Month: April 2016

Im Stealing Some Turtles

I have figured out this whole sad-over-the-loss-of-a-pet thing. I am officially getting a mated pair of sea turtles. Maybe “unofficially” because stealing sea turtles might be illegal. Minor detail. Either way, I’m doing it. Here is why.

I’m tired of pets with short lifespans dying and leaving an empty hole in my feelings. Therefore, I plan on turning the tables on nature by selecting something with serious longevity. The way I have it figured I will get the turtles when they are just finishing adolescence and ready to start a family. They can have a few kids and all of those bastards can watch me age. With a lifespan of up to two hundred years I will appear to wither like an old grape. Then, when they are still at the ripe old age of fifty, bam, I’ll just kick the bucket. Mommy turtle Shonda will tap daddy turtle on the shell and say, “Look at the human, Theodore. He doesn’t look so well.”

She’ll be right. I will be dead as a hammer in my little padded bed.

Then there will be this sad family of turtles who console each other by saying things like, “He lived a good life.” And “He was like part of the family.” Maybe even, “Why do people have such short lives but love so deeply?” or “It’s good he went when he did, he looked so uncomfortable.”

I wonder if my turtles will cremate me and put me in a wooden box with a fancy inscription. I hope so. And God help the clumsy turtle that knocks my ashes over and lets the family cat pee on them like on Meet The Family. I would haunt the entire flotilla of turtles. (I feel like a group of turtles should be a flotilla.) I would then attempt to possess the disrespectful cat and make it cross the street but it probably wouldn’t work. Cats are sinister and masters of mind control. That brings me to my next point… I am 90% certain that cats are the “Highlander” of pets.

Every time one of our pets die I swear the cat glows a little and vibrates as she absorbs another creature’s life force.


Exactly our cat. 100%.

She is going to live forever on the souls of things we can’t keep alive. I’m pretty sure at twelve, Biscuit was living on borrowed time so the cat probably didn’t gain much from that. Cats are chi vampires.

If you ever miss your pets and try to think of ways to avoid feeling crappy, this post is for you. In case you missed the news, my diapered dog died today. As you can see from reading above your wise pet choices are turtles, life sucking cats, or exotic birds. For the record, I like our cat. Even if she is pure distilled selfishness salted with evil. You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

Stick To It-ness

I have spent the last several days trying to shake a head cold. It is kicking my ass. I am slowly getting better but I am not there yet. Supermom has been flying solo and it gives me an immense respect for anyone who has to shepherd multiple children as a single parent. Children just have tenacity that adults aren’t equipped to deal with.

Reader: Perhaps you could give me a few examples…
Underdaddy: Sorry. I zoned out for a minute. Cold meds. I was going somewhere with all that but I am just so exhausted. Okay. Some examples. No problem.

First we will start with Lady Bug. Her tenacity is more of a hard headedness paired with a communication barrier. She is hopelessly addicted to watching some random lady open My Little Pony mystery packs on Kid’s You Tube on an iPad that fails to hold more than a thirty minute charge. That means every thirty minutes she cries. She sobs. A lonely desperate wail that says her electronic soulmate has died and may never return leaving her alone to wander the earth. A tormented soul always looking for the old style iPad charger and someone reliable to plug it into the wall.

Don Threeto’s persistence should be fairly obvious from her multiple stories. She is the hammer and the world is her nail. An attorney’s dream. She has the balls to get herself into trouble but the moment she is found out she shuts up like a clam. This kid has been bleeding from the forehead after running into something and acted like I had a third ear when I asked her about it.

UD: Hey I noticed you are bleeding out of your forehead. Plus, I heard a loud bang like someone ran into the television tray.
Threeto: Nope.
UD: What do you mean nope? You are bleeding.
Threeto: No I’m not.
UD: …
Threeto: …

I can’t even process her sometimes.

However, our winner this evening is Jane. She is an alpha child all the way and she has a restless energy that I think she got from me. She was wearing me down with constant ADHD chatter so I sent her outside to play. Each time I checked on her she had a new epic project that she was working on. The first time, I opened the door and she was holding a small hand shovel and standing under her playhouse.

UD: What are you up to?
Jane: Just looking for a place to plant some corn under my playhouse.
UD: Okay.

Five minutes later and it looked like the patio had exploded with dirt and clumpy grass roots.

UD: Why is the patio covered in dirt.
Jane: I’m putting dirt in a cup.
UD: Why?
Jane: To get it off the patio.
UD: Okay

Fast forward ten minutes and I looked outside. I see her hunched over a water bottle working intently. My curiosity makes me investigate.

UD: What are you up to now?
Jane: I’m making a watering can.
UD: Sounds good.
Jane: I made one with this water bottle and a stick.
UD: Cool.
Jane: It works. See. (She squeezes it and water sprays in the air)
UD: Oh wow. How did you poke the holes in the top?
Jane: With a stick I found.

