Post Super Bowl Deep Freeze

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Feb 052014
 

It’s colder than a witch’s … well, it’s damn cold in Denver.

Growing up in Atlanta, a place where they declare a State of Emergency when the temperature dips below 20 and people abandon their vehicles in the middle of a highway when half an inch of snow blankets the road, I will never, ever get used to a forecast that includes the phrase “warming up to a high around -4.” But here we are on a splendidly chilly day in the Mile High City. And no one seems to really care.

Speaking of very cold weather, we’ve all see those pictures on Facebook of people’s car thermometers. People love to post those pics in extreme weather. Oh my god it’s 111! Or, It’s so cold that I just shriveled into a female! 

That’s not normally my thing, but I made an exception today  so that I could point out a few things about the weather in Denver. First, here’s my car thermometer at high noon:

It's colder t

And now, a few observations:

1. This was actually the high temperature of the day by 12:00 p.m.

2. It was significantly colder before the sun came out, when I was driving my son to preschool. I attempted to photograph my dashboard temperature gauge then, but the temperature readout just flashed “Error … Error … Are you f’ing kidding me? … Error … Error … Go back to bed.”

3. There are actually some birds that fly south to here for the winter. I’m guessing that those winged nitwits are either directionally challenged or that they got into too much of the local whiskey before setting out. I’m looking at you, Canadian Geese.

4. I’m fairly certain that the frigid, snowy weather that began immediately following the Super Debacle on Sunday was the result of John Elway selling his soul to the devil to bring Peyton Manning to Denver. Only Elway cheaped out and decided to skip a couple payments. So this is payback. Lucifer is probably all, “Cold enough for you? It’s nice and warm down here. Just ask Robert Palmer. You know, ‘Some like it hot.'”

5. My wife took one look at the temperature this morning and decided to fly to California. This is no joke. She up and bolted for the Left Coast without even giving the mercury a change to climb above zero. I just got a text from her telling me that she’d landed and it was super warm and sunny. She is lucky I love her.

6. My biggest concern is not frostbite or frozen pipes, but that the beer in my man fridge, located in the unheated garage, will all freeze. Then I will be trapped here in subzero temperatures, by myself with the kids, with no beer. If that happens, I will be dialing the Robert Palmer/Eternal Furnace of Hell hotline post haste and requesting an expedited pickup.

 

That’s all for today, folks. Tune back in tomorrow, Thursday, February 6, when I’ll be redirecting you to Pile of Babies for the first installment of my bet payment to Seattle Seahawks Super Fan Meredith Bland. We made a bet on the outcome of the game—I had the Broncos and she had the Seahawks. Loser has to write the other one’s blog for a couple segments. Well, um, in case you were hiding in a refrigerator on Sunday, my team, the Broncos, did not win. So I’m taking this show 0n the road to Pile of Babies tomorrow. See ya then.

2014: The Family Comedrama Continues – Dad on Arrival New Year Udpate

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Jan 072014
 

New Year. Same Insanity. It’s the Dad on Arrival Comedrama, 2014 Edition.

Happy New Year! It’s 2014, the dawn of another year of misadventures at Casa de DOA. To set the scene for this year’s comedrama, I thought I’d update you on your favorite characters.

The Boy: The Boy has taken on a new alter ego, “Super O.” Super O is a pint-sized, masked, caped crusader who spends his time “saving the day” from an assortment of villains, including Darth Vader, Captain Hook and the New Orleans Saints. His costume includes a mask and a cape, lovingly sewn by Super Mom and worn everywhere we go. Everywhere. We’re glad to have him protecting us, except during snack time, when he’s been very clear that he’s off duty.

Yes, he wears the cape and mask everywhere. Everywhere.
Yes, he wears the cape and mask everywhere. Everywhere.

The Girl: After narrowly avoiding death-by-squashing when she climbed up her 300-pound dresser and pulled the entire thing down on top of her, Godzilla has bounced back to her normal, terrorizing ways. So far this new year, she has set the world record for the longest scream without taking a breath. She also tried to start a food fight at Cleveland’s famous West Side Market while visiting her grandparents, and she was narrowly foiled in a series of life-threatening acrobatic maneuvers that all began with the call, “Look at me!” On the plus side, she nighttime potty trained herself by simply taking off her diaper one evening and announcing, “I’m done with these.” And she was.

