Wake up Maggie

Warning, this will be a Daddy post for all of you non-breeders.

The other morning Maggie discovered the differences between boys and girls. I was trying to sneak into the guest bedroom when I heard “Daddy I’m Awake!” So I went into her room, sans clothes, and she immediately points at my junk and goes ‘What’s that Daddy?”. I said “Honey this is a giant cock”, well that’s what I thought, what I actually said was “That’s a penis”. She then paused for a brief second grabbed her crotch and said, “Daddy, I don’t have a penis”. Which was pretty impressive, considering she had her pajamas on which blocked her visual. Using the famous Kindergarten Cop quote I went on to explain that boys have penises and girls have vaginas.

Then we had to go through the entire family trying to figure out which were boys and which were girls. It’s 6:45 AM on a Tuesday morning and I’m naked talking to a two year old about everyone’s genitalia. “Yes honey, Uncle Bruce has a penis, except when he orders the ‘light and fancy’ at the Virginia Kitchen” “No sweetie, even though Aunt Jen excels at sports and could probably pin a small bear in a wrestling match, she does not have a penis that I know of.” Finally, I just broke into her favorite song, Oh Canada, she lost her train of thought and I was able to slip into the shower.

With the penis confrontation behind me, it appears that another battle is brewing at my house between my OCD and my daughters. I thought it was cute when she needed to touch pictures on her way out of school, and it was cool that she and her Mommy had a morning routine, where she has to do things a certain way, but now her OCD has conflicted with mine and it is on like Donkey Kong.

As you may know from a previous post, the lamp post in our front yard has a rod through it and I need it to be centered, after all I am a Libra. Well, my little miss sunshine gets out of the car the other day and yells “Daddy stick”. So I take her over to the lamp post and she pushes it all to one side. We start towards the house and I reach back and push it to the center. “Daddy NOOOO!” She then pushes it all the way to one side again. I give in and leave it be, knowing full well that it will bug the shit out of me until she goes to bed. The next day we get home and the same thing happens. I’ve decided to keep the peace for now, but if she starts turning over the change in my car from heads to tails, then she better be wearing comfortable shoes for her walk home.

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to prepare for the closing ceremonies of my week long tribute to the man with one glove who liked to grab crotches. No, not Michael Jackson, I’m talking about my hernia doctor. Turn your head, cough, and then give me a hee-hee-oooh!

The Bang Blended in with the Day

Fourth of July means only one thing for the Crawford clan, a week of alcohol and mayhem at my Uncle’s house in Pittsburgh. We had representatives from nine states come together in an effort to kill brain cells, get fat on crazy delicious eats and catch up on the latest family gossip. There was also a lot of rough housing going down. I was throwing half naked kids around the pool so often that I expected Chris Hanson to sit me down at any minute.

During our visit, my uncle Vince introduced my brother and me to this little beer joint that was an oasis in the desert of jean shorts and mustachioed men who love their Iron City. From the outside it looked like a little hole in the wall until you walked inside and realized that the micro-brew gods had smiled upon Natrona Heights, PA. Here’s the deal, you grab any beer from the cooler and for $2.50 you can sit at this little bar in the back and imbibe. They track all of the beers you consume and after you drink 25 unique beers you get your name posted. My Uncle said that getting his name on the wall was more rewarding than earning his PHD.

As we headed out of the store I saw a random box of lighters and after picking through a few I saw the Holy Grail. A Daisy Duke/Dukes of Hazzard Zippo lighter. Katherine Bach may not have aged well in real life, but her redneck “come pound me in the back of a car while listing to the Charlie Daniels Band” look from the 80’s was preserved forever on the cover of my new two dollar lighter. SCORE!

Now that I had my lighter it was time to find something to catch on fire. Pack it up boys, it’s off to the liquor store and the fireworks stand. Per my redneck handbook you must always visit the liquor store first, so that your liquor and your explosives are in the proper ratio. On the back of the fireworks box it said, light a fuse, take a shot, count your fingers, repeat. Words to live by my friend. The grand finale of our hillbilly fireworks display ended with me soaking the front row of viewers by doing a cannon ball into the pool ala Shamu. The only way it could have been better is if someone tasered me as I got out of the pool.

