The Fat Man

Before Christmas gets too far past us, somewhere over the Christmas season, Isabella (she’s 7, beyond her years) has crossed the line of whether or not Santa is real. Going in, she was all: I need to send Santa a letter by Thursday or it won’t get there in time.

Now she’s like: You bought that at Target.

But, I tried to keep the illusion alive as long as possible.

Iz: Daddy, did you or Mommy order the X-Box from Amazon?

Me: Honey, Santa brought it.

Iz: No… Mommy said we could take it back. Back to the North Pole? I don’t think so.

Me: Look, Bubbles, Santa lets us take things back to stores if they don’t work or don’t fit.

Iz: No. You bought this on the computer. That’s why the guy came to the door the other day. That’s why we have same the same gift wrapping in in the closet.

Me: All I know, Sweetie, is that there was a fat guy putting gifts around the tree.

Isabella looks at me and gets a “Duh” look on her face. She flings her hands up to her shoulders. Her eyes say everything. “You.”

Sometimes I set my up for the degradations.


(Don’t tell your sister…)


Ok, there’s a reason that I keep posting these silly little blog posts. Daddy/Daughter and all.

Last night, the family had a late-running holiday-season party. When we got home, Mommy snuggled with Isabella (she’s 7) and I hunkered down with Julianna (10).

We tickled and giggled and told stories. But, then it was bedtime. Sleepytime.

Mommy slipped away. And, I tried to follow. But, Isabella caught me…

Iz: Daddy. Snuggle. Please?

Me: Mommy snuggled with you already.

Iz: But, I want you.

Me: I’m all snuggled out.

Iz: Yeah, but I want to snuggle with you… Daddy.

NOTE: How does ANYBODY say No to such a request?

Me: Ok, Honey. Scooch over.

Iz: Yay.

Stone Cold Truth

Here’s something new I did in the shower…

(No. Nothing good ever began with that sentence. You are warned.)

I grabbed my wife’s pumice stone and started filing away at the dead skin of my toes and heels. And, Man!, if that dry, dead skin didn’t just wash away.

At night, after I fell asleep, I had an itch on my left ankle which I would normally scratch with my right toe. That didn’t work. Too smooth. Then I tried scratching with my right heel. Also no. It was like silk…

Holy crap! I had to actually wake up and scratch it with my finger nails. Now I’m going to be up all night.

Don’t ever let me touch my wife’s shower stuff again!

Color Commentary

Flipping past the NFL games… Philadelphia vs. Washington

Julianna (she’s 10): Ooo, Daddy, which team do we want?

Me: I really don’t care, but I generally root against the Redskins.

J: That’s because it’s racist!

Me: Well, I was going to say that I prefer Baltimore. But, yes, some people think the name is racist. Not the people.

Isabella (she’s 7): Daddy? What’s “racist?”

Me: Man, I was just trying to find snowboarding or something.

J (teaching her little sister a valuable life lesson): Isabella, it’s when some people don’t like other people because of their skin color.

Iz: Well… That’s stupid. Why does that matter? Because, most of the players have black skin anyway. So, who cares about skin color?

Planet Dracula

Julianna (she’s 10): Daddy, have people been to other galaxies?

Me: No.

J: Is that because it is too far?

Me: Yes, Honey. It would take millions of years for us to get to another galaxy.

J: But, people can’t live that long.

Me: Right.

J: Unless they are vampires! They can live for ever!

Problem solved.

[Attention Hollywood types, especially Mel Brooks. I have copyrighted and trademarked this idea. But, wouldn’t that be a great movie?! Call me.]

Ad Nauseam

Julianna, the fifth-grader (she’s 10), and her class are embarking on Ancient Latin and Greek terminology. photo, therm, et cetera, etc. (You see what I did there…)

Julianna is perplexed by the phrase ad nauseam.

J: Daddy, what is “ad naudsumum…” Do I have to get sick? I have to write a sentence with it.

Me: ad nauseam is, like, when your teacher keeps teaching and teaching and teaching until you feel sick! You don’t actually get sick, but you feel like you might.

J: Oh!

Julianna lights up and begins to write something. But, she is covering up with her left hand so that I can’t see. Obviously, she is writing about me because I talk, talk, talk.

Then, Isabella (she’s 7) looks at me, gets a devilish look, and whispers to Julianna.

Girls: Teeheeheehee.

Isabella: Daddy, Julianna finished her assignment!

(She can barely contain herself.)

Julianna (laughing through it all): “My dad farts on and on and on ad nauseam.”




Me: Ok, Honey. Fart. Ha.

Girls: Hahaha, he said “Fart!” Hahahahaha!

Me: Sweetie, because this is actual homework for your teacher(!), can you please change the word “farts” to something else, like “sings.”

J: But “farts” is funnier.

Me: Yes, I know it is, I know. But, please. For your teacher.

Iz: Because you can’t sing either!! Hahaha!

Me: Thank you.

Iz: Also, you’re fat.

[Editor’s note: To be fair, if I had this homework assignment when I was 10, my 5th grade teacher Mrs. Ramsay would right now be staring down the barrel of an essay on farts. But, I’ve raised a slightly-better class of child. Haven’t I?]

Here’s the evidence. Note the erasure marks around the “sanitized” version…

Please, don't throw up.

Please, don’t throw up.