I looked around the patio and spotted a small frayed bamboo skewer. It was tattered and broken on one end. I looked back to Jane and silently inspected her hands. Not a scratch. I was amazed.

This child, who can’t seem to find shoes that she was just wearing or pour a glass of milk without using a roll of paper towels, has somehow penetrated the solid plastic cap of an Aquafina multiple times with a meat skewer. I can’t even get the damn thing through actual meat half the time. Hell, I can’t get the cap off the water half the time. Kudos to that kid. Extra kudos for not having to go to the ER. That is a welcome change. P.s. don’t ever make my kids mad enough to stab you because nothing can stop that tornado of fury.

If you have children who are persistent then this story is for you. My persistence in the War of The Pumpkins of 2015 has paid off in spades. I didn’t have to clean up a single rotting gourd. VICTORY! You’re welcome.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

I Hate Wasps

I’m reading this book called The Long Earth. One of the characters is a Buddhist monk who was killed on a moped and immediately reincarnated into a vending machine and became a super artificial intelligence. He soon transcended the vending machine into electronics in general. That isn’t the main plot of the story but he did remain a Buddhist throughout his transition. That is probably one of the few philosophies that would survive a transition like that. It is also how I know that I can never be a true Buddhist.

There is supposed to be a deep connection to all living things. A sense that we are all connected in this struggle called life. Deep down at a core level, I hate wasps. Hornets too. The wasp-hornet class of pest is the absolute worst and if I had super powers of “not getting stung” I would make it my life’s work to hunt down each and every one to murder them with a spoon. Or a magnifying glass. Or a marathon session of smooth jazz. The point is that I hate them.

Our pest control specialist came by the house this week to spray around the perimeter. He asked me if I had any special requests or concerns.

“I want you to make this area unlivable for wasps. I don’t care what you have to do. Soak the wood fence until it is discolored. I don’t care if a bird lands and immediately gets foot cancer. I want to affect future populations of wasps negatively. Do you have anything that might trigger a wasp extinction? Name your price my friend.”

He laughed because he thought I was being funny.

I didn’t laugh.

It wasn’t funny.

I am a compassionate person. I work outdoors and I try to avoid harming things that other people are afraid of like snakes and spiders. They have a purpose and for the most part will leave you alone. Some parts of the world that statement might not be true but around here it works. But wasps-hornets have no place. They are assholes. Hypodermic needles with wings. Maybe people who live a horrible life are punished by coming back as wasps and they are pissed about it. Too bad, so sad. You are getting soaked with some nasty chemicals at my house. You shouldn’t breathe through your skin, jerk.

If you have a controlling phobia that inspires a deep seated hate against wasps, this post is for you. You’re welcome. Bees are cool by the way, honey is delicious.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

Mother’s Days

Men are heroic saints.

They are the stabilizing keel that keeps the boat aligned.

The unwavering tracks for the crazy train to run along.

For the most part, we are simple creatures. When we are hungry we eat. When we are tired we sleep. The only time we want to discuss anything to do with the menstrual cycle is… never.


Yet, I live in fear. I know it is only a matter of time before the female body kicks into action and I will have five relatives of Aunt Flow sitting around the house waiting to pounce on me and discuss something. I want them to know that there is nobody in the world that simultaneously loves them more than life yet wants to know absolutely zero about their bodily goings-on.

But I do know.

I hear all about it. Supermom has taken my disinterest as a personal challenge to educate me. I’ve been to the monthly mountaintop and seen the lay of the land. It is worse than I thought.

I remember the good old days when the only things I was aware of were tampons and pads. I knew they had been designed for bullet hole wounds during one of the World Wars and someone looked at it sideways and said, “Huh…” Now they range in absorbency from drizzle to deluge. Then one day Supermom said, “Hey look at this.” And I did. It looked like the top off the laundry detergent dispenser. I was told, “It is called a soft cup.” Something like an upside down hat for your cervix.

This device has some practicality. If my roof is leaking then I put a bucket underneath it until the rain stops. Same principle. The only difference is that I don’t have to reach into my vagina to dump the bucket. This is where the method loses some appeal. Supermom insists that I make too big a deal over this stuff and that men are squeamish. I posed a simple question, “If I were to spit into a cup for several hours and let it build up and then I handed it to you, would you be uncomfortable or super interested in how the cup holds the spit without spilling it?” There is just a fundamental mismatch in life experience. If I fart in earshot she says it is gross but somehow talking about discharging placental potting soil is socially acceptable. Women don’t seem to understand.

“What is the big deal? Why do you not want to talk about this?”

