Holiday Shopping

By: Bandito

I recently set sail, alone and unafraid, to the nearest shopping center in search of last-minute stocking stuffers and miscellaneous gifts hated by mothers attempting to rid their homes of junk and clutter before the new year. Over the last six years, I have mastered the art of buying gifts that, on the surface, appeal to the sights, sounds, and smells of my children, but are met with repulsion by my wife. It is especially frustrating for her because the kids immediately place her presents back underneath the tree while my presents are played with for hours. My wife can’t stand the fact that her presents require explanation while mine are simply understood from the picture of the kids having fun on the toy box.
I am amazed because my wife is a smart woman but she still hasn’t realized that kids enjoy kids’ presents, gifts made for children –not gifts adored by her.

I love the holidays, because it is the only time of year that I can barter for gifts that are not approved by my wife. My local shopping complex is especially accommodating for adults needing to replenish with liquids throughout the day. I discovered that buying gifts while moderately buzzed not only enhances the shopping experience, but ensures the purchase of the biggest eye sore. It has always been easier for me to spend money while feeling warm and fuzzy inside. So I spend and spend, with old Saint Nick spirit, ignoring all recommendations from the wife, and indulging in kids’ toys as if I were buying for a younger me.

As I unload each gift (one more hideous than the other) into the trunk, my conscience intervenes, instructing me to return to the mall and buy something extra for my wife. Hopefully the extra gift will distract her from the fact that I have contributed to more kids’ paraphernalia. When I entered the store that designs clothing made to accentuate a female’s figure, not to mention a male’s imagination, I immediately ask for the assistance of the twenty-something sales girl hired to model the merchandise. After careful deliberation, and exemplifying assistance from the sales woman, I purchase the items and exit the store. As I make my way down the elevator, I observe a pair of basketball shoes that would make a perfect gift for me. I buy the shoes, and without knowing, place the shoebox in the bag containing my wife’s assorted (don’t be mad) presents.

The next morning, while playing in my weekly basketball game at the gym, I got into a heated argument with one of the local players, Darius. I was in the middle of defending my position as to why Michael Vick deserves the Most Valuable Player award as I changed out of my sweaty t-shirt and into a clean one for the next game. In the midst of my argument, I noticed that Darius had stopped talking; he was less interested in what I was saying and more interested in what was hanging from my collar. Then without warning, Darius began to yell, “Yo, what up with the draws? what up with the drawwwsss?!” Before I knew it, the game in progress had stopped, and everyone in the gym had come over to witness the beige panties hanging outside of my collar. As I reached towards my neck area, I immediately felt the lace followed by three strings and a front cover. Trying to play off g-strings hanging from your shirt at a local pick-up game is not an easy feat, but I did my best. I immediately bagged on Darius, explaining that he would have had a pair of granny panties hanging from his collar, and stashed the beige T-back in my basketball bag.

Needless to say, my basketball experience has never been the same, and my wife won again!

Happy Holidays.

Foul Play

By: Bandito

Have you ever noticed the excitement and satisfaction a child experiences when using the word “poo” in a sentence? Even as an adult, I find my self chuckling when discussing the matters of bodily waste, but nothing like how kids experience it.

The word “poo” usually rears its ugly head in a child’s vocabulary around the age of two, and continues well past the age of 34. If you think I am exaggerating, listen in on your child’s conversation with friends. What one word will illicit an immediate reaction resulting in uncontrollable laughter? “Poo”. Even if we look inward as adults, what stories demand the most amount of attention and detail, and always result in embarrassing, but belly aching, laughter? –stories about “pooing” or “pooting”. The poo has affected my life good and bad every day for the last 34 years. As I write this blog, I can’t help but laugh and snicker out loud, because the shit is funny!

