Say what?

Our daughter began expressing herself verbally quite early, which at first was awesome.  No longer forced to guess, we could be informed of what she wanted.  Of course, the novelty of that soon wore off when we were told for the 40,404th time that what she wants is to watch Cinderella.  Well, more accurately, "Cigarella," who is her lesser known Cuban cousin.

Having a talkative two year old has led to some... interesting... conversations and comments in our household.  Just a few things I've found myself saying in the past few months...

"Don't put that on your bottom."

"If you finish your chicken fingers, then you can have more sushi."

"Stop touching your bottom"

"Please don't ride Thomas (the chihuahua), he does not like it."

"Where did your underwear go?"

"Do not put your diaper on Thomas"

"Did you poop?  Are you pooping?  Do you need to poop?  Are you pooping?  Are you done pooping?"

"You can only wear one princess dress to bed, not two.  That would be ridiculous."

"Please stop putting your toys in the freezer."

"I don't know where your wallet/watch/ipod/phone/ring/keys are, last I saw Kiki was 
running around with them.  Have you checked the freezer?"

And, my personal favorite...

"Please stop playing the drums with your magic wand."

Movie Night

About a month ago, Kiki began showing continued interest in the television for more than 12 minutes at a stretch.  Seizing upon this opportunity, my wife and I, lovers of movies, tried out a film on her.  Starting out at home, we were both pleasantly surprised when she sat through all of My Neighbor Totoro, and about a week later Cinderella.   

Emboldened by these successes, we decided to venture out into public, and went to a 6:30 showing of Brave.  Thankfully, because the movie has been out for weeks and we chose a theater that, like many in the suburbs, had started out as the end all be all place to be and has since regressed into little more than a crackhouse that happens to show movies, the theater was nearly empty, just a few other couples with kids.  Well, and the crackheads.  

We prepared as best we could since it was dinner time, sneaking in sandwiches, carrots, cookies, crackers, drinks, and, well, soup.  I know, an unusual movie snack choice, but we did discover that there's nothing quite like a warm bowl of soup during a movie.  So we went in prepared in case we got stuck in the theater for a day or two.  

It started off well enough, Kiki rapaciously staring at the screen, quietly absorbing all the theater had to offer.  Unfortunately this only lasted through the first 23 seconds.  Then she started asking

"Who's she?"

"What's her name?"
"Why's her name Merida?"

"Where's her Mama?"
"Is that her Mama?"
"Where's her Dada?"
"Is that her Dada?"

and so on, until we had outlined the entire family tree for every character in the movie.  Once that was settled, she moved on to exploring the theater.  Which mainly consisted of crawling up and down the main aisle.  While giggling uncontrollably.  Once she was done with that we returned to the questions ("Why's she doing that?"), interspersed with further explorations.  Finally, having exhausted her searches and her questions, she settled into a chair to watch the movie.  Oh, the chair she chose was across the theater from us.  But, thankfully, when she had further questions she would just yell them to us across the theater.

Yep, it was quite an adventure.  I think I'll wait about, oh, 14 years until we try this again. 

Salmon!!!!

Well, Kiki just had an absolute shit-fit because we wouldn't let her have salmon right before bed. Nope, not a typo for candy, she was actually bawling "But I want salmon!!!". We're either doing something right or something very wrong, not really sure on this one.

Potty time

Well, it finally happened, Kiki is potty trained.  I know, by putting such a statement out there we are guaranteed a remission and a return to months of diapers and accidents, but it's been a few weeks now of diaper freedom.  How did we manage this in only a few relatively trouble free weeks you ask?  Oh, you didn't ask.  Well, let me tell you anyway  But to be fair, for all the real tips you'll need to purchase my forthcoming book.

Mainly it was a combination of stern demanding, constant haranguing, and vicious discipline.  

...

Fine, that's a total lie, we basically let her poop wherever she wanted.  Including on the front porch or in front of the TV, during the Tour de France no less:

Yeah, that's pretty much my perfect seat in life.

Halloween!

Well, everyone's favorite time of year has come! That's right, it's time for the annual, amazing, and only mildly corrupt Kiki costume voting extravaganza!!!!

