Its all in a name

When it comes to nicknames theres lots of different ways to have one bestowed upon you.

There's the derivative method, Will being short for William, etc...

There's the drunken college opposite factor, a fat guy named Slim or a body builder named Tiny.

There's also the you drank one to many Jagerbombs and did something really stupid that your buddies won't let you live down.

What has me wondering is the wife, she's got a pet name for me and I'm not exactly sure where it comes from. There's got to be some other ways of coming up with nicknames.

Why? 'cause I haven't done anything stupid and I'm pretty sure "Jackass" isn't a derivative of my given name. So unless there's some other naming convention I'm unaware of, she must be, in her own way, saying I'm one hell of a great guy.

Right?

The phinlet's womanizing ways

From what I understand the normal progression in regards to the mobility of children is being carried, crawling, walking and then running, at least that's what the books say. Well they're wrong, at least when it comes to the phinlet. Of course it could be evolution at work, self preservation, survival of the fittest and all that jazz.

See, I'm not sure where the phinlet managed to pick up his bad habits. I'm certainly not to blame, that's the only certainty here, personally I think it's his mothers fault, just don't tell her I said so.

Anyhow, at 18 months old he's becoming quite the player on playground (or anywhere else for that matter). He'll ditch pretty much whoever he's with in an attempt to get teh ladies to faun over him. If there's a chance at an upgrade, he'll damn near martyr himself to get to the hottest woman in the room and almost inevitably he does.

You wants an example? I'll give you an example. A while back we were at the grocery. I was only picking up a couple of items, so we don't grab cart, plus the phinlet's happier walking and holding onto my hand. Anyhoo, we make it through the store without incident, but the checkout line, well that's another story.

We're waiting behind an attractive college aged girl, who most likely would be asked to leave if she were to try and board a Southwest flight, when he decides to get his mac on. He starts off innocently enough, playing shy, hiding behind me and waving at her.

She notices, smiles and waves back. Its game on. She's being played like a fiddle and doesn't even know it. He steps from behind me and starts talking and waving. "Hey" is the only thing I could make out, I'm not really sure what the rest of it was and that might be a good thing (I'd either be extremely proud or washing his mouth out with soap).

The young lady pays and thinks she's going to leave with a simple wave and "bye". But he's having none of it. She waves, says bye, and he does the unimaginable. He starts walking towards her (I'm keeping a close eye on him), executes the raise your arms to be picked up maneuver, flawlessly I might add, and says "bye". She melts and so does the girl in line behind us, who I hadn't noticed until I heard "aww, he's so cute". She kneels down, gives him a hug (who am I too object?) and talks to him while I'm being rung up and paying.

He's chatting away happily, playing with her necklace (and trying to pull her top back, I've taught him well). Then its time to leave. He gives her a hug, she hands him to me and we start on our way out. That's when the girl who was behind us says bye and waves to him. He, unprompted by me, starts blowing her kisses, at which point she starts grinning ear to ear.

Honestly I get a little bit unnerved thinking about it, 'specially when you figure Darwin might have set him up to start sprinting at an early age for the practive. It can only mean he'll be outrunning pissed off fathers at an early age. So, I'll take the chance now, while I have it, and apologize to parents with daughters age five and under, really, its his mother's fault.

I can't say for certain, but I'm pretty sure the girl in the grocery store gave him her phone number.

At least she's the only one I think of that he'd be chatting with on the phone late at night.

What age are you supposed to start talking with your kids about the proper etiquette of a "booty call"?

Childhood chores...

What better way to start my triumphant return than by giving y'all, the one and half (maybe) readers still out there, an explanation about where I've been. Things around the phishbowl have been all kinds of busy. There's the day (and sometimes night) job, there's the design gig, there's telling lies at agent bedhead and trying to do right by the phinlet.

Well part of doing right by the phinlet is making sure that he grows up to be a respectable, responsible adult or a reasonable impersonation thereof. As some folks, mainly the voices in my head, suggested we start training him at an early age. So we've come up with some chores that he's responsible for. Just to make sure that the phinlet, age 10 months, totes his own weight around the house.

Well Kate's got some questions about such a thing, so I'll share.

Right now since he's not up to taking out the trash, mowing the law and operating the vacuum we're setting for smaller contributions. Like ensuring the stray Cheetos and Cheerios are off the kitchen / living room / dining room floors. On Saturdays we strap sponges to his hands, knees and forehead so he can mop the kitchen and dining room floors. Sure he misses a couple of spots, but he's learning quick that if he wants to eat the following week he'll do the job right.

I'd wrapped the phinlet in paper-towels, sprayed him down with lemon-pledge and stuffed him behind the entertainment center to dust a couple of weeks back. All was going good until he started flailing around and knocked a bunch of the wires loose. I guess I should have put those receptacle covers up, or at least not given him that fork to clean the crevasses.

Sure some people think its cruel and inhumane when they see the little guy working like a slave, but they normally quit fussing about that when I explain to them how I dust the ceiling fans with the cats.

