Month: October 2014

Couch Croissant

I am currently all played out in regards to bodily functions. We have a laundry load per week dedicated to peed items. Not that anyone cares because the onslaught of stained and soiled fabrics continues. I don’t even flinch when I step in something wet and think “Yeah that is probably pee. I’ll bring a towel and some Resolve on my way back through here.” I’m not even concerned about whether it came from the dog, the kids, or the cat returned a hairball which was eaten by the dog, leaving only a slimy residue behind. It really makes no difference. The moisture was in something’s gastrointestinal or urinary tract and now it is on my foot. On my cotton sock that sees fit to pass the liquid over a wider area than a bare foot would have enjoyed. Thank you capillary action.

Poop is no different. Some days I feel that the errant-poop-incident is a thing that follows me, riding piggyback on the kids and pets. Like a weird kid that I was accidentally nice to on the first day of school and now they won’t leave me alone. There is a reason other kids are mean to you. You are intolerable and impossible to love. I hate you, poop.
I previously posted Yard Biscuit, which if you haven’t read you might want to check out. My fellow blogger familydoctormom posted a counter article with her own similar troubles.

Now that we have the background established we can move on.

For about a week prior to this event, the youngest child had made the switch from milk to “real” foods for breakfast. I use quotes on the real description because that means breakfast muffins and pieces of poptart that her sisters discard while they pace a circle around the living room and stare at the television..

Another snippet of background information; My toddler, Lady Bug, is likely the reincarnation of a lethargic eighty year old man. She fights for a seat in the recliner, slumps lazily into the seat to enjoy television, and keeps one hand shoved in her diaper just for the hell of it.

This particular day I am working on something healthy in the kitchen like fudge brownies. Supermom is out running an errand and I am on duty and on my own. That doesn’t bother me because part of my superhero powers include the world’s most effective selective hearing. My subconscious actually identifies stuff it knows I don’t want to hear and pre-filters. My wife and I have arguments all the time about me not listening to something I never heard in the first place. Very frustrating for both sides. I mean, how can she say I am ignoring something I’ve never heard? Put a pin in that idea for another day.

Back to the kitchen.

I am mixing ingredients and greasing a pan and I notice that Lady Bug is doing the old man/hand pants. I tell her to get her hand out of her diaper and she does and starts looking around the couch for some mischief. At least that’s what my peripheral vision told me while my main focus stayed on making brownies. No pun intended.

After a moment my spider-sense tells me that Lady Bug has gotten very still and with children this is a flag. I look up and I see she has dug a piece of poptart out of the couch cushion and is thinking of eating it. The dog knows the drill and is sitting nearby waiting for her moment to snag a crusty stale treat. I quickly set my things aside and get up to retrieve the petrified pastry before she loses one of her first teeth.

I walk over and ask very affectionately, “What do you have there? Find some snacks?” She smiles cutely at me and places the piece in my already opened hand. Being closer to her I can now smell that she has a diaper in need of changing, probably from eating these crazy poptarts everyday. Those things are gut grenades and I momentarily consider banishing them.
That thought pauses; I notice brown streaks down part of her leg. The pale tan color is slightly darker than her peach colored skin and the brown is on her hands too. As my eyes have a discussion with my brain, they both follow the trail from her legs to her hands and finally to my hands.

Boom. I am holding a poop nugget shaped like a piece of a poptart.

You remember the last scene in “Sixth Sense” when you realize that Bruce Willis was dead the whole time? Then you go back and rethink what you have seen in context. Time slows in moments like this. I notice our dark brown couch has smears on a couple of the cushions and beside my favorite cup holder. I see why the dog is interested and that too is disgusting. I drop the poop and grab the baby in super slow motion.

Here I am, holding a toddler by her wrists and hanging her in the air while I consider my options. The poop that she handed me lands on the armrest of the couch and the dog is sniffing closer and closer. If I take the baby away then the dog will eat the poop and lick the couch. If I leave to get wipes or rags the baby will possibly keep painting and maybe even eat something. I look around and there are no wipes to be seen. I need a plan fast because oily turdness really greases those tiny wrists. She is trying to pull free. Plus the smell is just so fresh and awful.

