So the trip started when I reserved a 17 foot Uhaul truck for the move to Austin, only to show up and have them tell me they had already given out all the 17 foot trucks but they "upgraded" me to a 72 foot truck (it wasn't that large, but it might as well have been- this thing was GIGANTIC. It needed an old school tree house rope ladder to get into it) It literally was like piloting the Hindenburg oh wheels. It has TWO steps to get into the cab of the truck... not one... two. I was 18 feet off the ground.
--- On a side note, I now know why rednecks like trucks jacked up off the ground, it gives you a sense of power. I looked down in pity at the small Honda hatchbacks scurrying around like dung beetles around my giant truck.
Couple things I learned about this particular UHAUL truck on my 9 hour drive:
1.) It had no CD player, no tape deck, and apparently a malfunctioning radio antenna. It wasn't COMPLETELY broken however, as it clearly picked up four hispanic radio stations along the way. For the first few hours I just sat in silence, but after I broke down mentally, I dialed in to 91.1 "radio caliente y picante de música." Which I assume has something to do with trumpets and banjos. My spanish isn't too good, but I'm pretty sure that I heard the same song 42 times. I could even start singing along. What I was saying... I don't know. Somewhere around Houston I actually caught the end of a Madonna song. Never before in my life have I EVER been happy to sing loudly along with Pappa Don't Preach..
2.) Top speed = 65mph. And it sounded like the engine was going to explode just getting it up to 65mph. I can assume that people were passing me by giving me "verbal and symbolic signs of disapproval" but again, I was 18 feet off the ground so all I saw was the tops of cars. I felt it though.
3.) It leaked gas. I couldn't find out where exactly it was leaking, but I pulled over TWICE to check for leaking gas because the gas gauge was going down so fast that there MUST be a leak somewhere and that could be dangerous. I never found the spot, but I'm sure it was there because there's NO WAY I averaged 7 miles per gallon. I was only going 65mph (see above)
But the BEST part of the trip was not the time, or the radio stations, or paying 300 dollars in gas. The BEST part was somewhere outside Katy Texas, Piper (the dog I took with me) started crying a little. I stupidly thought she just missed her mommy. I was like "ahh,it's ok buddy, she'll be here in a couple days."
That wasn't the problem.
The problem was that I ran out of her dog food the day before and PetSmart didn't have anymore of it. Sooooo, I just grabbed the next best dog food. Anyone who has done this or heard about this elementary mistake, mixed with the volatility of my dogs digestive track knows how BAD of a mistake that was. (Now, I know... some are saying "Poop was in your last blog," but NOT like this.) Last time wasn't in a confined space. Last time didn't sound like a tire blew out on the interstate. Last time didn't look like a Jackson Pollock painting. I was trapped in slow moving traffic. The only thing I could do is roll the window down and drive like Ace Ventura until I could get to the next gas station.
I bet that's the first time the gas station attendant has seen someone walk OUT of the bathroom with a wad of toilet paper. A little group of ladies with their kids saw me take Piper out the truck and were like "awww, look how cute she is!! Can we pet her??" --I let them-- I needed someone to hold her while I put on my Hazmat suit. I snuck children's Benadryl into a portion of a gas station hot dog and gave it to her. She passed out, but then I thought "did that nasty hot dog just kill her?"
She eventually woke up.
We made it.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Musings of a fat kid
The holidays are a time of joy and happiness. Where you hang out with your family and eat turkey and dressing, sweet potatoes and marshmellows, pecan and pumpkin pie. It's the most wonderful time.. of the year. That is, unless you're a post-pubescent fat kid like me.
