A Post For Revenge?

I'm Chris, the guest blogger of 12/30.  I cannot begin to describe the amount of trust the Queen Blogger is displaying by giving me the wheel here.  It rather makes me wish I wasn't in the habit of deleting emails...

While I haven't been in Mr Lady's life for long, I do have the pleasure of being in the room while the song "Whiskey In My Sippy Cup" was written and recorded.  I also had the pleasure of meeting her son T while doing laundry.  He was golfing down the basement hallway and asked me for change for the soda machine.  I gave him some quarters and then we golfed.

T is the ulitmate wingman.  And T is how I met Mr Lady:

Back when she smoked, she and her children spent ample amounts of time on the apartment stoop (stoops are a wonderful thing, by the way).  I could never get past the stoop without interacting with them.  One day, T was telling some crazy story about running really fast and then Mr Lady responded with, "Next kid, less crack."  I honestly thought she was serious.

Six years and one kid later, I still suspect she was serious although I'm not convinced she held her promise. :)

But anyways, since this blog is about...parenting...and whatnot I feel I should say something about what I've learned about it from Mr Lady.  But understand that I'm only a parent to a dog, Lucie, and she's more of a roommate than anything.

Mr Lady's kids are awesome.  I love them.  I have their pictures in my wallet, and I helped them win a Pinewood Derby and a Raingutter Regata and taught them how to play Grand Theft Auto.  From them I have relearned how to imagine.

When I met them they lived in a 900 sq. ft. two-bedroom basement apartment with security bars on all the windows.  It was very cramped for four people and very depressing.  Their playground was the sidewalk -- I often heard people in the building talk about how sad it was they had no place to play.  They attended school in the worst district in the state.  You wouldn't think a scenario like this would yield three kids that are kind, respectful, incredibly smart, and academically focused.

But what they do have is a father that puts tremendous effort towards providing for them, and a mother who anchors the household as firmly as any I have known.  The house is always clean (or being cleaned), a home-cooked meal is always prepared, and there is always a schedule.  They have a set bed time and a prescribed time carved out for TV and video games -- after homework.

When I compare Mr Lady's household with others, single-parent or not, and privileged or struggling, what I see is that the homes with schedules and good meals always have children that are a pleasure to have as friends.  The homes with no structure always have children that are nothing but birth control for guys like me.

Now that I'm an uncle, I am enjoying the opportunity to confirm my theory about schedules.  Whenever my sister and brother-in-law stray from the schedule, I hear reports about the rough days that followed.  I also get to see how challenging it is to keep a schedule and that it takes more effort than probably anything else in Life.

So if I'm ever lucky enough to talk a girl into going on a date with me, and then charming enough to get her to alope to Las Vegas for a Buddy Holly wedding, I'm going to make sure at least one of us is an anchor for the family.  We'll have bedtimes and a daily schedule that trumps anything, including colds, vacations, movies, puzzles, visitors, and Sunday dinner with the grandparents.

And maybe somebody will enjoy having my kids as friends, just like I enjoy B L and T.

Whoops!

Did you know that today is my day to post?

Well, I had completely forgotten until just a few minutes ago.

Which means I feel like I've been caught with my pants down, which - while a bit of a turn on, truth be told - means I suck.  Seriously suck, given the guest blogging your lovely hostess did for me back in the days of my now defunct blog The World Wide Rant.

So, since I've nary a post prepared, perhaps I'll just throw out some bullet points of interest, if only to me:

  • Hey, you know all those great handmade items you like to buy for your kids because they're not full of Chinese lead? Kiss them goodbye on February 10, 2009.

  • For lunch today, I made a turkey curry and for dinner beef carbonnade. Yum!

  • The Republican National Committee is a gift that keeps on giving. I can't believe I voted for these yahoos as often as I did. I don't do drugs, but I think someone could hold up my voting record as evidence to the contrary.

  • Another of my youthful dreams crushed. Yeah, I know, it's real mommy blog material. I mean, it's not like she took a picture of herself wearing just Crocs boots or anything.


OK, I'm tapped out.

What's on your mind?

And, are you losing weight? You look fabulous!

Ode to Carbohydrates, on this, the last day of our aquaintance

Oh, carbohydrates, how I love thee.
Your versatility,
baked, toasted, smothered in cheese
You, oh carb, bring me to my knees.

I am of Irish decent, as you can plainly tell from my
freckled skin and absolute refusal
to tan.
Carbs,
you and I share a deep-rooted bond, a chemistry
created in history
handed down
through the ages
from man
to man.

You and I, we go
together
like Mr. Prosser and Genghis Khan,
a bond genetic and subtle.
Undeniable.
Michael to the Don.

If there has ever been found a better vessel
for transporting butter to
my waiting mouth,
I have not met it.
My motivation to see this through is quickly heading south.

The way you caress every condiment and topping
thrown your way
ketchup
butter
cheese
olive oil
Is a mystery
a riddle
whose answer I cannot say.

Alas, dearest carbs, there is a problem deep at the heart of us
Against the laws of nature
fighting everything good and true
Something in me doesn't
like
you.

The word allergic
too severe
but something is amiss;
I cannot deny
that my tuna sandwich is a TKO but my
tuna salad, delish.

I believe the word is sensitive
to carbs
battling nature and heredity
head-on
throwing caution to the wind
a love/hate affair:

my tongue loves
the rest of me hates.
Explain it? Accept it? I almost
don't dare.

My morning oats, sweet, creamy, good
Knock me out flat,
My energy straight down the drain
much like a tranquilizer
shot
from the lips of an aborigine
straight into my neck, dead into a
vein.

How will I survive
the coming fall
my favorite season; the changing leaves
crisp, cool air
children in overpriced
costumes
begging for candies
without my annual pumpkin
cheesecake
cookies
soup
bread
all full of sugary goodness...
please, tell me the reason!

Some would say, "Use Splenda!"
That I cannot do.
Splenda tastes like old rich
New York women with big
noses
at the mall shopping
for a cat named Mr. Pookie-Doo.

Dear Dr. Atkins, who told us it was
safe
to live la vida low carb
would like me to abandon you
fast
bacon
cheese
eggs
steak
Straight protein? Too hard.

I can only imagine the smell
under my arms, in the pit of my knees,
that would come
with that
And the challenge pooing would bring.
Jeez.

Dearest carbs, I do not
abandon you with the intent of
weight loss
as it is so trendy to do.
There is nothing about my
cottage cheese
butt
or my thighs that caution me against
corduroy
that cannot be fixed in a
week
walking my kid through the zoo.

I take my leave of you with a heart
heavy
wondering how many
bowls
of whipped cream I can knock back
before I realize that
bowls of whipped cream do not
will never
constitute a sweet, tasty snack.