It is hilarious because you can see the child’s mind working when they realize the poo they deposited into their diaper no longer has to sit smashed against their little asses until the stench alone drives away the friend that they were playing with, and mommy and daddy (who have both been glaring at each other as to whose turn it is to change the diaper) finally take a break from whatever cocktail they are enjoying to relieve the room of the foul stench of human shit! When your child finally realizes that he or she can simply retreat to the nearest toilet, and let go of whatever ill feelings there are bubbling inside their little tummies, it’s a right of passage that I wish I would have documented with my own family. Personally, I feel the poo rite of passage (from diaper to toilet) should be documented and studied by the leading scholars and universities in America. You can tell a lot about a child’s development based on the regularity or irregularity in which they poo, the size and color of the poo, the stink of the poo, and not to mention the length of time the child is willing to sit (without complaint) as the poo slides from one butt cheek to the other, until finally it exits the diaper and onto the outer layers of their clothing. For it is the wondrous poo that directly and indirectly affects all human beings’ physical and emotional well-being.
How come every time people step in dog poo, we all mutter the same two words: “ah, shit”? It is so frustrating and hilarious at the same time.

Poo has been a staple in my life even before my infant brain was capable of memory. But for as long as I could remember, my left foot has always found the center of dog poo. Usually left behind by reckless dog owners who feel it is the canine constitutional right to shit wherever it damn well pleases. I don’t know why, but my left foot has always been a magnet for dog poo. As of 10/14/2010, I have had over 23 dog poo-stepping incidents in my lifetime; and never have I stepped in it with my right foot. I have stepped in dog poo in approximately six states, and on one island. My shit-stepping incidents are legendary amongst friends and family. Just yesterday, I was outside gathering equipment for baseball practice, when splat! my left foot found the center of my own dog’s (Charlie) poo. In this instance, I could only blame myself, considering I was ambushed my friendly fire. However, memo to those pet owners who believe their dog is an extension of the human species: I challenge you to think outside your little dog-loving boxes and ask yourself, “Would you let your child shit on the street without picking it up?” I think not, but for whatever reason (you) whoever you are, allow your dog to poo outside my house every week without picking it up! But regardless of how many times my left foot finds the center of fresh poo, there is always something funny about it. Especially if witnessed by my wife and two young children. Nothing makes them happier than daddy’s public humiliation.

But as gifted as I am in stepping in dog poo, I am equally as talented at standing in an area at which time birds decide to empty their bowels. Birds have targeted me since I was a young lad. The first assault occurred when I was seven years old. As I stepped out of my mother’s bright blue Datsun with the newly bought banana royal from Baskin Robbins, some sniper bird bulls-eyed my ice cream. It was a one and a million chance that I would be stepping out of the car exactly at the same time that the bird decided to open its hatch. I have been bird bombed over 25 times in my life. The 25th attack occurred recently, while attending a track meet in the City of Gardena. There I was, in all my glory, standing tall and handsome with my white v-neck t-shirt, taking in the fun and sun with the wife, kids, and a family friend. When without warning, seagull shit pounded my shoulder. I was aware that something had just hit my shoulder region, but unaware of what it was until my daughter yelled at the top of her lungs, “eewwhh daddy got pooped on!” How could that damn bird hit me of all people considering I wasn’t standing alone under a light pole? I was in the middle of a field, standing amongst twenty or so people. The odds of that bird hitting me and no one else had to be astronomical considering the speed of the bird’s flight, its flight pattern, the height of the flight, and wind trajectory. Our family friend who had no idea regarding my history with poo, frantically hastened to clean it off my white t-shirt as to ease the embarrassment. As for my wife and kids (who never pass up an opportunity to laugh out loud at daddy’s expense), they simply pointed, yelled, and laughed hysterically so that everyone who wasn’t shit upon would know what happened to me.

All this poo talk has given me the opportunity to reexamine my relationship with bowel movements of all species. The fact of the matter is, poo is here to stay, and the sooner we embrace the poo, as well as use the poo as a true barometer of what’s right in the world, the sooner we will all be closer to the ultimate poo euphoria.

Now please, go and take a shower!

Thank you for reading.

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[Photo Credit: Flickr member Vintagaveda_nat]

Plus One

By: Bandito

After my wife gave birth to our second child, I assumed that I would not have to address any more baby talk considering our son weighed in at an impressive nine pounds. I thought the trauma of delivering such a sturdy boy had deterred her from yearning for a third child, but I was sadly mistaken. Unfortunately that was not the case, because as soon as my son’s head cleared the canal, she whispered, “I want another one.” At that time I did not know if my wife was a masochist, or in shock from pushing through nine pounds of human flesh. The boy had barely taken his first breath, and my wife had already solicited sex for the purposes of impregnating her as she lay on the hospital bed with legs ajar, umbilical cord attached, and mother in law still in the room. When I refused, she calmly laid back down (as if her demons had been exercised). As I hurried off with the nurse to claim, mark, and tag the biggest fish of the day, I wondered if she was really serious.