There's no such thing as a free ride around my house, you know, unless you're me.

As far as penalizing him for chores that go undone or are poorly done I'd started out with a couple of quick lashes from a rubber hose, but well I think he's starting to enjoy the beatings. Mainly because he keeps bringing me the hose. So I guess we'll have to find some new methods of ensuring that he's performing up to snuff. I think I've got an frayed electrical cord, some nipple clamps and a bullwhip left over from date nights with the missus that ought to work, for a while at least.

Preserving a parent's sanity

Now that the phinlet's gone mobile the only think keeping me from implementing the child restraint seen below is the beatings the missus and his grandparents would throw me.

Well I can't claim it won't be implemented, but I will be bright enough to make sure there isn't any photographic evidence.

Star power

You know dear readers, all two and a half of you left, of all the "celebrities" I can identify with most in life there's one I never thought I'd emulate. Okay so there's more than one, but there's one I was 99.9% certain I'd never have to say, damn, it's just like the situation she was in.

See dear reader, for those of you keeping score at home, the phinlet is almost eight months old. Which means he's gone mobile, very much so and is into anything and everything that he can get his cute little paws on.

When you pair the phinlet's new found mobility with his lack of fear, well dear reader, there are bound to be some bumps and bruises. Like the latest edition to the phinlet's war chest of bruises that the missus is documenting should I ever piss her off too bad.

The phinlet as it seems takes after his dear old dad and something sparkly caught his eye. So what's the logical thing to do if you're an eight month old who has only recently started walking while holding on to the edge of the couch? You dive for said sparkly and face plant onto a couple of toys, one of which happens to be a plastic block.

Well after a bit of hollering, mainly the missus at me, the phinlet calmed down and we determined he was going live. No blood, no foul is what I was thinking. Well that's what I was thinking 'til the goose egg above his left eye showed up. With a little ice the swelling went down, but no doubt the boy's going to be sporting his first "shiner" at the ripe old age of eight months.

Me, I'm documenting it with pictures. At least he'll have something to show the therapists when claims the beatings started at an early age. I'm kind of expecting to hear the all too familiar knocking on the door, which would be our friendly social services officer paying a visit. Just like Brit-Brit.

I guess it could be worse, I have been emulating one of the Hiltons.

In Remembrance

I returned from a family trip to the beach and a pseudo hiatus from all things internet related a few days earlier than I'd hoped or planned. I received a call from my Dad earlier that one of my Aunts, his brother's wife, had passed away after battling with cancer for several years.

It hadn't really hit me that she was gone until I walked into the house a few hours ago. In the hurried state of planning to get home, spending a bit of time with our son, saying good-byes to the wife's family and driving back I'd managed to keep myself distracted. But now, there aren't any distractions, I'm sitting here trying figure out how to say good-bye to a woman I've known practically all my life.

To say Aunt C. could be difficult at times would be an understatement, but to me, that was part of her charm. You always knew where you stood good, bad or indifferent; if it was on her mind she said it. To some and even me at times, it wasn't the most desirable of traits. Looking back I can't help but respect her for it. Her opinions and beliefs were steadfast in a time when many people's convictions seem to falter and sway on a regular basis.

One of my first, and most fond, memories of the time we spent together was at a family reunion in Wilmington. Sitting outside of a small church where she fawned over how cute my brothers and I were. (Good looks and humility are just a couple of the crosses the men in our family are forced to bear.) As I passed by Wilmington on my way home today I could almost smell the fried chicken, collars and home-made biscuits that were a staple of the reunions, yet it didn't strike me until I got home that she'd never again be there with us.

I remember her talking to the missus a few short months ago before our son was born about how exciting and life altering parenthood is. I'll never get the chance to tell her just how right she was, but I'm certain she already knew it.

Aunt C. and the missus clicked. Like two peas in a pod they'd talk and cackle portions of it undoubtedly at my expense when they were together. I'd normally escape unscathed, but in parting she'd always remind me to take care of her girl and I'd always promise I would.

One of my greatest missteps was not finding the time to stop by to visit with her after our son had been born. I can't help but regret not taking the time to stop by with the missus and our son to spend a couple of hours with her. Selfishly I'd taken for granted that she'd be there when our schedules slowed down to a semi-normal pace and we could take a day to run up and visit. It’s something I'll always regret.

I picked up a card to send to my Uncle, before I drop it in the mail I wanted to put its words somewhere I can remember.

A Better Place
There's a place
I've never seen
beyond this world we know,

A place I've only heard of
but someday hope to go

It's not on any map,
there are not roads
to take me there.

But it's a place of perfect peace
where hearts are free from care

And though I understand
some may be saddened
when I leave,

One day, we all will meet again,
that's what I believe.

When it's time to travel there,
I think I'll wear a smile.

I'll say good-bye to those I love,
but only for a while,

Knowing there are others
who have traveled there alone,

Who cannot wait to greet me
and whisper "welcome home".

Headstrong and stubborn until the end we shared quite a few ways. I'll always look back fondly on the all too short time we were able to spend together and I'll take a bit of solace out knowing that at least now she's in a better place.

