Babies, Booze & Boobs

Influencing a man's perspective for centuries

Writer’s Daughter Won’t F*cking Sleep, So He Wrote a Book About It

 

Novelist Adam Mansbach apparently can’t get his 2-year-old daughter to get the fuck to sleep. Inspired by his toddler’s affinity to delay shut eye with requests for water, going tinkle or a different stuffed animal to snuggle with, he authored Go the F#ck to Sleep, a book intended for adults with the look and feel of a children’s book.

Mansbach told TODAY Moms that he hopes “the book is very reflective of what we all feel putting our kids to bed.”

And so he wrote:

“The cats nestle close to their kittens.
The lambs have laid down with the sheep.
You’re cozy and warm in your bed, my dear
Please go the f@#k to sleep.”

Parents obviously will identify with Mansbach’s sentiment, and if they don’t, they’re lying. While The Boy is a tremendous sleeper, and rarely pulls the stunts Manbach’s little princess does, there’s something great about shutting the door to your kid’s room. It’s like stepping out of the rain into a room warmed by a flickering fire place. It’s like a smooth glass of whiskey after a hellacious day at the office. The escape of the maddening mind of a toddler can never be overrated.

But if one is going to drop the f-bomb in the title of a book aimed at disheartened parents, I have plenty of better suggestions:

Shut the F#CK Up

Stop Pissing on the F#cking Floor

Eat Your F#cking Food

I Got Sh*t on My Hands Again

No, We Are Not Going to Watch Toy Story for the 1,346th Time, You F#ck Nut

Say No Again and I’ll Slap Your F#cking Face

Your Brother and Sister are Asleep – Don’t F#cking Wake Them

While commentors over at Parent Dish are aghast by Mansbach’s book, which some thing signfies the start of Revelations and the end times, I think it’s important to recognize something important: he said please. Hooray for politeness!

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Memo to The Boy: Jacque Cousteau you are NOT

The Boy, my 3-year-old, is easily influenced by what he sees on television. If something catches his interest, he commits every atom in his being to that one thing. It started with Toy Story and culminated with us buying him a Jessie hat, which thankfully he’s stopped prancing around the house in.

Then came Cars, and that obsession is still rocking. In fact, he’s sitting on an office chair next to me, watching YouTube on my iPhone. I don’t know what the video is, but I hear an adult male speaking with a slight accent describing a new Cars toy he recently purchased. He’s reading the box, extracting said toy from its container and describing it in detail…and it’s creeping me out.

Sometime after The Babies were born my mother-in-law brought over Finding Nemo to keep The Boy out of our hair while we figured out what to do with two freaking babies at the same time. We popped the DVD into the XBox, tossed a couple of Red Vines at him and hoped he’d be interested. And whether it’s because Pixar has a hypnotizing strangle hold on children across America after its pact with the Devil – or they’re just very talented – The Boy’s latest obsession was born after viewing the tale of a neurotic clown fish father that pushed his son to rebellion only to have an Aussie dentist capture the son, Nemo, to give to his ADD-ridden niece as a gift and the father’s quest across the ocean with his lesbian pal Dory to find Nemo.

So now The Boy is fascinated by anything from the ocean, though he’d prefer they talk and have names like the oxygen-challenged characters from the flick. He also has two interactive point-and-play Finding Nemo books which he reads about 11 times a day that fill his head with oceanic terms and names of the creatures in the world of Nemo.

A week ago I figured it’d be fun for him to see some of these Nemo fish up close. With a plastic blue whale he is borrowing from my dad (and sleeps with every night) clutched in his arm and his shark backpack loaded on his shoulders, we made our way out to the Long Beach Aquarium of the Pacific.

Immediately The Boy found Dory and Gill from Nemo, walked under a giant blue whale hanging from the ceiling of the aquarium and watched seals bark and play.