Two and a half years had passed since delivering Hercules, and she was still riding my ass about having a third child. Hercules was almost completely self sufficient at this point, and my wife was going through a phase when a mother realizes her baby is no longer dependent on her for everything! Hercules was perfectly capable of feeding himself, he would notify us when he had to use the bathroom, and he attended preschool happily. Everyone was happy, especially me, because I had finally returned back to a normal sleeping schedule and I didn’t have to buy or change diapers ever again. I could tell that my wife was going through withdrawals as she watched her baby turn into a little boy. Nevertheless, she was applying more and more baby pressure on me by the day. I realized that I had no other choice but to dive into the situation head first,
and figure out a way to fill the void in her life.

Timing is everything and in my case, it was the only thing because it just so happened that my daughter was graduating from preschool
(I know, graduating from preschool –it’s a different time), my wife had babies on the brain, and my son was obsessed with animals. I thought
long and hard, carefully evaluating every possible scenario for the most productive outcome for my wife and family. The only feasible and cost-effective solution was getting a dog. A dog could potentially fulfill every need my family had. I would use the pooch as a graduation gift for my daughter, a
distraction for my wife’s baby blues and a weight for exercise for my little Hercules. I immediately proposed the idea to my wife that we could get a
puppy to celebrate preschool graduation, as well as giving the kids a sense of responsibility. Little did she know my true intention for getting a dog
was to satisfy her desire for a third child. Not to mention give me more time to develop new ideas on how to fend off future baby talk. She agreed,
and I immediately put her in charge of finding a foo foo dog specific to her liking. The reason it was so important that my wife picked the dog
was because with that power she could get the cutest little baby –oops, I mean puppy –in the world. Our new puppy would give me at least three years
of peace. I had to do it.

I am not sure how I got to the Burbank airport, but there I was sitting eagerly, waiting for the arrival of our third child, “Charlie”. Charlie was brought in by plane from the state of Washington. What a prude he already was. Charlie weighed in at a petite pound and half, with white fluffy fur, looking as if he just got a blow-dry before exiting the plane. Charlie was a Maltipoo, a new hybrid dog, a mix between maltese and poodle. The dog was tiny and expensive as hell.

There goes my cost effective approach.

Of course when we got home the kids were elated about the new addition to the family. They played with Charlie for about two days, and then went back to their regular routine. I was surprised by their disinterest after only forty-eight hours, but was less concerned about the kids’ happiness. My main objective was keeping my wife distracted, happy, and feeling motherly. She pampered the dog as if she birthed it. It is incredible how these foo foo dogs work on women. Had I known this dog would have this effect, I would have purchased three of them. Needless to say, I bought myself about three more years of baby silence, the kids are happy, the wife is back to feeling like she is taking care of a baby again.

Now all I have to do is figure out how to avoid stepping on dog shit in the darkness of the night.

Sabotage

By: Bandito

This free public announcement has been approved by the “FIA” (FATHER INTELLIGENCE AGENCY). Please do not share any contents of this message to girlfriends, baby mommas, or wives known for scheduling weekends full of “HONEY DO’S” for the family.

Like many FIA operatives around the world who have endured years and years of the wives’ insatiable appetite for socializing, not to mention party hopping, public vs. private school debating, pre-school gossiping, and “Honey Do This, Honey Do That” weekend planning; I, operative number 00-8, decided to devise a plan to counter-act and ultimately crush the Evil Empire’s grasp on the weekend. I had had enough, weekend after weekend, maneuvering through a gauntlet of kids’ parties that sometimes started on the Westside, and ended in the Valley. I know all the studies show that having a positive peer group and having friends are beneficial for adolescent development and character, but do my children really need to have friends, really? There have been Saturdays, and even Sundays for that matter, where we (the family) started at 9:00 a.m., and didn’t end until 5:00 p.m. Since when did the weekend become part of the five-day work week? Well, every once in a while you (loyal FIA members) must go on the offensive, and maliciously and diabolically dismantle (her) plans for mass socialization.