Good-bye Aunt C., you'll be missed and until we meet again I promise I'll take care of your girl.

Dirty Underwear Continued

Of all the reasons the missus has to bludgeon me to death I never really assumed it would be because I'd simply offered to help out. I guess as the old saying goes, no good deed goes unpunished, and neither shall I.

As you may have read in an earlier post the missus hosted a dirty underwear lingerie shower for the middle-sister-in-law this past weekend. Not wanting her, or the future brother-in-law (my fellow outlaw), to miss out on anything I made a several suggestions. See he's walking into this blind, only one or two of his friends are married so I've taken it upon myself to edumakate him on way to ensure happiness in marriage. There are things, at least a couple, that if the missus and I had to do over again we'd do differently. The first thing that popped into my mind was the "Lingerie Book".

Now I'm not sure if y'all know what a Lingerie Book is so I'll 'splain it. After the dirty underwear lingerie shower the bride to be books a day at the photographer's studio and he being a fellow pervert professional photographer snaps pictures to immortalize the moment and arranges them in a book for the new husband. Something to keep him warm at night when he's sleeping on the couch. It's a gift that keeps on giving, kinda like herpes.

Now the middle-sister-in-law is kind of shy and bashful so she didn't want some ole pervo snapping shots of her when she's all dolled up in her lacies. Everybody knows you don't want some stranger drooling over you, well most of us, when you're scantily clad and there's the stranger taking photographs, that's how folks find themselves in "compromising" positions on the Interwebs. So I offered to help, you know, making a personal sacrifice just so the young couple wouldn't miss out on anything the missus and I had missed out on.

Yep, I came up with the perfect solution, but the missus gunned it down. She didn't even take it into consideration. My suggestion, was not to have a stranger snap the shots, but to let me take the pictures. We've got a pretty nice camera and PhotoShop for the touch-ups, what else could they need?

But no, at the first mention of this brilliant plan the missus gave me a nasty look and let me know there was no way I'd be taking those photographs, hell I may be turned into a Eunich for suggesting it. I was crushed, actually devastated would be a better description, all I wanted to do was lend a helping hand, but no, she viewed it as some half-baked ill-thought out scheme so I could check out her sister in skimpy undies.

Really folks, do I strike y'all as the kind of person that would do something like that?

Here I am trying to lend a helping hand and I get smacked down. It's not like I keep a library of scantily clad women on my machine so I can ogle over them at any given time (I've got to wait until the missus isn't looking over my shoulder).

Of course if'n y'all want to send me those special pictures you've got stored away for, um backup purposes, you know in case something happens to your computer, that's just one of the many services I'd be glad to offer. It's not like I'd add them to that non-existent library or anything. Really, I wouldn't, you can trust me, of course you can trust me, honest.

Dirty Underwear

This past weekend the phinlet and I had to evacuate, well it was only Sunday afternoon, but an evacuation was in full effect. The missus, the mother-in-law and the youngest sister-in-law were hosting a Lingerie Shower for the middle sister-in-law, and well, that's just no place for a man to be. Nope, I'll pass on hearing a bunch of women cackle over dirty-drawers any day.

This of course got me to thinking, which as y'all know is always dangerous. There are several I don't understand about this deal. Why devote an entire "shower" to lingerie? Really, why?

It's not like her friends are going give the fun stuff, like leather or perhaps a complete gimp outfit. No they're going with the "pretty" stuff, satin, silk and lace, you know the drill. The standard fare from Victoria's Secretes.

Then there's the logical and analytical side of me that says why not get them something useful. Like a blender or a crock-pot or a vacuum, not something that's going to get worn a few of times for a couple of minutes.

Then I get overly logical and analytical and start to wonder why the hell women wear lingerie at all. Most men, especially newly weds, don't need a whole lot of convincing to hop into the sack at a moments notice. Now women, as we all know, need a bit more convincing and for some reason I'm thinking dirty, once white, tighty-whities aren't really that much of a turn on.

So why aren't they having lingerie showers for men? With all the misconceptions that most men have going into married life the least that could be done is to send the poor sap off with clean underwear. Of course the convenient yellow in the front & brown in the back markers may make dressing a bit complex for the first few weeks, but they'll be rectified quickly.

A change folks, that's what we need, a change in the way things are done. Hell the least the ole hens could do is bring a pair or two of boxers with them for the groom. Then he won't have to go commando for a couple of weeks after his new bride dons a hazmat suit and tosses his seasoned undies in the garbage to make room for her socks.

The Last Pitch

Somewhereabouts nine years ago I was introduced to a cute, blond haired, blue eyed eleven year-old, that I'd grow to love like the baby sister I never had. She is of course my wife's youngest sister, who lives with us whilst she's going to college.

In the past nine years I've watched her grow as a person and as an athlete. Last June I wrote about how much I enjoyed watching her play softball.