This year, in an effort to streamline the selection process, we have stolen a page from the American electoral system and have been holding primary elections all year long.  It is a rigorous and exhaustive process wherein Kiki, my wife and I each all have a single vote to cast. Tallying the votes is a very technical and complicated affair, involving several complex algorithms, a sophisticated predictive software program, and at least three independent accounting firms auditing the results, but in short, my votes don't count, my wife said "this is dumb" and basically Kiki decides. Thus, I bring you your voting options for 2012:

A) A princess
B) A princess
C) A princess
D) A dinosaur. Ha, nope, just kidding, it's a princess too.

So, much like our electoral system, we find ourselves with a lot of choices that all seem the same and are all vaguely disappointing.

It's not that I have any real dislike of princesses, but I always imagined dressing my little girl up like Amelia Earhart or Marie Curie rather than, well, Snow White. I know, I am basically the biggest nerd on earth. But at least we will put her in some boots so she's kind of a badass princess. I mean, this is still a little girl who can kick some ass and isn't just waiting for a prince to rescue her:

I've trained her well

Last week, my daughter was in a bit of a mood when I came home.  She didn't have her nap and she was being a bit of a pill.  Coming into the house, I briefly considered leaving again, but had been spotted so came in.  My ever patient and loving wife asked Kiki what it was she did want to do, since she had emphatically turned down all proffered activities, food, and drinks.  

She responded with "I want to eat pasta. And watch cycling.  With Dada."

I don't think I could love anyone more than I loved her at that moment.

Hide and Seek

Yesterday, while standing in the bathroom, Kiki asked "Can we play hide seek?"

Assuming she meant Hide AND Seek (this parenting thing is hard), I agreed, figuring I could totally own her.  I mean, she is small and able to hide in more places, but I still figured I could dominate, given my years of practice and experience.  And why else do you have children?

However, little did I know that she did not mean Hide and Seek, she meant what she said, Hide Seek, a game of her own creation, apparently.  It started off normally enough.  I turned around, counted to 5, and came searching for her.  She managed to go into the closet and close the door.  When I turned around, drawing on my skills, I managed to pick up on a few subtle hints.  Mainly the giggling emanating from the closet.  Also her face peaking around the door.  After finding her and doing a short celebratory dance, it was my turn to hide. 

This is when I began to realize some of the subtle differences with Hide Seek.  For a start, she claimed she was counting, but did so in her head, not out loud.  Being a seasoned Hide and Seeker, I always rely upon the audible count to know exactly how long I have to fine tune my hiding.  But I'm a flexible player, I could deal with this change.  But then she also refused to close her eyes or turn around, rather staring at me while I hid.  

This, I must say, did rather throw me off.  Not being sure exactly how to hide while in plain sight, I stopped to gather my thoughts.  This pause gave Kiki the chance to illustrate the final difference with Hide Seek, namely that she told me where to "hide." 

"Go in the closet Dada.  Close the door"

Not one to argue when I'm unsure of the rules of the game, I did so, to promptly be "found" by Kiki, who proceeded to perform her own celebratory victory dance.  Personally I think it could have used a little less finger pointing, and I could have definitely done without the mockery of my face and fashion sense, but she was the winner, so I just had to take it.  

I'm thinking we may need to rename Hide Seek to Watch Tell, but I am confident I'll find a way to win.  And oh the dance I will unleash then!

Racer?

Well, it has come to pass that, within many of my social circles (friends, neighbors, coworkers), I have become known as "the cyclist."  It's somewhere above being "the pervert" and below being "the doctor"... sadly, I think closer to the pervert.  I blame the spandex.  

Anyway, as "the cyclist" I am often asked questions like; 

"What bike should I buy?"

"Why do you shave your legs?"

"Will you please stay away from the children?"

Okay, the last may be due to the spandex.  But one question I seem to field whenever someone learns of my addiction is; 

"What races do you do?"  

And my answer ("I don't race") always seems to disappoint.  I guess they want me to tell about my experience in the Tour de France, but seriously, amateur racing is just a waste of effort in my mind.  It breaks down into three categories:

1) Criteriums

2) Road Races

3) Time Trials


Let's hit them one at a time and I'll explain why they're stupid, sound good?  Okay, let's begin.


1) Criteriums - these are raced over a small loop course, usually 1-4 miles in length, with the race covering either a set amount of time or a set number of laps.  It's closest cousin would be a NASCAR race.  Well, with less rednecks and more spandex.  But with pretty much the same number of crashes.  The last crit I entered, someone actually managed to crash going uphill.  No turn.  No great speed.  Just, apparently, decided to fall over.  Awesome.  I'll leave these to the critters.