Then came the shark tank, and out came his fucking marine biologist hat. Now the shark tank isn’t very impressive if you’ve been to Sea World or larger aquariums, but sharks are sharks and young children don’t care. There were about five different species of shark in the tank. The Boy proceeded to identify the sharks in the tank that looked anything like the sharks from his Nemo books, name them, and then educate anyone fortunate enough to stand next to him at the front of the viewing glass.

This went on for at least 20 minutes.

“Mako shark,” The Boy would announce to the three children that just walked up. Except there’s no mako shark in the tank. This aquarium isn’t that cool.

“Bruce! Here comes Bruce!” The Boy shouted every time the largest shark completed its path in front of the viewing glass. Bruce is the great white shark from Nemo. I’m sure the 25-year-old emo dude and cutter girlfriend next to The Boy haven’t the slightest idea who the hell Bruce is. But The Boy doesn’t give a fuck.

Now, The Boy is generally shy and reserved in public. But not this day. This day he was like Regis Philbin after an all night coke binge. He was loud, he was excited, and he wanted everyone else to share in his experience. Everyone.

I talked The Boy into checking out some other sections of the aquarium as I figured he had made enough face prints on the viewing glass. We came up on a tall cylinder of a tank that had orange and white striped fish. They weren’t clown fish, yet I let him call them Nemo since I wasn’t sure if they had any real clown fish at this aquarium. A girl, about 7, noticed the charm of The Boy and ventured off from her family to watch the fish with him.

“Nemo,” he said. Of course, it wasn’t.

Finding Nemo,” she replied with a dash of bitch. Apparently she thought he was missing the beginning of the title of the movie, rather than just pointing out, incorrectly, that Nemo was in the tank.

“Nemo,” he answered and pointed at the tank.

Findingggggg Nemo,” she repeated as she ratched up the bitch meter.

This went on for another couple of minutes. Now the girl had her back to the exhibit, facing The Boy, and shifted her feet left and right to keep him from having a clear view to the tank. Her mom finally noticed and scolded her for being a brat.

We made our way around the rest of the aquarium, spotted jelly fish, eels and starfish – all of which he identified thanks to his interactive books. We came across a large tank with a couple of hammer head sharks, which he made sure everyone knew, darting around reefs and coral with other fish, and large sting rays.

“Manta rays!” The Boy cursed at me. Like, how DARE I call those things sting rays.

Another dad stood next to The Boy with his two tween sons and pointed out the sting rays.

“Manta rays!” he yelled at them. Now I’m standing behind him to allow other children to get close to the glass. I’m hoping that they can’t hear this little troll yelling at them.

I had to explain to The Boy that he shouldn’t sweat it if people called them sting rays. He didn’t care, he was fired up and there was no excuse for ignorance among the patrons of this fine aquarium.

A few days later I looked up the difference between the two, and you know what? He was fucking right.

The Bonnie Situation

Just minutes ago, Baby Girl shat on me during a routine diaper change. My right lower forearm felt the impact. Her brown mustard-like, liquid poop blasted onto the ground and splattered all over the pack-n-play/bassinet that she lay on.

While I furiously cleaned up, Baby Girl crying, I could only think of the scene in Pulp Fiction of Vincent Vega and Jules Winnfield cleaning Marvin’s skull fragments and brain matter from the inside of the car.

If only I had access to The Wolf to cover this shit up.

The only thing I could think to tell Baby Girl was a quote from Jules, which he said to Vincent as they cleaned the blood in the car.

“Oh, man, I will never forgive your ass for this shit. This is some fucked-up repugnant shit.”

Literally.

The Bonnie Situation scene

Bruce Brazil Bobble Head


I’m the best man in my buddy’s wedding, and last night at the rehearsal dinner, the groom-t0-be awarded the groomsmen with customized bobble heads. Here’s mine. While I don’t think they nailed they details with me, it is a very awesome gift.

Webobble craft each bobble head based on photos you provide them. They provide proofs throughout the process in an effort to provide the best product. I will say that they absolutely nailed the features of the other groomsmen and it was a hit at the rehearsal dinner last night.