With this year's softball season in full swing and things returning to semi-normalcy after the phinlet's birth I had looked forward to returning once again fields of green to watch her dominating performances from the mound. Each pitch a brilliant display of grace, speed and beauty, truly a mesmerizing sight.

This year however was cut short. A week ago I received a call from the missus, the Sister-In-Law had turned her ankle in practice. The initial diagnoses was a sprain. A doctor's appointment and x-rays were scheduled for Wednesday morning. I received a call Wednesday afternoon, the diagnoses a pretty bad break that was going to require surgery. The surgery was promptly scheduled for Thursday.

Attempts to sleep Wednesday night were in vain.

As I was driving to work Thursday morning I was overwhelmed with feeling of anger and sadness. I realized for a long time ago, and say quite often, that life isn't fair. This my friends, is a shining example.

Twelve years she's spent perfecting the motions she uses to hurl the ball across home plate at 60+ miles an hour.

Twelve years learning how to reach other pitchers enabling her to carry one of the team's highest batting averages.

Twelve years as a student of the game and its intricacies.

All stolen in the blink of an eye.

I got a call from the missus Thursday and the surgery went okay. She was home. It took a plate and two pins to repair the damage.

I keep hoping and praying that this isn't how her pitching career is going to end, but things aren't looking so hot, and I haven't woke from a nightmare yet.

Sunday was the last home game for the college. Since it's a Junior college they were honoring their graduating sophomores (similar to senior day).

When the Sister-In-Law's name was called with the use of crutches she stepped forward as they started reading off her stats for the year.

Thirty-four games pitched, twenty-five wins and nine losses.

Eight-hundred-sixty-some-odd batters faced, with one-hundred-eighty-some-odd strikeouts and an ERA of 2.3.

And a batting average a bit better than .250.

The list went on but somewhere in the mix I lost track.

The announcements ended, the flurry of pictures subsided, the parents started shuffling back to their seats and it was time to get the show on the road. The person chosen to throw out the ceremonial first pitch was none other than the Sister-In-Law and she did so with a smile on her face.

Something I couldn't do, hell, something I couldn't watch without grimacing.

She smiled as she threw out the first pitch of the game, potentially the last pitch of her collegiate career, then she stepped over to the dug-out to watch the game and to cheer her team-mates on.

From the pitchers mound she'd proven time and again why she was the most-valuable-player in many of their games and tournaments. Sunday she showed that as a champion she can grin through pain and continue to lead her team, even when she isn't on the pitcher's mound.

I've often admitted to being in awe of her prowess from the pictures mound and in the batters box.

This time, as she threw out the first pitch, I sat in silent admiration of more than her athletic ability.

Nature versus Nurture answered once and for all

On a couple of occasions the missus and I have noticed that the phinlet enjoys being naked, as I said earlier, he's a chip off the ole block.

Well something else we've noticed solves the nature versus nurture question once and for all.

On several occasions, whether it be during the daily diaper change or weekly bath, hey we're all about sanitary conditions here, the phinlet has grasped aholdst of his "joy stick". With his “winkie”, as the missus calls it, firmly in hand he proceeds to smile and laugh.

So for all the ladies, who have wondered why we men have to "adjust" ourselves or check to ensure Mr. Happy and the twins are still there on an hourly basis, sorry, it's engrained into the very fabric of our souls. Our genetic being dictates, if you will, that we keep a firm grasp of the situation at hand.

Life father, like son

Just a few minutes ago I was laying on the couch catching a quick nap with the phinlet.

I woke up and noticed the phinlet's lower jaw moving at a fairly rapid pace, up and down whilst pulling is bottom lip in. Making the same motions he would if he's have been "latched on" during a feeding session.

My Sister-In-Law noticed it, we pointed it out to the missus and we laughed for a bit.

This of course only means one thing, the phinlet, at the ripe old age of four weeks, is already dreaming about boobages.

I guess there's no denying that he's my offspring, the fruit of my loins, a chip off the ole block. As they say, like father, like son.

I couldn't be any more proud.

Yay!!!

The newest MuNuvain has arrived.

Congrats to RP, the Viking Bride, the Girl Child and the Boy Child on the newest addition to their family!

Incoherent ramblings part deux

For some reason visitors to our home haven't found breast-milk to be an acceptable substitute for cream in their coffee.

Isn't swaddling the next best thing to putting your infant in a straight-jacket? Not that there's anything wrong with either of these approaches. I just wished the missus would quit trying to find somewhere to purchase a "swaddling" jacket for me.

Several of the sources we've read about breast-feeding say for the missus to eat a variety of foods as this will help to expand the phinlet's palate. I just find this hard to believe. I've tasted the stuff, breast-milk that is, and it doesn't resemble any type of food I've ever tasted.

Diaper manufactures are full of crap. Plain and Simple. Try we may we haven't been able to hit the ten pound weight limit on the phinlet diapers yet. Even when you consider add nine pounds of baby the crap starts spewing out of the sides long before the weight limit is reached. Perhaps if we duct-tape the top and leg opening shut it'll work, I'm just afraid the cleanup would be a bitch. I guess it goes to show there's no truth in advertising.