“Imagine that you go to the park and you really enjoy the slide but occasionally someone has been murdered on the slide and it is blocked off with caution tape. The police tell you all the grisly details about how the serial killer painted the slide with his victims insides but then says don’t worry it will be better in a few days. Sure you are still going to slide because it is fun but you don’t want to think about the murder every time you go to the park.”

Apparently that little parable didn’t carry the point.

We had another discussion recently against my will. Apparently technology is marching this convenience issue forward. There are now special fabrics that have the super power of being bled into directly while making the wearer feel sexy. I think it is woven from the hair of vampires and sewn into Harry Potter’s cloak of invisibility. What black magic is this you ask? They are called Thinx and have all the high technology of quilted Charmin.



From what I can understand through the muffled words making it past my fingers jammed in my ears, the pants are basically pull-ups for women. The only obstacle I see is similar to the reusable diaper problem. Diapers have to be changed regularly but you don’t want to waste water doing a load of laundry for two garments. The diapers would be rinsed out and stored in a bucket for a day or two which is really effective at setting the piss smell in cotton. Tea tree oil knocks that right out. The only downside is that everything starts to smell like tea tree oil which reminds me that it should smell like piss which has the strange effect of making me feel the exact same. Are these super panties destined to smell like an essential oil?

Also I found a disturbing info graphic that I wanted to share with everyone.


WTF does this even mean? Are they dancer pants and they require dollars to be tucked in? Are the people on the right skeletons? I’m so lost right now. I’m scared. 

If you get sucked into these conversations with your significant other, this post is for you. You’re welcome. Happy Mother’s Days.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.

Ying and Yang Life

Most of life’s deepest thoughts are about our mortality and the meaning of life. We have a societal reverence for life that seems to be on a sliding scale of concern starting with infants and fading out near the elderly.

I remember watching a movie called “Arsenic and Old Lace” which was about a couple of old ladies who invited elderly men into their home and poisoned them to help transition from life to death. They felt they were doing God’s work. The movie was a comedy. If the movie had been about a pair of young mothers abducting infants and poisoning them it would have been a horror film. I think it is interesting how we consider the differences and the emotional response. In the span of a couple of years I lost a close friend in high school and my Great Grandmother. One funeral was a blurry spot of tearful sadness and the other was more like a family reunion where we shared some memories and talked about what everyone had been doing over the last couple of years.

Where is the transition?

What is the dividing line?

Do you just look up one day and think, “Fuck this. I’m out.”? All of the sudden people are saying things like, “Well he lived a full life. He wouldn’t have wanted to live like that anyway.”

My great aunt Elsie died just short of her 96th birthday. She was mentally sharp until a few weeks before she died. Probably sharper than I have ever been when it comes to recall of memories, names, or past events. She was amazing but I remember a common conversation we would have about longevity.

“Hey Elsie. How are you doing today?”
“Terrible. Hopefully I will die soon.”
“Oh come on now. You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
“Why would you say that? Life is gift right?”
“I’m tired. Everyone I knew, all my friends, they’re dead. I sit here and hurt and look through the paper to see if I recognize the people who have died. I used to. Not anymore.”
“Well… At least it isn’t raining.”

What do you say to something like that? I can see her point. I would rather die young than to watch everyone I know being picked off one by one. It is like the cruel fact that there aren’t doors in dentist’s offices. Everyone in the waiting room can hear the drills and see into the rooms down the hallway. You know what is coming but you are powerless to do anything more than worry.

Elsie’s take on death sort of reminded me of the movie “Grumpy Old Men” when Jack Lemmon’s character asks Walter Mathieu, “Did you hear about so-and-so?”
“No, what about him?”
“Died of a heart attack in his sleep.”
“… lucky bastard.”

I don’t know what put me on this train of thought. I guess it was from listening to my apnea prone boxer who is around 87 in dog years. I vacillate between wanting to keep her alive forever and wanting to smother her with a pillow at 3 am when she is snoring so loud through the living room wall that I can’t sleep. Then she stops for a minute and I panic a little only to poke her and reactivate her fragile body into a deafening snore. Supermom and I both stare at her every now and then when she gets really still. We try to decide if she has suddenly died or not. So far…. Not.

She stopped snoring for about 53 seconds while I was typing this just to give me a little guilty feeling. Little turd. I’m envious of the boy who had to shoot Old Yeller. At least he knew he HAD TO DO IT.

Quick sidenote: Shouldn’t the movie have been titled “Young Yeller”? The dog was infected with rabies, not Alzheimer’s. Age wasn’t part of the decision to put him down.

If you waste your time thinking about random things like the turning point between tragedy and triumph related to death then I suppose this post is for you. You’re welcome you morbid weirdo. Ps, it is late and Supermom told me to write something so she could read her book and avoid conversation. See what happens when she gets selfish. Depressing, wet-blanket posts.

-Underdaddy to the rescue.