The Baby: Heavy D continues to live up to his name by eating his way through life, much like The Very Hungry Caterpillar on day six of his eating bonanza. His interests include food, eating food, playing with food, throwing food on the floor and crying that food thrown on the floor is no longer within reach. He also enjoys milk, drinking milk, looking at milk inside a sippy cup and crying over spilt milk. Oh, and at almost 14 months he has taken to two-footed locomotion like a baby kangaroo running from a dingo, which is to say he is all over the place and he’s quicker than your life.

The Mom: The Mom continues to amaze, juggling full-time work, mommy duties, sewing super hero costumes and reprimanding The Dad for not doing enough—of anything. Her crowning achievement over the holidays was staying up past midnight for three straight nights. She also drank two full glasses of wine one night after the kids were asleep. It was off the chain, y’all. I don’t know, this could be The Year of the Mom.

The Dad: Yours truly began the new year on a high note, after daring to do what no sane man had done before: purchase his wife jeans for Christmas. I bought her three pairs and—wait for it—she kept all three! They fit. They look great. I rock.

That high note came crashing down into a horrific cacophony of bathroom sounds when I was afflicted with a wicked stomach bug. The bug hit about mid-morning on New Year’s Day, and no one—no one—believed wasn’t a hangover. I  wish it had been a hangover—one, because that would have been much easier than what I went through, and two, a hangover would have indicated that I had a better time on Near Year’s Eve than I did. As it was, I spent most of New Year’s Day destroying my in-laws’ guest bathroom, while the family outside audibly wondered about what a dead beat I was, nursing my maladies instead of helping with the myriad household tasks, my children, snow removal from the Polar Vortex, and various other chores. So my stock didn’t really go up with that side of the family. On the plus side, I inadvertently accomplished a total digestive tract cleanse. A lot of people do that as a New Year’s Resolution, spending lots of time and money over several weeks to accomplish what I did for free with a few hours of spare time, a weird virus and someone else’s toilet. So I’m going to consider myself ahead of the  game.

The Dog: Olive Petunia, Squirrel Slayer, says, “Stop bothering me. Sleeping.”

So there you have it. The DOA family update. This should set the scene for many misadventures to come. Happy New Year, everyone. Here’s to a better, brighter 2014 with less vomiting and familial disappointment, and more nights when your sassy spouse downs two full adult beverages.

Undies on the Ceiling

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Sep 272013
 

Sometimes there just isn’t a good explanation

The other day I walked upstairs to find our nanny sitting in the master bedroom with the baby, rocking him to sleep for his nap. Not totally unusual. We have a comfy, upholstered rocking chair in there that she sometimes uses to soothe the little guy off to la-la land.

However, the first, and I mean the very first, thing I saw when I entered the room was a pair of my wife’s underwear hanging from the ceiling fan. Yep, that’s right, undies on the ceiling fan. Just dangling there like something out of an ad for Las Vegas: “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas … including your panties.”

There is no way, absolutely no way, that the nanny didn’t see them hanging there. And in the moment, I froze up and didn’t know how to address the situation. So there we were, having a business-like chat about what the baby ate for lunch while a pair of lacy women’s undies floated above my head like some sort of risqué banner. I thought about trying to explain this unusual location for undergarment storage, but I figured there was a pretty solid chance I’d just make the moment more awkward. So I just left it alone and tried to keep my eyes from drifting to the hanging undergarment. Not easy. It was like trying to look a woman in the eye who unwittingly has an exposed boob popping out of her shirt. It takes a lot of concentration. You just keep thinking, “Don’t look. Don’t look. Eye contact. Eye contact. Easy now. Take it easy. Okay, sneak a peek – DAMNIT, she saw me and now she’s going to figure it out and cover herself.”

Okay, I’m digressing.

Anyway, the whole undies on the fan scene was a little embarrassing. However, on the plus side, it solved a mystery. The day before, my wife and I had been sorting laundry, and I tossed a pair of her underwear at her in what I thought was a playful gesture. (For the record, she did not agree, unless “Why do you have to be so annoying?” is an endorsement of a “playful gesture.”) Well, I missed her with the undies toss, and I never saw where they landed. I saw them go up but never come down. It did seem a little strange at the time, but I was focused on redeeming myself after the failed attempt at spicing up the laundry sorting, and I quickly moved on. Later, I paused to ponder the laws of physics in our bedroom, though it never occurred to me to simply look up.

