Japan Tales - Tulibo through the sex machine

A request has been made by my darling wife that I clarify something from an earlier post.  In truth, the Japanese "arcade sex machines" I mentioned previously:

are not sex machines at all.  Although they are found in arcades in Japan.  No, they're photo booths.  Which makes it slightly less weird that I used one with my wife and two of her cousins during our last trip.  


I didn't really understand why there were so many of these photo booths, especially since everyone has a camera in their phone, computer, car and, er, camera these days.  But these aren't simply photo booths, no, being Japan they also have a small robot implanted inside that digitally manipulates the images, supposedly to make you more attractive.  


Of course, if these were brought to the states, they would just blow up your tits and lips, making you look like some fish faced milk machine.  Or they could just save the computers and output pictures of Pam Anderson.  Either way.  But no, these machines digitally transform you into, well, apparently, what is the pinnacle of Japanese beauty and desirability.  For your reference, here is what I look like, sans digital sexifying:

And here's what the sex machine did to me:

So, it smoothes out the blemishes on your skin, lightens your skin tone, makes your eyelashes darker, fair enough.  However, it also appears to make your eyes much larger and rounder.  Hmm, apparently, in Japan, big eyed baby looking things are incredibly sexy.  Could have been weird though, it could have given me big boobs.  

Merry Christmas!

From everyone here at Tulibo Heavy Industries World Headquarters located in beautiful Ohio ("The Heart of It All", mildly more appealing though arguably less accurate than the runner up "Hey, At Least You're Not In Iowa!") we wish you a Merry Christmas, a Pleasant Post-Hanukkah Hangover, a Kick-Ass Kwanzaa, a Fucking Amazing Festivus, a Splendiferous Boxing Day, and a Wonderful New Year.

Hullo daddy

My wife and I put our heads together, thought long and hard on it, tossed through many a sleepless night, and have finally come to this conclusion vis-a-vie our daughter: We are going to raise her British.


Yep, she'll grow up bundled in stripy jumpers, pushed in her pram, have to wear nappies until she learns to use the loo, we'll take the caravan on holiday, discuss the 'appenings of the day, guvn'r, whilst sipping our Earl Grey and nibbling on crumpets.  Trouble is, as you may have discerned from the previous mess of a sentence, neither of us is British.  Nor do we even know anything about "britishness" though I think failing to take her to the dentist will help.  Most troublesome for our endeavor, we won't be moving to England.  Or even Wales for that matter.  But hopefully a combination of James Bond movies and BBC America will convince our child that she IS british.  Maybe we can instill some class and sophistication in our daughter in the middle of America.  Or at least the illusion of such.


Now I just need to find a set of crayolas with the color (whoops, colour!) grey. 

Christmas Time for Kiki

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting morbidly obese, and it's time to buy presents for Kiki for the first time.  Now, we've bought things for our daughter, you know, the exciting things like diapers and formula and even, sometimes when we're feeling crazy, a new pacifier.  Before you begin sending us donations for Kiki's well being (we accept cash and most major credit cards but no Discovery cards, we're not whores), let me clarify that we were lucky to inherit a vast assortment of clothes, toys, and baby paraphernalia from friends and family, so Kiki has not had to crawl around naked.  I'm not saying she hasn't done so, but she didn't have to.  It was her choice.  What can I say, she's a free spirit.


But this Christmas, her first Christmas, we've decided to go all out.  No, we're not getting her a combination bathtub and changing table.  Nope, not a whirlpool child bath either.  Not even a combination whirlpool bath and changing table (I don't think it exists, but just in case I'm putting a patent on it.  By the way, saying "I put a patent on it" in your blog will hold up in a court of law, right?).  No, this Christmas, her first Christmas, we're going to do something really special, we're going to get her three of her favorite things:


1) Shoes
What can I say, my little girl loves shoes.  Mainly hitting them on the ground, smacking them, and especially licking them, particularly the soles.  My wife is less than thrilled with this new hobby, since, apparently, shoes are dirty (I know, it's a weird Japanese thing).


2) A refrigerator
Not a full size one, that would be ridiculous.  Just a mini-fridge.  She thoroughly enjoys slapping the outside, looking inside, and, if unattended, attempting to climb inside our current refrigerator.  So, being the smart, thoughtful parents that we are, we figure we'll get her a little one of her own.  