A few more seconds of thinking and then I have my plan. I yell at the dog to get in her bed and I act mad so she slinks away to her cushion. Major disappointment from not getting a snack. I set the baby on a towel on the floor and I take her shirt halfway off leaving her arms and head tucked inside the shirt above her head. (I call this move the pajama straight jacket as it buys you time to grab clothes before the kid runs away or does something crazy.) I know she will struggle for a good thirty seconds before getting a hand free.

I sprint to the bathroom and grab two semi-wetted rags, a toilet paper roll, the garbage can, and I turn on the water in the tub. I throw a few squares of TP over the PoopTart as I pass. Just as I sit down beside her a hand comes free and I grab it with a wet rag. All the soiled linens go into the garbage can and the baby is airlifted to the half full tub. I scrub her like an Ebola patient and put her in a onesie (the only style of clothes she will wear from now until she is eighteen), brush her teeth just in case and then place her in the crib for a nap. I double back to the scene of the crime with bleach based cleaning products and the knowledge that nothing can totally clean stitching on a couch.

Something about pungent smells just stick in the upper parts of your nose. I feel soiled. I take a quick shower much like the one in Ace Ventura: Pet Detective after he realizes Lt. Einhorn is a man. I will always believe there are some things that soap doesn’t wash away. I throw all the offended clothing away because we have too much clothing anyway.
I find my quiet place and deal with the fact that I will have to touch the couch again someday. And the child.

For the parents who are busying living life and don’t notice a turd has been pulled out of a diaper and is being used as a substitute tanning product, this post is for you. Like they say, “S&@t Happens” You’re welcome.

Underdaddy to the rescue.

Eight Years a Husband

On October 22 my lovely wife, Supermom, was checking her phone and noticed the date. She paused in thought for a moment and then turned to me.

“Do you know what day it is?”
“The 22nd?”
“Isn’t that a special day?”
“Not that I know of…”

My mind is racing to figure out what I have forgotten. Men can never be too sure of the milestones that we are supposed to remember.

She thinks for another moment and then, less confidently, “Is tomorrow important to you?”

Light bulb. Our anniversary. I smile because the 23rd isn’t the correct day either.

“Nope. What day is the important day? I know but you don’t.”
“Nope. The 27th. The same as it has been for the last eight years.”
She shrugs her shoulders, “Eh, I was close.”

According to stereotypes, that is my line but I’ll let her have it. Most likely, she has been trying to forget and is getting better at it every year. I will always remember and speaking of things she tries to forget. I would like to honor everyone with the story of how we met. If for no other reason than to prove that she had fair warning of what she was marrying into.

Spring Break 2003 – Don’t worry this isn’t about bikinis and exotic locations.

I was a regular patron of a country line dance bar near my college. My two favorite pastimes were drinking beer and getting dates by teaching unsuspecting ladies how to do the different line dances. This particular night I had been enjoying my first pastime way more than my second. My friends and I were having a good time dancing but it was time to take a break and grab another Bud Light.

I remember the first sighting, dark blue American Eagle T-shirt and khaki short shorts. I also remember thinking very specifically that I could marry her. Not a premonition that I would but that I could if I had the chance. It really was a magic moment for me. She looked like a deer in the headlights as I sauntered up and asked for a dance. She glanced around looking for a way out but my sniper-of-a-wingman already had her wing-woman by the hand, heading to the dance floor. I would later find out that Supermom isn’t much for conflict, so she agreed to a dance just to be nice and not sit alone.

We talked about something I’m sure. Actually, I probably talked nonstop while she counted the seconds until the song was finished. According to her field notes, she held me up for most of the slow dance series. I followed her back to her table after the dance and, in what is probably the smoothest pickup line ever, I asked her to dinner at McDonalds.

In my thoughts the reasoning sounded like, “I want to spend more time with this lovely lady. She is so beautiful that I just want to be in her presence. We could be anywhere just so long as we are together. I have to let her know how I feel…”

It came out of my mouth, “I want to take you out and it can be anywhere. It could even be McDonalds.”

