Happiest of Holidays to You and Yours

From all of us at Tulibo Incorporated, we wish you a Happy Hanukkah, Merry Christmas, Kickass Kwanza, Festive Festivus, Happy New Year, and, if the case may be, a Happy Birthday as well.  Keep smiling, and enjoy the holidays! 

A Splendiferous Thanksgiving

All of us at Tulibo Creative Enterprises & International Heavy Industry Companies wish you and yours a Happy Turkey Day.

Note, no turkeys were harmed in the creation of this blog post.

Vegematarian

So the other day, being bored, I decided to go vegetarian.  Why?  Well, my wife has been a long time ovolactopescatarian since before we started dating.  For those of you who didn't take Latin in high school (Loser!  No, wait, I'm the loser.  Damn!) an ovolactopescatarian eats eggs, milk products, and fish.  Well, in addition to a vegetarian diet too, otherwise it would make for some odd meals of shrimp and cottage cheese or tuna and eggs.  Mmmm, delicious!  


Anyway, my wife finally decided to follow through on a promise she made herself a long time ago to stop eating "things with faces."  Seriously, that's her diet.  So scallops and mussels are okay, but chicken and salmon aren't.  I haven't explored if she would eat Mike the Headless Chicken, but I assume the answer is yes.  


Anyway, Em decided to stop eating faces and I figured I'd go along, you know, for a day or two, just for shits and grins.  Now, two months later, I find myself in the bizarre position of actually, kind of sort of, in a way, being a vegetarian.  Well, maybe not totally.  I had salmon at one dinner, and had some leftover calamari from my mother-in-law, both acts which I think can land you in vegetarian jail.  Which I picture to be rather laid back, easy to escape, and filled with Phish music and weed smoke.  Actually, I wouldn't mind spending a few nights there, just to catch up on my sleep.  


But, being someone who has ordered bone marrow, pork cheeks, and sweetbreads previously, one time all in the same delicious meal, I feel like I don't even know myself anymore.  Telling someone that I'm vegetarian feels as foreign as admitting I have found Jesus (he was hiding in vegetarian jail).  Maybe it's just the connotations that go along with the term "vegetarian".  I could use ovolactopescatarian, but something tells me that would just lead to stranger looks.  Well, at the end of the day I already dress in spandex and periodically shave my legs, I guess I should just accept that my dietary choices are the least of the things people judge me for.  

The Public Has Spoken

Being as this is a fairly useless diversion, you may have noticed I don't put much effort into the search engine optimization, design, or even content of this blog (seriously, an entire post about adult onesies?).  That being the case, I'm always interested to see the analytical tools that google provides to track the sources and numbers of visitors to my little corner of the internet.  For those of you who don't have your own website (mom, I'm looking in your direction), you can discover a surprising amount about visitors to your website.  Like where in the world they are located, what internet browser and connection speed they are using, even what terms they searched in google that led them to you.  That was a surprising list.  Let's take a look at the top ten, shall we?


10. Tulibo Blog


Okay, so no great surprise there.  Let's continue. 


9.  Legoman


Hmmm, oh yes, a post about how Kiki's hair looked like a lego man.  Probably not many satisfied web searchers there.


8.  Poop Cake


Okay, I did mention a poop cake in a blog post, but are that many people interested?  Really?


7.  Shit Cake


Well, okay, so apparently that many people are interested.


6.  Care Bear Pictures


I think I did mention Care Bears once in a post.  Right?


5.  Carebears


I guess I must have.


4.  Care Bears Pictures


Apparently with a picture too.


3.  Care Bear


Wow, okay, so Care Bears are apparently pretty popular on the net.


2. Tulibo


There we go, that's more expected.  Thank god we're done with the Care Bears.


1. Care Bears


Well shit.


In case you think I'm exaggerating this, there were 81 searches for "Tulibo" that led to this site.  For "Care Bears" alone there were 1,076! Yeah, so I'm going to change the focus of this blog from, well, whatever the hell it is right now, to Care Bears.  Nothing but Care Bears, Care Bears, Care Bears!  

You're welcome, internet.

All Hallow's Eve

I know, I know, you're all wondering why my annual poll for Kiki's costume has not appeared.  I do apologize, but let me explain.  Em and I did discuss many ideas for Kiki this year: ninja, pirate, superhero, maybe, you know, ninja pirate hero.  And yes, we do realize she is a girl.  


Anyway, maybe because they knew us and could predict that we would come up with a terrible idea, both her Aunt and her Godfather gave us costumes.  Thus, already having two awesome costumes, we thought it would be excessive to have a poll for a third costume, especially since our ideas were so crap compared to the gifted costumes.  So, this year Kiki's costume will not be subject to the democratic process.  But do not worry dear reader, next year the poll will come again, and yes, pirate ninja hero is going to be on there!  Unless, you know, Kiki has other ideas, but I'm sure she'd like to give over control of her outfit to the general internet populace, right?