2) Road Races - these are point A to B races, typically covering 75-120 miles, oftentimes with several days in a row (known as stages).  I think these would be quite fun, but I have a problem with...

• Ending up somewhere other than where I started.  All my shit was there at the start.  You know, like my wallet, and car, and shorts for hiding my spandex shame.  Now I am at the finish and my shit is 120 miles away.  This pisses me off.
• Racing multiple days.  I have never, in my life, finished a race and thought "wow, I wish I got to do that again tomorrow".  Nope, my thoughts are more concerned with not vomiting and how soon I can shower.  And, as I am not a pro racer, I actually have a job.  So I would take vacation for a race?  Nope nope nope nope nope.

Which brings us to...


3) Time Trials - okay, this is the simplest.  Just you against the clock over a measured course.  You aren't racing the other cyclists, in fact, you aren't allowed to get too close lest you get a beneficial draft.  There is something about the simplicity and purity of it that does appeal to me, but I just can't get over a few things.  I have a clock.  I can choose a course.  Why the fuck do I need to show up at some specific location, at some specific time, to wait around for a lot of other douchebags to ride so I can do a time trial?????  I can also just roll out my driveway, start the timer on my watch and ride.  And I am a big enough douchebag on my own, I don't need any more around.  


But the biggest thing that guts any effort to race, no matter the format, is that is strips all fun out of riding my bike.  Suddenly, what were previously rides become training, either hard efforts to increase my speed/endurance or recovery rides to all the efforts to stick.  Either one is not nearly as fun as, you know, just riding.  


But say I do put in all that effort and become the best, fastest bike racer I could possibly be, fulfilling all my genetic potential, I could, maybe, win some of these entry level races.  And then the riches and fame would be all mine.  Yep, a $50 gift certificate, a pair of socks, and a 1 sentence mention in the local paper that misspells my name 3 different ways.  Well, when I put it like that, I better go start training!

Come On People

Well, I was going to do a post about this new product to hit the market from the good people at Hammacher Schlemmer:

It's a rearview camera.  For your bicycle.  Yep.  Because I often back up my bicycle and am constantly hitting things in my blind spot.  Fine, okay, I know it's so you can see the drunk redneck in the '82 Chevy pick-em-up truck before he smashes into you.  But here's the thing, see, it doesn't help.  You'll either be ditching into the sidewalk whenever anyone passes you or you'll learn to ignore it and still be squished.  Don't get me wrong, as a cyclist the fact that people are hit by cars constantly makes me angry/scared/slightly gassy (though that could have more to do with my bean enchilada lunch than cycling accidents).  But this in one thing we cannot solve through technology.  


However, in researching this post (a.k.a. fucking around online), I started looking at some of the other things offered by Hammacher Schlemmer for sale, and realized the rearview bike camera is just the tip of the iceberg.  As in they actually sell a fucking iceberg:

And for only nine grand?  How have I lived without it?  And it just gets more ridiculous and expensive.  Like this recumbent for a mere $40,000:

Or the $350,000 animatronic dinosaur:

Although, for the same price you can get a flying car.  Not sure which is more useless.  And, in case all of those are just way too useful and inexpensive, for a mere $2 million, you can get this:

Yep, your own personal submarine.  

Well, I now realize that the target market for Hammmlhecher Shlemmmmmlemer is idiot billionaires.  With that in mind, I have a proposed product to replace the rearview bicycle camera.  In lieu of an electronic aid, I will personally ride behind you on your bicycle, warn you of any upcoming vehicles, and even throw myself in the path of any potential collisions.  Yes, for the low, low price of, let's say $1,000,000, you can purchase your own personal Bike Butler TM*.  Hey, it's that or half a submarine, and that's just dumb.


*note, there is no guarantee of your personal safety while using the Bike Butler, failure to stop an actual collision is no fault of Bike Butler, absolutely no refunds provided, Bike Butler requires you to provide a top of the line bicycle for his personal use, Bike Butler not available in all areas, Bike Butler reserves the right to ignore you while riding if you are a total dickweed, which you probably are if paying for Bike Butler.

Final Resting Place

Well, having become a parent, my wife and I decided it was time to make some plans for the future.  She was concerned with life insurance, estate planning, and wills.  I however, being the practical one, was primarily concerned with what should be done with my dead body when I die.  


