Halloween Cupcakes

Isabella (she’s 10); There were 6 cupcakes, now there’s only one.
Me: I had two.
Julianna (she’s 13): I only had one. I don’t want any more.
Iz: And, I had two. There’s still one left.
(hint, hint)
Me: Isabella, you should have the last one.
Passive Aggressiveness defined:
Iz (playing coy): But, I don’t like Halloween Orange frosting. But I guess I can.
Me: Honey, please.
Iz: Ok. I think I’ll eat it.
Me: Yeah, Big surprise there.

When You’re a Shark

So, I haven’t mentioned the catastrophe of Hurricane Maria that flattened my father’s family island of Puerto Rico.  (My other family home of Alabama has also been hit pretty badly by Harvey and Irma.)

Puerto Rico is really, really bad. I don’t want to get into the politics of it all (because, it looks really bad for Washington D.C.)  The island of 3.5 million American citizens (!) cannot get basic necessities like food and water.  Electricity, which powers the water, communication, and distribution system is largely shut down.  The roads are chocked with debris.

After a month.

If, the President of the United States won’t dedicate our nation to supporting the full recovery of this far-flung island of Americans in the middle of the “very big ocean,” how can you count on him for anything?

Please, Mr. President.  Help.


I don’t want to leave you with the impression that the ONLY reason I bought these cupcakes was that they were on the clearance rack at the supermarket (originally $8, I got them for $2! What a deal.)

Pink and Purple!

Pink and Purple!

But, you know, sometimes, a fella just needs the comforting sweetness that only a purple frosted chocolate Princess cupcake can provide. And, if I should happen to get a cheap plastic Princess crown ring in the process, well, that’s a bonus in my book. To hell with society’s gender norms.

Have you seen The Crown?  Well, yes you have.

Have you seen The Crown? Well, yes you have.


That’s how I always labelled them.

Politics aside (right wing),  their chicken is awesome.  Though their wings are, mostly, from the right side.

My 10-year-old is desperate for a Chick-Fil-A sandwich.  So she encourages me.  Beckons me.  Nags me the F…. to drive to Pasadena.  To get her a chicken sandwich.

I order 8 of them.  And, I will tell you:  That is some fine eating.  Man, those are good.

Gray hair

So, I’m taking my daughter to gymnastics practice yesterday.  And we hit a red light.  My right arm is on the arm rest,  That is what they are designed for.  And, suddenly, I feel plucking.  On my arm.

Isabella (she’s 10):  You have white hairs on your arms.

Me: Yes. probably.  But I am driving.  I am old.

We’re rolling.

Iz:  You also have them in your nose. White ones.

Me: You know I am driving an actual car.,  Yes?

Iz:  Also, your ears.  Long ones.  Daddy,   Can’t I pluck them?

Me:  Good God, No.  We are driving.  And, when did you become an English waif?

[Re-read that wif an English girl’s voice.]

Diabetes? Dia Beat Us!

I’ve lost almost 20 pounds over the last 12 weeks. And, I did it with two simple words.

Hang on.

<clickbait> <clickbait> <clickbait>.

Oh yeah:

Stop eating.

Also, when your doctor says words like: Diabetes. Heart Failure. Erectile Dysfunction. These are words that catch your attention.

(I’m still funny, right? Yes? No? The lady in the back is clapping….)

“They” (children, wife) made me buy a dozen donuts the other day from Yum-Yum Donuts. A dozen in Yum-Yum land is 14. Because, math. Hard.

I’m not saying that losing weight is easy. Because, crap, my life is over when I lose my keys. I mean, “Lite” beer is not beer.

Your Erection and You… and Your Wife’s Right Hip.

[Editor’s note:  This has been sitting in my ‘Definitely not approved” folder for about 5 years.  Someone gave the green light.  I don’t know why.]

We’re all adults here, right?

They happen. You know, the thing from the subject line above. Don’t make me say it again.

Sometimes they are planned… Usually unplanned… Occasionally, medically-induced.

They’re all good… Well, often. (Honestly, some are better than others.)

So… I had me one of them the other night. It was not quite like a “I shall lay ruin to the entire Amazon Empire” type of one. More like a: “Dude it’s one o’clock. Anything going on? ‘sup?”