So there was a very logical explanation, if you consider hand-tossed women’s underwear “logical.” Still, from the nanny’s perspective, I’m sure it looked like something pretty racy, as in holy shit, what kind of acrobatics are they doing in here?

You know what? I’m fine with that. Let her think that we’re these crazy bedroom rompers. Maybe she’ll spread a rumor about us. “Those two are incredible! Three kids in three years and the passion is still going strong! There’s literally underwear on the ceiling.

Of course, in reality, her comments were probably more like, “My senile old boss was talking to me for five minutes and didn’t even notice the women’s underwear dangling from a fan six inches from his head. Either that or he just ignored them, which is just creeeeeepy.”

Eh, whatever. If she sues me for some weird underwear-on-the-ceiling-related harassment, I’m using all of you as witnesses to the real story. Prepare to be subpoenaed.

Apr 022013
 

There are a lot of phone calls that you know aren’t going to go super smoothly before you even pick up the phone. This is one of them.

Guy on the Phone: Hello! ABC Carpet Clean!

Me: Uh, hello. Good morning.

Guy on the Phone: Good morning!

Me: How are you?

Guy on the Phone: I’m well. How can I help you, sir?

Me: So your ad says that you can take care of any kind of tough carpet stain. Do you mean anything?

Guy on the Phone: Yep! Anything! You stain it, we steam it!

Me: So, does that include, um, you know, uh, fecal matter?

Guy on the Phone: Got a pet stain on the carpet, do ya? Don’t worry, happens all the time. We can take care of it. No problem.

Me: Well, not exactly.

Guy on the Phone: Not a pet stain?

Me: Nope.

Guy on the Phone: [Starting to sound a little apprehensive] Okay, so what kind of fecal stain are we talking about?

Me: Human.

Guy on the Phone: I see.

Me: I highly doubt that. You see, we have a two-year-old who recently had a pretty bad bout with a stomach bug, all kinds of messy gastrointestinal nastiness. And this coincided perfectly with her learning how to take off her own diaper. And this kid, let me tell you, she is a mover. Go, go, go, go! So when she makes a mess, it gets everywhere—

You know what? I’m going to stop talking.

Guy on the Phone:

Me: Hello?

Guy on the Phone:

Me: Should I interpret your horrified silence as disinterest in the job?

Guy on the Phone:

Me: Are you still there?

Guy on the Phone: We’re going to have to assess a surcharge.

Me: [Sigh] Just get out here.

 

And now, a musical interlude …

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Mar 222013
 

Friday pick-me-up, anyone?

I’m having a hard time getting my happy Friday vibe going today. It’s gray and cold outside, I’ve been dealing with a sick toddler all week, work has been killing me, I’m exhausted beyond belief from middle-of-the-night diaper changes and vomit clean-up, and I’m absolutely heartbroken after watching my alma mater lose their NCAA basketball tournament game in gut-wrenching style yesterday.

But here’s the deal: When you have three little kids looking at you to provide some sort of example, you can’t walk around pissing and moaning all day. Well, I can’t really walk around at all, because I’m pretty sure I broke two of my toes yesterday when I kicked my coffee table in frustration while watching my college choke a six-point lead in the last 30 seconds of their game. So there’s that, to add to today’s general grayness.

In times like these, it helps to commiserate with others, or at least laugh at others going through similar difficulties. And that’s when I remembered that I’ve been sitting on this video sent to me by an agency in England. It’s a farcical fatherhood song with a sweet ’80s pop tune that has now taken root deep inside my brain. Maybe I’m a sucker for ’80s pop-rock-style mock music videos. Maybe I think a British guy driving around in the middle of the night with a couple of babies stuffed in the back of a Fiat is prime humor. Maybe I just love Miami Vice-inspired fashion. Whatever the reason, it cracked me up. Yes, it’s a thinly veiled ad for Fiat, but it’s still pretty funny, and worth a look if you’re into laughing. Laughing happens to be a hobby of mine, so I thought I’d share:

Happy Friday, y’all.