Full of It

Ushering the girls off to bed tonight (they share the same room), Julianna (8) wants to voice a complaint against her sister, Isabella (5).

J (whining): Daaad! Isabella always keeps the light on too late.

Iz: No, I don’t!

J: Yes she does, Daddy. She is interfering with my BS!

Me: Uhhh. (blink.)

J (giving a Eureka! finger-point): You know, BS… Beauty Sleep. And, you do NOT want to see me when I don’t have enough of my BS!

Me: Trust me, Honey. I think you’re shoveling plenty of BS right now.

J: But, the light…

Me: Now, go to bed. Lights out please.

Iz: _click_.

Everyone: Good night.


Flipping past the Discovery Channel, one moonshiner is berating another moonshiner that the hundred-or-so one-gallon jugs in the back of his pick-up truck will draw the attention of the poh-lice.

Ummm… Did you not notice the Discovery Channel camera crew with full production, sound, camera, and lighting team? PAs? The catering truck? Scriptwriters? Helicopters? Extras?

Plus, your name is “Twinkle” or something.

How hard are you people to find?

Virginia State Police. Come on.

(PS… I grew up in Virginia.)

Slip Sliding Away

Isabella (she’s five) is taking a shower.

Iz: Daddy, Daddy! I have to go potty!

Me: Aw, man! You didn’t think of that before? You’re in the shower!

Iz: I didn’t know.

I quickly dry her off, she does her thing on the toilet, then back to the shower, shampoo dripping.

A few minutes later…

Iz: Daddy, I’m all rinsed. Ready to get out.

She dries off, puts on a robe, settles down to sleep.

“You are my sunshine…”

Iz: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Daddy finally relaxes. He skips to the “loo.” Has a seat.

Good God! I’m slipping around like crazy. Do I have that much ass sweat? Am I bleeding? Am I dying?

Then I remember… Isabella.

Flush. I towel off. Don’t worry, everything heads to the laundry. With bleach.

It’s all good.

Sandy Hook

It was a positively Norman Rockwell-ian evening: Christmas tree. Fireplace. Piano.

Mommy is milling about, and I am somehow snuggled on the sofa with Julianna (8) and Isabella (5). There are knees in noses, and toes in ears.

The girls know nothing about what happened at Sandy Hook.

Iz: Daddy! You’re squeezing me so tight my head might pop off.

J: Hahaha! Isabella with no head!

Me: So sorry, Honey. I love you THAT much.

Iz: Then, scratch my back!

J: And, my legs!

After a few minutes, the girls drift off to sleep while I reflect on terror and tragedy…

Iz: Daddy, do you know what I love most about you?

Me (tears streaming down my face): No, Honey. (sniff). What?

Iz: …your fingernails….

A perfect response for a day like this.

I squeeze them both tighter. And, I can’t stop crying.


Dear America,

I know it’s never a convenient time to talk about Gun Control. But, could we maybe schedule a sit-down before, you know, the next nutjob takes a loaded weapon into a classroom full of five-year-olds? Because, the idea of multiple kindergarten-sized caskets is horrific.

The father of a five-year-old

Star for the Day

Picking up the girls from school today, Isabella (she’s 5) is really excited…

Iz: Daddy! Daddy!

Me: What?

Iz: Daddy, I got a star sticker today!

Me: That’s great! Why, Honey?

Iz: Because, I was mostly the only good kid in class.

Me: Wonderful! You know, if you’re a good kid at home, you might get another one.

Iz: Um… Yeah, well, like I said. I already got one today. So…

Thanks for the Memories

Here’s something that doesn’t happen every day.

We’re at Bob Hope’s house on a Saturday morning. Because we can, that’s why.

There’s a yard sale. His kids (or grand kids, or great grand kids) are selling his stuff. For charity.

We pass on the “Natural Care” hair dryer from 1961 and the “AcuVibe” foot massager from 1978. (Yes, it’s called an “AcuVibe.” It’s a foot massager. Or so I’m led to believe. Though, I’m suspicious.)

We grab a few items for the Christmas tree. The check out line is an hour long. We spend 35 bucks on junk.

But, we bought a piece of Hollywood history.

Dear Bob: Thanks for the memories for my little girls.

Bob Hope’s(!) Christmas stuff.

The War on Christmas

So, I’m watching Jon Stewart’s take on the alleged “War on Christmas” that Fox News keeps talking about. It’s hilarious. Julianna (she’s 8) is looking over my shoulder and reads the caption.

J: Daddy, what’s the War on Christmas?

Me: Nothing, Honey. It’s a joke.

J: Is there a war? Against Santa? And the reindeer?

Me: Seriously. No, Sweetie. Santa is fine. Rudolph is fine.

J: But, are people getting hurt?

Me: No. There is no war. This is a joke.

J: So… I’ll still get a pony for Christmas, right?

Me: Ummmm………..

Dear Fox News: Cut the crap. You’re killing me.