Now, some may opt for burial or cremation, or even something more unusual, like being made into a jewel or shot into space.  But none of those are for me.  Nope, I want to be taxidermied.  Before you go all judgmental on me, let me explain.  I am not talking about some two-bit redneck hack who specializes in deer and grouse.  No, nothing like that will do.  I want to be preserved by the genius, the artist, the maestro who created this:

Behold, the Gripsholm Lion.  Yes, dear readers, believe it or not, this was once a lion.  It was the pet of King Frederick I of Sweden, and upon its death was sent to be preserved.  The only problem was the taxidermist had never actually seen a lion.  Or, judging by the job he did, any other kind of animal.  Seriously, how many animals have a tooth centered in the middle of their mouth?  


Though perhaps not the most lifelike recreation, you have to admit it has panache.  And that's what I envision for my own remains.  I mean, he can certainly capture my shifty eyes and my disturbingly long tongue!  


Okay, so a minor problem with my plan may be the fact that he created this in the 1730's and has been dead for going on 275 years (assuming, rather safely, that he was executed after unveiling this to the king, who had actually seen the lion prior to death), but I am holding out hope that somewhere in the far reaches of the world of taxidermy there is his spiritual successor, ready to take up his cause and create anew.  I'm imaging a blind hermit.  Probably missing a few fingers.  Oh, and with palsy.  Yep, that should do it.  

Commuterism

As often happens to addicts, my cycling problem has finally begun affecting my work.  I used to be able to keep it together, I had it under control.  I went to work and, well, worked.  I would then come home and bike, and never the two should meet.  Well, other than the time I made the mistake of having some new cycling clothes delivered to work and a co-worker proceeded to put my jersey on over his work clothes and run around the office.  I work at a very serious and staid company, obviously.


But now, well, I've begun to commute to work by bike.  I know, I know, it's disturbing, but at least I'm admitting I have a problem, it's a step, right?  Yeah, I don't know if admitting it is going to do much for the poor temp who was surprised by me in my spandex one morning.  A man in spandex is, let's face it, about as disturbing as anything, but to be surprised by it within the work environment, in the early morning, before you've even had your coffee, well, it's just not fair.  


In an effort to minimize the disruption, I've tried to arrive earlier and leave later, but unfortunately it just results in the same unfortunate dedicated workers being constantly exposed to my, well, exposure.  I've found if I just pretend that I'm invisible and don't talk to them at all until I am fully showered and changed they can just pretend they didn't see me in spandex and it seems to be for the best.  It helps if I don't make ghost noises and rattle chains, but it is hard to resist.


Now is the point in my blog where I am supposed to tell you all the wonderful benefits of commuting, and give you pointers on why you too should take it up.  But, well, I just can't be bothered.  Frankly, as a cyclist I was always told by others how and why I should commute and it just never worked for me, despite a few efforts.  It just happened that a combination of factors all aligned to make it a nice fit now, but, like most things in life, what works for me probably won't for you.  Well, unless you work at my company, and live in my neighborhood, and have a similar anger issue with rush hour traffic, and have similar time constraints in life.  If that's the case then you sound pretty awesome and we should ride together sometime.


*My wife, my best critic and (only) editor is away right now, so please forgive the lower quality of the next few posts.  We apologize for the subpar product and will work to keep such disappointments from affecting your Tulibo experience in the future.

Helping?

Well, another step in Kiki's development today, she sat on the potty on her own volition!  I know, we've alerted the papers and most major networks, I assume they'll be over soon.  But, whilst sitting on the toilet she asked a question that, though seemingly simple, totally stumped us:

"How do you pee?"


Ummmmm...


Well....


I must say, I never really thought about it.  I just kind of, well, peed.  


But do you push?  Relax?  Push in a relaxed manner?  Relax in a pushing manner?


Somehow, I sensed that "You just do" was not the recommended parental response.  


So, being a failure as a father I turned to my most trusted advisor for some advice.  Yeah, Google.  


But, amazingly and shockingly to my sense of all that is right and true in this world, Google was of no help.  Nope, nothing but yahoo questions of how women pee (hint, they don't have to hold their penis), and queries about peeing in space, on a boat, in a plane, on a submarine.  Basically, every form of transportation.  Apparently peeing while in a vehicle is a bigger problem than I ever realized.  