My reply: “Well, what’s going on is that it is the middle of the night. I’m asleep. Who invited you? Where were you two hours ago when I could have used you? And, now you show up?”

This is common. So, in the middle of the night, a guy is faced with two options: Commit or Ignore.

In youth, “committing” to this is pretty simple. Doesn’t take much. Trust me.  Tissues.

As an actual grown-up adult, though, I hate to describe these appearances as a “nuisance.” Because at my age….

But, sincerely, Dude, I really need my sleep so I can make it to the meeting at 8:00 a.m.   It’s 5:35..   You’re not helping.

It doesn’t matter. “Where’s the party? ‘sup, Bro? Let’s get some.”

Me: Party? Get some? It’s much more complicated than that. Sleeping wife. Not now. ‘Bro.’

‘Just so you know, I’m planning to be around for a while.’

By the way, Bullshit to the four hour Viagra warnings. They sometimes last exactly: All. Night. Long. All night. (“Long” is how I kid myself. Self-delusion.)

For this discussion, let’s assume you have a sleeping buddy. For me, she is a “she.” Your mileage may vary.

There is always the matter of etiquette. And probably, liability. But, she has a hip.  Her right hip.  And a 1:00 a.m. snuggle/grind with a close friend is always nice.  Also, there might be a boob squeeze.

Again, check with your lawyer first. Consent is the key.

A New Religion

I’ve thought about forming a new religion. Nothing concrete, yet. But, I’m bouncing balls against the wall.  I’m sketching things in…

Things we should all believe in:

– Gravity, until someone falls on their face.

– Facts, until my argument is disproved.

– Gender Equality, until she earns more.

– Time, until I am late.

– Boobs.

– Peanuts, until someone has an allergy.

– Bacon.

– Temperature, not the Heat Index. Bullshit.

– Brazilians, not the wax, but the people. Also: yeah. Ok, the waxing.

– There is no ‘Up’ in space. Except for the DVD on the Space Station.

– I mentioned Boobs, right? And, Bacon. Yeah… Bacon. Also, boobs.

– Snuggling.

– Puppies. (Still considering kittens.)

– Earth is slightly more than 6,000 years old. By a few billion years.

– I am a dashing young man.

– Avoid the 405. (LA friends know what I mean.)

– Don’t trust atoms. They make up everything.

– Trickle down economics doesn’t work in space. See above. Or on earth.

– Jumping Jack Flash… It’s not a Gas. No, not a Gas Gas. Hang on, no: It’s a Gas Gas… Gas.

Radio Nation

Dropping my daughters off at their special “summer intensive” (don’t call it summer school) school this morning, I finally had control of the radio (because both of them are sulking, and hate the world and boys and blah blah blah.)

“Won’t Get Fooled Again.”  I turn it up a bit.

Julianna (she’s days away from turning 13):  Daaad!  Please turn it down!

Me:  Honey.  You need to know this song.  Meet the new boss.  Same as the old boss.  Whatever they teach you in school today, this is the most important thing you’ll hear all day.

J:  Yeah, but can you turn it down when we open the doors?

Old man music stink.

Me:  Yes, Sweetie.

Kids are discharged.  Someone else’s problem until 3:00.  And, then, after Roger Daltrey does his last Yeah!  Springsteen.  Born to Run.

My poor Prius.  The volume goes up to 10.  We are at maximum capacity.

And, then, Boom-Boom-Chick.  Boom-Boom-Chick  Crap.  Because it is not just one song, but two:  We are the champions.  Who tapped into my brain.  Russians?

Let me find the longest way to get home.

Announcer guy:  We’re commercial free for 90 minutes.  Fuck.

Let me park somewhere.  In the Target parking lot.

And, then, Bowie’s “Suffragette City.”  Wham Bam, thank you sir.

I manage to find an 11.

Security starts circling.  Was there an Amber Alert on this Prius?

And, then…  How could I move?

“Hey Jude….”

Crap.  I have to tell the guy. I’m just leaving.

Sometimes, radio doesn’t suck.


So, I’m down 19 pounds in 6 weeks this morning (Doctor’s orders.) And, then my daughter couldn’t finish her waffles, smothered in butter and syrup. On the kitchen island. On a plate, all alone. Encouraging me. No one would know. Seducing me. Enticing me. Wanting me.

I get enough of that from women on a daily basis.

I had a carrot.