Muchas gracias to the groom.

And yes, it does look like my bobble head is waiting for you to slap him some skin. Or a wad of cash.

Word around the campfire is the Bruce Brazil bobble head is a huge hit to hot Japanese women with slight freckles and big  racks. They have good taste.

Toddlers to Turn Two Before Facing Forward in Car Seat

The American Academy of Pediatrics (AAP) recently revised its policy and now recommends toddlers remain rear-facing in their car seats until 2-years-old, or until the specified height or weight limits are reached for the car seat.

The AAP previously recommended one year and 20 pounds as the minimum for turning them into a back-seat driver and yelling at you to slow down when you see brake lights.

Per science, children under 2 are 75 percent less likely to die or sustain serious injuries when rear-facing. Per my professional experience, children under 2 are 100 percent less likely to die if you people would STOP REAR-ENDING VEHICLES IN FRONT OF YOU.

The Boy, now 3, has been checking out the back of my balding dome for a while now, but he was rear-facing until he reached the appropriate weight limit of his seat. The Boobs and I attended a car seat safety class before he was born, and we left with strong feelings that our child would be placed in the middle of the back seat and remain rear-facing until he was kissing the head rest.

My parents, however, hated it. When they raised my sister and I in the late ’70s and early ’80s, car seats and seat belts were for pussies. I survived just fine on the floor of their Volkswagen Bus as a toddler. If my sister and I survived thousands of miles piled in the back of my dad’s Ford truck, only comforted with carpet lining and enclosed by a camper shell, then surely The Boy would be safe facing forward and cooing as my mom sang Wheels on the Bus as if it were on repeat.

They’d say his long legs look squished and pondered whether he’d feel less isolated if he’d only face forward. The Boobs and I firmly repeated safety to them and requested that they not turn their car seat forward until we instruct them. They listened, and all was well.

With The Twins stuck watching The Boy pick his nose during car trips for the next two years of their lives, I asked The Boy what his thoughts were of the new guidelines and what’d it mean for his new brother and sister.

Me: What do you think of the new guidelines which increase the age limit to 2 for rear-facing car seats?

The Boy dropped his Finding Nemo DVD and stared and me blankly. No doubt he was in utter shock and dismay.

Me: Were your legs squished when you sat rear-facing?

The Boy: Yes.

Me: Do you think that other mommies and daddies should keep their kids in rear-facing car seats until they’re 2?

The Boy: No.

Me: Do you think that sitting in a rear-facing car seat will keep a child from dying in a car accident?

The Boy: Lightning (McQueen) crashed. Then Chick Hicks crashed, then The King.

Me: Excuse me?

The Boy: I need poop.

Me too, son. Me too.

Happy St. Patty’s Day

This year, any thoughts of deteriorating my liver further at an Irish pub for St. Patrick’s Day have been squashed by my current job of chauffeur to The Boobs. She had a doctor’s appointment to review her incision, which is healing nicely. It’s like Circus Vargas crashed our house if you watch us try to get ready for such a short outing. I think there’s elephant dung still stinking up the hallway.

As to not feel left out on this festive day, I decided to “make” my own green beer this year at Brazil’s Bar. “Make” = put green dye in your beer. Still, I Googled it. I like things to be done the right way. Mixthatdrink.com helped show me how. Unfortunately, my late-night run to the grocery store didn’t produce any Harp’s, so I settled for Bud Light.

I know, I suck. But I’m also sneaking in some March Madness while The Boobs and The Babies sleep and The Boy reads an audio Finding Nemo book with my mother-in-law for the fifth time today. I think I’ve explained at least twenty different times to him that one of the fishes name is Gill. He still can’t wrap his head around it.

Anyhow, here’s a photo of my green beer and giant, frozen mug.

I also picked up a six-pack of Smithwick’s as to not feel like such a giant poser.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day.