Finally, I’ll leave you with an EZ Cheez fail that I realized over the weekend. On the back of the can, it says “For best results, first remove cap.” Absolutely, fucking priceless. I’m not sure what was more sad the fact that they had to print that on the can or the fact that I was eating EZ Cheez and reading the directions.

Now if you’ll excuse me I have to open up an ice cold Tommyknocker Maple Nut and fire up the Daisy Duke a few hundred times.

The Old Man is Down the Road

Holy shit what a weekend!

Friday:
The Pens went dancing with Lord Stanley. I watched game seven with the wife alone in our basement to avoid all distractions. I’m not sure how many of you watched it, but in the opening sequence they had members of the NBC crew give their versions of the pre-game speeches in the team’s locker rooms. I’m pretty sure if I had been watching the game with Richard Simmons he would have turned to me and said “Wow, this is really fucking gay” and I would have nodded and said “It sure is. Now pass me my next Deal-a-Meal card bitch, and it better say nachos on it.”

NBC’s awful coverage aside, the game delivered three hours of gut-wrenching drama. I paced, I screamed, I pounded on doors, I prayed to the hockey gods, I lost my mind when Talbot lit the lamp twice and I added yet another layer of disgusting sweat to a jersey that hasn’t been washed since mid-February. Finally, when Crosby lifted the cup I sunk back into my couch and basked in the afterglow, like I just banged a super model.

Saturday:
If you stop by here often enough then you know about my previous TV purchase debacle. Well Saturday morning rolls around and we stroll into Costco for margarita mix, soft pretzels and EZ-Mac, then we leave with a 32” TV for our bedroom.

They don’t have any salespeople at Costco, but they up-sell me every time I go in there. I go in for steaks and come out with a couch. I go in for milk and come out with a Wii. I go in for wine and come out with a monkey that teaches you a foreign language. How does this shit happen? It’s like they brainwash you and by the time you get home it’s too late. You end up just saying fuck it and keeping everything. Because of Costco I find myself saying stupid shit like: “Honey, I need to pick up some day laborers to help move this couch have you seen the goddamn bilingual monkey?”

Sunday:
The day started innocently enough, we went to the grocery store, picked up some lunch and then I sent one little text message to the family “Margaritas and cornhole anyone?” and it was on. In a matter of minutes I had a cold drink in one hand a cornhole bag in the other. After a few games, and a few drinks, the competition escalated into a two-on-two game of whiffle ball. Now, its 85 degrees, we’re playing on blacktop, I’ve had a bunch of sugar and alcohol and I haven’t exercised regularly since Clinton was President. In other words it was the perfect storm for a hospital visit.

My first at bat, I step up to the plate in flip-flops and when I swung my foot rolled over and I jacked up my big toe. It turned bright red and had a nice pool of blood forming under the nail. I called time-out and borrowed some shoes. Being competitive males, we ended up playing a full six inning game. I’m pretty sure that Helen Keller’s Easter egg hunts took less time to complete than this stupid game. In fact I think the girls went inside and watched every single episode of ER and then came back out and we were still in the fourth inning.

We finally called it a day and I rolled inside looking like a black man coming from an Alabama Klan rally. I was sweating, I felt nauseous, there were blisters all over my feet, my big toe was fucked up and I’m pretty sure I was within inches of a heat stroke. I pounded some water and then grabbed a shower that was so cold my junk looked like a stack of dimes. (My brother-in-laws description not mine. I mean his description of his own cold shower experience not of my junk you sick bastards)

We ended up winning the whiffle ball game and all but one round of cornhole on the day. So, let’s all raise a glass to all of the old men who can still bring the heat, even if it means they end up feeling like Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. If we keep up this weekend routine I may need to start juicing.