Post-pubescent fat kid: One who was basically born fat, and lived his or her childhood wearing "Husky" jeans only to find out later that "Husky" jeans were the basically the Big and Tall of the children's section. He or she capitalized on the fact that you could buy an entire pack of little debbie cakes for 99 cents in stores and would promptly destroy the whole box. In it's worse case, the post-pubescent fat kid buys a container of cake icing and eats it out the can with a spoon. He or she was told that he would "grow out of that baby-fat phase when he hits puberty," only to never see that day materialize. (Merriam Webster 2010)
The problem with being a PPFK, is that unless you are one, you don't know what it's like to BE one. Sure, everyone likes to have that piece of pie. But do you constantly contemplate "If I don't move now, then someone will eat my share. Therefore, I will eat one piece now, and one piece when it's appropriate to eat dessert."
All I do is wonder in that guilty moment of sneaking in to eat pie, all alone, while I knew everyone was away, who else does this?
But it's the aftermath that frustrates me. Again, back to the jeans. Why do the not make size 35 jeans? They make 32, 33, 34, and 36 jeans. Why not 35? I'm not a 34 or a 36. If I wear 36's I look like I'm thuggin it and lovin' it. If I wear 34's I muffin top like a can of newly opened biscuts. Now I either have to work out heavy or tighten my belt to where the back of my jeans do that socially awkward fold over thingy where the pants are lower then the belt.
Everyone says "just eat in moderation..." There's a better chance of my 9 week old son standing up and reciting the Gettysburg address then me "eating in moderation..." That's not true. I DO eat in moderation. But I eat in moderation TEN TIMES A DAY.
I can't wait until Christmas. I'll get all new work out equipment and clothing (most likely from my wife. Sort of her gentle *push* to get me back to my dating weight) Which is fair, because really, if you looked at a picture of us when we were dating and look at us now, you would think "that was false advertisement."
Course, usually the cliche' fits, and the PPFKs are those that have the "Best personalities," and as such are invited to numerous Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. Causing the vicious cycle to continue........
Post-pubescent fat kid: One who was basically born fat, and lived his or her childhood wearing "Husky" jeans only to find out later that "Husky" jeans were the basically the Big and Tall of the children's section. He or she capitalized on the fact that you could buy an entire pack of little debbie cakes for 99 cents in stores and would promptly destroy the whole box. In it's worse case, the post-pubescent fat kid buys a container of cake icing and eats it out the can with a spoon. He or she was told that he would "grow out of that baby-fat phase when he hits puberty," only to never see that day materialize. (Merriam Webster 2010)
The problem with being a PPFK, is that unless you are one, you don't know what it's like to BE one. Sure, everyone likes to have that piece of pie. But do you constantly contemplate "If I don't move now, then someone will eat my share. Therefore, I will eat one piece now, and one piece when it's appropriate to eat dessert."
All I do is wonder in that guilty moment of sneaking in to eat pie, all alone, while I knew everyone was away, who else does this?
But it's the aftermath that frustrates me. Again, back to the jeans. Why do the not make size 35 jeans? They make 32, 33, 34, and 36 jeans. Why not 35? I'm not a 34 or a 36. If I wear 36's I look like I'm thuggin it and lovin' it. If I wear 34's I muffin top like a can of newly opened biscuts. Now I either have to work out heavy or tighten my belt to where the back of my jeans do that socially awkward fold over thingy where the pants are lower then the belt.
Everyone says "just eat in moderation..." There's a better chance of my 9 week old son standing up and reciting the Gettysburg address then me "eating in moderation..." That's not true. I DO eat in moderation. But I eat in moderation TEN TIMES A DAY.
I can't wait until Christmas. I'll get all new work out equipment and clothing (most likely from my wife. Sort of her gentle *push* to get me back to my dating weight) Which is fair, because really, if you looked at a picture of us when we were dating and look at us now, you would think "that was false advertisement."
Course, usually the cliche' fits, and the PPFKs are those that have the "Best personalities," and as such are invited to numerous Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners. Causing the vicious cycle to continue........
Monday, November 1, 2010
I carried a watermelon...
I didn't carry a watermelon, but I figured it was better then my original title.
This last weekend I was at my brother's house. It was super early in the morning and my son clearly had a diaper in need of changing. After Heather's gentle nudge telling me it was MY turn to change the diaper, I sluggishly got out of bed to fulfil my fatherly duty.