3) Boxes
Yes, like all sub-four year-old humans, our child loves boxes, and why wouldn't she?  They're brown, boxy, and smell of cardboard.  All the things little girls love.  And, being creative, enterprising, and thrifty parents, we're saving the earth and our wallets by re-gifting the boxes her other gifts came in as separate gifts.  It's what Jesus would have done.  

Sinistration

For those of you who didn't take Latin: 
(yeah, way to take a "useful" language, who'll be laughing when the Romans take over the world economy?!?!  What's that?  A dead language you say?  Well don't that just bite it.) 


SINISTRATION
Pronunciation: (sin"u-strā'shun),
—n.
the quality or state of being left-handed
Synonyms: Left-handed, Awesome, Totally Awesome, Totally Super Awesome


Yes, left handedness.  A surprisingly prevalent talent in my family.  Of the 5 of us, 4 are lefties.  Oh, and the dog was also a lefty, so 5 out of 6, that's what, 233%, right?  Well, sinistration does not indicate a propensity for mathematics.  


Anyway, my wife, whom I love dearly, is not left-handed.  So she's somewhat defective, but I've learned to look beyond that.  But now, horror of horrors, my sweet, beautiful daughter seems to be exhibiting right-handed tendencies.  I mean, I guess I can still love her and care for her.  Somehow.  Maybe I only look at her in a mirror so she appears to be a lefty.  It's either that or tape her right arm down for the next three years.  


Hmmmmmmm.


Okay, fine, the mirror it is....


But taping her hand down is the only way to guarantee that my daughter is more creative, better spatially aware, and much more likely to die in an industrial accident...


Man, this parenting thing is hard.

How To Determine the Proper Parenting Style for You.

Well, you've mastered the diaper change, gotten feeding under control, and may, just maybe, have had a few nights of uninterrupted sleep.  Now comes the big decision, what type of parent are you going to be?  There are thousands of books, millions of websites, and billions of other parents who are just dying to tell you how to do it, and warn that any deviation from their method will result in a sociopathic child.  Well, I'm here to put all your fears to rest.  My simple, 5 question test will quickly and accurately tell you which approach to parenting will work for you and your child:


1) Your child is crying.  Do you:


A) Pick them up immediately, hold them, coddle them, and smother them in kisses and praise.  Continue until they tell you to stop or turn 18.


B) Ignore them.  They'll figure out eventually how to fix what's ailing them on their own, after all, you're never too young to learn how to reset a dislocated elbow.


C) I don't know that I can answer definitively with so little information, I mean, what are the circumstances?  Is she hurt?  Then I'm absolutely comforting her.  Is she just cranky or bored, then maybe I'll let her cry a little bit and see if she resolves it on her own.


2) It's bedtime. Do you:


A) Sleep with your child in the same bed, always there to comfort, breast feed, and smother in love.  Continue until the child tells you to stop or turns 18. 


B) Put child in crib.  Close door.  Ignore all crying, screaming, and whimpering until morning.  Alternately, get infant an apartment of their own, it's never too early to learn self-reliance.  


C) Well, I don't know again.  I mean, I guess sleeping on their own would be nice, and we will all probably sleep better, but if she isn't having it, I don't know that I'm totally against sleeping in the same room, at least for a little while.  


3) Time to go to the Pediatrician.  Do you:


A) Defer all immunizations until your child contracts the disease.  No one dies from tuberculosis anyway.


B) Demand that the pediatrician combines all the immunizations needed for the first ten years into one mega-shot.  For best results, make your child self-administer it.


C) I think I'll talk with the pediatrician and take their advice pretty seriously, since they went to, what, 15 years of medical school, and have since dedicated their lives to helping infants, and deal with these issues every single day.  


4) Your child is hungry.  Do you:


A) Breast feed.  Nothing but breast feeding.   Again, repeat until they ask you to stop or turn 18.


B) First off, if it is not a designated feeding time they will just have to wait until the next scheduled eating period.  We're not running a 24 hour diner here.  And breast feeding?  Ha, we'll give them something they can really use.  Like a steak.  Oh, and don't cook it, let them figure out how to turn on the stove.  


C) Feed them.  Something.  I mean, breast feeding is great, if it works for the mother and child, but at some point you've got to stop.  And then, I guess formula, if they still need it, or food of some sort.  


