The End is Nigh…?

I’ve been churning out the Daddy/Daughter Fun Time posts for six or seven years now. But, truth be told, there’s a limit to the hilarity that can be had. Because, real life is not nearly as funny as I make it sound. Parenting is really, truly hard work. There’s yelling, crying, screaming, yelling, hugging, crying, worrying, diapers, mocking, joking, yelling. Police are sometimes dispatched.

But, really, my 11-year-old deserves her private space. The 8-year-old doesn’t need her every gymnastics run analyzed. Because, she is a kid.

And, of course, my ever-loving wife never asked to be a part of this blog which I foisted upon her, and that is my fault. I am so, so sorry.

So, I don’t know if I’ll make it to my goal of 500 posts. (so close…) Because, everything gets repetitive. Shoes. No! Cereal. No! Pants. No! Backpack… wait, where’s my notebook? Car. No! Wait.. Oh, There it is! Let’s go. Backpack! I want Cheerios. No, Honey Nut Cheerios. If I can’t have Honey Nut Cheerios, then I’ll never go to school again! Aaaaahh!

Darth Vader: Get your ass in the car.

Also: Daddy, you need to sign this form. To donate a kidney. (While merging onto the highway.)


It all makes for hahaha Posts. But, for those of you beginning the journey, it is a cautionary tale. For those on the other side, breathe at last. But, my journey is coming to a close.

Meanwhile, I have to figure out what Nightcore is and why they sound like Chipmunks.

Julianna (the 11-year-old): Daaaad! They’re not chipmunks. You ruin everything!


Editor’s note: Ok, I’ve done some research. It’s what the kids are listening to. Nightcore is a form of dance music, where the “composers” (ahem) take pre-existing recorded songs, speed them up, and take all the credit. Oh, and they add a drum-machine. (I’m sure they compensate the original musicians. Or, not).

Anyway, the result is a high-speed, chipmunk-sounding song. (Daaad! They’re not chipmunks!) Alvin and Theodore and Simon be damned.

Also, most nightcore videos are accompanied by Japanese anime characters. One Urban Dictionary post describes it thusly: “A collection of remixed top 40 pop songs fawned over by 11 year-old females that discovered the internet, anime, and music the night before.”

Apparently, this person lives in my house.

When I tried this in school 25 years ago, I was reprimanded. Tone Loc did not nightcore well. Ahead of my time, I guess.

So far, my daughters have favored vanilla pop music nightcores like Disney-safe Britt Nicole and Emily Osment. Even nightcored, there’s little to complain about. Other than, you know, the actual music.

Has anyone nightcored the Sex Pistols? Oh, look. There goes my Saturday afternoon.

Church rally Tuesday at 7:00. Stop This Scourge!

Latitude and Crap

Last week, Isabella was recovering from both a sprained foot (gymnastics!) and a nasty cold. Crutches and Kleenex. X-rays negative. Fun times at the old homestead. No not really.

On the TV was a Republican debate… We ignore it.

Homework requires that she catch up as best she can. In class, they are talking about Latitude and Longitude. Coordinates. Something I understand!

We draw a circle, then some curvy lines.

Iz (she’s 8): It looks like a pumpkin!

A basketball.  With, you know, Billions of people involved.  Go Blue!

A basketball. With, you know, Billions of people involved. Go Blue!

Iz: Wow, is that the earth?

Me: Well, sort of. It’s not complete.

Iz: So the people in Africa are below us?

Holy Crap!! Actual discussion. Up/down… North/South. East/West. Not better/worse. I didn’t think this was going to be an issue.

Me: Well, Sweetie, no one is above or below any other people. No one is better than anyone else. Native Americans. Chinese. Mexicans. Syrians. Everyone is equal.

Iz: But, African people were slaves to white people.

This is an actual conversation. She’s 8. And, I dig deep.

Me: Yes. Some people thought that people from Africa were not as good as white people. Even in America.