So I placed him on the ground because we obviously didn't bring our changing table. What I SHOULD have done is put down one of those portable plastic changing stations. I didn't. So after the first wet-wipe, my morning took a HUGE turn for the worse.
While I was wiping his little booty, he pooted. I'm OK with that, kinda was just like "aww man, you pooted right at me." But then I could tell... he had that stressed "oh I'm SO about to poop" look. PLEASE, SON, PLEASE NOOOO!
It was too late. It was coming. He was about to drop a bomb on the carpet of my brother's guest bedroom. What was I to do??? I reacted. And CAUGHT IT before it hit the carpet. That's right. in my hand. Then in the still darkness, crap...in...my...hand. Heather only leaned up to say "Paul, watch your language."
THEN, since his diaper was being changed in that cool room where the air could get to his man parts, he began to pee. AS IF this couldn't be worse. So What do I do? React. And catch it in the hand which now holds poo. NOW I have this hand full of newly liquified poop. It was bad enough to where I could POUR into the diaper on the ground next to him. He, being empty, is now asleep again leaving me with this to contemplate alone.
The only thing I could think is "This is now my life. For-ev-er."
So as you see, "I carried a watermelon" is a better then the title "I had poop...in my hands."
This last weekend I was at my brother's house. It was super early in the morning and my son clearly had a diaper in need of changing. After Heather's gentle nudge telling me it was MY turn to change the diaper, I sluggishly got out of bed to fulfil my fatherly duty.
So I placed him on the ground because we obviously didn't bring our changing table. What I SHOULD have done is put down one of those portable plastic changing stations. I didn't. So after the first wet-wipe, my morning took a HUGE turn for the worse.
While I was wiping his little booty, he pooted. I'm OK with that, kinda was just like "aww man, you pooted right at me." But then I could tell... he had that stressed "oh I'm SO about to poop" look. PLEASE, SON, PLEASE NOOOO!
It was too late. It was coming. He was about to drop a bomb on the carpet of my brother's guest bedroom. What was I to do??? I reacted. And CAUGHT IT before it hit the carpet. That's right. in my hand. Then in the still darkness, crap...in...my...hand. Heather only leaned up to say "Paul, watch your language."
THEN, since his diaper was being changed in that cool room where the air could get to his man parts, he began to pee. AS IF this couldn't be worse. So What do I do? React. And catch it in the hand which now holds poo. NOW I have this hand full of newly liquified poop. It was bad enough to where I could POUR into the diaper on the ground next to him. He, being empty, is now asleep again leaving me with this to contemplate alone.
The only thing I could think is "This is now my life. For-ev-er."
So as you see, "I carried a watermelon" is a better then the title "I had poop...in my hands."
Thursday, October 21, 2010
5 Things I never thought I would say
1.) I need BUTT PASTE....STAT
This junk is awesome. Booty goes from blood red to skin color after just a couple diaper changes. Worked so well on Rowen, figured I'd try it myself. Not as easy to apply when you can't see what you're doing.
2.) If you pee in my mouth ONE more time...
I had heard from people who have little boys that when you change their diapers the #1 rule is to make sure they are done with #1. Cliche' saying, but worth it's weight in gold. I have been peed on so often that I've just gotten used to it. I try to cover it up... pee pee tee pee's and what not, but nothing seems to work. The thing that I'm so surprised about is how much PRESSURE this little guy has when he goes. I was under the impression that it would be comprable to the pressure of adult urine. This is not so. If it were, it would be like me standing in my driveway and peeing over my house.
3.) If you would just FART we could both get some sleep.
There is nothing more frustrating then waiting patiently hoping the little guy will burp or poot. Then when he does, there's a sigh of relief/joy because now I can get finally get some sleep. I wish people were this excited when I farted. I would have tons more friends. And my co-workers would stop fearing the crop dusting bandit.