5) Your child is misbehaving.  Do you:


A) Hug them and calmly explain that their behavior is brilliant and wonderful.  Breast feed them.  If behavior is really bad (stealing, hitting, murder), maybe kindly ask them if they would enjoy possibly redirecting their energies in another direction, but only if they want to.    


B) Tell them no.  Firmly, clearly, and often.  If this fails, tell them they are a disappointment and send them to their room/apartment.  


C) Well, what are they doing?  Are they just being somewhat annoying, or are they acting in a seriously violent/destructive manner?  How could one response possibly correct for all misbehavior?  Should the courts just have one verdict for all crimes?





Please put down your #2 pencil and await results.


If you answered all A's:


Congratulations, you're what is known as an "attachment" style parent.  Your child will grow up nurtured, loved, and emotionally fulfilled.  They may die of tetanus, but then every rose does have it's thorn.


If you answered all B's:


Congratulations, you're what's known as a "babywise" style parent.  Your child will grow up independent, strong, and resilient.  They may become a psychopathic murderer, but as they say, you can't make an omelet without turning a few eggs into psychopathic murderers. 


If you had any mix of A and B or, god forbid, any C's:


You are obviously unfit to parent, attempting to apply logic and thought to a process that should be marked by blind adherence to a theory created by an author primarily motivated by profit and personal gain.  Your child is doomed.  You should just do everyone a favor and drop them off at the fire station now.  

Evolutionary Development

If I was forced to name my favorite aspect of evolution (it could happen!), I would have previously listed vision, maybe speech, and quite probably sexual organs as some of my favorites.  However, I have just rethought my entire approach to this question.

This sea-change was brought about when I came across the following sentence: "This cycle of glaciation ceased after the evolution of the anus" and I realized, with stunned insight, that I had never before considered the anus in the evolutionary process, I'd always accepted it as a given.

Yep, it's my new top item.  In fact, it's numbers one through seventy-four.  Because, let's face it, wouldn't you rather be blind, mute and sexless than forced to live without an anus, doomed to spend the rest of your hopefully short life walking around wondering why you're getting larger?

Hairscrimination

I love how people spend lots of time and money to entertain themselves.


Trips to exotic locals.  Expensive dinners.  Extravagant parties.


Nope, not me.  It doesn't take much.  Time with the family (aw, tender).  A bike ride, of any duration, at any time, in any weather, on any bike (Unicycle with a flat tire at midnight on New Year's Eve in an ice storm?  Perfect!).  Even something as utterly simple as a haircut can make my day... okay week.


Well, no, not any haircut, I don't have some weird fetish or something.  No, I just really like having a mohawk.  It makes me happy, looking slightly ridiculous.  No, not happy.  Stupidly happy, deliriously happy, retardedly happy.   Seriously, just look:


Me without a mohawk:

Meh

Me with a mohawk:

Awesome Sauce

Fine, yes, I'm goofy looking either way, but by god I'm happy about it.


You know what they say about simple minds and simple pleasures, and I'm not sure it gets a whole lot simpler than a haircut.  Oh, wait, yes.  Doorstops.  You know, these things:

Yeah, my daughter is mildly entertained by them.  You know, because you can flick them and they go "boing-oing-oing-oing."  But then, she is only 8 months old.  But me?  Yeah, I love those things.  I've found myself standing in our bathroom, flicking it with my toe and giggling to myself.  Hmmm, that sounded kind of dirty.  Well, a little dirty, but mainly dumb and pathetic.  But seriously?  Boing-oing-oing-oing.  Hehehe.


Moving on.  So why do I devise so much pleasure from a hairstyle?  I'm not quite sure.  Most likely because I am a bit of an idiot, and it's nice having a quick and simple way to show that to the rest of the world without having to speak or wear a slogan t-shirt (You know how hard it is to find a "Tapout" or "Affliction" t-shirt?  Sadly, not hard at all.  I think I just got one free with my last fill up.)


But, unfortunately, my love of doorstops isn't the only thing my daughter inherited from her father...

Happy Thanksgiving

From all of us here at Tulibo Heavy Industries, manufacturers of the finest in industrial cleaners, caustic chemicals, and pointless blogs since 2010, to you, dear reader, thank you and have a wonderful Thanksgiving.  To our readers outside the U.S., well, happy Thursday.  Finally, to our industrial cleaners and caustic chemicals customers, regular shipments will resume Monday, November 29, and don't forget to try our newest product; Leftover-B-Gone concentrated liquefaction solvent, guaranteed to liquify pumpkin pie, corn on the cob, and even an entire turkey to a loose gel in 15 minutes or less, just in time for the holidays!