Talk is Cheap

Well, Kiki has been talking for a while now and is entering that wonderful "sponge" stage, where she will oftentimes repeat a word after only hearing it once or twice, especially useful words like "aubergine" and "phospholipid bilayer."  However, it has required my wife and I to severely curtain our cursing, which has been more of a fucking problem than I ever expected.  Unfortunately, Kiki's mispronunciation of many words already sound like cursing, for example "Sit" becomes "Shit," "Gray" becomes "Gay," and "Milk" becomes "Dickface"... alright, so maybe we can't blame all of it on her poor diction.  But fucking hell, it's goddamn hard to control this shit.  But hey, she's cute enough I figure she can get away with cursing like a drunken sailor.  I mean, that's a good parenting approach, right?

No?  Well, fuck.

Terrible... Twenty-One Months?

Well, our darling daughter, being a prodigy, decided to get a head start on the "terrible twos." She has become a master of tantrums, pouting, and general insanity.  Yeah, we couldn't be more proud.  


Particularly when she decides to exert her newfound independence in public.  Like when she absolutely refuses to be put in her car seat, mainly by going alternately rigid and limp, thereby jackknifing her body out of the seat and into the footwell.  Or when she runs off in the grocery, grabbing things and then flipping out if you take it away, because obviously she HAD to have the pickled onions she happened to pull off the shelf.  And of course she complements all these fits of pique with wailing, crying, and her new favorite, stomping around.  If it wasn't so damn funny it could be annoying.  Of course, our laughing only makes matters worse.  


But seriously, when you watch your daughter slide into the footwell for the third time in a row, screaming in a pitch and volume last experienced in a Guns N' Roses concert and blowing snot bubbles from her nose, what else can you do but laugh?  Well, that and call to schedule your vasectomy.

The Secret To Happiness

Well, I've discovered it.  A fail-safe, simple, cheap, and easy guide to happiness.  Yes, with $3.00 and three easy steps you too can enjoy total joy on a daily basis.  


Step 1) Come home.  Okay, for this step you need a home.  But really, if you're reading this chances are you have a computer (unless you are reading this psychically, in which case nice work), and if you have a computer then you should have a home.  Thus, by my accounting, this step costs nothing.  If, however, you are homeless than I am sorry for you, I wish you the best of luck, but think it is going to take more than three steps to fix your situation.  Probably more like six or seven steps, and that's just beyond the scope of this simple little blog.


Step 2) Have your wife and 18 month old daughter waiting outside for you.  Okay, maybe you don't have a wife, but a girlfriend, husband, boyfriend, platonic life partner, or even friendly stranger should work.  Ah, now you say you don't have an 18 month old daughter.  How about a son?  No?  Hmmm, what about a very personable dog?  Nope, not that either?  A cat?  Even a very vivacious fish?  Nothing?  Hmm, alright, steal a kid.  Look, it's totally worth it, this is going to work out for you.  But I don't mean steal in a terrible abduction/ kidnapping kind of way, just borrow them for an hour or so, you know, like a library book... that talks.


Step 3) Have them blowing bubbles.  Then, join them.  It's amazing, all your stress and worries will be born away on the eddies of air along with those little soap bubbles.  It's helpful if your stolen child can say "bubbuls" continuously, ideally with a slight lifting in tone at the end.  It's kind of awesome.  Oh, and for the record, buy your $3.00 worth of bubbles from Gymboree, they are made of some sort of NASA engineered polymer, we've found them literally two days later still intact.  

How Quickly They Turn

Growing up, my wife was constantly told she resembled Lucy Liu.  Mainly because both she and Lucy are asian.  Hey, we grew up in the midwest, it doesn't take much.  Anyway, she grew to resent this statement, partly because Lucy is Taiwanese and my wife is half-Japanese, but mainly because she felt she didn't look much like her, other than they were both of asian descent.  And women.  And had hair.  Okay, they're obviously identical. 


I know what you're saying, poor girl, right?  First of all, your sarcasm is noted and appreciated.  And for me it is hard to muster too much sympathy when I was just told I resembled that fat kid from that show.  You know... Fat Albert.  But less attractive.  And white.  And less attractive.  And not funny.  And also less attractive.  I would have loved to be told I resembled anyone who wasn't a morbidly obese cartoon.  Like, say, Wilford Brimley.  Oh, to dream!  


Anyway, I've learned to tiptoe around her sensitivity.  Mainly by pointing out every mildly asian woman on television and saying "Look honey, it's you!"  Or, if it is a man, "Look honey, it's your brother!"  Yes, I assume my husband of the year award is in the mail.  Needless to say my wife is less than entertained by my shenanigans.  However, yesterday, while waiting in the checkout line in the grocery, our darling daughter pointed to the cover of a magazine featuring, you guessed it, Lucy Liu, and said "Mama."  Awesome!  Well, now we know who's sense of humor she inherited.  Though I hope she grows up to look more like Lucy than Albert.  Although some sort of Fat Lucy Albert Liu mashup could be kind of awesome, right?