4.) If those stupid leprechauns don't get out of my yard I'm gonna lose it!
To be fair, when someone is in a perpetual state of sleep deprivation, that junk starts messing with your mind. You start seeing things that don't make sense. I'm pretty sure my neighbors rooster is always getting in mortal combat type fights with the garden gnomes. I'm am SUPER glad I don't have anything I don't want Heather to know, cause apparently I have numerous conversations at night that I have no recollection of the next day.
5,) Oh dear God, is it ALREADY 8:30...
And because it is.... goodnight.
This junk is awesome. Booty goes from blood red to skin color after just a couple diaper changes. Worked so well on Rowen, figured I'd try it myself. Not as easy to apply when you can't see what you're doing.
2.) If you pee in my mouth ONE more time...
I had heard from people who have little boys that when you change their diapers the #1 rule is to make sure they are done with #1. Cliche' saying, but worth it's weight in gold. I have been peed on so often that I've just gotten used to it. I try to cover it up... pee pee tee pee's and what not, but nothing seems to work. The thing that I'm so surprised about is how much PRESSURE this little guy has when he goes. I was under the impression that it would be comprable to the pressure of adult urine. This is not so. If it were, it would be like me standing in my driveway and peeing over my house.
3.) If you would just FART we could both get some sleep.
There is nothing more frustrating then waiting patiently hoping the little guy will burp or poot. Then when he does, there's a sigh of relief/joy because now I can get finally get some sleep. I wish people were this excited when I farted. I would have tons more friends. And my co-workers would stop fearing the crop dusting bandit.
4.) If those stupid leprechauns don't get out of my yard I'm gonna lose it!
To be fair, when someone is in a perpetual state of sleep deprivation, that junk starts messing with your mind. You start seeing things that don't make sense. I'm pretty sure my neighbors rooster is always getting in mortal combat type fights with the garden gnomes. I'm am SUPER glad I don't have anything I don't want Heather to know, cause apparently I have numerous conversations at night that I have no recollection of the next day.
5,) Oh dear God, is it ALREADY 8:30...
And because it is.... goodnight.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Get a visual
My neighbor has a rooster. Now to clear things up a bit, I do not live on a farm. I am not a country boy. I live on a MAJOR BOULEVARD in Baton Rouge. And roosters are not allowed in the city limits.
That sets the stage for one of my worst moments since the birth of my new child.
Many new parents can agree, when you have a new child, sleep is a comodity that you would pay any price for an ample supply. So when you have a rooster next door, this creates a problem. I would first like to clear up any misunderstandings about roosters. 1.) If you're like me, you thought roosters only crow when the sun comes up.... This is not true. They crow ALL DAY LONG. At least the one next door to me does. Maybe he's blind... 2.) They don't say "cock-a-doodle-doo," it's more like "RRK-A-RRRRRK-A-RRRR!"
Now let's talk about baby monitors. They are so sensitive that if two ants outside the window of the baby room were having an arguement, it would sound like you left the TV on Jerry Springer. So when you combine the rooster that walked into our yard up next to the baby room window, and the baby monitor.... It sounded like that friggin rooster is standing on my chest screaming in my face. I think my ears were bleeding.
Being that I have been in a constant state of sleep deprivation, I wasn't clearly thinking when I jumped out of bed wearing only my boxer briefs and a wife-beater undershirt to go kill the rooster. I picked up a piece of base board laying around and headed out to ensure that we were having chicken for dinner.
So at 6:00 in the morning I was in my front yard, on a busy boulevard, cars all around, chasing a rooster around my front yard screaming "DIE BIRD, DIE!!!" BTW, roosters don't run in a straight line, they zig-zag... I can't imagine what the people going to work were thinking while watching that. I didn't care.
When I finally got back in bed, slightly sweaty, dignity lost, I realized it was 15 minutes until my son needed to be fed.
That sets the stage for one of my worst moments since the birth of my new child.