Your Votes Have Been Counted and Discarded

Yes, to all who participated in the Great Kiki Halloween Costume Vote of 2010, I thank you, my wife thanks you, even Kiki thanks you.  Well, she says phhbbbblhh, but she means thank you.  However, I regret to inform you that your votes, though tallied by the third most exclusive accounting firm in Hollywood (they do the counts for the People's Choice Awards!), were for nought.  No, my darling child was not a monkey.  She wasn't a flower or sushi.  She wasn't even a aviator/owl mashup.  Nope, she was Goku.


Thank you for your vote nonetheless.












What, oh, you're still here.  What's that?  Oh, you don't know what the fuck a Goku is?  It's a character from Dragon Ball, a Japanese anime.  Or, more succinctly, it's this:

And Kiki's version:

Illustrating the five-finger death touch technique

Eating her Dragon Ball.

But we got so many people saying, "What's a Goku?" "She's going to be a dragon?" and "Isn't Japanese anime all weird tentacle sex stuff?" that we decided to have a backup, more accessible and generally less odd costume.  Minnie Mouse.  Well, Minnie in an outfit a lot like her normal outfit, but not sanctioned by the Disney Corporation and Global Domination Task Force.

You may notice that she is flipping the bird, as if to say, "Fuck you bastards, I should have been Goku.  I learned the five-finger death touch technique for this bullshit?  Come closer, let me touch you!"

Carboloading for Breakfast

Hope you've heard the good news, Burger King has added the Whopper to their breakfast menu!


Yes, no longer do you have to buy a Whopper on your way home and leave it in the car in order to have one for breakfast!  Now, don't tell me I was the only one who did that!


I've heard lots of "Whoppers for breakfast, that's gross, disgusting, and borderline insane."  Mainly from my wife.  But how else am I supposed to efficiently surpass the daily recommended allowance of, well, everything except vegetables, by at least 1,400%?  


Have it my way?  Hell yes, Mr. King, er, I mean your Highness.  I would like this please:

Unfortunately, BK didn't plan on someone creating a sandwich of these proportions (how is that possible?), so it cut off some of it.  Well, most of it, really. Here's quick rundown:

Meat:

20 burger patties, 20 chicken patties, 5 veggies patties, and 5 fish filets.  

Condiments:

Tartar Sauce, Ketchup, Mayonnaise, "Stacker" Sauce, Mustard, and A1

Toppings: 

Double lettuce, tomato, onion, pickle, and crispy onions, 8 slices of cheese, and 10 slices of bacon.

For a total of:

885 grams of fat

290 grams of saturated fat

3020 mg of cholesterol

34,830 mg of sodium

and 13,880 calories

Served with a large fries and shake, it takes the total to 15,380 calories and 935 grams of fat.  Delicious!

Face it, before they started offering the Whopper for breakfast, the best you could do was this:

http://www.bk.com/en/us/menu-nutrition/index.html?mymeal=201011158a888089744849fa8e5c1725d6b0b2d6

A mere 2,160 calories, 149 grams of fat, and a measly 6,740 mg of sodium?  Pathetic.

Japan Tales - Arrival

Ah, Japan, you tempting seductress, with your panty vending machines and toilets more intelligent than the average 8th grader.  Yes, I just returned from a trip to Osaka to visit my in-laws.  I have been a few times before and have become somewhat accustomed to some of the peculiarities of the nation, but there are still new surprises for me every time.


This trip, it didn't take long to notice something a bit different.  While sitting in Tokyo awaiting my connecting flight, they began pre-boarding the flight.  Now, I know the drill; children, handicapped, those who need more time, I got it.  However, they seem to include a few more groups I am not as familiar with.  Unfortunately, I could not understand the announcements, and when this graphic appeared on the screens in the gate area it didn't exactly clarify things:

Now, some of these I do understand.  Top left, Japan Airlines logo, got it.  Bottom left, pregnant ladies, fair enough.  Top center, wheelchair bound passengers, with you still.  Bottom center, infants, okay as well.  Now, top right, apparently they feel the need to clarify that children in hats, and not just those in bibs, are also welcome to board early?  Or maybe bodyless children (could be a bigger problem in the far east)?  And then bottom right, I'm totally clueless.  Men in hats?  Mustachioed men?  Or maybe the two on the right are indicating that decapitated children and adults are welcome to preboard?  I'm not sure, all I know is I went to the bathroom, drew on a mustache, fashioned a hat out of paper towels, and got on the fucking plane.  Hey, I don't want those decapitated children filling up all the overhead compartments with their robot bodies.  