What is the problem, google realizes that it is upscale.

What is the problem? Google realizes that it is upscale.

Imagine my surprise when I got the cold shoulder with the “maybe” or “I’m busy” for the next three months. What thick headed dolt keeps trying for three months? This guy.

Finally the friends angle worked and she learned that most of the time I can stand on my own power and make complete sentences. We both continued to be regulars at the same place and one night she agreed to our first unofficial date, IHOP, after the bar closed down. Everything was going really well and I had almost erased my stellar first impression. The bar announced the last call and we headed for the door.

I had a nice Mustang GT at the time which is a facsimile for a Lamborghini in the South.

Oh yeah.

Oh yeah.

There really was no reason to say what I did but as we passed a really nice two-seater convertible I said, “Well, here is my car!” I stood confidently by this little silver car which was not my Mustang and waited for her to be impressed. She pulled out a set of keys and said, “Actually, it is mine but you can drive it if you want.”

I’ll be damned. Talk about not catching a break.

Not my sweet ride.

Not my sweet ride.

Yet somehow, in spite of the red flags, she still gave me a chance. I gave up on trying to be impressive and she gave up on avoiding me. We were married in 2006.

See I have evidence.

See I have evidence.

She is my best friend and like Forest and Bubba, I feel like we spend our time leaning against each other to keep our “Heads out tha’ mud.” Four kids and eight years later, she is a better mom and wife than I deserve.

To all the wives who know that your husband married out of his range, this post is for you. And for Supermom.

Underdaddy to the rescue.

I Am Judging YOU Moms of Chick-fil-A

Many of you know and follow my good friend familydoctormom. I have been meaning to share this one for a little while. I think she handled the kids with more poise than I would have but then again I have never been very comfortable with caged-in playgrounds.


chick fil a

A blog has recently gone around Facebook about a mom saying she isn’t judging other mothers who are on their iPhone at the park and not taking care of their children. She says a lot of beautiful and flowery things about how she understands that those mothers are tired and this may be the only time of day that they have to themselves.

I get that, I do, but the time to be on your iPhone and have some privacy is in your own home with the bathroom door locked while you are pretending to poop like a normal person. So that lady on her blog may be nicer than me and she may not be judging you, but news flash, I AM judging you.

I had a couple of days off in the middle of the week the other day and decided to do something novel with my physician…

View original post 580 more words

Tampon Anonymous

Sometimes having a heart to heart is really tough. However, with some honest dialogue there is room for growth. That being said… Pull up a chair and lets have a little chat. I would like to talk about something in your pants that every so often involves a man in your life.


You see the problem almost always starts out like this:

Supermom: Hey honey! Are you stopping by the store on the way home?

Me: Yeah I was going to pickup a case of Old Spice, some wood screws, and some beer.

Supermom: Great! I am trying to not stab the dog and cry randomly in front of the kids so I need you to get something for me while you are there.

Me: No problem sweetums. What do you need? (I think I know at this point)

Supermom: I’m feeling a little crampy and I think I am almost out of tampons.

Me: …… No problem. Just tell me what you need. (Yup Tampons, Oh God here it comes and she expects me to remember.)

Supermom: *Takes a deep breath and begins* Well I think maybe the blah blah wings blah blah or the blah hurts my blah with a blah blah blah but not the yellow blah blah slim because they make it with blah blah and so if they have the blah blah then just get the blah blah. But not the big package. Get the medium.

Me: Okay. (Don’t have a clue. I am going to look over the whole section and pick something that has a chance of working. No way will I call and have an in-store out-loud discussion of each feature.)


Lots of men are playing the role of strong husband and telling others, “What is the big deal?” or “Man Up.”

First off, I don’t mind the embarrassing trip to the wall of shame. I think I have established that my vanity is low and my radar for what people think of me is possibly broken. Men of a certain age usually share your pain and politely act like they didn’t see you. But I have the super power of being able to pick up full packages off the shelf and I can even touch the individually wrapped items without making a squenchy gross face.

Ladies, Ladies, remember I am married. I know it is impressive.