More pics of the phinlet below the fold after a quick warning to the other parents out there. You may want to lock your daughters up, teh cuteness may just be too much for the lasses to handle. We are of course beginning to negotiate doweries.

I really can't help but think of the family guy:
Peter: Brian, there a message in my cereal, it says OOOOO.
Brian: Peter those are Cheerios.

Of course after a hard day's work there's nothing better than a nap.

A tad bit on the incoherent side of life...

I've been on a tad bit of a hiatus from the interweb the past couple of weeks. Primarily getting by blogidohexiweb fix via RSS Feeds (yes I know they're da debil) and leaving comments few and far between. This week marks my return to normalcy, somewhat.

Just a random smattering of incoherent ramblings to start of the week:

The missus and phinlet are doing well. I really can't put into words how much the everyone's kind words and well wishes mean to us. I never realized just how many friends (a term I don't throw around frequently) until now. The only thing I can come up with it. Thank you for your kind words, for keeping the missus and phinlet in your thoughts and prayers. Thank you for your words of encouragement. Thank you for providing a distraction when life was all too real. Thank you.

I've never been sure I'd measure up to the level of parenting my parents reached. I'm still unsure, but with the missus by my side I'm not as nervous as I once was.

I'm back at the office fulltime. I'd say back at work, but I don't want to be here. Kind of funny how priorities can change in the blink of an eye. Well not really the blink of an eye, you get the drift.

I'm constantly amazed by phinlet. I'd always been a tad bit nervous about being a father. In the two and a half weeks since his hatching phinlet has already taught me more than I'd ever thought possible.

It crushes me each time I have to leave home to go to work knowing that there are several hours I won't be around the two people I hold most dear in life.

Our pet boxer has already become quite fond of phinlet. If he's less than happy about something and we're not attending to his needs as she thinks we should she'll let us know by banging on the side of her kennel or with a bark (or two).

Amazing how life works ain't it?

Fatherhood

NOTE: Posted by Confederate Yankee, but written by our dad. I will not start talking about "the Phin" like one would talk about "the Manolo." He is right about everything else, however. My nephew is in very good hands.]

I had been asked by Phin to keep everyone up to date on how everything is going. Simply put Mom, Dad and Phinlet are all doing well. As the father of the Phin, I would like to make some observations:

I have had the great fortune to have three sons, all of whom I am very proud. I can look at them, each and everyone, and tell everyone that I have been successful as a father.

As a parent it has been a pleasure, mixed with an occasional headache and one or two heartaches watching them develop and mature into the fine young men, fathers and father to be. (Son number three just announced that he and wife are expecting in October. They withheld notification to keep from distracting from the excitement of the birth of the Phinlet. – See what I mean about fine men!)

Now to the Phin. He, of the three showed the least signs of being the cuddly type. He has always been the most reserved, even a little shy at first meeting. He has never demonstrated a “comfort” level with babies and small children, even his nieces.

Well, enter the Phinlet. You would think that the Phin had spent his entire life caring for little ones. There is no doubt that this baby is his and that he takes his role seriously. We were visiting the day of the birth, when it became necessary for the baby’s diaper to be changed. Nana, the Phin’s mom, jumped up ready to come to the rescue – but NO. The Phin would have none of it, he made it very clear to one and all that the baby is his son and he is responsible for his life, liberty and clean diapers. (This may change when they really start smelling.) But he has been ever by the side of his bride and son, never shirking his responsibilities. (He even turned down a chance to go fishing – now, in our family that is serious devotion).

Kidding aside. It has been a real pleasure to see how the Phin has adjusted to the role of father. I can tell you from personal observation that this is not a role that all males readily adapt to, but in my humble opinion, it is a role that a “man” will not only adapt to but will relish.

So let it be said, once again that the “old one” is very proud of the Phin and his “older and sometimes wiser brother,” not so much for what they have accomplished, but for who they are and who they have indicated they will be in the most important job that a man can have - that full-time, long term job of being a father.

There's no place like home

Want to let y'all know that the missus, phinlet and I greatly appreciate your kind words and thoughts over the past several days.

I'll get a play-by-play (with commentary) of the hatching process up in the next day or so.

One question. Why didn't anybody tell me not to say he looked like Winston Churchill PRIOR to us heading to the hospital?

Enter the Phinlet

Our dad cobbled this together, and asked that I post this on his behalf since Phin, incredibly, doesn't seem to have the time to blog right now.

Just wanted to publish an update on family phin. The phinlet, came into this world, not of his own volition at approximately 0115 on the morning of March 9, 2006. As I mentioned yesterday Ms. Phin began labor at about 0630 on the morning of the 8th. After about 18 hours and little progress the decision was made to do a "C" section. Good move. The phinlet came into this world looking for a beer and a cigar.

At 8lbs 14 oz, with a full head of hair, he is at least half grown.

