It ain't fair that ain't ain't a word and all the rest

Today I had a chance to live my lifelong dream of hand feeding a zebra outside of a gas station.

(I have very specific lifelong dreams).

Unfortunately, it turned out the zebra was a total jerk and literally knocked the food out of my hand and spat on it, right in front of my son.

My mom was dead right on two things. Sometimes, life just ain’t fair (number two was about spitting out a bug. Good call Mom).

So as I’ve spent the last three days on vacation, I’ve had plenty of time to consider things about life that just aren’t fair.

It just ain’t fair that days spent driving to your vacation count as part of your vacation. Driving cross state/country is hard work. I think we need to do something about this. I don’t know what though, because I’m still technically on vacation.

It just ain’t fair that adults can’t wear goggles to the pool. Ok granted, adults can wear goggles to the pool, but if you do, you’re either going to look like you take swimming very seriously, or you are an extremely lost snorkler.

While we’re on the subject, why can’t I spend money on a hobby without looking like I take it super seriously and should be way better than I am? Maybe I just wanted that real nice cake decorating frosting bag to eat frosting directly out of. I think this is pretty unfair.

It just ain’t fair that I look like to do with my shirt off.

It just ain’t fair that it didn’t rain while I was gone and my grass looks like dried crap now.

It just ain’t fair that it’s suppose to rain tomorrow.

It just ain’t fair we only get a few truly carefree days a year with our family to build memories that have to be good enough to make it into our eulogy.

It just ain’t fair that vacations have to end.

It just ain’t fair that childhood ends.

It just ain’t fair that anything ends actually. We work so hard only to have time and life slips away from us like a scurrying lizard on the red rocks of life. There is no constant. There is no rest. There is only running and the change it brings.

But it’s like that for everyone.

So I guess, in a sense, it’s fair after all.

But seriously zebra... that was cold.

The Run Down on my Rub Down

Today I learned that sometimes it’s ok to be naked with a stranger.

We’re going old school here. No life lessons. No Star Wars jokes. Just some thoughts about something that happened to me.

So today I cashed in a voucher we bought for a couples massage.

Notice the pronoun there. I cashed it in. My wife was unable to join me for reasons. It takes a special kind of guy to walk into a day spa alone with coupon for a couples massage complete with drink and chocolate covered strawberries.

Mom always said I was special.

They were totally cool with it though. After asking me if I had to use the bathroom the receptionist took me to a secret waiting room while I filled out a from. She did take away the plate of strawberries and drinks though, slapping my hand and explaining “Those are for couples.”

The form started with some pretty standard medical questions. I scribbled as much information I felt a lady about to rub my back would need. It got weird further down. There was the question “What are you goals for this massage?” followed by three full blank lines.

The last time I had to write that much about a goal was on a college application.

I thought I’d look like a jerk if I wrote “not waste $40” so I put down “Learn Spanish.” Might as well shoot for the stars.

After I filled that out, my masseuse asked again if I needed to use the bathroom and then took me into a room where she told me to “get as naked as you’re comfortable” then left the room. I looked down at myself. I was already as naked as I was comfortable.

I try not to be the one story people talk about for weeks, so I stripped down, hopped up on the bed and covered up with sheet provided. As soon as I laid down I instantly figured out the obsession with making sure customers peed before going past the point of no return. The bed was heated and the heat seemed to be completely focused on my bladder.

I tried to think about anything not liquid related (fortunately the fountain in the room was turned off, unfortunately is was audibly raining). I had to psyche myself up to no pee myself when I got all relaxed.

Suddenly I had a bigger concern. Would I be able to not fart this whole time. This was a 60 minute massage with nowhere to run and no one else to blame. This whole room was one big dutch oven just waiting to happen. I don’t think I’ve gone an hour without ripping one in my whole life (high school dates excluded).

Once she came in though it wasn’t a problem. The whole process of getting a real massage was distracting enough to prevent either bodily function based disaster from happening. My masseuse was very nice. She said she had “the best job in the world.”

I didn’t believe her though. She was touching my feet at the time.

As for the massage itself, it was interesting. Mostly the good kind of interesting. I felt totally relaxed and and one with the universe afterward. I also felt sorta in pain. She did things with her elbow straight out Muay Thai.

