No jokes tonight.

A tornado directly hit an elementary school in Oklahoma.

Nothing but tragedy. Nothing but tears.

The Fun Time is going as serious and heart-breaking as it has ever gone before. This is not a happy story. If you’re looking for a chuckle — not today.

I am the father of two beautiful little girls. Yes, they are hilarious and they do the most ridiculous things. They are my daughters. I love them with everything I have. I’ve even dedicated a blog to them.

Which is why the Rehtaeh Parsons story is so incredibly difficult for me. She was taken off life-support last Sunday. And, died.

Rehtaeh was a 15-year-old girl who was gang-raped. One of the classmates involved in the attack took a picture of the assault and posted it online. (No, I haven’t seen it. No desire.)

That picture was posted and re-posted. Rehtaeh was branded a “slut” by the community in her Canadian town, and she was shunned and bullied. She was depressed, fearful, traumatized… broken. To make matters worse, the Justice system could not find “probable cause” to pursue her attackers.

Two years later, she hanged herself. Just last week.

Rehtaeh could be one of my daughters. Or, yours.

And it makes me so sad.

Why are people so cruel?

Rehteah Parsons

Rehteah, with Mom and Dad. He could be me.

If you care, here is a news report:
http://thechronicleherald.ca/metro/1122345-who-failed-rehtaeh-parsons

And her heart-wrenching fathers statement. (I still can’t get all the way through it. Too close to home.):
http://www.huffingtonpost.ca/glen-canning/rehtaeh-parsons-was-my-daughter_b_3056888.html

So, the President got himself in trouble the other day when he referred to California’s Attorney General as “by far the best-looking attorney general” in the country.

Kamala Harris. I can’t wait to be subpoenaed

Anyway, some people were offended by that, so he apologized. (Funny, I don’t remember anyone apologizing to Janet Reno.)

Remember her? Hell. Will Ferrell made a killing off of her.

So, hoping to not offend anyone, I am revising my own personal compliments policy.

Dear Women Friends,
I will no longer be able to tell you that you look nice, or your dress brings out the color in your eyes, or that I love what you’ve done with your hair, or that those boots are smoking hot. Although I will be thinking it.

And, Ladies, I think that it is best if you continue your policy of not telling me what a gorgeously handsome and super-sexy man I am.

Although, I will be thinking it.

I was chatting with a friend of mine who has a two-month-old. And, I remembered how hard it was with a baby that young. Ghastly hard. And, as you know, I was just the Daddy (Mommy had it much, much worse).

Then, I remembered this abandoned post which I never finalized from a couple years ago. I’ve polished it up a bit.

Still true.

(Caution: Yeah, there’s language.)

———-

Please, let me have my suffering.

I’m heading down the ice cream aisle at the supermarket with 7-year-old Julianna and 5-year-old Isabella when the biggest tantrum in the history of tantrums erupts.

Julianna: I want Mint Chocolate Chip… No wait, Cookies and Cream. No… I can’t decide…

Me: Honey, please pick one. But, only one.

Isabella: I want miiiint!

Things escalate voraciously. Before I know it, both children are screaming and flopping on the floor over ice cream. In Aisle 6. On the floor. Over ice cream.

There are details I’m skipping here, but it was several minutes of pure Parental Hell. Then, an older lady looks at me with a mixture or compassion and arrogance:

“Just wait until they are teens,” she says.

Did she not see my stress? Or, the blood vessels straining in my neck? Or, the flailing on the floor on Aisle 6? Aisle Fucking 6?

Who the Hell asked you, Lady?

I ignore her, and eventually slog myself through the checkout line with two screaming kids. I think I settled on vanilla. No one won. No one was happy. Especially the checkout teller.

It was a long battle. But, I will say, at no time was I embarrassed by this (because, I don’t know those people. Plus, I know they’ve been through it, too), nor did I lose my temper. I was a pillar of parental stoicism.

The car ride home, though, was another story. Quite tempestuous. Things ramped up.

The screaming continued on the ride home. “I wanted mint!” “I couldn’t decide!”

I yelled. They yelled. The light turned green. But not a LEFT TURN green. Fuck! Why are there no Goddamn left turn arrows in a city of 8 million people? (Another rant, coming soon. Are you trying to get me started?)

When the regular light turns yellow, I haul ass, and avoid being T-Boned by a Dodge Durango.

I get them home. But, I can barely contain my pissed-off-ish-ness. I scoop out the vanilla ice cream. “You will eat this!” (There may have been expletives. Probably… Definitely. Yeah, expletives. Well… At least in my head. Colorful ones. The most colorful ones. Painting a picture of expletives. Like Rembrandt. Again, in my head.)

But, I begin to calm down….

Then I think…

How DARE that grandmother tell me “Just wait until they are teens.” What Bullshit is that?

Fuck her.

She’s forgotten how Goddamn hard this shit is. I had one girl pulling at the ice cream case while the other was on her back, kicking and screaming on the floor. Tears. Shrieks.

Since my girls were born, I’ve had innumerable friends, family, and complete strangers try to outdo my struggles with the “wait until” line. They always take glee in knowing that things will get worse for me. For my wife and me.

Why are people like this? It’s not a competition. Seriously. Not a competition.

Why can’t they accept that this, right now, is pretty fucking damn hard?

Here’s the “Wait until” mantra:

Wait until she is eating solids.
Wait until she is teething.
Wait until she is crawling.
Wait until she is walking.
Wait until you try to potty train.
Wait until Pre-School.
Wait until 1st Grade.
Wait until 8th Grade
Wait until her first date.
Wait until she’s driving.
Wait until she turns 18.
Wait until she’s in college.
Wait until she gets married.
Wait until she has a daughter.