In order for the operative to obtain ultimate results, your day must start at 5:30 am. I know 5:30 is early, but it is a small price to pay for the satisfaction in knowing that you, and you alone, raged against the machine, devised a strategic plan, and ultimately became the Joker to (her) Batman! You know your plan was successful when at the end of the day, the house is a complete mess, the yard is littered with balls, squirt guns, and wet clothing, the children are filled to the brim with homemade breakfast, lunch (not to mention all the snacks from the naughty cabinet), the kids’ brains are fried from watching childhood eighties movies, the wife has conceded in defeat and left the house out of pure frustration and anger, and somehow you have managed to brainwash both kids to get excited for the upcoming Lakers vs. Celtics game.

The reason 5:30 is so essential is because no good plan ever goes on without a hitch. Expect hitches, and give yourself enough time for contingency. At or about 5:45, you should be out of the house, and over to the wife’s favorite coffee making monopoly to purchase the most expensive frappochino – mocha mix on the menu. Me personally, I stay away from the whipped cream in the morning, because that early morning sugar rush will send her crashing down with the most aggressive and resistant behavior later on in the day. After you’ve purchased the frappa-mocha-cracko (what simply equates to crack for a mother of two), get back to the house and get started on breakfast. Oh yes, breakfast is a key ingredient for Sabotage! Eggs, bacon, and toast will usually suffice, but if you really want to cover your bet, homemade pancakes will propel you to legendary status. Prepare the breakfast, but don’t start cooking until you are ready for everyone to get up. That is the greatest part of the plan; you have absolute power! You can now dictate when everyone awakes based on the aroma emanating from the kitchen. After preparation, get yourself to the laundry room and throw in a load. Only one load is recommended, but don’t cheat yourself. If you are going to do laundry, do your laundry, and only throw in a few of (their) items to make it look good. If your house is anything like mine, there are always toys, blankets, and games lying around from the night before. Straighten them up, but not to the point of cleaning –don’t clean, just straighten. If there are dishes in the sink, no need to wash them, just put them in the dishwasher. It is all smoke and mirrors, if you can give the illusion that the house has been cleaned from the night before, the wife will simply overlook the fact that you have hidden the dirtiness. Knowing what you know, the house will be destroyed by the end of the day anyway, so why clean twice? Once the crack has been bought, the breakfast has been prepared, the house has been straightened, and your laundry has been loaded, it is time to enter into the def-con phase of your plan. It is absolutely essential that you lay the kids’ clothes out for the day. You must mislead, thus giving the impression that you are eager and excited to get started on her day full of “Honey Do” activities. Last but definitely not least, if you don’t have the movie “Free Willy” in your DVD arsenal at home, go and buy it immediately. I am not talking about the big budget “Free Willy” movie that made tons of money, but the bootleg (straight to DVD version) that looks like it was filmed in the backyard of some mansion in Tarzana. The movie is one of a kind, and will not only keep your kids captivated in the early morning hours, but your wife as well. Throw that movie in your DVD player, press pause at the beginning, and go hop in the shower to congratulate yourself on putting together a pre-game that rivals some of the best strategists in the world.

If the wife and kids aren’t up by 8:00 AM, load the bacon in the oven, turn on some Sports Center, and tease yourself about what will be, if you stay focused and committed to the plan. Guilt can be extremely disruptive, and it is imperative that you ignore all feelings and remain focused on yourself and your needs! As they migrate towards the kitchen, run to press play on the DVD, and welcome everybody with a bright, I’ve-been-up-for-two-hours-already smile, and offer them an assortment of food options from the buffet that you have so nicely displayed. As they enter the living room with a plate full of food, they will notice the odd, but entertaining movie on the TV screen. As they settle into their positions, run to the laundry room and grab the basket, place the kids’ clothes on top of the basket so she can see, and walk by her position. When you bring their drinks, make sure her Frappachini is brought out first. By then, you will have noticed how serious, and intent they are on finishing, at the least, the next twenty minutes of the movie. Twenty minutes leads to two hours, and the next thing she knows, we (family of four) only have fifteen minutes to get ready for party number one (no way, not going to happen). The first party is out, and the second party is in serious jeopardy because she is really comfortable, satisfied, and appreciative of the effort that you have put forth. When the kids beg for you to put in another movie, put in Goonies, and observe how your two year-old watches the movie slightly interested, your five year-old covers her ears and asks a thousand questions, and your wife falls in out of consciousness while lying on the couch. It is the equivalent to painting a Picasso! Before you know it, it is 3:30 in the afternoon, and your wife is scrambling to the grocery store to complete at least one errand, in what she would consider a non-productive Saturday. By then, you managed to watch another movie (The Never Ending Story), dominate your children in every outdoor activity, put together a lunch, fold (your) laundry, watch a little baseball, walk to 7-11, and remind everyone how much fun it is too stay home once in a while.