After all, the tampon was made for men at war. The pinnacle of manly activities is the organized battle to the death. The original idea was for a quick method to stop soldiers from bleeding out of bullet holes during a battle. Cram a roll of cotton in the hole and let it swell shut until the soldier could be transported to a hospital. Worked better than dirt so they took off in production. I can’t imagine the first woman to say, “Hmmmm I bet that would work great in a vagina”, but someone did and then someone believed her and the trend was launched. That’s not to say that I think they stole tampons from men.

No, menstruation is a cruel joke that biology plays on you women and I won’t escape the suffering because all four of my children are girls. I am planning to buy a loom and start cotton farming to save money and teach the children some humility. Nothing makes you appreciate the finer things in life like good old fashioned weaving your own tampons.

There are however, some things about shopping for feminine products that really bother me. I think the men should pay attention here because we need real social change in this area.

First and foremost is judgment from women, of all people. When I am perusing the lady section looking for the correct combination of features and color of wrapper it naturally takes time because I am unfamiliar. The picture on my phone looks like nothing in this entire store. Ninety percent of the time(yes I keep statistics on it) there will be a lady waiting for me to finish my choice before she approaches to do her own shopping. I feel like the Feminine Hygiene area is a “Girls Only” club and that I am eyeballed as an intruder. This often irritates me so I try to make it more uncomfortable by asking an awkward question like, “What exactly does Heavy mean? Are we talking leaking faucet or untended garden hose?” or maybe “My wife is about your size, what do you prefer?” That line has a totally different reaction than it does at Victoria’s Secret. I really just want to say, “Trust me lady, I don’t like this any more than you do.”

I do get it though. Women feel vulnerable with a man watching. I don’t want some chick looking through the Astroglide Gels while I ponder proper enhancement gel selection. Maybe I need that sensation gel for a medical condition. You don’t know me or my life! Stop eyeballing me!

Condom companies on the next shelf over are anything but discrete with the size descriptions. Magnum. Slim-fit. Regular. What do women think when they read those words? I bet that even to security cameras are zoomed in and watching both sections. Maybe I will switch to mail order supply. Who am I kidding? I have four kids. I haven’t purchased any of those in a decade.

If we are ever going to approach equality in this country I need to feel welcomed in the tampon aisle. Ladies, I will try not to judge when you encroach on the men’s area too. I promise not to read the Tampax box and infer things about your level of anemia or your general anatomy.

I do get confused by all the options and wonder what crazy range of vaginas and lifestyles could inspire such diversity. I tried to break the whole phenomenon into categories to make sense. I learned more than I wanted to know.

Catch Method: Tampon, Pad, MiniPad, Adult Diaper, Liner, Diva Cup (You should read up on the Diva Cup, wtf is all I can say about it)
Capacity: Light Day, Heavy Day, Overnight, Spotting Protection, Ability to Drain a Farm Pond
Installation: Applicator, No Applicator, Wings, Semi-Wings, Adhesive Backed
Bonus Features: Scented, Unscented, Narrow Installation, Stronger Removal String, Doubles as Huge Earplugs

This diversity creates utter madness across the aisle. In fact, I propose a new federal system of hygiene product packaging. Even conservatives can agree, this is an area in dire need of government regulation.

Suggestion #1: Packaging needs to be something gender neutral like a black plastic bag with simple graphics like a Lumberjack or Handguns, like I said gender neutral. In the center of the front of the package should be a large number that is assigned to an exact product. This is not building a Power Ranger Samurai Zord Robot, it is buying tampons. We don’t need to keep flaunting awesome accessories.

#1 Tampon, Light Flow, Scented, w/ Applicator
#2 Tampon, Heavy Flow, Unscented, w/o Applicator
#3 Maxi pads, Demi-wings, Long Coverage, Overnight
#4 Full pad, chrome rims, spoiler and moon roof, pink fuzzy dice, absorbent floor mats.
#5 You get the idea. Go as long as the combinations require.

Now Supermom could call and tell me that she needs a PMS Code #3. I walk briskly by the Feminine Hygiene aisle and slap a black package marked 3 into the cart and keep rolling. The lady browsing for some mega pack of #2 won’t have to worry about me eavesdropping on her selection because I am already gone.