Uh Oh

Well, this was an interesting evening.  Kiki and I were enjoying bath time, having discovered we could blow bubbles, her current obsession, using the neti pot under the water surface.  Oh, also, we have a neti pot as a bath toy.  If you don't know what a neti pot is, it is a small watering can you shove up your nose to wash out your sinuses.  There is no intentional humor in the preceding sentence.  


What, like you don't use quasi medical devices for your child's toys?  What's that?  Oh, you don't, eh.  Well, good for you, not everyone can be as perfect as you I guess.  Jerk.


Anyway, we were enjoying the bubbles, luxuriating in the bath when, well, nature called.  To Kiki.  Urgently.  In the end, well, you know that scene from Caddyshack with the candy bar in the pool?  Yeah, except this was not exactly a Baby Ruth.  


I quickly swept Kiki out of the bath and took her to the shower to clean up, but I've rarely seen her so upset; full on tears, screaming, flushed, the whole show.  It was like, well, like someone just crapped in her bath, I guess.  Hmm, when you put it like that I guess it's less surprising.  


But for someone who happily, nonchalantly, and almost daily will wander around with poop in her pants, it was a bit surprising that she was suddenly all sensitive about it.  I guess my little girl is becoming a woman.  Hmmm, alright, maybe it's a bit premature to jump to that conclusion.  Especially based on the evening's events.  So what lesson did we learn here?  Well...  I think we might need a new neti pot, that's for sure.  

Summer Reading List

A friend is newly pregnant and we decided to lend them some of our parenting books to help them begin building a crippling fear of failure as a parent.  I mean, you can't do this on your own, right?  


Anyway, we pulled them together and had about 22 that my wife had read and, well, the one that I read.  Well, I read most of it.  Alright, half of it.  Okay, I got through pregnancy, birth, and the first four months.  I think the scope of the book went from conception through college acceptance.  I mean, I got the gist of it, I flipped through to check out any pictures.  And for the record, there were no pictures.  


I know, can you blame me for giving up on it?  Seems to me like the book was making some dangerous assumptions of my prior knowledge. The author apparently assumed that I am a man who knows what a baby looks like, who can decipher the fine art of swaddling through words alone, and who can apply a diaper without a 17 stage illustrated manual and accompanying video walkthrough.  Needless to say, I quickly realized that this was not a parenting guide aimed at me, and took the responsible route of casting it aside and just winging it.  


Now, this may not be the advised approach to parenting, and it doesn't sell many books, but so far it seems to be working okay... 

Hmmm, maybe I should have read the chapter about not eating your young.  But then again, she does seem to enjoy it.  And she is delicious.

Caffeinated Baby

Last Sunday we were having a lazy morning after a late night traveling back from Indiana.  By the way, thanks to those smarter/more experienced parent readers who pointed out we should try driving in the night while Kiki sleeps for road trips, it worked much better... well, except for the hail storm in the Indiana countryside at one a.m., could have done without that.  


Anyway, my wife and I were busily downing liters of coffee in an effort to keep up with our daughter.  Seeing us gulping so much of it, she was understandably curious and learned that it was "hot" and, eventually, began calling it "affee".  She was quite insistent, and was beginning to interfere with our constant supply of caffeine.  


Being a smart, resourceful father (not to mention dashingly handsome, wickedly clever, and mysteriously scented of bananas), I decided I should let Kiki try coffee, since that would surely stop her asking for it.  Let me also explain that the coffee in our house is of a strength that places it somewhere between a solid and rocket fuel.  It typically has an oil slick on top.  We sometimes have espresso as a lighter option.  If we run out of coffee I am forced to amputate a toe to approximate the physical reaction of our morning coffee.  


Okay, so perhaps I exaggerate a bit, but the point it our normal cup o' joe is akin to a swift kick in the face.  Needless to say, I figured Kiki would sputter it out and learn a lesson that she did not like "affee" and allow us to enjoy it in peace.  Unfortunately, Kiki decided not to go along with my plan.  No, she took a sip and immediately smiled and began chanting "more affee" repeatedly.  Yeah.  So now we're making an extra cup every morning.  

Horrible Parents

Last night I pulled out the camera, dusted it off, and realized we had taken precisely zero pictures of our darling daughter for the last 50 days.  I know, it's borderline criminal.  However, in our defense it was a lot easier to photograph her before she could walk.  Hell, it was way easier before she could move.  It was more of a still life composition.  Now, well, it's more of an action shot of her trying desperately to jam her hands onto the camera lens.  So, we've gone from pictures like this, 8 months ago:

To, well, this:

Yeah, so maybe I understand why the camera hasn't been getting quite the same workout. 

What Is Wrong With You?

When doing some research for a previous post (hey, a lot of research goes into this blog, quit laughing!) I entered "onesie" into Google to check the spelling since, strangely, it does not appear in my spell check.  Well, I was slightly alarmed to see the second recommendation (thanks google!) was "Onesies for adults".  Being a curious sort, I clicked through, and discovered a new world of products with horrific names like "jumpinjammerz" and "funzee."  Now, in theory, the idea of footed coverall pajamas seems kind of appealing, in a not very appealing kind of way, but in practice, well...