She stayed clear of the Danger Zone. She was on the highway there a couple times, but she always took the off ramp before it became a problem.

This has gone on long enough. So that’s a thing that happened to me.

Yay.

He's a cute little cuss

Today before dinner I had the special opportunity that only a parent gets of hoping a number a random events go against me and do so quickly so I could eat. In other words, I played Cootie Bug with my son.

I’ve played dozens of games of Cootie Bug with my son since we adopted the game.

I’ve won once.

Keep in mind, you can’t cheat at Cootie Bug. Or if you can, I don’t know how. It is a game where you just roll a die until someone wins. Further proof that I blew my life’s worth of luck on that day I found an unopened candy bar under the tree at the park.

I mean when I met my wife. That’s a better answer.

Anyway, so here I am, really hungry, sitting on the hard floor and completely at the mercy of Lady Luck. I was so caught up in the moment that I almost missed something.

My son was swearing.

Not swearing in the sense that he was saying swear words. He hasn’t done that since the time he wanted to keep my sister’s dog from licking his by telling her to poop on the carpet (he wanted to say “Paisley! Sit!”).

But after each roll of the die that didn’t bring him closer to glorious Cootie Bug completion, he was most certainly repeating a word that, to him, expressed his frustrations with the latest turn of events.

That word was “pants.”

Imagine, if you will, a three-year-old seeing that he rolled a four, shaking his fist towards heaven and screaming out “Pants!”

That was my evening.

And it got my thinking. Swearing is actually really fun. I just can’t use the good words because I’m not 12 anymore and I know it doesn’t make people think I’m grown up.

I have a hairline for that.

So here are a couple of the new words I’m planning on adding to my vocabulary, along with “pants,” to express my anger with the planned situation in brackets.

“Peach bucket!” [Someone who uses the express line with too many items.]

“Spinosaurus!” [I miss my exit because I was trying to explain song lyrics to someone.]

“Didgeridoo!” [My team misses a shot. I will also accept “Didgeridoo better you peach bucket”.]

“Sweet Popping Bacon Grease!” [I pick up some litter and find gum]

“Treebark!” [My son beats me a Cootie Bug.]

Leave your suggestions for more in the comments.

Paper beats rock and diaper

I love everything about my son.

Everything but his butt-hole.

I know I’m not the first father to complain about his kid pooping. Kids poop. Fathers complain about it. It’s the circle of life.

But I adulted up and did what I had to do. Pretty soon changing diapers became just another thing I did. Like paying taxes, but slightly less demoralizing.

Potty training became a priority once he started talking. I didn’t mind cleaning up after him, but I didn’t like him asking questions while I did so.

I must not have done much research though. It turns out even after they start doing their business on the potty chair, you’re still in charge of paperwork. And now they’re talking better so they’ve moved on from asking questions to criticizing your technique .

But now, wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, fiddler of fiddlers (I think that’s how the song goes), he’s started wiping himself! I know that I only get 5 exclamations point a year, but this is totally worth using one.

Now granted, he doesn’t have the decades of wiping experience that I have, so he just goes with what feels right. I can respect that, but what feel right appears to be all of the toilet paper. He must figure, if there’s that much butt stuff there, he must be supposed to use it.

And of course, he can remember every time I ever said he could have a cookie but didn’t give him one but he can’t remember to flush so basically every time I walk into my son’s bathroom it looks like a mummy took a dump in there instead of a three-year-old.

And of course, buried under this massive wad of toilet paper is a couple of the smallest, most well behaved poops I’ve ever seen this kid produce. Where were those during diaper time?

So now - for the most part, there are still times he forgets - my waste management responsibilities have been reduced to flushing up afterwards and occasionally chasing a giggling, pantsless kid with a fist full of toilet paper.

It’s been nice.

So that’s where I am. There’s a light at the end of this long stinky tunnel.

I just hope I can make it before he turns 10. Neither of us want that.

Be so prepared your butt hurts

There’s a reason I always have a spoon and camera in my backpack.

I’m an Eagle Scout. I’m legally obligated to always be prepared.

In my case, I’ve just decided to be prepared for coming across a supermodel stuck under 400 pounds of pudding.