After seeing the little guy and verifying that Phin and wife were well, Nana and Papa went home to bed. After three hours of sleep and a days work we returned to the hospital for the formal introduction to our new grandson. Not that I’m biases, but he is cute as a "guppy."

I do what to say that we have some pictures and as soon as I can figure how to upload we will get them out. Maybe tomorrow night when CY and family arrive he can help educate an old man.

Frankly, I've been trying to educate the old man for years, so I doubt one more night is going to help all that much.

Oh... did someone say something about a picture?

Enter the Phinlet:

I gotta tell you: Phin and the Mrs do really, really good work.

Welcome to the family, kid. You'll be much loved.

The best laid plans...

If the missus doesn't go into labor on her own shortly, the vet is gonna induce labor sometime around 6:30am tomorrow. I'm not real sure why they choose this obscene hour of the morning, but from conversations it appears to be a bit of a conspiracy. Seems they'd let the expectant father get at least one more decent nights sleep, but nooooooooooo, it's all about the ladies, funny how that works.

As y'all might expect posting over the next couple of days will probably be sporadic, at best. For some reason the missus was against me live-blogging the hatching process. I'm thinking I may slip a pocket recorder in just so I've got proof of the verbal abuse.

I'm of course taking the advice of several folks and leaving a majority of my sense of humor at the door and also planning to keep my mouth shut, duct tape may be involved. That's probably the only way I'll make it out of the delivery room 1) alive 2) with the family jewels still attached and in working order. If I turn up missing it's because I said something stupid.

Who'd a thunk it

Seems the WaPo is strugglin' for content.
That or they've been taken over by a mob of angry, pajama clad, right wing bloggers who are bored.

Either way they've stooped to interviewing the author of Confederate Yankee*.

For some reason I can almost hear his voice answering the questions.

Congrats Bob.

Update : Post bumped to the top of the page, as this is probably the closest I'll come to blogfame, well at least until I go postal and smear the interweb with fecal mater. Wait, that's already being done by the KOS Kids, I'll have to find another shtick.

Update #2: Didn't mention it until the link was available, but he's now guest blogging at the WaPo.

* In case y'all didn't know, or had forgotten, Bob is my older and sometimes wiser brother.

Phinlet Update

He still hasn't made his grand appearance yet. Apparently timelines and curfews mean little to him, he gets that trait from his mother.

The doc says if he hasn't hatched by Thursday we'll pick a day next week to induce labor, smart money would be on Monday the 6th, if not sooner.

I haven't said it before so I'll go on record now. I'm amazed at how well the missus is holding up. Nary a complaint, no whining and hell she isn't even throwing anything heavy at me, yet. You can damned well believe if our roles were reversed the doctors would have already induced labor, commiserated with the wife, and then euthanized me for the betterment of the planet.

Phinlet Watch Day (Sorry I ran out of appendages to count) + 3

Nope.

I'm really starting to think he's got his mother's stubborn streak, in which case we'll be here next week, waiting. Maybe if I sneak up behind her and startle her throughout the next day or so it'll get things going.

My buddy WB says this is what I get for having "the sex". Is that what caused it. Damn, and here I had bought all kinds of filters to make sure it wasn't something in the water. I guess I can take the hazmat suit off and ditch the breathing mask too, can't be too safe, wasn't sure if it was contagious. Damn I guess there wasn't an interweb wide "out-break" after all, guess that goes to show that bloggers have a bit more than just time on their hands.

Contagion had a pretty good suggestion about keeping chocolate around and when she slips into berserker mode to toss a few at her. This sounds like the perfect idea, I'm actually quiet ashamed I hadn't thought of it.

Of course this suggestion leads to another question.
What type of candy? I've got the mini-reeses cups and hershey kisses on hand, but I don't think they'll slow her down. I'm leaning towards the King Sized Milky Way or Three Musketeers. If they're frozen to the proper temperature a well places shot to the temple should slow her enough for me to escape.

Oh yeah, before I forgot. We've got a vet doctor's appointment tomorrow morning, so I'll let y'all know what I find out.

Phinlet Watch Day (Sorry I ran out of appendages to count) + 2

Nope.

Zero.

Zilch.

Nadda.

I'm thinking he gets the stubborn streak from his mother.

The sense of humor, which involves playing kickball with her bladder, may come from my side of the family.

Phinlet Watch Day (Sorry I ran out of appendages to count)

Nope, he ain't here yet.

Can't really say that I blame him.
It is kinda chilly outside, warm and cozy inside.

Unhealthy Addictions

I realized yesterday, while trying to keep the Missus from killing me in a hormonal nesting instinct driven rage, that I have an unhealthy addiction. I also realize that a great many of my regular readers, okay both of them, hold me in high regard and view me as a "man among men". To ensure that image isn't destroyed I'm recommending that y'all skip reading this entry and giving you the chance to do so now, just click away.

And on with the show. As I was hanging my clothes up, yeah I know, that's woman's work, but the little lady is 'bout to bust any day now and I figured I could help out. The least I can do is hang my clothes up after she's washed and put them on the hangers, anyhow, I'm getting off topic. I'm hanging my clothes up I see that I have quite a few pairs of shoes in my closet, sixteen to be exact, and that's not counting the five pairs of boots and four sets flip-flops that get worn more often than the shoes do.