Roommate

Alright, today I will ask you to use your imagination.  Yes, close your eyes and... wait, you can't read this with your eyes closed.  Okay, read the post, memorize it, then close your eyes and tell it back to yourself.  Hmmm, yeah, that does sound like a lot of work for what is, let's face it, a minor entertainment at best.  Okay, fine, just read it and pretend you're imagining what I describe, and hopefully we will achieve minor entertainment.

It's your first day of college.  You move in with your new roommate.  She seems quite pleasant, very smiley and generally a happy, easy going sort.  But then you go to sleep, and at first, all is well.  But then, after about 5 hours of sleep, she wakes up screaming, yelling, and crying.  Not knowing what to do, you get her a glass of milk and she quickly calms down and goes to sleep.  However, every 2-3 hours for the rest of the night, she repeats this bizarre ritual, awakening unhappy, bawling, and yelling, only placated by a drink, after which she quickly returns to sleep.  The next morning, frazzled, exhausted, and more than a bit disturbed, you quickly find the college's housing office and demand a reassignment, since your roommate is obviously unwell, slightly disturbed, and possibly psychotic.  

The End.

What was the point of my little tale?  Well, only this.  That roommate, yes, she's my daughter.  And I have submitted a complaint to the housing authority about her nighttime behavior.  And by housing authority, I mean my wife.  It took a while, but I finally received a response.  I was informed that I was a jackass, and was being reassigned to the couch.  

Japan Tales - Sushi

Finally, on my fourth trip to Japan, I convinced my wife to take me to a true sushi restaurant.  See, my darling wife doesn't eat raw fish.  So she is understandably less-than-thrilled to take me to a hardcore sushi restaurant in Japan, where, except for the eel (because it's blood is poisonous... neat!), the idea of cooking the fish is rather sacrilegious.  It may also be that she doesn't want to have to sit next to me while I eat all the fish in the restaurant.  For the sake of brevity, here's basically what I ate:

But of all the sushi I had, there was one piece that really stood out from the rest.  Or should I say swam.  Yes, "dancing sushi", a piece of shrimp so fresh it was still moving on the plate... and when you bit into it the tail fins curled around your lip.  Here is the aftermath:

As for the before, I didn't want to offend the chef by taking a photo while my food was slowly dying so I did not get a shot of it, but it basically looked like this:

Well, minus the doorman outfit.  You've got to go to a really fancy restaurant to have them dress up the fish before serving them.  

Now I know, some of you think this is disturbing, or cruel, or gross... maybe all three.  And I don't know that I can defend myself, but all I can say is that it was delicious, and it could have been worse.  I could have been eating this:

Yep, spam sushi.  Spushi?  

Schadenfreude, Rawa-dawa and the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon

In my further attempts to spread useless knowledge, the Baader-Meinhof phenomenon is when you, after having learned an obscure fact or word for the first time, encounter that item repeatedly thereafter. For instance, upon learning that dacryops is moistness of the eye, suddenly you will notice it everywhere.  Alright, maybe that example is a bit too obscure even for Baader and Meinhof.  But still, a good word to know, for all your eye wetness discussions.  Okay, after learning that the "internet" is this "web" of "networked" "computers," suddenly you will notice "websites" everywhere, on advertisements, magazines, even television ads.  It's uncanny.  Okay, fine, somewhere between dacryops and the internet lies the true realm of Baader-Meinhof.  


The first time I heard about the phenomenon was upon learning the meaning of schadenfreude, joy in another's misfortune, a very German emotion.  Suddenly it seemed to appear in every book, article, and show I came across.  This led me to a discussion of this synchronistic phenomena, which I was informed had a name.  Yep, good ol' B.M.  Wait, that just means bowel movement.  Hmmmm, B-M phenom?  Nope, that just sounds like a phenomenal bowel movement.  BaadMein?  Meh, not in love with it but it'll do.  


