Everybody poops

Yes, everyone DOES poop. however, not everyone poops with their pants up. Which brings me to my three-year-old daughter, who seems quite committed to using her pants — better yet, her underwear, as a permanent crap-sling. We have been potty training her for over a year. Already there's a flaw in the description of the task. We really are training her to crap, just nowhere in the vicinity of a toilet. So, I guess if we were actually "toilet" training, this would be going better? The frightening thing is the crazy alien goo that comes out of her.
What the hell is she eating? Preschool must house a buffet of onion burritos, mega-bran muffins and really strong coffee.
Now, in her defense, she's been making some progress. She's making it to the toilet a bit more, which is helpful, but she still lacks the common bathroom etiquette we've all grown to appreciate.
For example:
Flushing the toilet is out of the question. Dare I say, when she craps it's as though one of those guys from "Ice Road Trucker" tiptoed into the house and left a monstrous bowl-curler. It's true, she leaves poop the size of a grown man -- a member of the WWF-sized man to boot. She's also a bit preoccupied with inspecting the poop over and over again. All this, while she's still sitting on the bowl. This means that even if she's in "mid-pinch" she scoots off the toilet to inspect her handy work. This, as you might imagine, leaves the equivalent of the Hersey highway, the screaming skid mark, the dirty-dirt road on the toilet seat. Strangely, she's not wrestling with her conscience about never cleaning this abomination...
Here's another shocker -- her ass is completely uncontaminated with wiping! Yep, the TP and her butt don't seem to have made each others acquaintance. When she tries, her technique is all over the place -- she might as well be blowing her nose after she craps, at least that might dislodge some of the barnacles we have to chisel off during bath time. So, I've decided to give it more time. OK, I realize I don't have a choice, but in my wildest fantasies I imagine there's some sort of procedure, or Fisher-Price Crap Cork® I can put to good use. The real payoff is what she's gonna go through when I get old. I'm gonna live with her and her family. I can see it now -- I'm back in diapers and my eyesight is circling the drain. I'll forget all the rules of the bathroom and then I'll smile, knowing the poetry which is my revenge -- the dish best served cold -- in very leaky Depends.

Oreos and vaginas

I'm rolling my eyes right out of their sockets over advertisers trying to create imaginary milestones to sell a product. Case in point: Oreo cookies. I never sat down with my father and bonded over an Oreo race, in which the winner is the one who sucks the marrow first from the disassembled cookie. When did this become an activity of any kind? Oreo racing?
People need to get out more.
I think I had a similar reaction to a commercial where a mother and her teen daughter exchanged knowing looks, while cheerfully discussing vaginal dryness. I don't want to sound all Catholic here, but aren't teens supposed to suffer in silence? Something has got to fuel all that brooding -- and bonding over Nabisco treats (as well as birth-canal dust) just seems wrong.
So, back to the cookies. Did you know there's a site that's trying like hell to promote Oreo cookie racing, like it's a trend that's just dying to catch on? http://www.nabiscoworld.com/oreo/dsrl/
Now, I don't want to contribute to this lame-ass, invented past-time, but since you can find websites that show people and animals getting it on, (so I've heard ;-) I figure why not offer up this freak show. I'm sorry, but this is a monumental loser-magnet. Gentlemen, if you're in any way involved in this "sport" you better get the hell out of your mom's basement. Or, get on with the business of serial-killing, coz you're never gonna wake up next to a good woman. At least not one that doesn't need to be inflated.

What the heck happened to you Oreo? Was it jealousy? Was the Fig Newton just too regal? Were you eclipsed by the Nilla Wafer? When did you lose your self respect?
When I was a kid, Oreos were the best thing ever. I could carry my Johnny Quest lunch box with pride, knowing that I had a stash of Oreos. Tucked all cozy between my soon-to-be-broken glass and metal Thermos, A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, eagerly awaiting my barbecue potato chips (which were best placed inside the sandwich for texture) and a trusty Space Food Stick. That could have been my last meal on earth and I knew I could die happy.
All I can say, Mr. Oreo Cookie, is you've lost your edge. What's with all the new flavors and versions of a cookie that was already getting laid eight days a week? If you don't believe me, ask any pot smoker out there -- Oreos were like heroin after a few bong hits... These damn cookies were getting more action than Captain Kirk on Rigel 7, and you're screwing it up!