Okay, maybe the headless onesie look is unfairly creepy looking.  Let's see how it looks with a person inside...  

Fine, so it's no less creepy.  In fact, it is actually way more creepy.  Super creepy.  In fact, I think I may need a shower.  


But wait, that's not all!  No, not even close.  No, the adult onesie is incredibly versatile;


You can support the armed forces:   

Now, just because they may not see it, don't think they won't feel your support.  It feels like a slight tingling in the back of your knees.

You can apparently, what, poop in it?

Awesome.  

And just because you're wearing an infant's outfit doesn't mean you can't look, uh, sexy?

Maybe it's sexy to someone?  Unfortunately, I think that someone is a pedophile.  

And don't think you disaffected, surly teenagers need to be left out.  There are onesies for them too!!! 

 

They have skulls.  Skulls are badass, right?

And for the imbeciles in your life (you know who they are), well we've got many options for them:

WE'RE FROGS!!!!

I'M FLYING!!!

MY JOINTS DON'T WORK RIGHT!!!!

Look, if you want to dress as a baby, be my guest.  Hell, throw a pair of Depends on under your onesie if it makes you happy.  But please, don't go out in public.  And, google, could you please leave me out of it?  

Moving On Up

Having a child, we were convinced our little condo was more than enough space for the three of us.  After all, it worked well for just the two of us, so adding a third, especially a tiny little person, would be easy-peasy.  Alas, what we didn't realize was that the child is only the tip of a plastic, battery powered, space hogging iceberg.  If you are unfamiliar with what I am talking about here's a three step process to understand. 


Step 1) Go to the house of someone who has a 6-12 month old.  Hopefully they're family or a friend or at least an acquaintance, but if you have to break into some family's home, well, sometimes we have to make a sacrifice for the sake of education.  


Step 2) Close your eyes and take a step.


Step 3) Open your eyes.  That thing you stepped on, that hurt like hell and caused you to stumble into that other thing, which made you totally lose your balance and go crashing into a pile of other crap.  Yeah, that's the plastic shit I'm referring to.


Diapers, diaper genies, changing pads, onesies, , bouncy chairs, swings, slings, cribs, exersaucers, playpens, books, toys, strollers, pack n' plays, etc. etc. etc.  They all infiltrate your life and fill up all the available space in your home, displacing the things you used to have, like floor space and furniture with hard edges.  


But possibly the most annoying thing of the whole process, more than the cost, more than the space crunch, even more than the fact your child will only enjoy any individual item for maybe 2 weeks, is that there is now a region of your brain that is dedicated to remembering and understanding words like "onesie," "exersaucer" and "pack n' play."  Yeah, that's a part of my brain I'm never getting back.  I'd try to kill the brain cells with alcohol, but the only clean glasses we have are sippy cups.  

OCD Toddler

It has been amazing to watch Kiki develop her motor and verbal skills.  It seems like every day she has a new skill and a couple new words (today's were "kayak" and "bird" and I don't know how she got along without them before).  As she learns and grows we're also slowly seeing her personality come out, and well, she seems to have mild OCD.  Nothing too alarming, just a mild penchant for cleanliness.  


For instance, she will request a bath about 4 times a day, though to be fair, oftentimes as a delaying tactic at nap and bed times.  She also loves to wash her hands and would happily do so every 20 minutes.  But most helpful/worrying is her constant efforts to throw things away.  


It all started innocently enough when my wife taught her the word "trash" and showed her how to throw away her dirty diaper.  Seemed like a useful skill, pretty much the first one she had learned in life.  But soon she was picking up anything she could find (blueberries, socks, wallets, small pets) and inquiring if it was trash, oftentimes while holding it over the trash can.  


However, sitting here with the newest season of Hoarders playing in the background, I guess I could think of a few things worse than a love of soap and order.  

Lost In Translation

So, Kiki is learning to speak, which is kind of great for us since we now have a clue what she wants rather than guesswork.  She is also learning Japanese from my wife.  Which is also kind of great.  The only problem is that I, alas, do not know Japanese.  Thus, when we were reading a book together (okay, I was reading the book and Kiki was chiming in at times) and came across a picture of a monkey, Kiki broke in with "Saru."  Naturally, being an ignorant gaijin, I corrected her with "Monkey" (also accepting baboon, primate, and capuchin), only to be informed by my wife that I was a jerk and an idiot, and Kiki was right.  So, basically, my daughter, at 17 months, is smarter than I am.  Awesome.  So now I'm afraid to correct her, since I now assume she is just speaking Japanese.  So now we'll read a book and whenever she chimes in with, well, anything really, I just tell her she's right, brilliant, and wonderful.  So, basically my wife is teaching her Japanese and I am teaching her gibberish.  And that is why it takes a village to raise a child, because the father is just fucking everything up.  