Some may consider this an affliction, that I need to turn in my man card and forever join the ranks of the metrosexuals, me not so much. Is it my fault that I've got good taste in shoes? That I can't help but pickup a pair, or two, here and there? It's an addiction folks, at times, I just can't help myself. There's this voice, a familiar soft sweet sirens voice, saying: phin get the shoes. phin, it's just one more pair, and they're perfect. See how they fit and they're the last ones in your size, it's supposed to happen this way. Of course the voice is that of the Missus, and she finishes the statement with and how about paying for these as you're checking out.

You can see I'm not taking the one hundred percent of the blame, really would you expect any less of me? The Missus has an even greater addiction to footwear, and clothing in general, than I do. When we moved from her apartment, where we'd lived the first couple of months we were married, I found out just what I'd gotten myself into. As my father, brother and I were moving the contents of her closet we found that she had enough shoes to go several months without wearing the same pair twice. Her shoes, loose pairs stuffed into two fifty gallon containers, the boxed pairs remained in the boxes, filled the back of a full sized Chevy truck. That's a whole damn lot of shoes and her collection has done nothing but grow the past several years.

She's like a lioness on the prowl when enters a store with shoes or any other accessories for that matter. I feel sorry, at times, for the poor bastards that step into her path. She'll think nothing of dropping her shoulder into or giving some eighty-year-old woman the heisman if she's standing between her and deal. A damned scary site it is to witness folks and I've mistakenly been in her path, once and only once, after all I ain't that stupid.

What is needed here is an intervention of sorts. Perhaps there's a local SAA, Shoe Addicts Anonymous, Chapter that we could sign up for. I realize it's probably way too late for her, and perhaps past my time me, my main concern is for the boy. He hasn't even escaped from the womb yet and there are several boxes of "pre-walkers" laying around.

I realize that admitting my addiction is the first step in doing battle with it, and battle with it I will, right after I pick these bad boys up, and replace my trusty Wolverine Wellington's that're worn out.

Because I'm a hopeless romantic

I've been debating the past couple of hours as to whether or not I wanted to publish this post. The more I think about it the more I realize that not all the men out their romanticize their women like I do and let's face it folks some of the men are gonna get jealous and some of the women are gonna wonder why their husbands aren't as thoughtful as I am.

See back when the Missus and I first started dating, when she wasn't the Missus and was the girlfriend, I never really had to worry too much about Valentine's Day. Her room-mate and best friend was born on the 14th of February and thus we celebrated her birthday instead, only exchanging cards and perhaps a small, albeit thoughtful, gift. All was well and good while the missus was the girlfriend and for the first three years she was the Missus because we'd inevitably end up celebrating her best friends birthday.

Of course all good things must come to an end and our forth Valentine's Day as a married couple rolled around and the missus' best friend was out of state working. As luck would have it Valentine's Day also fell on a Saturday that year. After we drug out of bed and scrounged around the kitchen to find something to eat we proceeded to exchange cards and gifts. Me being the hopeless romantic I'm pretty sure her card came from the "humorous" section in the local Eckerd's or CVS Drug Store, because, you know, that's the kind of thoughful loving guy I am.

We had decided in advance that we'd head out for an early dinner around 3 or 4 O’clock in the afternoon to beat the crowds that would surely be forming. As we rolled down restaurant row we noticed several restaurants were already packed, with lines forming outside. No problem we headed to a couple of restaurants out of the way, damn lines their too. Of course as we were riding I'd noticed the local Hooter's, delightfully tacky yet unrefined, only had two or three cars in the parking lot.

After checking a couple other alternatives and finding anywhere between a two and three hour wait I jokingly remarked that we could always head to Hooter's. Much to my surprise the Missus said okay; at this point she didn't give a damn and just wanted something to eat. As we head we notice several other couples, the guys all pounding beer and catching hell for not making reservations. Notably the Missus didn't say anything about my lack of planning, I was of course waiting for the shoe to drop, it never did, it didn't get the chance.

Over the next twenty minutes or so several more couples made their way in. I'd downed a beer, figuring my verbal lashing would be much more tolerable with a buzz, ordering another round and appetizers I noticed the waitresses, aka Hooters Girls, pulling bar-stools to the edges of the booths occupied by couples as they took the drink orders. By the time the Hooters Girls had finished arranging the chairs I'd downed another beer and was waiting for another round to arrive when the tables were swarmed, a better plan of attack couldn't have been laid out by old Rummy himself. The Hooters Girls swarmed the occupied booths from all sides ensuring none of the unsuspecting men victims could escape. We were trapped like rats and mesmerized like a Opossum in headlights just waiting to be killed dead, or worse.