So, having been failed miserably by Google, I turned to the second smartest person I know. Monsieur Wikipedia (he's fancy).  There, I discovered this:


Voluntary control

The mechanism by which voluntary urination is initiated remains unsettled.^[8] One possibility is that the voluntary relaxation of the muscles of the pelvic floor causes a sufficient downward tug on the detrusor muscle to initiate its contraction.^[9] Another possibility is the excitation or disinhibition of neurons in the pontine micturition center, which causes concurrent contraction of the bladder and relaxation of the sphincter.^[3]

So, basically, no one knows how to pee.  Hooray, I'm no longer a failure as a father, we're just a failure as a species!!!

Also, apparently my daughter is a scientific genius.  I mean, what's the difference, really, between Galileo staring into the night sky and asking why, Darwin watching the finches and asking why, and my daughter sitting on the toilet and asking why?  That's right, there's no difference, she's a genius.  Well, I've got to go clear a space for her nobel prize.  I'm thinking somewhere in a bathroom would be most appropriate.

Highbrow Entertainment

Well, it took a while but Kiki has finally discovered the television.  Yep, our claims of "she doesn't even notice it" and "we don't even need to limit the TV" has all become, much like her diapers, a pile of shit.  Nope, she, like all good Americans, will happily watch the television for, well, at least 15 minutes or so (alright, so, sadly, not like all Americans).


But she won't watch just anything, no no no, she's quite particular.  The only shows that will hold her attention are Elmo related, Yo Gabba Gabba, and Little Bear.  For those of you without children (wait, why are you reading this?  Go out and do something, get drunk, go on a date, get laid, don't just sit and read the internets!), I'll make a simple analogy to understand these shows:


Elmo = Weed.
Yo Gabba Gabba = LSD.
Little Bear = Heroin. 


Now, before I get into this, just in defense of my clean drug tests I must say all this information is via hearsay and internet research.  I'm sure that will hold up in court.  Moving on.  


Elmo is fairly inoffensive, the shows are relatively short, they're enjoyed by most everyone, they're legal in California, and they're easily enjoyed throughout the day, as long as you don't have much to do.


Yo Gabba Gabba is more immersive, quite a bit more entertaining, but may convince you that dressing in a skin tight orange jumpsuit is perfectly acceptable behavior.  


Little Bear will pull you in, suck your will to live, and leave you wondering where the last four weeks, and, for that matter, your money, car, and family went.  


Now, given these choices we, as smart, resourceful parents, turned to that bastion of all parenting guidance.  The internet.  Well, more specifically, Youtube.  But not for a video primer on TV usage by children.  Nah, that's boring.  Nope, we just tried to find a substitute drug.  Behold, our methadone:

As it's known in out household; Dancing Zebra.  Entertaining but short lived, allowing you to continue your life and function in society.


You're welcome.

Package From Japan

So about once a month a care package arrives from my mother-in-law in Japan.  Filled with unusual foods and insanely cute toys for Kiki, it's a monthly little celebration in our household.  However this month things went, well, let's just take a look, shall we?


First we found these...

So, they're little fork-like utensils, you know, for kids.  Pretty damn cute too, right?  And useful for those still developing the dexterity required for chopsticks.  And yes, I am counting myself in that group.


Well, at least these two are cute, but then they started to get a little, well, weirder...

Still cute, but I must say the seal is slightly disturbing, and from the way the elephant is crouched I can't really figure out where that spike is emanating from, but from the look on his face I'm guessing I don't really want to eat off it.  


Then, well, they frankly just got inappropriate...

Seriously?  I mean, I know your pornography is all pixelated or animated or somehow just fucked up, but do you really need to sexualize these super cute little forks?  Really, from the county that invented the used panty vending machine I just expected more from you, Japan.  


Although, as far as plastic koala's with massive erection forks go, it is still pretty damn cute.


Oh, damn you Japan, I can't stay mad at you!

We Could Have A Problem Here...

So, you may have gathered from this blog that I enjoy riding my bicycle.  So much so that whenever I am getting ready to leave the house Kiki guesses either "Dada Bike?" or "Dada Work?" with pretty much even odds.  


But I always figured my biking was, as far as obsessive compulsions go, not too bad.  I mean, I get some exercise, get out in the fresh air, and relieve stress, seemed like a win win, but well, recently something happened that is making me rethink how harmless it all is.  