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to go out and get some Ben Gay, a Penguins Stanley Cup shirt and a banana for that damn monkey.

Trapped

Last night Amy and I attended her company’s summer event, Elvis Costello at Wolftrap. I quickly realized two things, Wolftrap has become my second favorite concert venue behind Red Rocks and Elvis Costello was one of the worst shows I’ve seen there.

Because I’m a glass full kind of guy let’s start with Wolftrap. As you walk into the venue from the parking lot you pass a series of tents. One is a restaurant, one is for VIP’s and the others are for private events. Because I am VRP (Very Regular Person) and not a VIP we hit the restaurant tent where her company supplied copious amounts of wine in addition to a ridiculously delicious buffet. I had the pork tenderloin and this mac-n-cheese that I would have made sweet love to all night had Amy’s CEO not been there. Don’t even get me started on the dessert tray, I’m getting half a stalk just thinking about it.

The food and drink is all well and good, but here is why Wolftrap is Matchbox Twenty money. They treat you like a fucking adult! You can bring in any kind of alcohol and you can bring in any kind of food. They have picnic tables all over the place and the venue is set against a backdrop of huge ass trees that would make Bob Ross premature ejaculate. You know, if he were still alive and got over his erectile dysfunction. Ok, I made that E.D. part up, but he just looks like a poster child for Viagara. Sometimes you gotta pop a little blue pill before you can successfully touch little boys. Oh snap! Wow, I’m really pissing all over Bob’s grave today. Sorry Bob!

Now that we’ve established the greatness of the Trap, let’s turn our attention to why Elvis Costello sucked dingle-berry covered donkey balls. First off, I like approximately six EC songs and of those tunes maybe 3 are essentials (Veronica, The Angels Wanna Wear My Red Shoes and Peace, Love & Understanding). So he takes the stage and like most aging performers he has a group of about eight other guys with him, and they launch into a series of tunes that would give Bill Monroe a hard on. I seem to be obsessed with dead guys and their junk today. David Carradine must be in my subconscious. Hey, if a guy likes to wear women’s clothes and hang from a noose in a hotel closet while rubbing one out, who am I to judge.

As Costello is plucking away on his third ditty, I fire up the iPhone and look up his setlist from the night before. Well spank my ass and call me Charlie this fucker is going to play 32 songs and we don’t get to a song I know until the encore. Look, I like a little bluegrass as much as the next guy, but if I want to bluegrass out with my huge ass out I’ll go see Sam Bush or David Grisman. Amy is a much bigger fan of EC than I, but luckily she was getting bitter at his back woods versions of the songs she likes too, so we quickly said our good-byes and made a bee line for the exit after an hour or so.

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to throw on the Pens Jersey, goalie equipment and prep the noose in my garage for a little ‘Carradine' tribute before the game 7.

Nice Day for a White Wedding

Sorry, for the long ass post amigos, but it was a loooooong weekend…

The Wedding’s Rockin’ Eve
The ride to Pennsylvania went relatively smoothly. No tickets, very little traffic and being Mr. classy I consumed a bottle of Chateau St. Michelle Riesling from a Gatorade bottle. Sometimes it really is hard to believe that I’m 37 and not 17.

Anyway, we arrived to find everyone out on the patio drinking like it was nickel beer night at a frat house. We were at a golf resort, so one of the non-wedding attendees stumbled over to our table. Obviously, unaware of how much the family likes to fuck with people, he struck up a drunken exchange with our group.

By the end of the conversation we knew that his name was Paul, he was from south Buffalo, he liked Amy’s cousin’s legs and the blacks in Buffalo were only good for emptying garbage cans. In turn, the grandfather of the aforementioned cousin with great legs, informed Paul that she had five kids by five different fathers and that one of them would qualify for emptying garbage cans in south Buffalo. Feeling a little embarrassed, he bought us a pitcher of beer and stumbled back inside. Then, we all laughed and laughed because we totally lied to him, she only has four kids by three different fathers and they were all Hispanic, not black. High-larious!