Power(less) Hour

I decided there hasn’t been enough booze conversation to date. This post aims to fix that.

I went to a local commuter college and didn’t start experimenting with alcohol until I was 21-years-old. I didn’t attend one single party in high school and didn’t witness a keg stand until my buddy Rae’s birthday party in her garage. Friends hoisted her legs in the air while I held the spigot. No one told her to hold onto the keg until after she tried to kiss it with her forehead.

At 30-something-years-old, I find myself often acting like a college freshman when it comes to partying. Like I’m making up for lost time. Except my body refuses to recover like it did when I was 20 and sleep’s stock is higher than Google’s on my Wall Street.

My buddy is getting married later this month, so the groomsmen and I took the him down to San Diego for a night. Another buddy of mine and I have wanted to try the Century Club for a while now, so we decided this was the weekend to experience it. As my 30-something brain now works, I thought it’d be better to do 60 shots of beer in 60 minutes, rather than the 100 in 100 of the Century Club.

The Power Hour, as it’s commonly referred to, would allow us to drink stupidly (it’s the equivalent to 7.5 drinks in one hour), yet still be able to walk and function for the rest of the night. I witnessed the last half of a Century Club party several years ago. After it ended, one guy left the house to go get Del Taco. He returned two hours later with both hands clutching Food 4 Less bags and a bright smile.

“I got a cake!” he said proudly. It was adorable. But it also demonstrates how f-u-c-k-e-d up one gets attempting to scale the mountain that is the Century Club.

At about 3 p.m., with the Rounds app (seemingly no longer on iTunes) loaded up on my iPhone to change songs every 60 seconds and 60 Bud Lights (Here We Go) frosting in the cooler, we were set. It should be mentioned that I had a Corona Dancer (tequila filled in neck of a Corona bottle and chugged), three jager shots and two pints in me before we began. We downed shot after shot to Dr. Dre, Snoop and other hip hop artists you’d find in a trendy club that I’m too old to dare enter. I figured it’d keep the energy up.

And we needed that energy. Before the half way mark, one of the groomsmen had bowed out. By the 30th shot we were cursing each time the song changed. Sixty seconds now felt like five. I dry heaved twice, thankful that I didn’t puss out. After about the 40-45 range, it was downhill. It’s like we passed the breaking point. I don’t recall my reactions when the iPhone went silent. The game was over, and I was thrilled to have survived.

At some point the puking began amongst us and one warrior, who normally is the last man standing, was in bed by 8 p.m. That’s not to say the rest of us we’re in much better shape. I recall deciding to head back to the hotel around 10 p.m. I don’t remember the walk back. While I managed not to hurl, I did attempt to hurdle a sign with one leg and bloodied my knee and hand, and later slipped while running on wet grass and landed on my left thumb. I’ve managed to regain some range of motion, but I still can’t open a bottle of water. And dressing the twins is a bitch without two good thumbs.

Oh, and I knocked over a lamp. There’s a giant crack in the glass, which we tried to hide. And I left a twenty on the night stand for the maid, hoping it bought her silence.

While I admit the idea and follow through of this drinking exhibition is sophomoric and unnecessary, I’m so proud that I did it. Like it adds to my cub scout badges of drinking achievement. Better late than never, I say.

311

Ages ago, as a senior in high school, my good friend Abe handed me a cassette tape he made (yes I’m that old) and suggested I listen to it. He and I traded music often, each of us broadening our horizons on alt, indie and punk that we each enjoyed. This is how it was done pre-Internet, people.

Abe recorded 311’s Grassroots and self titled 311 onto the tape. I first listened in my parents bathroom while shaving. I recognized Down from KROQ, but the rest of the songs on the albums messed with my head. It was a cluster of reggae, rap and punk. I didn’t like it at first.

But it grew on me. Munky, one of my long-time good friends, turned out to be a huge fan. He even ordered a vanity license plate to honor his favorite song on their first, and best, album – Music. Listening to this album only fueled my 311 fire. Dumped by a stupid girl, I was in a bad state emotionally. Music helped get me through, and out of, that dark period.

I’ve since attended, conservatively, over 20 shows. And while I assert that their music over the past five years has become soft, and their shows have become boring and predictable – I’m still a fan.

Today is 311 Day. The Babies original due date, full term mind you, was 3/10/11. Immediately the significance of the date crashed my mind with awesomeness. Now, being a reasonable person, I knew The Babies would never get close to a 3/11/11 delivery date. But then the doctor scheduled a C-section for 3/1/11, and I was giddy.

While it’s not 311 Day, my babies were born 3/11 – March, 2011. I had 3/11 babies. The Boobs rolls her eyes when I tell her the significance of the date. And maybe I’m just stretching the whole 3/11 thing to give me something to be excited about, but I genuinely am excited about it.

So, Happy 311 Day to everyone.

311 – Do You Right

Penis Guillotine

It seems that hospitals enjoy discharging new mom and dads with a freshly cut penis of your baby boy. Thanks, guys. Like it’s not stressful enough anticipating what life at home will be like with a stranger that can’t communicate to you other than screaming at the top of its lungs, the hospital staff thought it’d be even more exciting to snip the little dude’s foreskin and make a boo-boo on his pee-pee.

The hospital pulled this stunt on us with The Boy. And after a completely different hospital staff did the same with Baby Boy, I now see the trend. The Boobs, a registered nurse in a neonatal intensive care unit, confirms their strategy.

“They’d rather you deal with the baby than them,” she said. Smart fuckers.

The doctor discharged The Boobs and The Babies last Friday, naturally after he carved his signature into Baby Boy’s man stick. Our day shift nurse, Nancy, entered our room to announce the news.

“The doctor is here so I’m going to get Baby Boy ready for the circumcision,” she said.

No shit, at that moment, Baby Girl, while being held by my mother-in-law, cracked a big smile. Nancy is an expecting grandmother. She comes across as a seasoned, knowledgeable nurse and calls The Boobs honey and sweety often. Knowing The Boobs is an RN, she decides to engage her in some shop talk.

“We use the Mogen clamp here,” she said. “I really like the Mogen. I don’t like the Gomco.”

She began to describe the difference between the two. My head was swimming. All I really heard her say was guillotine. That’s when I decided I’d wash the feeding syringes we used to supplement The Babies with formula after their tandem breast feeding session.

I snatched the pieces, swiftly walked into the bathroom and turned on the faucet to drown out this horrifying conversation. As Nancy left to coordinate the beheading with the doctor, she walked passed the bathroom door with an invitation.

“Daddy can join us if he wants,” she shouted with a smile in her voice.

“No no, I’m good,” I asserted.

Nancy returned shortly. She rolled Baby Boy and his crib away to the torture chamber. About 30 minutes later she returned with a subdued Baby Boy. His eyes were as wide as the moon, yet he didn’t stir. Now I wasn’t in Vietnam, but he looked like he just witnessed the Viet Cong saw his best friend’s head off and fix it on a stick to use as a trophy. Which, I guess, is a really nice euphemism for what did happen.

 

A Night at the Hospital

The Boobs managed three hours of broken sleep the first night at the hospital while I curled up alone in our California king-sized bed and rested up. So I spent the second night in her room to help out. I’m still recovering from the lack of sleep and shuttling The Boy around from hospital to family and back at our house, where we spent the third night.

So forgive me for the sporadic posting. I should reach a more consistent schedule after we bring those suckers home and get acclimated.

Baby Boy taught me a valuable lesson when I changed his first diaper. Remember to cover him up. If he hadn’t been pointing to the right, I think he would’ve pissed right in my mouth. Thankfully, he only lasered the left arm and the ten-foot tall divider curtain in the hospital room.

Pro tip – don’t touch the divider curtains at hospitals.