First let me provide a little background for those of you who don't ride.  Now, you probably know that most cyclists wear padded shorts when they ride, to protect their nether regions.  But you may not have known that some of us who get really into it discover that the shorts aren't that great, and turn to bibs.  Bibs are, well, they're a lot like a wrestling singlet, but, if possible, even creepier.  Let me illustrate:


A wrestling singlet:

Which for some reason I keep mistyping as "sniglet".  Just seems better to me I guess.  Anyway, for comparison, here are cycling bibs:

They're like a skimpier sniglet.  With a padded ass.  And yes, you have to strike such awesome poses when you wear them.  Oh, and for the women (and perverts), don't think you're left out:

Something about that photo just totally creeps me out.  Anyway, back to our problem.  See, Kiki grabbed a pair of my wife's underwear out of the clean laundry and pulled them on.  Harmless enough, and maybe even a good sign that our potty training efforts are gaining traction.  

But then she proceeded to pull the waistband up over her shoulders, like suspenders, and run around saying "Kiki bike!  Kiki bike!".  Needless to say my wife was concerned.  Needless to say I've never been prouder of my little girl.  

We Are Mobile!!!

Well, it took far too long, but we finally installed a carseat for my daughter in my car.  Now, back when she was in the infant carseat (in the misty times of long long ago... you know, a year ago) I had "a base" in my car, which allowed her to dock in my vehicle.  Kind of like a small crying pooping starship.  


Just to be safe we would monitor the weather carefully and often had to abort dockings due to upcoming solar storms.  Hey, with a newborn you just can't be too careful.  Anyway, like all good astronauts, Kiki eventually outgrew her shuttle (I know, I'm lost in this analogy myself), and moved up a size to the toddler (a.k.a. tweenie) carseat, which does not have a docking apparatus.  Therefore, our days of radio communiques between base (me) and shuttle (kiki) were over, along with rides in my car with my child.  


Now, according to those who have ridden with me, that may be for the best.  According to my passengers I am a "dangerous," "psychotic," and "batshit crazy" driver.  I just think they're small minded, restricting their vehicular usage to the "laws" of the "road" but they may have a point.  


But now, once again, Kiki and I can enjoy some quality time together in my vehicle, which means she will be exposed to better music (sorry honey, I mean, your music taste is awesome too), higher g-forces (always good for developing neck muscles, right?), and, most importantly for her further development, more quality time with her dad.  


Yep, I'm seeing many weekends of bike stores, book stores, and, well, probably bike stores, really.  Should be good for her overall development... as a cyclist at least.  And really, we can't be perfect, so as a parent I just try to focus on those things I can control.

Tenting

Being that my daughter has turned two, we've begun the first steps towards potty training.  So far, they consist of:


Step One - buy a potty.  Buy a few.  Heck, buy every one they have.
Step Two - ....
Step Three - Kiki pees on the floor.


I think we've got a disconnect somewhere here.  I'm no expert, but I think it might be step 2.  But, the good news is soon she will be going to Japan for almost a month.  In case you didn't know, in Japan children are typically potty trained relatively early.  You know, 3 to 4 days after birth.  


In fact, by their second birthday most Japanese children have built their own robotic toilet that follows them around, playing a fun song and dispensing cute but confusing stickers of cats dressed like other animals.  I figure Kiki will at least learn to, you know, not poop in her pants.  


So we're living in a household littered with potties of all shapes and colors... but not sizes, they're all pretty much the same size.  I guess if you have a child with a tiny ass they're just out of luck... although sadly something tells me there is a walmart somewhere in Alabama selling bariatric potties.  Despite the plethora of pooping options, Kiki is still holding onto the ol' reliable in the pants method.  Well, with one new twist.


See, in addition to the smorgasbord of toilets, she received a massive influx of toys recently for her birthday.  Among them, she received a princess tent.  Well, technically it's a Princess Play Tent Hut, which just seems unnecessarily repetitive, but I know better than to argue with the Disney corporation, so a tent hut it is.  In case you aren't familiar with such a thing, behold!

Not recommended for actual camping.  Or actual princesses.

Pretty sweet, right?  


So, Kiki likes to, well, poop in the tent.  In her diaper, thankfully.  But basically it's the only place she'll poop now.  We'll be upstairs playing and she will just say "I wanna poop in the tent."  She'll then toddle off to find it, wherever it may be in the house.  See, she also carries it around the house.  But really, who doesn't want a periodic change of pace for their pooing? Speaking of which, I've got to go contact the Disney corporation to see if they manufacture an adult sized Tent Hut.   