Our little party started to break up, leaving just a few of us guys to finish off the beers. As we were about to call it a night, he showed back up with his buddies, whom he must of told there were a bunch of hot chicks on the patio. The look on Paul’s face when he realized that it was just a bunch of dudes at our table was priceless. His buddies started crushing him as if they’d caught him on his knees in the men’s bathroom.

The Wedding
Trying to contain my two year old in a big church during the ceremony, was a lot like wrestling a midget covered in baby oil, only my daughter didn’t have the stubby sausage fingers and oversized head to grab onto. In addition to being uber-squirmy she also took the opportunity to test her outside voice by constantly yelling, “I see Kenny! I see Kenny!”

I think I spent approximately eight minutes inside the actual wedding, and the rest of the time I was in the lobby trying to keep my little anti-Christ from desecrating everything sacred that was below four feet high. Honey, please take Mickey Mouse out of the holy water. Yes, I know he’s dirty but that’s not a bath. C’mon baby, please stop pounding on Jesus’ feet like you’re taking part in his crucifixion. Sweety, it’s cute how you sang happy birthday before blowing out all of the candles, but those are prayer candles and beloved Uncle Steve is probably not going to survive his motorcycle accident thanks to you. Darling, I know you’re a big Kathy Griffin fan, but this isn’t the place to be yelling “Suck it Jesus!”

After we went up and down the church steps 19 times, I marched her into the men’s bathroom, so that I could shake the dew off the lily. As I was taking care of business, the anti-Christ walked up to the urinal next to me and proceeded to grab the urinal cake. I screamed NOOOOOOOO! Then, I zipped up and turned around to see her putting a goldfish in her mouth. I immediately turned into an audience member at the Apollo. “Ooooh damn baby, no you di-int just do that. Ohhhhh snap! Yo mamma’s gonna kill me.” I immediately took her to the sink and scrubbed her hands like I was Lady Macbeth, but by then the damage was done and I could only pray that the confessional upstairs was open for business.

Maggie, Someday you will be on your therapist’s couch and you’ll have this nagging memory about something bad happening to you involving a father and a church basement bathroom. For the record I want you to know that you weren’t touched inappropriately by a priest. You gave yourself First Communion using the water and a deodorizing cake from a urinal while your father stood next to you pissing and screaming at you like a little girl. Um, yeah, good luck with that.

I’ll give you all a minute to choke down that little bit of throw up in your mouth before we move on.

The Reception
The Crown was flowing and the band led by a cross between Patrick Swayze and Richard Dean Anderson AKA MacGyver, was pumping out your standard list of wedding favorites. After the festivities started to wrap up the party moved to the patio where a man sporting an accordion got the Polish version of the reception underway. Standing across the way was a woman who had one of those disposable cameras and she was just cranking out the pictures of her accordion hero.

Like J.D. in scrubs, I had one of those cutaway moments in my head to the drug store photo counter, where the sarcastic teenage clerk was like “It’s Monday, here comes Alice again. I’m guessing it was another crazy weekend. Wow, what a shocker, 24 glossy prints of a man playing an accordion. These are going to look great in her scrapbook next to the other 685 photos that we’ve processed this year of her musical idol.”

Also, I’m pretty sure someone said the guys name was Jim, so for the rest of the night the phrase “Accordion to Jim” was running through my head. For the record, how has that show been on the air for eight seasons? I don’t know a single person who watches it, yet every week I flip through the channels and there’s Jim Belushi saying something not funny and collecting a nice fat paycheck. Hey Jimbo, I bet you’re glad that your much more talented brother did himself in. Now you and Joaquin Phoenix can toast to your success at your brothers expenses. What? Still too soon?

Now if you’ll excuse me I need to go give my daughter her penicillin bath, while saying a few Hail Mary’s.

Here's your moment of zen. Mr. classy rockin' the Pens jersey at the reception: