Laid-Off Dad

It should have been said, part IV

Dear Upper Management Bigwig:

Thanks so very much for your baby gift for TwoBert. My wife and I were very touched that you thought of us. We were also pleasantly surprised, since you and I are separated by three tiers of the corporate food chain and thus don't interact all that often.

It was a lovely sentiment, and I'm sure we would have thought of you every time we used it. Since we already have four of them, however, we're gonna re-gift that sumbitch at our earliest convenience.

Sincerely,

LOD

P.S.: Come to think of it, I'm glad this wasn't said.

The third child

I would describe our cat as the Chrissy Snow of the feline family: sweet, thin, beautiful, loyal, and dumb as a post. We got her when some friends who were moving to Europe didn't want to put her through a six-month quarantine, and she's been a fine addition to the family. At the very least, she's great for patrolling the thin line between us and the many species that live within our walls.

These friends also had a 2-year-old, so when the cat first arrived I'm sure she liked having the spotlight to herself again. When Robert was on the way and my mother-in-law moved in with us, we got our first clue that the cat was put out by all the deflected attention when she barfed on all four sides of my mother-in-law's bed. It seemed harmless enough at the time, just a one-time protest to make sure we didn't forget who got here first.

Now we have two human children--one of whom, adrift in his own spotlight issues, likes to act out by pulling the cat's tail. And the cat has launched into a new behavior that really, really, really can't continue. It's so vexing that it's driven me to felicidal verse.

Dear Cat:

There are many things you excel at.
You’re sweet and furry and fun to pat.
But this is mindless chitchat
Leading up to an unnerving stat.
Every morning I find you’ve shat
In the tub or on the bathmat.

Why must you befoul our habitat
like that?

This is a behavior we must combat.
I've tried peaceful means, but you've turned us down flat.
And every day I see you've shat
Where your crap should not be at.

So now it's down to "tit for tat."
Can you see what I’m driving at?
I’d like to wash you at the laundromat,
Then hang you with an old cravat.
Or smack you with a cricket bat.
Flat as a slat.
Flat as a Democrat.
Splat!

But my wife wouldn’t like that.
Drat.

Edited to add: OK. It could be worse.

Saving our youth from the mind-altering scourge of naked breasts

Writing has not been good to me this week. Nothing makes sense, words avoid each other like pepper and soap. Posts cross the threshold into an exquisite foyer, saunter into the wondrously dignified main dining room, then fall down the cellar stairs and crack their heads on the boiler. Thank the gods we have contemporary pop culture to perplex us enough to conquer the blank page.

TwoBert and I went to a "ReelMoms" movie this week. Appropriately, the film was WEDDING CRASHERS. Because I am a man, an interloping rooster in the henhouse, stomping around and ruining everyone's fun. That's really why they called it Reel Moms, you know. We men are just a bunch of unkempt horndogs whose sole purpose in life is to spin staggering webs of lies just to get some.

I was apprehensive about having TwoBert to myself for so long, what with all the terrible yelps associated with the teething. But he was a trooper and slept through most of the movie. Oh, how I envied him.

The movie began auspiciously. Vaughn and Wilson riffed well on lines they were born to deliver, and only a few baby shrieks out-decibeled the blaring sound system. But then came the startling hue and cry during the third act. There was discomfort in the ranks, because these babies were bored. Bored, bored, bored by the tedious storyline and the rampant clichés:

• The foul-mouthed, bigoted grandma!
• The slutty, drunken mother!
• The raging asshole fiancé!
• Christopher Walken!

Plus, these babies were appalled once again by the MPAA' s hypocrisy. This is supposed to be an R-rated movie? Just because of some nipples and a few f-bombs? For most of these newborns, that's just another day at the office. And when they grow to 13, they will learn that boobies are filthy and raunchy and must not be viewed in celluloid format for years to come, but they are free to watch Anakin Skywalker get sliced and maimed and burned within an inch of his life. Then, they can fire up the Xbox and pop a few caps in some perp on Grand Theft Auto. (Oops. They can't, because it too has boobies. Pixelated boobies.)

My wife and I have gone to great lengths to show Robert that nudity is no big deal. (It's summertime, after all, and we keep it casual.) All we can do is hope this idea takes root in his mind before our culture of bloodlusting prudes tries to rip it out.

We also hope he never hits on anyone at a ReelMoms event, because cradle cap is a terrible ice-breaker.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même crap

Over the weekend, some friends and I went to a movie while my wife watched the kids. (Thank you, wife.) Since the theater's temperature was a bracing absolute zero, the humidity hit us in the face like an iron skillet. Time to make our way to the new 7-ELEVEN for Slurpees.

As we we leaving, it began to pour down rain. A big-time, biblical rain. So there we were, three guys hanging out in front of the 7-ELEVEN, sucking down Slurpees and shooting the shit. And I thought: 25 years ago, I was probably doing the exact same thing.

Before we left, we paid this old guy five bucks to buy us some beer.

Tigers and Lionized Bears (Oy Vey)

The scene: Team LOD is holed up in the Laid-Off Lair, eyeing the menacing stormclouds and Borneo-like humidity. Throughout Robert's various construction projects, the second round of the British Open is on TV, mostly for the background noise. The play is mostly drama-free, since Tiger is slapping St. Andrews and the competition upside their respective heads.

The only real point of interest is Jack Nicklaus, who, at 65, is playing in his final major golf tournament. The Golden Bear is chugging along--golfing and waving, waving and golfing--until it becomes clear that he won't make the cut, and this will be his final round. As he makes his way down the 18th fairway, the enormous crowd of affluent and/or underemployed white people roars with appreciation and affection.

Robert: Who is that man?
Me: That's Jack Nicklaus.
R: Why is Jack Nick-o-lus crying?
Me: He was the best golfer in the world, but now he's retiring. The people are clapping to thank him for his great career.
R: Oh. Can he die now?

B.I.O.B.

In light of Jeremy Piven's Emmy nomination for "Entourage," I feel compelled to let the world know that I often ease TwoBert's GI pain by holding him to my chest and saying, "Let's burp it out, bitch."

It's Slobberin' Time!

TwoBert (a.k.a. Ferris Drooler, the Slobber Baron, and the Spitupotamus) is about to cut his first tooth. That's right, at 9 weeks. I didn't believe it either until I peered in and saw that nascent little crag on his gumline. A young man in this much agony this early in his human career needs a treat--like a distractful cinematic experience.

Robert's first movie was GOLDMEMBER, when he was four months old. I should say it was his first half-movie, because after he woke up my wife walked him back and forth in the lobby and I held the door ajar so she could peer in at all the visual prankery. It kind of took us out of the moment.

But that was before ReelMoms, whereby hapless theater owners make a desperate scrape for cash and dedicate one showing per week to parents and their boisterous offspring. It's a comfort, in a way, because usually you step into a theater painfully unsure whether some rude degenerate(s) will ruin the experience. Now, since you know everyone will, the pressure is lifted.

It's a fine idea, when you get past the needless sexism. (They couldn't go with "ReelParents"? That extra syllable was just too darned taxing?) So now that TwoBert can handle bottled breastmilk, I wanted to take him to a flick. But when I consulted the site for showtimes, the only movie playing was FANTASTIC FOUR.

Are you kidding me? From what I've read, that title is only half right. And never mind the violence and mayhem and ear-splitting noise. Do you think I'd let my child go through life knowing his first-ever film starred some stiff named Ioan Gruffudd? Is that even a name? Sounds like something Tolkien burped up after a long, wet brunch.

Thanks to a little sleuthing, we've changed our plans. We're taking our little teething TwoBert to "Rattle and Reel" at an indie place downtown. (Love that gender-neutral title--I guess dads can go, too.) And we're seeing MURDERBALL, which has everything you want to impart to your children:

• Life is random and brutish.
• Obstacles can be overcome with hard work and desire.
• Tough guys often have hot girlfriends.
• Play hard, and destroy all who oppose you.

It's violence and mayhem and ear-splitting noise. But with a message!

Gawker Stalker: Superstar Division

With the onset of Summer in the City comes the triumphant return of celebrity parents noodling around with their children on city playgrounds. There are a few that wear big floppy hats and shades and spend most of the time on their cell phones (thus calling attention to their desire not to call attention to themselves), but many like to chat about the same parenting neuroses that we Normals have.

Yesterday we met Molly Shannon, who was splashing around with her not-yet-2-year-old. She fits the role of mom very well--you'd hardly believe that she rose to stardom by smelling her armpits.

After I got home and looked up her IMDb profile, I learned that her mother and sister died in a car crash when she was four. And my heart broke a little.

It should have been said, part III

Dear fellow grocery shopper:

When I wrangle my younger son into the Björn and run my errands, I am gratified by those who remark how cute he is. And there can be no debate about it: He is, intrinsically, captivating. He has blossomed, in his eight weeks of drawing breath, into the Adonisian ideal. That round, fuzzy head. Those warm, perceptive eyes. The maverick tongue thrust. Gaze upon his winsome visage, and you will be swept away to an alternate consciousness, where the sun cries peppermint drops and any endeavor seems possible.

You may also react to his soft, floppy legs hanging astride his perch. You may be overcome by the creamy texture and those darling little toes, lined up like so many tasty kernels of sweet corn. You may feel their inescapable attraction, even come to view them as some sort of talisman that can bestow a new clarity, make your world make more sense. In a sudden fit of yearning, you might be consumed by an irresistible impulse to caress his unspoiled flesh.

Resist it, you dirty oaf.

14 Going on 40

Forthwith, a brief glimpse of my shifting libidinous proclivities over the years:

As was the case for many people my age, "10" sent my adolescent self into a slavering frenzy. That tawny body in that matching one-piece. ("Dude! When you squint, she looks totally naked!") The slow-motion jogging. The neighbor's orgies. And acres of lovely, pert bosoms. All I remembered of the plot was the Bolero sex scene and Nedra Volz farting.

The movie came on pay-cable recently, and I watched it for the first time in about ten years. As I did, I was again smitten by a feminine ideal. She strode into the scene in that clingy turtleneck sweater and snug jeans, and all I could think was "Damn, that Julie Andrews has got it going on."

I suppose in another 25 years, I'll be getting all horned up for Nedra Volz.