Leaping!

I know lots of people seem to enjoy celebrating ordinary, annual, regular holidays.  You know, like Christmas and New Years, oh, or Thanksgiving or Easter, crap, also July 4th and St. Patrick's.  Damn, there's a lot of them.  My point being, if you want to be boring and normal then go right ahead.  But, if you would rather be slightly unusual and you know, weird, which odds are you probably do since you're reading this, then have I got a holiday for you...

LEAP DAY!!!!

I know, just take it in.  Breathe.  Awesome, right?  

But, you might say, I grew up with all those other holidays.  I don't even know what to do for leap day.  I don't even have any decorations.  Well, no worry.  Nope, the celebration of leap day couldn't be simpler.  

First, take off work. If your boss complains just tell him (or her) to fuck off and die.  Hey, it's leap day, you can worry about your future employment on March 1st.  Alright, so looks like someone's schedule is suddenly wide open.  Now, go to your neighborhood megamart for supplies and decorations.  You're going to need three things for a true leap day celebration.  

1) A Trampoline.  The bigger the better here.  A small "exercise" model will work, but it's your first leap day celebration, go for the 20 foot monster that violates your local zoning ordinances and will guarantee at least two broken bones.

2) Pop Rocks.  Just take all they have.  See if they have more in the back too.  You're going to want a shit-ton of them.  

3) Booze.  Hey, it's a celebration, right?  Now, the traditional Leap Day cocktail consists of equal parts tequila, vodka, beer, purple kool-aid, and sprite.   But, you're a rookie, just pickup your personal choice of intoxicants.

Now we get to the optional items.  A few things you may want to grab in addition: paper towels, first aid kit, ice, crutches, full body splint, life-flight helicopter.  Let's just say leap day often gets messy.  

Now, get out there, jump like mad, discover the unforgettable feeling when you fall off the trampoline and accidentally aspirate pop-rocks (it's called a leap-spasm), and just enjoy the shit out of this day.  Now, you may be sad that it only occurs once every four years, but if you do it right you need that time to recuperate.  Well, and find a new job too.  

Enjoy!

The Things We Do...

Apparently, since having our daughter, my wife and I have become mild idiots.  Well, she became a mild idiot and I went from mild to full on raging moron.  Now, I know this is not shocking news to most of you who know me, but let me elaborate.  Prior to having a child we would hear about something, say an event or a festival, and our typical response was skepticism and disinterest, figuring it would be crowded, underwhelming, and generally filled with other people, who tend to be, you know, annoying.  But now, well, let's just look at some of our recent weekends:


Pumpkin Festival?  SURE!!!  


Taco Truck Rally and Spelling Bee?  We are THERE!!! 


Hay Ride and Petting Zoo?  Why don't we go twice!


Trick or Treating at the local mall?  Hell YES!!!


The worst thing is these events have ended up being crowded, underwhelming, and absolutely stuffed to the proverbial gills with the annoying general public.  So much so that we actually sat in traffic for 2 hours to travel 2 miles to get into the pumpkin festival.  I still can't believe my head didn't explode during that.  


What's caused this sudden eagerness to take on the world in all it's stupid glory?  You could blame hormonal changes.  Or make an argument that we're putting our daughter's happiness and enjoyment of the world at large ahead of our own happiness.  But, knowing myself, I think it's a byproduct of toxic outgassing from a house full of plastic toys.  I'd analyze it some more, but we've got to run so don't miss the Sesame Street Ice Extravaganza!  I hear Elmo's being played by Kristy Yamaguchi's second cousin!

Happy Birthday Doodle

Happy 2nd Birthday, Kiki!!! Love you doodle.