Anyway, a word I recently learned and hope to see a lot more of (to be BaadMein-ed?) is rawa-dawa.  It is "the sensation of suddenly realizing you can do something reprehensible, and no one is there to witness it."  Now, you may not think you have much use for such a phase, but just wait.  Now that is has been planted in your head it will start to fester, and taint your thought process.  Pretty soon you'll be seeing rawa-dawa everywhere you look.  You can thank me later.  

Only The Lonely

Well, my wife and daughter are off in Japan, and in preparation for my upcoming trip to meet them I stopped by the local Japanese grocery and bought some foodstuffs to keep from starving while on my own.   

When I unpacked my groceries at home I was surprised to find actual directions in English on the noodles.  I had assumed it would all be in Japanese, and I had planned on just boiling them for about ten minutes and then, you know, eating them.  Oh, what a fool I was.  No, nothing that simple will suffice for these.

Alright.  Let's take it one step at a time.  Here we go.  

Step 1. Put noodles scatteringly in boiling water little by little, turn the fire low when spout out, boil continuously for about 12 - 13 minutes without changing temperature of water, put out the fire, wash in water and put noodles in a basket to drain off water.

First off, in what world is that one step?  Let's break it down a bit more, shall we?

Put noodles scatteringly in boiling water little by little.  Clunky phasing, maybe, but understandable.  

Turn the fire low when spout out.  Um... what?  I'm assuming "spout out" means returns to a boil?  Sure, let's assume that and move on.  

Boil continuously.  Is this really a problem?  Are a lot of people boiling things intermittently?

For about 12-13 minutes.  Could you be more unsure?  Didn't want to add "maybe" to the end of that?  Have they actually tried cooking these noodles before writing the instructions or are they just guessing?

Without changing the temperature of the water.  Well, I hate to pick nits (alright, I live for it), but how CAN you change the temperature of boiling water?  That's the whole point of boiling.  

Put out the fire.  Wait, I had to build a fire to cook these?  Crap, this is seriously authentic.  

Wash in water and put noodles in a basket to drain off water.  Okay, at first blush this seems understandable.  But wait, do I drain the boiling water off first?  I need a basket too?  I already had to build a fire and now I'm weaving baskets?  These noodles better be amazing.  

So, we've got some cooked noodles (and a new basket too!), let's move on to some serving suggestions.

Step 2. In addition to serving it as ordinary Udon, it can be served as Miso Nikomi and/or Yutsuke Udon by floating noodles in hot water and dipping them in the stock in another receptacle with spices such as green onion, laver, etc.

Okay, fine, I won't serve these as "ordinary Udon" (way to sell it there, by the way), in fact, I will go all out and serve them at Miso Nikomi AND Yutsuke Udon.  So... I put them in hot water and then... uh... I make some stock?  I need several dishes?  Green onion is a spice?  What the fuck is laver?  Oh, it's a traditional Welsh dish of seaweed.  Obviously.  And how exactly would I make Miso Nikomi versus Yutsuke Udon?

Hmm, this all seems quite complicated, can't I just put a sauce over these noodles and treat them like good ol' spaghetti?  Oh, look, here's step 3!

Step 3. It can also be served as spaghetti style by boiling noodles hard, frying and seasoning them with ketchup, etc.

How do I boil them hard?  Does that mean boil them until they're hard (no time at all, since they're dried pasta and start hard) or boil them hard, as in vigorously, as in for a long time?  Now I need a fryer too?  Fuck!  Oh, but I can them season them with ketchup AND etc.   Mmmmm, that sounds delicious!

Parenting Craps

Once again, dear reader, we delve into the world of worthless, stupid, and needlessly complex (not to mention expensive) baby products.  The topic this week?  Cleaning your child.

Yes, unfortunately, no matter how high tech your wipes and diligent you are about changing their clothes, eventually, after a month or two at least, your child will need to be cleaned.  

Now, you have many options.  You could shower with them, but then you have a small, slippery, wet, squirming item you're trying not to drop.  It's like showering with an oiled watermelon, but much less hilarious (and delicious) if/when you drop it.  You could bathe it in the bath, but the tub is kind of big and the baby is, in case you didn't notice, kind of small.  

So, if you're with me thus far, we've entered the world of baby bathtubs.  Now, you could buy a cheap and simple plastic tub that sets in the tub, fills from the spout, and drains with the innovative "dump it out" technology.  This would cost about $12, and would obviously show to the world that you may like your baby, but don't really love them.  