Invariably, the next step is ALWAYS worse.

Why do people insist on doing this? Are they trying to make me feel guilty even before worse stuff happens? Are you a better survivor than me? I don’t understand.

Yes, each step is incrementally more difficult than the previous one. But, the fact that I survived the previous step means that I am ready for the next one. My daughter going to college will be tough. But, the fact that I suffered through her ice cream tirade is part of the reason she got there to begin with. Stop trying to outdo me in the difficulty factor.

So, to everyone who wants to tell me how much harder it is going to be:

Please, please… Let me have my suffering.

The movie is called “Up.” I know the musical cue as “1M6.” It is entitled “A Married Life.”

It is the most heartwarming and most heartbreaking sequence in modern film-making. I can’t not enjoy it, and yet not cry.

The music is by Michael Giacchino.

Now, I work on lots and lots of Hollywood movies. But, this one is special.

The rest of the “Up” score is also great. Worthy of, I don’t know, an Oscar. (Hint: It won.)

But, I’m sitting with my daughters, watching a movie about an old man, a young boy, and a dream. In tears. And, all I can say is:

Squirrel!

Can’t stop laughing.

So, I spent most of the afternoon watching aging rock stars performing on the Palladia channel. Foreigner. Styx. Journey. The Kinks. The Who.

Lynn (the Mommy here at the Fun Time) asks: Are these even the original people in the band?

Me: I don’t know. I doubt it. Definitely not him.

Lynn: The bass player? The drummer? … The original singer? They look old enough, but come on.

Me: I know.

An idea is hatched:

I look old enough! If I wait long enough, maybe I can become a Beatle. You know… The Quiet One.

It’s Super Bowl Sunday.

Lynn (the Fun Time’s resident Mommy) and I are trying to clean up the house before hosting a minor Baltimore Ravens Super Bowl semi-party.

Just a few people. Mostly LA-based Baltimorons. Wait, that didn’t come out right.

Cleaning and straightening up before kick-off, my task is to mop the floors and vacuum the rugs. I grab the handle of the vacuum cleaner and read the directions:

“Empty Every Two Months.”

Hoover, Dude… I haven’t vacuumed in four months. Explain the math to me.

Ok. I’ll empty the cannister. Stop nagging.

It gets more complicated…

The filter says: “Rinse with Water and Dry for at least 24 hours.”

I’ve got four hours.

You’re kidding me, right? Dude, I’ve got two dozen people sitting on the sofa and eating buffalo wings in 45 minutes. You want twenty-four hours? Seriously? Not gonna happen.

The Family Room is ready for a party. A party will happen. A Super Bowl Party!

And, I’m not gloating, or anything. But… Baltimore wins. Boo Ya!

(By the way, no one questioned our rug-grooming.)

Normally, professionally, and genetically, we are a Disneyland-type of family. The Happiest Place on Earth. Umm… Heck, Yeah!

But… The deal offered by one of LA’s other major amusement parks, Magic Mountain, was too good to pass up… (Really cheap! No blackout dates! Free parking!)

Since it’s only 20 minutes away, we buy yearly passes.

After considering the frigid January weather (the high was only about 71), we head out for an afternoon of amusement.

Isabella, she’s only six, is too small for the “Viper Fly” and the “Batman Ride” and the “Lex Luthor Drop of Doom.”

Finally, we find “The Ninja,” a middle-of-the-road roller-coaster that will accept slightly lower humans.

Iz: Daddy! Daddy! (almost with Jazz Hands) The Ninja!

Now, during the summer, there is probably a 60 minute wait. In January, it’s barely 30 seconds.

We load in. Strap down. And… GO!

When we’re done, we realize there’s no one waiting for the next ride. Lynn (the Fun Time’s resident Mommy), asks the attendant if we can just stay and go again.

“Yes.”

Sweet.

By about the fifth additional pass, I’ve pretty much reached my limit of Ninajness. Then, the attendant asks the girls: “How many times have you ridden?”

In stereo, Julianna and Isabella enthusiastically proclaim: “Six!”

Attendant: “Well, you know, the record is 14.”

Now, any of you who know my lovely and brilliant wife will know that she didn’t register that as information. No. This was a Challenge.

“We’re only NINE away from the record! It’s great to have goals!”

Goals? It an amusement park… Oh, God. We’re on a mission.

By about the eighth pass, I’m pretty sure I ruptured my spleen. By the tenth, I think I chipped a tooth. By the 13th, I briefly lost consciousness. All the time, Mommy is yelling “Woooo Hoooo!”

At long last, we make our 15th and record-setting ride. Thank God, it’s over.

Mommy: “We don’t want to just win by one, do we?! One. More. Time! Woo Hoo!”

The new record for The Ninja at Magic Mountain is 16 consecutive passes. And, I was there for every single gut-busting one of them.

There were no badges or certificates, in case you were wondering.

I’m poring over my new Life Insurance policy with my lovely and talented wife, Lynn. Hopefully, I won’t get hit by a bus tomorrow. But, you never know. So, Honey… Fingers crossed.

I come to the box labelled: Beneficiaries.

Me (to Lynn): So, um… I guess… You?

Lynn (not amused): Yes. Beneficiaries. Me.

Me: So, you aren’t going to kill me or anything, right?

Lynn: Not if you put my name in the box.

Me: Ok… So, then… Um. 100 percent of benefits?

Lynn: Yes. Unless you have another wife. In which case we will need to re-visit the answer I gave to your previous question.