Many new parents can agree, when you have a new child, sleep is a comodity that you would pay any price for an ample supply. So when you have a rooster next door, this creates a problem. I would first like to clear up any misunderstandings about roosters. 1.) If you're like me, you thought roosters only crow when the sun comes up.... This is not true. They crow ALL DAY LONG. At least the one next door to me does. Maybe he's blind... 2.) They don't say "cock-a-doodle-doo," it's more like "RRK-A-RRRRRK-A-RRRR!"
Now let's talk about baby monitors. They are so sensitive that if two ants outside the window of the baby room were having an arguement, it would sound like you left the TV on Jerry Springer. So when you combine the rooster that walked into our yard up next to the baby room window, and the baby monitor.... It sounded like that friggin rooster is standing on my chest screaming in my face. I think my ears were bleeding.
Being that I have been in a constant state of sleep deprivation, I wasn't clearly thinking when I jumped out of bed wearing only my boxer briefs and a wife-beater undershirt to go kill the rooster. I picked up a piece of base board laying around and headed out to ensure that we were having chicken for dinner.
So at 6:00 in the morning I was in my front yard, on a busy boulevard, cars all around, chasing a rooster around my front yard screaming "DIE BIRD, DIE!!!" BTW, roosters don't run in a straight line, they zig-zag... I can't imagine what the people going to work were thinking while watching that. I didn't care.
When I finally got back in bed, slightly sweaty, dignity lost, I realized it was 15 minutes until my son needed to be fed.
Monday, September 27, 2010
10 Things having a new boy has taught me
1. Movies Lie. If you've ever seen a movie or TV show that has a scene about child birth, you have been lied to. It isn't the pretty, swaddled, choreographed dream you see with the "aww look at how perfect he is..." He is beautiful, but because he's mine I feel that way. Should he be yours, he would be a nasty purple lizard.
2. Umbilical cords taste terrible. I'm Totally kidding. It really doesn't taste that bad... again, kidding. It was alot tougher than I thought it was going to be to cut through though. It would help if they didn't give you kindergarden art scissors to cut it.
3. Sleep deprivation is much worse than waterboarding. I haven't been waterboarded, but if I were being tortured and they made me stay up like this for days on end, I would tell them every important location they wanted, and if they let me take a long nap, I would drive them there.
4. The delivery room is roughly 7 times the size of the recovery room (the room where you spend the next couple days.) Imagine crawling in a cave of pink striped wall paper where you have to back out the way you came rather than turning around when you're in there. And you and your spouse are supposed to live there for two days.
5. You people can't drive. I've been told that when you leave the hospital with the baby that you become a better driver. This is true. But I also have become much worse. Before I drove with one hand on the steering wheel, the other on my phone, I didn't care about you. Now, I have one on my steering wheel, the other on the horn. If I had another hand, it would be used as sign language to accompany my newly discovered "Jersey" accent I've aquired.
6. When you see the baby's head coming out the womb, it's not this pretty round beautiful thing. It's a lumpy grey sack of golf balls. I had to ask the doctor if that was normal. She could tell I was a little distressed.
7. Babies wait until you change their diapers to let out the REST of the poo. And when people tell you "at least the poop in the first few days doesn't stink," they didn't have my son.
8. When a baby boy is born, things are swollen. That's was total buzz kill. I was about to run out the delivery room yelling BOOYAH BABY.... Until the doctor told me that certain things would "shrink to normal size." All the "he takes after his father" jokes I had forming were quickly fading.
9. You don't have time between picking up the house, changing diapers, walking around with the baby hoping he falls asleep, and visiting with people that drop by to even personally go to the restroom. I'm thinking about wearing a diaper myself and just change his and mine at the same time. Wouldn't be the first time...
10. My wife is superwoman. Period.
2. Umbilical cords taste terrible. I'm Totally kidding. It really doesn't taste that bad... again, kidding. It was alot tougher than I thought it was going to be to cut through though. It would help if they didn't give you kindergarden art scissors to cut it.