This isn’t the only fortuitous event I’m totally ready for. So far in my late night adventures in the Lost Temple of the Dumpster behind Walmart, I’ve never come across a lamp, ring or day-old donut with a genie contractually required to give me anything my heart desires, but just incase it does happen and there is some sort of time limit involved, I already know what I will wish for.

I want a baseball bat that makes people smarter on contact.

Think how liberating it would be be arguing with some moron, be obviously winning, get to the point where all he’s doing is drawing verbal wieners on your well-crafted arguments and then WHAM instant agreement.

Oh, I’m getting nerd-chills just thinking about it.

This is the reason I want my Louisville Slugger of Discourse, I’m a nerd and nerds will argue about anything. Not just anything, the dumbest kind of anything.

Here are some actual arguments, that I’ve had with people: Who is the best Star Trek Captain? Which Indiana Jones movie is the best? Could the Green Lantern summon green food, like Jello maybe? Who is the dumbest Backstreet Boy?  What color is this truck? What’s wrong with you? Didn’t you see the light was green? Do you wanna fight punk? Do I look fat in this?

I think you’re starting to see what I have to put up with.

I would never go anywhere without that thing. I would harness it’s power to usher in a new golden age for mankind. It would be my Excalibur. My Mjolner. Or my Linus’s Blanket.

Now I just need some way to make it work through the Internet.

Crapknuckles, I probably could have wished for that.

Regular Shenanigans Resume on Thursday

I’m posting this on a day other than Thursday night because this isn’t really a Geek Beat, or a Farting at Geese or whatever I end up calling this. This is just something I saw today that’s had me thinking all day.

Obviously a large portion of my thoughts today have been on the bombings in Boston. I’m sure many of yours were as well. This combined with the tragedy in Newtown, the tensions in North Korea or whatever else the news has to throw at us can be pretty overwhelming. It seems like the world if full of people whose actions, for whatever reason, have turned this world into a dark and scary place.

This had me in a less happy place than I was hoping to be today. Until I saw a quote on a blog that I check out from time to time from Mr. Rodgers (a personal favorite person of mine).

“When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, ‘Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.’”

That’s some powerful mothering right there.

And it’s true. In every story we read about some horrible thing someone did, you’ll see people doing incredible things. Police, firefighters, Red Cross volunteers, random strangers. It doesn’t matter how terrifying something is, it is nothing compared to the bravery, compassion and charity that will spring from the tragedy.

There will always be people whose actions, for very good reasons, have turned this world into a much better place.

The power of good is in too many people for me to get too worried.

We’re going to be OK.

Ducking is good advice; Goosing is sexual harrassment

I am a torn and conflicted man.

I live in a self created world of lies built upon contrast and a bed of confusion.

I’m a walking contradiction on a lonely road to becoming a basket case.

I don’t know how. I don’t know why. I’m not even sure of when. And yet, it’s just the way I am.

I love ducks, but I hate geese.

Now I’m sure some of you who grew up more than a mile away from the nearest tetanus hazard are probably thinking “Hey Steve, aren’t geese, just a kind of duck that somehow got crossed with a balloon animal?”

If only it were that simple.

I don’t know exactly how to explain this, but ducks are a proud and noble bird. One that is an example of true fidelity, outsmarts countless men with guns every year and somehow - despite their lack of opposable thumbs - always manages to put their recyclables in the proper bin.

Geese, on the other hand, drop turds all over any grass they encounter, push all the buttons when they get off an elevator and I’m pretty sure all that honking they do translates into some pretty racist stuff.

Plus there’s just something about an animal that bites that hard and has a head at the exact level as my junk that makes me really nervous.

Oh and don’t get me started on swans. Those guys think they should get all the bread. Listen buddy, you may have been an ugly duckling, but you’re even uglier now, on the inside.

So I’m thinking of renaming my blog. I don’t talk about geeky stuff as often as I used to and I’ve played enough Rock Band to prove once and for all that I don’t have the beat. I’m thinking something along the lines of “High Fiving Ducks” or “Farting at Geese” or something classy like “SwansAreDicks.com”.

Let me know what you think.

That part isn’t a joke, I really want a new domain and would really like feedback.