Christmas Flipbook

Well, our Christmas was... interesting this year.  After our Christmas Eve festivities with my family (nothing says family holiday like caviar and vodka), and the Christmas morning extravaganza of Santa followed by more gifting and eating with family, we finally arrived back home in the late afternoon to celebrate our little family's Christmas.  It started off normal enough, almost Rockwellian in fact, with matching pajamas for father and daughter:

Then, well, it went weird.  Okay, to explain, my wife has always wanted a strawberry house for her dogs.  It's a dog bed.  Shaped like a giant strawberry.  Obviously.  They sell them in Japan.  Anyway, I finally relented and bought her one, and Kiki quickly became stuck inside it:

Soon thereafter she decided that she was going to get the party started by taking her top off (yeah, I'm looking forward to her high school years too): 

Then, well, things went downhill.  After being rescued about 14 times from the jaws of the strawberry house, Kiki threw a shit-fit because we didn't want her getting stuck in it again.  I know, worst parents ever:

Then, well, this happened:

But in the end, though it may not be everyone's idea of a perfect Christmas (or anyone's), we all enjoyed it (yeah, she's still totally naked):

Here's hoping your holidays were as joyous (and nudity filled) as ours.

Santai is Coming

Well, amidst the furor of the move and the extensive preparations for my post-Christmas birthday (I got a card!), we also had to make plans for Santa Claus.  Last year Kiki was not visited by Santa, because, frankly, she has terrible parents.  But this year, well, she still has terrible parents (okay, fine, just her father is terrible), but at least Santa did come.  


Well, Santai, as she calls him.  Though there is some debate, my wife thinks it's Santai, while I believe it's Santae.  Maybe because she's half-Japanese while I took latin and think Kiki's just pluralized it, or maybe it's because my wife is smart and I, well, I think the blog speaks to my mental facilities (ooooh, poop cake!).  Anyway, Santai/ae visited and brought Kiki a kitchen.  

Which, should be noted, she was annoyed with because the sink doesn't work and the microwave also does not actually heat things up.  Anyway, "Santai", after slaving away for 3 hours to build the kitchen (why send 13 pieces when you can send 3,744) just didn't have the energy to wrap it.  Thus, Kiki's first experience of the magic of Santai was an old sheet covering her big gift.  I think when she's older we'll explain that Santai does some more unusual things for her since she is an only child and he knows she's appreciate it, while most families have several kids to keep happy to Santai just sticks with the old reliable for them.  I know, I'm trying to figure out other lies we can tell her to cover up our laziness.  


But in the end, I think her first experience with Santai was a success.  I mean, just look how excited she was to thank him:

Simplify Simplify Simplify

Well you may have noticed a significant lull in the frequency of posts the past month.  Oh, you didn't?  You don't pay that much attention to this mindless diversion you say?  Well, fair enough, but no matter, I do apologize.  We were somewhat otherwise engaged in the process of moving.  We built a new house this year and the time finally came for the big move.  


Well, we didn't really build it, thankfully, if that were case it would still be a pile of ill cut lumber and mud (though Kiki does seem like she may have some useful carpentry skills).  No, someone else built it and we would just show up periodically (and typically ask stupid questions like "Instead of carpet can we install velcro?" or "Oh, it's going to be built out of wood, huh?").  It worked out much better that way for all involved.  But, being as we had to move, we went through the lengthy process of eliminating all unnecessary shit from our lives.  Well, physical items, not needy friends or emotional baggage, sadly.  


It seemed a simple process, but we found ourselves considering the utility and necessity of everything in our lives.  Do we really need two corkscrews?  How many shoes do you honestly need, we only wear one pair at a time (well, two if you wear hand shoes, and who doesn't)?  Why even have underwear at all, I mean, really, it just seems like an extravagance. 


So, basically, we moved a bowl and a robe each.  Although I'm thinking about ditching my robe altogether, figuring I can just use the bowl to hide my shame.  Hmm, dinner parties might be a little uncomfortable for our guests though.  But then our friends do kind of know what to expect from us.  Well, me.  Okay, we don't actually have any friends, I made up that bit about dinner parties.  But I can still make my wife and Kiki uncomfortable.  And by god, I'm damn good at it.


Whenever our commitment wavered and we considered holding onto something unnecessary, like an extra toaster, or an old tennis racquet, or our wedding rings (mindless sentimentality!), we found a brief watching of one of the hoarding reality shows (Hoarders, Hoarders: Buried Alive,and Hoarders: Messy Crap House Stuff Show) quickly reinvigorated our zest for simplification.  Something about seeing a man almost crushed to death by his collection of used bandages makes you much more open to parting with the clothes you haven't worn since college.  I mean, I don't want my last breath to be smothered by a worn Spring Break '99 tee.  I always envisioned my death as somewhat more dignified, maybe involving something classy, you know, like a Led Zeppelin reunion tour shirt.