Iz: Is it true?

Holy crap. Parenting in the moment. You may disagree, that’s your right.

Me: No Honey. Absolutely not. We believe that all people are born equal. No one is better than anyone else. Some babies may have rich parents, some may have poor ones. Some people have blonde hair, others have brown. It doesn’t matter. Every baby is as good as any other. Boy or Girl. It truly doesn’t matter.

Iz: Yeah, but. Why are there 9 boys and only one girl on the TV at the debate?

Again, I have no answer.

Iz: And, only one is a black man.


And, this Bird You Cannot Change

You can take the boy out of the South, but, … you know, The South can’t take the boy…

So, on the way to pick up the girls from school, the FM radio offers up…

“If I leave here tomorrow…
Would you still remember me?”

My hand instinctively reaches for the Volume knob. And turns it… Up.

“For I must be travelin’ on now
There’s too many places I got to see”

Rocking happens next. In a Prius. At 70 MPH.

Picking up Julianna (she’s 11): (Guitar Solo plays): Daddy, I am changing his radio station…

Me: If you do, I will BREAK your fingers… There are other


[Editor’s note. Sometimes, your resident Wordsmith intends to click the the Save Draft button, but instead, hits the Publish button. And, you can’t un-ring a bell. That’s what happened here. That’s why you saw this half-written, unproofed post.

And, at this point, I have no idea what “There are other…” alludes to. I’d love to know. I’m sure it was hilarious. Also, no one ended up with broken fingers.]

Alpha Dog

Our chihuahua, Merlin the Magician, is in a combative mood. Don’t let the dog drool fool you.

I am fierce.  Sleepy, but fierce.

I am fierce. Sleepy, but fierce.

Anyway, while Merlin insists that he will destroy me, I hold him down on his back. And let him growl.

Me: I am Alpha Dog! You will listen to me! I am Alpha Dog!

Merlin: Grrr. Grr. Ruff! Grrrr.

Isabella (she’s 8): Daddy, since you’re doing this on my bed, aren’t I also an Alpha Dog?

Me: No, Honey. I am in charge. He has to learn that. Just like you respect that I am the boss in this family, Merlin will respect my authority.

Iz: Um, Daddy. Respect…. Funny. No. You’re not the boss of me.

Me: Yes I am. I’m Daddy. I am totally in charge. I am the Alpha Dog.

Iz: But, if I snuggle up on your chest and hug you tight and squeeze your neck… really tight, am I also an Alpha Dog? Whaddya say?

Me: Ow! Ok… Yes. Alpha.

Iz: Also, you’re fat.

[BTW, my daughter is not homicidal. Though the “you’re fat” line is a direct quote.]

Teeny Tiny Houses

I was watching one of those “tiny house” shows tonight on HGTV. Because, Tiny Houses is the new hipster thing, I guess. Apparently, at under 200 square feet, having actual floor space is far too limiting to your freedom, bro.

I snark.

And, dammit, if the buyers don’t always complain that “the kitchen is a little tight.” Jesus. Really? Also, there are no granite counter tops or stainless steel appliances. Or, that you have to walk through the bedroom to get to the 3-foot wide x 6-foot long bathroom. And, there’s no oven and the bathroom sink is also the kitchen sink. Oh… And, they were hoping for a fireplace? Seriously. You know what you’re buying, right?

Also… You’re in Wyoming. Not Manhattan. Look out your 6-inch double-paned window… There are wide open spaces where you are. But, please squeeze yourself into a closet on the Plains, if you like. Just don’t complain about it.

Back to the show: That 200 square foot house is too luxurious for our buyers, so, lets look at a 96 square foot home (yes, literally).

But, “It’s kinda small”… Surprise!

The layout is really great, though. It has great flow. The bed/sofa/desk/craft table/dance room/workshop/dinner table/garage/play room/family room/chemistry lab/yoga room is perfect.