Tainting your image with such cheap antics is a sure indication the terrorists have won. This is end-of-days, sign of the apocalypse, kind of stuff.
I'm so confused and distraught that I think I just peed a little.

Look, there are few things that I'm really sure of:
One, Dolly Parton sleeps on her back.
Two, Elizabeth Montgomery was one of the sexiest TV moms ever, and,
Oreos were fine the way they were, you imbeciles!
It's not cool what you're doing, Nabisco.
You're jacking with tradition.
With America.
It's not right.
It's not kosher ...
No.
It's not Keeblarian....

Porcelain serenade...

All I can say is ... she never did poop.

Shaken, not stirred

It's funny how a middle-aged father sees himself.
True, there's no danger involved in getting kids ready for school, doing laundry and hosting play-dates. But the adventure has not been extinguished; it's just more shrewdly disguised. Let's say, for example, if I were to compare myself to a secret agent like James Bond, how would my life compare?
First, I do a whole number of things to protect the world from evil, by being prepared.
I’ve been backing the car into the garage lately. To you this might seem frivolous, however, it saves time when I’m running late for getting the kids to school, or rushing to deactivate an errant nuclear device. That three-point turn in the morning uses up valuable time that I could be spending saving the planet. Nay, the very axis on which our delicate little world rotates, is held together because I can just get into my Yaris and drive like the wind. Of course, I haven’t figured out why the world doesn’t need saving when I come home in the evening, and do the three-point thing backing in.
But see? Already 007 and I are like twins.

Then there are the steps that every agent must confront. I have to be able to assess a situation in a moment: Will my five-year-old scream to high heaven if I make her wear pants instead of a skirt? Will the three-year-old pee in her car seat within 15 minutes of drinking a juice box? These are decisions that require split-second timing; let’s see James Bond pull THAT off.
Also, I must be able to speak multiple languages, like whineish, and bratenese. To have the skill to decipher the ramblings of a child who wants pancakes instead of waffles through convulsive sobbing isn’t as easy as it sounds. Then there’s the language of their mom – that’s a whole different dialect that usually includes little talking and mostly the stinky eye.

Next, it’s definitely the hardware and software that all agents require for survival in any situation. The hardware, being plenty of wipes and diapers, which is essentially the gun and exploding pen of any agent. Things like extra clothing, activity books, dolls and an endless supply of snacks and liquids.
That doesn’t even include the skill to use these devices. I have to know how to put a dress on a Barbie in under a minute. I have to know how to quickly change a diarrhea-laced diaper in a restaurant before the smell kills anyone. You think defusing a bomb is tough? Try changing a diaper in a moving minivan 40 miles outside of Salt Lake City during a dust storm.
Software?
Well, a DVD player and plenty of movies are as important as a Luger and hallow-point rounds. Without those, I’d be dead quicker than you can say Moneypenny.
You also must have the ability to gather intelligence. What does that little fox say on Dora the Explorer? Do the pancakes need to be cut? Or, is she a “big girl” today? You’ve got to know the habits of those under surveillance.

Like James Bond, there’s an “M” at headquarters, which I guess stands for mom. She’s handing down the assignments, sifting through the intelligence gathered, and giving direction.
So, it occurred to me that there might be a few differences between 007 and I.

Each mission I receive isn’t hinged upon me accepting it. Maybe I’m mixing those rules up with Mission Impossible, it’s difficult to remember. Still, when an assignment is handed to me, I take it. After all, this is for God and country.
I’m not devilishly handsome, so ... there's that.
Oh yeah, also James Bond is traveling the world and having sex ...