So at 5:00 p.m., approximately four minutes before tip-off, pat yourself on the back and raise your glass to yourself, because you, sir, have officially taken the next step into adulthood. Your social experiment has gone off without any snags, and you taught everyone a valuable lesson. Sometimes when you do nothing, you do everything.

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[Photo Credit: Flickr member Dunachaser]

[Photo Credit: Flickr member Heylovedc]

[Photo Credit: Flickr member Nate Kay]

Through A Child’s Eyes

By: Bandito
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If you ever want to see what the world looks like through the eyes of a child, provide her with a piece of paper, pencil, crayon, perhaps colored markers, and a little alone time. Let me emphasize “alone time” (especially if Daddy is trying to finish watching the final three minutes of the Lakers – Thunders playoff game).
My five year-old daughter Anessa (who fancies herself the next Kehinde Wiley), recently drew a family portrait to illustrate what those beautiful, greenish brown eyes see when viewing our family.
The Laker game had ended, and as I made my way to freezer to retrieve yet another frozen schooner so that I could refill it with my favorite adult soda, my little girl came sprinting up to me to show the masterpiece she had just created within that three minute regulation period (damn she is good). Realizing that my day of watching sports was over, and that there was no way I would be able to sneak in the first three innings of the Dodger game, I immediately focused all of my attention on my daughter and the artwork that she had so proudly presented. When I looked down at the picture, an immediate smile followed by laughter overwhelmed me.

There I am, on the right side of the page, standing tall (and alone!); the tall, dark, and handsome black man with the blue shorts, orange shirt, and baseball glove. She definitely hit a home run with the accurate portrayal of her father.
My son Andrew is located to my left, directly next to the imaginary dog that we don’t own, appropriately dressed in the same outfit, looking as handsome and as dark as his father before him.
My beautiful and adoring Lebanese wife is the character with the light olive skin color, appropriately dressed in her fashionable “Seven” jeans and “C and C” blouse, standing right next to the sun flower that compliments her outfit.
And of course my darling daughter (Anessa) is positioned right next to her mommy, rocking a miniature version of mommy’s outfit, with baseball glove in tow, and amazing dark brown complexion. You may also observe the rolling green grass resembling that of the finest manicured fairways seen at Torey Pines; not to mention (my personal favorite), the trendy red door attached to the three- story home.

When my wife heard me laughing she immediately came down stairs to see what was going on. Upon viewing the picture, she too began to burst with laughter. Anessa appeared a bit confused, not sure why mommy and daddy continued to laugh as we passed the picture back and forth while analyzing each character. We finally turned to Anessa and asked her,” why is mommy the only white person on the picture?” She innocently stated, “because mommy, you are white, and me daddy and Andrew are brown.” Well if we weren’t laughing hard before, we were rolling on the floor after that comment. Anessa was obviously favoring daddy that day, because mommy was on the outside looking in. Her depiction of our family was at least fifty percent accurate in that daddy’s skin color is very, very brown, and mommy’s skin color is definitely an olive tint; but Andrew, Andrew has the lightest skin color of us all. The boy has blonde hair for Pete’s sake! (By the way I have no idea how that happened, but that is a different story for another day – Can you say mailman?) And yes, Anessa’s skin tone is a bit darker than her mother and brother, but far lighter than daddy.
The best part of it all, is my wife and I didn’t try and explain why each person is unique and different, no speeches about color or race, nothing about diversity and culture, no black, no white, no brown, none of that PC crap! We simply accepted her artwork as it was, and we laughed, and we laughed, and we laughed… Kids are the best!