“With the loft ceilings, it doesn’t feel as cramped as it should.” As a party place, we could actually entertain someone here. And, by that, I mean one person. Elbow to elbow.

How much does it cost? Depends on how many banks you want to rob, Bonnie and Clyde. Because, it could be free. A prison cell is roomier. (Don’t ask me how I know.)

And yet, the buyers are sooo happy. Yay for them!

Wait… Oh, and now, suddenly they’re pregnant…. Good luck with that. With your 96 square feet.

Pay Per View

I occasionally click around and visit the other Daddy Blogs on the old Internet. You know, market research and all. And, I gotta tell you, I was shocked to find that one of my fellow bloggers now requires a paid Membership to, I guess, view his daughter’s 7th birthday party pictures. He even has an Advisory Board. Seriously, an Advisory Board.

Now, I’m all for the Free Market and Capitalism and all. But, when your Daddy Blog needs and Advisory Board, don’t you think you’re taking ‘raising your kids’ (as required by law) a little too seriously?

(But there’s always profit to be made.)

Gentle reader, what would you pay to read my hilarious posts for a year? (Please tell me it is $99/year, like some people.) Maybe, you’d like my posts in book form. (Hint…)

(My posts are funnier than his, by the way.)

America, you are my advisors. Talk to me.

The Concert Master

My good friend Larry Rench semi-stole my thunder on this post on the Facebook. But no regrets or apologies are needed. Because, his post merely re-enforces what I have been saying for all these years:

At the Hollywood Bowl’s Live Performance of “E.T. The Extra-Terrestrial.” The actual 1982 movie performed on-screen by the LA Philharmonic Orchestra. Scored by John Williams. On the BIG screen, under the sky. With the stars. And, the occasional helicopter.

The orchestra warms up, then out comes the concertmaster (concertmistress, actually, because she’s a woman) under her own spotlight.

Julianna (she’s 11): Who is that?

Me: She’s called the “Concertmaster.” She’s the Number One Violinist.

J: Is she the Best in the World?

Me: Think smaller.

Isabella (she’s 8): In the Universe?

Me: Maybe…..: Daa Deee… Dadadada DaDeeeeee….

My New Dentist

So, we have settled on a new dentist, close to the girls’ school. But first, I have to get past the hygienist.

Maria: When’s the last time you saw a dentist?

Me: Maybe, seems like, a couple years.

Maria: Have you had any major problems with your mouth?

Me: No. But, I do say a lot of stupid things.

She is not amused.

Maria: With your previous dentist, did you have any goals?

Goals? Really? Like winning a Nobel Prize? Or scoring a Perfect 10 at the Olympics?

And, I actually said this:

Me: My goal is to not see the dentist for the rest of my life.

She remained unamused.

A root canal is ordered.


We just got back from a many-thousand mile trip (99 bottles of milk on the wall. 99 bottles of milk… Someone get me a bottle of beer because now I understand why that guy wrote this song.)

Anyway, we got home, flipped on the TV and saw Isabella’s eHarmony commercial.

Blink and you'll miss her.  Because you'll fall asleep listening to the eHarmony guy.

Blink and you’ll miss her. Because you’ll fall asleep listening to the eHarmony guy

Iz: Daddy, I don’t want to just be in commercials. I want to be in Real movies.

Me: Ok, then let’s start by cleaning up your room.

Iz: Um… Actually… I’m Ok with commercials.


On the road from Atlanta to Baltimore, the girls (8 and 11) are engaged in a classic “You’re on My Side” battle. Tempers run high. Lots of screaming. Everyone is yelling. Mommy and Daddy. Yelling. At 75 MPH.

Mommy (trying to diffuse the situation): Look! There are cows! Look! … Mooo!

Julianna (things get quiet… the 11-year-old suddenly gets pensive, wistful…): Hello, cow. Too bad you are so delicious. Taste you soon.


Isabella (8): She’s looking at a cow on my side! That’s MY cow!

Crap. 545 miles to go.