3. Sleep deprivation is much worse than waterboarding. I haven't been waterboarded, but if I were being tortured and they made me stay up like this for days on end, I would tell them every important location they wanted, and if they let me take a long nap, I would drive them there.
4. The delivery room is roughly 7 times the size of the recovery room (the room where you spend the next couple days.) Imagine crawling in a cave of pink striped wall paper where you have to back out the way you came rather than turning around when you're in there. And you and your spouse are supposed to live there for two days.
5. You people can't drive. I've been told that when you leave the hospital with the baby that you become a better driver. This is true. But I also have become much worse. Before I drove with one hand on the steering wheel, the other on my phone, I didn't care about you. Now, I have one on my steering wheel, the other on the horn. If I had another hand, it would be used as sign language to accompany my newly discovered "Jersey" accent I've aquired.
6. When you see the baby's head coming out the womb, it's not this pretty round beautiful thing. It's a lumpy grey sack of golf balls. I had to ask the doctor if that was normal. She could tell I was a little distressed.
7. Babies wait until you change their diapers to let out the REST of the poo. And when people tell you "at least the poop in the first few days doesn't stink," they didn't have my son.
8. When a baby boy is born, things are swollen. That's was total buzz kill. I was about to run out the delivery room yelling BOOYAH BABY.... Until the doctor told me that certain things would "shrink to normal size." All the "he takes after his father" jokes I had forming were quickly fading.
9. You don't have time between picking up the house, changing diapers, walking around with the baby hoping he falls asleep, and visiting with people that drop by to even personally go to the restroom. I'm thinking about wearing a diaper myself and just change his and mine at the same time. Wouldn't be the first time...
10. My wife is superwoman. Period.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Purpose
My sister is one of the funniest writers I know. Not only is the subject matter hysterical, but I can "hear" what she's writing and the tone of her words.
She told me a while back that I should start a blog for the same reason. I didn't. I did't want to be a "blogger" cause those people are weird. They tell WAY too much about their lives and usually it's about how their son or daughter pooped in the tub... followed by LOL.
Dont' get me wrong, I enjoy a good poop story (who doesn't?).
Time went by and I finally joined facebook. I loved the idea of being able to share short stories/thoughts about my day. When I went to my high school reunion, so many people told me they check my facebook daily to see if I put something new. At first I took those semi-stalker comments for drunken banter, mainly because the people were usually holding a beer and their comments sounded like "Bruh, you really swhould write mor, cause that ____ is crazy. I love you.... no I'm serious, I love you." I let the ego inflate a little bit, then let it go back to it's previously intolerable range. Finally the people at work told me that they wanted me to either update my posts more, or blog. Thus, I blog.
I plan on putting new stuff as well as older stories that happened during college. The names and stories will not be changed in order to protect privacy. So if you're a friend of mine, I hope you're not planning o running for office in the future. Unless it's in Detroit...
I'm gonna try this then and see how I like it.
She told me a while back that I should start a blog for the same reason. I didn't. I did't want to be a "blogger" cause those people are weird. They tell WAY too much about their lives and usually it's about how their son or daughter pooped in the tub... followed by LOL.
Dont' get me wrong, I enjoy a good poop story (who doesn't?).
Time went by and I finally joined facebook. I loved the idea of being able to share short stories/thoughts about my day. When I went to my high school reunion, so many people told me they check my facebook daily to see if I put something new. At first I took those semi-stalker comments for drunken banter, mainly because the people were usually holding a beer and their comments sounded like "Bruh, you really swhould write mor, cause that ____ is crazy. I love you.... no I'm serious, I love you." I let the ego inflate a little bit, then let it go back to it's previously intolerable range. Finally the people at work told me that they wanted me to either update my posts more, or blog. Thus, I blog.
I plan on putting new stuff as well as older stories that happened during college. The names and stories will not be changed in order to protect privacy. So if you're a friend of mine, I hope you're not planning o running for office in the future. Unless it's in Detroit...
I'm gonna try this then and see how I like it.
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