Seriousness

Last night I was riding on the bike trail, enjoying my evening, when I came around a corner to see a man on the ground.  From what I could gather as I slowed down, he had hit a speed bump in the road and just toppled over off his bike.  


As I came up to him I saw that he did not appear to be bleeding or injured but I did slow to ask if he was okay.  He did not answer, preferring to grumble to himself and slam his water bottle to the ground.  About then another cyclist came along and passed the fallen rider, leaving about 5 feet of clearance and slowing considerably.  


This, apparently, was the most absurd behavior to our fallen comrade (let's call him "Bert").  Bert proceeded to yell at the passing rider (who we'll dub "Nicodemus") "Nice fucking job, don't fucking slow for a fucking injured person, just fucking ride on asshole!"  


Now, I was a bit confused, for I had, at this point, stopped to offer exactly that assistance Bert seemed so desperate for, but he had ignored me to this point.  Maybe he didn't want my help, but it did seem somewhat rude.  When the understandably befuddled Nicodemus stopped to see what, exactly, all the fuss was about Bert continued to berate him "Fucking asshole fucking riding right by you fucking fucker" (Bert wasn't exactly showing the breadth of his vocabulary).  


To this, Nicodemus succinctly and appropriately responded, in an admirably calm tone, "What the fuck is wrong with you?"  


At this point, I figured these two had it all handled and I rode on my merry way, listening to their continued exchange as I rode on.  However, on the rest of my ride I was puzzled as to why Bert was so disproportionately angry.  I mean, when I'm injured I don't usually react with blind and misplaced rage.  Usually.  And frankly, he didn't appear injured at all.  That's when I realized, he may have not cut or broken anything physical, but he shattered his fragile ego.  


See, when you're a cyclist your sense of self becomes tragically distorted.  Suddenly you think you're cool and hip because you shave your legs, you have multi-colored matching lycra outfits, and your arms are as slender as a 12 year old girl's.  This delusion can become quite strong, until it all comes crashing down around you when you fall off your bike, especially when done at slow speed.  Suddenly, as you lay on the ground, you realize with stunning clarity how you actually appear to the rest of the (non-cycling) world:

No wonder Bert was so upset.  

Parking

So, deciding that Kiki cannot be raised indoors for her entire life, we ventured forth today to the park. We figured between the rose gardens, the playground, and the wide open spaces she would be endlessly entertained. She did enjoy herself, but not exactly in the manner we expected. 


Once again illustrating how little I understand of my darling daughter's thought process, she spent 90% of the time pointing out dogs and babies. Well, more accurately, "dohs" and "bebes." Almost nonstop and at increasing volume and with ever more intensity, lest we miss one. We would walk through the rose garden with Kiki saying "doh doh doh Doh Doh DOH DOH DOH" and pointing at every dog, squirrel, and bird. Sometimes she would switch it up by yelling "bebe BeBe BEBE" and pointing at any baby, child, short adult or even seated giant. We finally decided the rose garden wasn't cutting it so we ventured over to the playground. Unfortunately, once there she had no interest in the swings or slides but she did enjoy picking up random sticks and flailing them about.  Just look how much fun she's having:

Okay, fine, so she doesn't look like the happiest child in the park.  We were even worried that she just isn't that into the outdoors, but we later realized she was just sad she didn't have any "doh's" to whip into shape.  

Happy Birthday America!

Hoping you have a wonderful and pyrotechnic filled fourth (and for those with small children may the fireworks be far enough away for uninterrupted sleep).  Summer is here, so make sure to get outside and enjoy yourself, even if that just means repeatedly opening and closing a sliding glass door...

Unconventional Training

Yesterday on the bike path I saw perhaps the strangest rider yet. Yes, stranger than the 60 year old woman riding in a string bikini and sandals. More bizarre than the rider wearing his bibs over his jersey. Stranger even than the man who wears oven mitts to ride in the winter. No, this was a man, fairly ordinary in appearance, riding a nondescript bike, but saying over and over while he rode... Well, suffice it to say it rhymes with bigger and starts with an n. Yeah. As I see it, there are three possible explanations for this unusual behavior;


1) He is batshit crazy.


2) He is absurdly racist and, as a public service, has chosen to constantly warn others about it, much like a large truck beeping as it backs up to warn passersby.


3) He is engaged in a new and highly unusual training regime consisting of riding around offending everyone until people chase you and then being forced to escape them. 


 I know, at first blush this seems very unlikely, but remember that cyclists will do most anything to gain a competitive edge. Starve yourself to P.O.W.-esque appearance? Sure! Take every known drug, suplement, and hormone in the off chance it makes you faster? Why not! Remove your blood, store it for weeks, and then reinject it into your system? But of course! Suddenly the risk of racially motivated violent retaliation doesn't seem too daunting. I mean, what better way to simulate the excitement and terror of race day than riding for your life away from an angry mob? Sure, you risk bodily injury and alienate all around you, but you might get 1.126% faster. Well worth it.


I just hope this doesn't catch on, the other people on the bike path are annoying enough already. 

Godlike Powers

Well, Kiki is coming up on a year and a half, which means she's now fully mobile and also talking.  This has brought about a new revelation for us, namely that we have an almost godlike power of creation with her.  She is quickly learning words, but she does pickup 90% of her words from either her mother or me (the other 10% being from family, strangers, and crazy yelling men on the side of the road).  


This has given us total control over her knowledge and vocabulary.  For instance, she has learned the english for sock ("auck"), nose ("noh") and eye (er, well, "eye", actually) but japanese for ear ("mimi"), shoe ("ootz"), and bath ("oohaloohalooh" although I think my wife may be screwing with both of us on that one).  


The other day she was fascinated with bellybuttons and I (probably mistakenly) was saying "boop" when she would press on my bellybutton.  Thus, her bellybutton is now known as "boop" to Kiki.  This opens up a whole world of creativity.  Maybe cars will be "rabungas" in her world, perhaps potatoes will henceforth be known as "jibberbugs".  Black will be "white", blue will be "orange", red will be "turnip".  The world is our oyster, or as they will be known to Kiki, "squigiliums".  


I mean, this is a damn good plan, what could possibly go wrong?


Although now that I consider it, I remember something from my own childhood.  When I was about 4 years old, my mother told us that (please hold your laughter until the end) if you wave at an airplane as it passed overhead and the pilot sees you they will throw bubblegum down to you.  Yep.  And by god I believed her.  For two reasons really; 


1) She's my mom.  I didn't think she would lie to us simply for her own personal enjoyment.  I have since learned my lesson on that one.  


2) It's free bubblegum.  Why the fuck wouldn't I believe in it?  I believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny too.  I would have believed in a 300 foot tall invisible giant donkey named Hubert if it would bring me free food.  


Unfortunately, my blind faith and love of candy led me to wave like a spastic reject whenever I saw a plane.  It didn't help that we lived in a major flight path.  Needless to say, I wasn't exactly the most popular kid in the neighborhood.  Hmmm, maybe I shouldn't do the same thing to Kiki... but at the same time, my experience did teach me a healthy distrust of authority which I would like my daughter to have.  Alright, maybe I will teach her most words correctly, but I think bath will always be oohaloohalooh.

My name is Tulibo, and I'm an addict

I was at the bike shop the other day.  Surprise, surprise.  I break bikes like it's my job.  Oh, I should look into if anyone's hiring for that position.  Anyway, I was chatting with one of the salesmen while waiting for my latest broken bit to be fixed.  He was telling me that he hasn't been able to ride much lately (just 40 or 50 miles a week) because he's working at the bike shop, his girlfriend had her tonsils out, and things just get busy.  As I left I realized that I have a full time job, a wife, a 16 month old child, and I still bike 100-130 miles a week.  Granted, that's down from my average mileage PK (pre-Kiki) but only by 30 or 40 miles.  That's when I realized that either I'm a heartless bastard, a terrible husband, and a neglectful father OR I have a cycling addiction.  You can guess which explanation I'm going with.  I figure step one is identifying the problem.  Step two is, what, doing something about it?  I'll get around to that eventually.  I figure I should just take this one step at a time.  Man, these steps are exhausting, I think I need to go for a bike ride.  You know, just to clear my head.  What?  I have a disease, cut me some slack.  

Unexpected Problems

When you discover you're going to be a parent you worry about many things: what if the baby chokes, what if she won't eat, what if she never sleeps through the night.  


You read some books, which give you even more things to worry about: SIDS, ebola, alien abduction (I guess it depends what kinds of books you read).  


Maybe you even subscribe to a parenting magazine, which gives you a few more things to throw on the worry pile: mismatched outfits, bad haircuts, self-immolation.  


But then you have your child, and you realize that no matter what you've been worrying about and preparing for, you are still totally unprepared.  Like, for instance, when your dog begins humping your child.  Yeah, awesome.  


I mean, she doesn't seem to mind, and frankly, for the amount of grief she gives the poor animal, it's probably just fair turnabout.  But still, I feel like I need to step in, but so far my books and periodicals have been mute on the proper parenting solution to this particular conundrum.  


But then again, maybe I just missed that issue of Parenting with Pets magazine.  

One Thing At A Time

Once it became widely known to friends and coworkers that I was into cycling (usually when I showed up in full spandex to an event, also the turning point where many friends and coworkers became ex-friends, former coworkers, and the plaintiff named in the sexual harassment suit) I often found myself invited to participate in sporting events.  


Ah, but not the bike races you may assume.  No, nothing that simple, rather it's usually a triathlon.  Why do people assume, just because I can ride a bicycle, that I can also run and swim?  I guess they see me walking (sometimes in spandex, for which I apologize) from which they extrapolate that I can also speed it up into a run.  Fair enough.  But swimming?  The most interaction I have with water, outside the bathroom, is riding my bike in the rain.  And usually when I try that I crash. I view swimming as a way to keep from drowning, for which it is great.  But a way to get from point A to point B?  No fucking way.  I'll take the ferry, thank you very much.  


So the activities themselves are annoying enough, but then there are the distances.  Let's take the most common "beginner" triathlon, the sprint distance.  You start off with a .5 mile swim.  So right off the bat I drown, nice start.  After resuscitation there's a 12.4 mile bike ride.  Really?  That's literally how far I rode last January when it was 10 degrees and snowing.  It's a joke distance, barely worth putting on a helmet for.  So, after getting warmed up on the bike you get to jump off and run 5k, which is not dauntingly long but just kind of, well, boring, like all running really. 


But I hear you out there, with your shaved bodies and poor bike handling skills, you "true" triathletes mocking me to take a real challenge and do a longer triathlon, maybe even an iron man.  Yeah, 2.4 miles in the water, 112 miles on the bike, and a 26.2 mile run.  Do I even need to delineate why this is idiotic?  You know what, I really don't think I do.  Let's just move on.  


Here's my biggest problem.  It isn't that triathlons exist or that people participate in them.  Hell, most people I meet think I'm insane for enjoying cycling like I do, far be it for me to judge any else's sporting choices.  Hey, if you want to combine football, chess, and hopscotch into some unholy amalgam please, be my guest, but don't invite me to join in just because of my love of hopscotch (it should totally be an olympic sport).  I mean, if I tell you I like apples do you send me a bag of potatoes?  If I tell you I play hockey do you invite me to join your handball league?  So quit inviting me to do your triathlons.  Well, unless you want to do a relay team and all I have to do is ride the bike leg.  I wouldn't mind passing some triathletes with their goofy helmets and $4,000 wheels.  

Haircuttery

All my life, someone cut my hair for me.  First my mother, who was a big fan of the "Prince Valiant."  For those of you fortunate enough never to have had one of these inflicted on you, here's the 'style.'

Hot!

Thanks Mom!


Once I moved on to having professional haircuts, I went to a friend of my mothers who would periodically have fun at my head's expense.  Like when she thought I'd look good with Agassi's haircut. His pre-bald haircut.  Yeah, this one:

To be fair, this may be a wig

To be completely honest, I was 100% behind the idea.  I mean, who wouldn't be?  And besides, all that was separating me from Andre was the hairstyle.  Oh, and the fitness, skill, and good looks.  But mainly the hair.


As I reached high school, I went with the ponytailed look, reducing my haircuts to annual trims, still professionally administered, just to keep from looking too much like Cousin It.  Fine, I looked exactly like Cousin It, though less skillful, fit, and good looking.


Eventually I got a job and cut my hippy hair off and, you know, stopped looking like as much of an idiot, despite what every picture of me on this blog may indicate.  But now I am faced with a new hair related problem.  That's right, Kiki, and it's a doozy:

What?

Yeah, from birth her hair just stuck straight out.  All the time.  No matter what we did.  Hats, hair clips, bows, water, gel, glue.  Nothing could contain the madness.  Finally, after six months, her hair finally succumbed to the siren song of gravity.   But then we were faced with a new challenge.  Now that her hair was no longer vertical it was just in her eyes.  So, much like my mother before us, we were forced to cut our child's hair.  But, being progressive, forward thinking, and hip parents, we wanted to give her something different.  Something unique.  Something sleek and modern:

Alright, to be fair, it's quite a bit like the Prince Valiant.  Actually, it's a lot more like, well...

Wanted: One Babysitter

So, we lost our babysitter.  No, we didn't misplace her at the mall or leave her at the park, but we do find ourselves without a viable childcare alternative to, well, us.  I know, horrors!  


So we consulted that infinite database of all parenting knowledge.  Yep, we googled "babysitters" and came back with some creepy site.  Undaunted, we tried searching for "real babysitters" and did no better.  Same for "experienced babysitters", "strict babysitters" and "coed slutty babysitters".  Fine, so the last search was for my own benefit.  Anyway, finally we searched for "babysitters, really, babysitters, you know, to watch a baby, our baby, not some weird and creepy babysitter pornography appealing to stunted and deranged perverts.  Seriously." and found some honest to goodness babysitters in our town.  Not to say some weren't every bit as disturbing as the pornography.  Let's meet the candidates, shall we?


Our first applicant is Jazmyn.  Now, let's not be hasty in judgement here.  Sure, her name and chosen spelling might, possibly, somewhat hint that perhaps, maybe, she could have at some time danced with, you know, no clothes on.  But hey, we're enlightened and open minded parents, if she is comfortable with her body and secure in her choices who are we to hold it against her?  No, what sunk Jazmyn was her assertion that she doesn't believe in letting children watch "telivision".  Really?  I mean, I guess that's fair, when I think about it I find that I also don't believe in children watching telivision, or even tilevision, tellevision or tellyvisheon for that matter.  I'll even go so far to make the blanket statement that I am against children watching anything that doesn't exist.  


Well, Jazmyn's out (sorry Jazzy, we barely knew ye), but let's see who's next!


Ah, Robin, a bit older, a bit more experienced, a bit, well, judging from her photo, blurry and pixelated.  But that's alright, the technologically challenged can be great caregivers, just look at Mary Poppins.  Sure, she could fly using an umbrella but did you ever see her using an ipod or GPS?  I rest my case.  Anyway, so Robin has been nannying and babysitting for many years and prior to that, let's see, oh, she went to a prestigious art college, that's nice.  And let's see, oh, she majored in... seriously...really... photography?  Sorry Robin, if you're that bad at your chosen area of study I hesitate to hire you in something outside your "area of expertise."


And now we come to Sarah.  A sweet girl, fairly experienced but still young enough to keep up with a toddler into the wee hours as needed.  A student at the local university, she is studying abnormal psychology, which will come in handy when dealing with, well, me.  However, what really caught our attention is that, in addition to babysitting services, she also works as a dogsitter.  Now, many of you will judge us negatively for our priorities, but bear in mind we have a cute, well behaved, and relatively easy daughter.  We also have three ill behaved, bad tempered, and strange dogs.  Yeah, if she can handle them then Kiki will be a breeze.  


So we're trying out Sarah this weekend.  If all goes well we will have solved our childcare conundrum through the proper application of google.  If, conversely, things don't go well... let's just say if you see a cute part-Japanese toddler for sale on Craig's List could you just go ahead and buy her for us?  I'll thank and reimburse you later.  

Snotsy

When I am riding my bike and the temperature drops below 60 degrees, an interesting thing happens.  Well, interesting to me, hazardous and disgusting to those behind me.  See, my mucous production goes into overdrive.  In other words, I become a snot factory.  Oh, and phlegm, don't forget the phlegm, oh so much phlegm.  

In an effort to uncover the cause of this, well, 'skill', I did some digging into the family history and I think I may have figured it out.  Oddly enough, it turns out my great-great Aunt Susie-Lou was a hagfish.  

Auntie.  Unfortunately, I got her nose.

Also known as a slime eel, the hagfish can produce 5 gallons of slime in minutes.  Yep, sounds about right.  Now, the hagfish's slime is thought to be a defense mechanism or protective film, either of which don't seem to explain my problem... unless it is protecting me from anyone chasing me, or protecting my entire face, and leg, and arm, and bike, and the guy behind me from wind and possibly sunburn.  

It occurred to me that maybe this was my body's way of expelling heat and waste, much like a dog pants rather than sweats.  However, the problem with this hypothesis is that I also sweat like a, well, here's my great Uncle Herbert:

Be quiet, he's sleeping

If only I could find a way to turn this into a marketable skill.  Know anyone looking for industrial quantities of snot?

Weight Weenies

Ah, cyclists.  Among our other issues (shaved legs, saddle sores, spandex), many of us suffer from the delusion that the only possible thing standing between us and Tour de France glory is the extra 3 grams we're carrying around, unnecessarily, on our bicycle.  We go to extreme, and often absurd lengths to shave grams.  Well, not extreme or absurd, just extremely and absurdly expensive.  


You see, most cyclists won't go to extreme or even ordinary efforts to eliminate the extra 3 (or 30,000) grams they're carrying around on their ass.  If you go into most any bike shop, but especially one in an expensive suburb, you'll see a steady procession of average looking guys looking to spend almost any amount to save a bit of weight on their bike.  Because excess weight makes you slower.  And, by my reckoning, every gram of weight slows you down by at least 11.3 mph, so going from an 18.5 pound average bike to a sub-seven pound featherweight will make you 140 mph faster.  Yep, it's science (though not necessarily sound mathematical reasoning).  


Just to illustrate for any non-believers out there, the friendly people at Speedplay make a wide variety of road pedals, all of which have the same performance (you know, they hold your foot), varying only in physical materials and thus weight.  Their baseline pedal weighs 305 grams and costs $115.  Their top of the line pedal weighs 218.5 grams and costs $630.  That's negative 86.5 grams for $515, or $2,703 a (negative) pound!  Just for reference, negative pedal weight costs more than actual weight of marijuana, and is significantly less enjoyable.  


So why are we all so dumb?  Two words.


Lance Armstrong.


Yep, I pin this one squarely on ol' Lancey.  See, before Lance came along, the guys winning professional bike races looked like this:

'Sup

Yeah, the kind of guy who had no problem eating and even carrying a tray of pastries during a race, because it looks fucking cool.  Alright, to be fair, maybe a tray of dessert is not the most badass example, but this definitely is:

Smoking and endurance sports?  Nothing cooler.


My point is, cycling used to be cool, until Lance and his team of nerds sucked the fun out of it and made it all about results and winning.  I want to go back to the good old days, when it didn't matter if you failed to win because you were carrying some extra weight, as long as you were enjoying yourself.  Really, which of these situations would you rather find yourself in?