No, if you really, really loved your little one, you would spring for something that would get them clean while also showing your love and devotion.  You know, something like this:

No, your eyes aren't playing tricks, it's a whirlpool bath for an infant.  Once again, in case you're brain refused to process that the first time around, a whirlpool bath... for an infant.  Yes, I am baffled as well.  And just for those of you who think I scoured the internet to find this obscure and almost non-existent product, they're disturbingly common.  Seriously.

Really?  Does your baby need the bubbles to massage their stress away?  With a normal tub they are gently hand-washed from head to toe, carefully dried off and then dressed in clean clothing.  This isn't luxury enough? 

But, if even a jacuzzi bath just isn't extravagant enough for your special little one, you can always combine the bath with another item, to have the double benefit of making them both less functional while also more expensive.  Yes, something like a combination changing table and bathtub.  

The bathtub is under the changing table... in one of the drawers maybe?

And all for the low, low price of $892!

But, if you really want to be on the cutting edge of bathing, what all the cool parents are using is the Spa Baby, a "european style baby bath".  Because Europeans are so well known for their personal care standards.  It's a lot like a bucket... in fact, almost exactly like a bucket:

In case you're confused, the Spa Baby is the one with the baby in it.  As far as I can see, the only difference between the Spa Baby and a bucket is that with the Spa Baby you don't get a handle.  Oh, and it costs $41 more than the bucket.  Yeah, that makes sense.  No better way to show your love for your child than buying unnecessary and expensive crap.  Me?  I'm waiting for the Travel Spa Baby.  It's only $67.  And it's got a handle, for bathing on the go!

The awesome power of naming

According to anthropologists (or, more accurately, an anthropologist, I think his name was Bob), "naming is one of the chief methods for imposing order on perception."  

Which, er, means, well, something profound I'm sure.  And many believe that names carry power.  Just imagine if Oprah had been named Bertha.  Yeah, something about "Bertha's Book Club" just sounds like it would only contain cookbooks... about pie.  Mmmm, pie.  


But I digress.  Most of us are rarely asked to name anything in life.  Maybe a pet hamster (Mr. Pickles!) or a dog (Doctor Marmalade!), maybe even a product (Crystal Pepsi!).  But then we become parents, and we have to name a human.  Suddenly Xerxes and Tulibo are no longer 'suitable.'  No, we need to come up with a 'real' name for our child, something that fits a variety of conflicting goals. 


1) It must be serious enough for an adult but fun enough for a child.  You can't have a 3-year-old named Sebastian Chrisphersonville Jackstonian Ruperacton XIV.  Yet, you don't want to create a 42-year-old mother of 4 named Boopsie McChuckles.  


2) It should have meaning without being bizarre.  Naming your daughter after the Greek goddesses of Trees and Memory sounds like a fair idea.  Yeah, I'm sure little Mnemosyne Dendritus will be thrilled.  


3) It should be uncommon without being strange.  You don't want her to be the 17th Isabella in her class, but you also don't want her to be the only Samiyah in the tri-state area.  


So, you work and work, and finally come up with a name that you and your significant other love, something that really captures the essence of this little person you are going to create.  And then she's born, and within a matter of weeks you find yourself referring to her as "Doodle."  Yeah, we should have just named her Dendritus.  

Results Are In...

Well, the polls have closed and the results tabulated.

Bringing up the rear with zero votes, a dead heat for dead last between sushi, lobster, and peanut.  Apparently the readers have issues with dressing my child as a food product.  Probably a good idea, especially if you've seen me around food.  I may not realize it's my child until I've dipped her in soy sauce... though I would need some big chopsticks.  

In fourth place with one lonely vote is Princess Leia, in third with two is flower (sorry dear!), and in second... winning the silver medal as the first loser, it's the Owl/Aviator thingamajobber (boooo!).  So, yes, with 7 votes, a full 50% of the votes (although Google calculates it as 75%... with a total of 149%... just a reminder not to have Google do your taxes), it's...

Monkey! (In case you didn't know what this is)

Yes, my sweet darling daughter is going to be dressed as a monkey for her first halloween... or whatever my wife decides she should be, because, let's face it, I shouldn't be trusted with this kind of decision.

And, dear reader, neither should you, apparently.

Well, if this whole process taught us anything (not necessarily a safe assumption), it's that online polls are meaningless.  Now I need to go sign an online petition to stop torture, global warming, taxes, and, what the hell, hail storms.

Oh, and search google to figure out where I can get some bigass chopsticks.