Suggestion #2
Put some marketing into action and get the price of these bad boys down. I can already see Showtime teamed up with Tampax to do a whole Dexter series of products.

Regular Pads = Miami Metro Crime Scene
Heavy Day Pad = Dexter Kill Room
Light Day Tampon w/ applicator = Ice Truck Victim
Long Coverage Overnight = Deborah Morgan
Heavy Day Tampon w/o Applicator = The Hannah McKay

I think True Blood may want some of that sweet marketing action with a Sookie Stackhouse series.

Tweens could get characters from Twilight on the packaging just like cartoons are put on bandages. I guess that might get a little weird because the tampon has a somewhat phallic use but just some thoughts.

Suggestion #3
Put “Dad Packs” near the Condoms and Protein Shakes. These packs come in three options, Tampons, Pads, and Liners. They are meant as a short term fix until the female in need can actually make a trip to the store to figure out the vocabulary. These packs could come with a sample pack of hand lotion and some headache medicine. A sort of PMS survival kit. The lotion is for foot rubs, I can’t believe you people.

I don’t really care which route things take but we need change. If we cant get our house in order over something as simple as Tampons how can we expect to defeat terrorists? This is a matter of National Security and Mental Health. For the increased pressure on the system that my obviously viral blog will create, you’re welcome.

Underdaddy to the rescue.

Costume Discovery

If you have already read the Phantom Disguises post then skip the link below and start at Welcome Back!. It was the one about sexy costumes, Oscar the Grouch, and me dressing as the Devil. If you didn’t catch it then you might want to read before continuing below. I know it seems like work but you will be rewarded.

Welcome Back!

In a previous article about Halloween costumes I stated that my sister was a bed sheet ghost. I would like to file a formal retraction and submit a correction. As it turns out my mother did not “phone-it-in” on this particular costume. She actually may have won the Halloween costume contest for all time.

Like any good internet article I wrote during a hazy, late night session and I just figured it was close enough and that I would gather details later. Seems reasonable. I dug out some old albums and found lots of cool history that I will share it due time. It took a while to find the evidence of the Halloween in question but I did.

Most of the stated facts were correct. I was in my long lived Devil costume holding the tail awkwardly like a big yellow penis. My cousin was in a Football uniform from the Local Electricians Union 1045. My sister was definitely not a ghost.

You see… the reason I miss remembered this event was because I was standing next to the creepiest clown in the history of creepy clowns. I have psychological scars so deep that I don’t even remember taking the picture. My brain reverts to the ghost memory whenever I close the picture. I can watch Stephen King’s “It” and not even bat an eye. Why should I? I have faced the ultimate clown and lived to tell the tale.


Tremble in fear.

Tremble in fear. She is mind controlling the dog too.

My poor sister has a look of uncomfortable rage that brings the costume to life. I can imagine that she probably wanted to be something more fun or kid friendly but the McCall’s catalog must have been limited to hellish manifestations. The Rainbow Bright section must have been sold out. Her anger is seething.

I also would guess that the candy haul was good because every victim would have dropped their bowls. The second reaction would be one of three possible scenarios; (1) Screaming and running, (2) Calling the cops, (3) Joining our zombie Trick-or-Treating cult and swearing fealty to your new dark clown overlord, allowing bodily possession on Halloween night each year.

I'm here for your soul. I'm smiling because there is nothing you can do....

I’m here for your soul. I’m smiling because there is nothing you can do….

Seriously, she looks like Ronald McDonald’s poltergeist in a Wendy’s wig and a Jack-In-The-Box shirt.

I’m never attempting a scary costume again because the bar has been set too high. I want to get this made into a life-sized cardboard cutout and place it at random front doors and ring the doorbell. Instead of “Ding-Dong-Ditch” I will call it “Ding-Dong-Stroke” or “Ding-Dong-Shit-Your-Pants”

Do any of you have archived pictures of evil burger chain mascots? I didnt think so.

To my mother and sister. I apologize for the previous error. You have mastered Halloween in every category. Congratulations.

Underdaddy to the rescue.