersaults and head stands. Pros- he’s becoming very agile and his shoes will last forever. Cons- it takes him an hour to travel 10-feet, he’s constantly dizzy and he’s covered in rug burns.

The world will end in 2012. I know it’s true because someone posted it on my wall after requesting a herd of sheep to complete their “Farmville Livestock challenge”.

Kids curse at a younger age than I remember. They even use the “super-duper” bad ones, which I will not list as they make me blush.

Mack performed in his school’s talent show for the second year in a row. Last year a lovely rendition of Green Day’s “Time of Your Life”; this year AC/DC “Back in Black”. I can only imagine that next year’s performance will include flames, flying rodents and a blood sacrifice.

I work a lot- good thing I like to work otherwise my life would suck!

I test drove a Lexus ISF (sports car) even though there was no way I could afford to own it. It’s kind of like a fat kid watching porn- you know you ain’t ever going to get it so why torture yourself.

California vacations are awesome- except for the “Simpsons” ride at Universal Studios. That thing generates more “G’s” than a space shuttle flight simulator and each time I got off I had to check my phone to make sure I hadn’t been transported into the future.

Mack no longer believes in the Easter Bunny. Can’t say I blame him; a colored egg shitting rabbit is a bit of a stretch. Had I been responsible for creating the mythical Easter beast I would have chosen something a little more logical- like a “Tootsie Roll” crapping wombat.

Cayden started drum lessons. Yes, we’re actually paying money to have our youngest child do something that he’s done for free his entire life- i.e. make a horrendous racket by vigorously beating on things with a blunt object.

Baseball season has started and Mack was selected to play on an advanced team.

Baseball season has started and Cayden is the only kid in league history to ever cartwheel, summersault, and headstand his way to a double. Personally I think the opposing team was simply to entertained to make the play.

Mack demonstrated his ability to mow the lawn. Like most men he failed to realize that once you show proficiency in a task that task forever belongs to you- I also learned this bit of knowledge late in life.

Summer is upon us- I know this because Connie’s mood has improved significantly and my 1st Mate’s uniform is back from the cleaners. I’m hoping that this will be the summer that we select a name for “her” boat. So far I can’t seem to come up with anything that hasn’t all ready been used; “USS Titanic”, “USS Minnow”, “ USS Exxon Valdez”. Connie didn’t appreciate my input.

This year we purchased (2) IPod Touches, (1) IPad, and a smart phone. I don’t know how to use any of them but did enjoy the personal note and autographed black turtleneck from Steve Jobs in appreciation for making him richer than Europe.

I have 360 Facebook Friends- none of which came to my rescue when I was stranded on interstate 50 for 5-hours with a blown water pump.

Mack’s favorite breakfast is French toast.

Cayden’s favorite breakfast is shrimp flavored Top Raman (the kid’s in second grade but eats like a college freshman).

Connie and I let our kids play inappropriate Armageddon themed X-box games. All you self righteous types can hate on me if you want- but when the world ends in 2012 at least my kids will be familiar with the landscape.

We decided to get a puppy. To clarify, use of the term “we” does not include present company- somewhere along the way I got evicted from the decision making loop.

I wonder if I’ll be allowed to name the dog?