Milestones and the death of cool

When did the dream die? Perhaps it was when I first slid into the driver's seat of a minivan. In addition to the minivan, I also drive a little economy pod called a Yaris. This egg-shaped transportation device looks more like one of my 5-year-old's shoes than a car. Although I find the design intriguing, I'm not kidding myself into thinking that there's a hip-factor going on here. I was driving a Honda Accord, which by no means carries the weight of say, a Porsche. Still, it was a dark, smoky charcoal-esque color, that teetered on the mysterious. There was a tiny possibility I could've been cool-ish in it, maybe perceived as an undercover cop, or better yet, a guy just downplaying his epic wealth -- making the kind of money no one ever sees. That was at least a possibility with the Accord. Now, I'm just another middle-aged monkey driving an egg, where I'm the yolk. I admit the Yaris would look kind of neat being towed behind a shiny, Greyhound-bus-sized Winnebago. Yes, I realize this confession only proves I'm too far-gone.
I think the problem is male milestones. Which isn't a condition of the prostate -- at least not yet. It's the dream that all men have, germinated by the one milestone that sets all the others into motion.
The Big Wheel.
First you start out with such simple, naive tastes, like Matchbox cars, then Hot Wheels. However, what you are is just a victim of geography. Meaning that you happen to be sitting cross-legged in the den watching a black and white Zenith in the year of our lord, 1967. You're in the closest proximity to the television, (not too close, otherwise you'll go blind) but there it is -- the boob tube, the alter, the idiot box. Right about now, my brother is flicking my earlobe from behind while I say in my most pathetic voice, "Quit it! I'm telling Mom." Which, for the record, never once extinguished his dreaded ear flick.
We're watching I Love Lucy reruns. Lucy and Ethel are stuffing chocolates down there blouses in front of a rampaging conveyor belt. Me? I'm dreaming about Maureen McCormick, coz it's Friday and the Brady Bunch are gonna be on after dinner. After that, The Partridge family -- Laurie Partridge and those seductive braces of hers just waiting to steal my heart. Or was it Shirley Jones and that those maternal eyes? It really was a buffet of prepubescent stupidity that swirled around my brothers and I like locusts, aiming to pick our bones clean.
But I digress.
You see, while all this girl-infatuation was going on, a whole different undercurrent of disappointment was waiting in the wings. While I'm sitting there anticipating the story of three very lovely girls, it was also the commercials that held me spellbound. The Superball (by Whamo), or that kid with the flippy hair yelling Stratego! or another whining "You sunk my battleship!". Suddenly, out of the mist (and my brother's torment) ride three boys on Big Wheels across the TV screen with all the bravado of a biker gang. One boy skids and slides sideways on the driveway almost doing a 360˚. These boys looked cool enough to fight crime, meanwhile one of the boys’ helpless sister is reduced to merely watching in admiration on the sidelines as these guns from naverone worked her like a cheap suit. Already, I'm convinced I'm gonna get lucky (whatever that means at age 7) coz girls like ze boys vith ze Big Vheel. And so it began, a series of disappointments and modes of travel. See, I never did get a Big Wheel, what I got was a Green Machine. This was the sloppy seconds of the Big Wheel, its redheaded stepchild, if you will. Made by the same company, but floundering in it's poor design and total lack of cool. It was more or less the “New Coke” of the Big Wheel family. From there it only got worse. I got a few used bikes as I got older and then struck pay dirt when my parents bought me a new Schwinn on my 10th birthday. It had an elevated sissy bar and was a deep sparkled purple. My stock immediately rose to new heights in our neighborhood and I was a cycling hero among my peers. Then, about two and a half weeks later it was stolen out of our garage and I was back to driving my Keds around our subdivision. Of course, there was always someone willing to let me ride on their handlebars, seeing how I was so small for my age. However, it was a scarlet letter for any kid in our neighborhood not to have a bike or having to be "pumped" all over the place. This was parallel to riding sidesaddle or being a girl on the back of a motorcycle. Needless to say, it put me way down on the food chain among other kids. The bike gods smiled upon me again in the sixth grade when a yellow three-speed, with a banana seat and a slick on the back, found it's way into our humble track-home. The bike suffered a bit of damage as my father tried to put it together. His string of profanity and tool- throwing left me afraid to even ride the bloody thing. To be honest, the bike never really worked properly. After all, if you can't leave a big skid mark on the driveway, what's the point? To an 11-year-old boy, leaving skid marks is like a wolf marking its territory. The most I could do on a 3-speed with hand brakes was apply pressure, fly over the handlebars and stain the driveway with blood from my face. So, now I'm in the tenth grade and a ten-speed drops from the heavens. Once again I'm riding high on life and once again it is promptly stolen -- from my backyard, no less. Since then, a mountain bike -- stolen. My list of cars also reads like a nerd's resume. A Ford Pinto, a VW Beetle, a Geo Metro, and the list goes on. Always economy was the great dream killer. Now, I call it practicality, but it still leads to the same conclusion. Just like when I was seven, I'm not gonna get lucky. It might as well mean the same thing now, and for that matter I might as well be making out with Marcia Brady. Of course, that dream, my friends, will never die.