It seems our local Hooters Girls who'd been drafted to work on Valentine's Day had hatched an evil plan to get even with those of us dumb enough to bring in a date. Their plan was brilliant, pure genius, and yet so simple like the jitterbug it plum evaded me. The head hooterette stepped forward and explained their plan: We, the men, were to serenade our dates, not only serenade them, but to stand upon the barstools they'd arranged beside our barstools, not just any old serenade either, no sir. We was gonna sing, You Are My Sunshine, to the lovely ladies, who, evidently, are the light of our lives.

Now not everybody was familiar with the lyrics, okay I was scrambling for any excuse possible, so the Hooters Girls lead us through the song and motions the first time. The next go round it was men only, if we even deserved to be called men anymore, singing. So there I was, all 6'3" of me standing on a barstool belting out You Are My Sunshine complete with the gestures learned in kindergarten, 'twas a sight to behold no doubt about it.

Graceful and heart wrenching aren't descriptors that would be used to describe my performance; comical however would be a perfect fit. The missus of course asked me to repeat the last half of the song, seems she missed it due to the hysterical fit of laughter she erupted into. After the performance we ate, consumed a couple more adult beverages and went on our happy way. The missus of course called everybody we know, and a several people we don't, to let them know about my performance. I of course didn't care 'cause I got to call all my buddies, who were still waiting in line to eat and let them know I'd eaten at Hooters on Valentine's Day.

For the record, the food was decent, the beer was cold and the Hooters Girls looking nothing like any of the chicks in the preceding links.

Not quite sure how I'm gonna top it this year, heck I probably won't even attempt to do any better, of course I am drinking for three now so things could get interesting.

In the beginning

Last week he missus was insistent that we purchase a stroller and playpen prior to junior's arrival. I was content letting her carry him around. I mean in the olden days women used to give birth and then get right back to work in the fields; it seems to me the least she could do is carry him around until he starts walking.

So I put my foot down and explained to her that there wasn't any way in hell we were going out and blowing money on a stroller, playpen, etc... that she was just gonna have to buck up and carry him around for a little while. Boy howdy are women these days getting lazier by the minute.

Later on that night as we're out buying a stroller, she's making sure that everything matches. By everything I mean the stroller has to match the playpen which has to match the highchair which has to match the swing that matches the car seat and all this matches the sheets and other crap that goes with the crib.

For the first few months of the boy's life he'll be surrounded by matching baby accessories. It's not just the travel gear, outfits come complete from head to toe with the perfect accessories, or so I've been told. This folks is how metrosexuals are created, not that there's anything wrong with being a metrosexual. There's no good reason for it, that I can see. Just what the hell's wrong with lettin' junior pick out his clothes? I mean, it worked perfectly fine for me until I got married a lifetime ago.

So we get home and the missus decided we should put the stroller together, and by we I mean me, as she's barking out orders and giggling about how cute it is. From there we, and by we I mean her, started organizing the nursery. After several ill-advised attempts at helping to arrange junior's wardrobe the missus is planning to implement a barcode or numbering system to ensure his outfits match should I be left unsupervised and he requires dressing. Apparently 'au natural' or diaper only isn't a viable option.

As a diversion the "R" Us brands of stores could make a killing by setting up a lounge and serving adult beverages to the refugees, namely the fathers and expectant fathers that get roped in going to hell on earth. Just think how much happier everybody would be. The ladies could roam about the range freely, fulfilling their urge to hunt and gather; while the men could relax in a pleasant atmosphere and comfort each other with war stories.

At some point in the near future I'll be headed out to buy several pairs of overalls for the boy. Really that and a couple of flannel shirts is all he'll need when we leave the house. If it's hot, overalls with no shirt, if it's cold, put on a flannel. For attire around the house, shouldn't kids be allowed to roam freely in as natural a state as possible? Thus the diaper only theory of dressing. The missus for some reason has already objected to this approach, damned baby fashion Nazis they've already brain washed her, but what she doesn't know won't hurt me, too badly.

Compassion and Compromise

I've had several folks e-mail and ask how the missus is doing. She's doing quite well and contrary to popular belief I'm doing my best to help ease her burden and "put her needs first". See she's hit the sage where she's just a bit uncomfortable and awfully tired by the time she gets home from work.

I've of course decided the best way to go through this phase is by consuming vast quantities of booze, I find after four or five drinks the voices quiet down nicely and I can concentrate on the tasks (maintaining my buzz) at hand. To help the missus in her time of need I'm compassionate; I offer words of encouragement and bits of advice when she gets home after a long day at work, like:
- Why don't you rest a couple of minutes before fixing my dinner.
- You don't have to do the dishes, now, they'll still be there for you after you get me another beer.
- You know what always makes me feel better after a long day at the office, a foot-rub. Then I hand her a bottle of lotion so she doesn't have to go all the way to the back to get one before she starts massaging my tired feets.

I've even stopped drinking during my lunch break and don't really start pounding the drinks until after eight o'clock. That way in the morning when I'm hung over and in need of pampering she's well rested and at her best after getting a couple hours of sleep.

I learned a long time ago that marriage was about compassion and compromise and if I'm not willing to make a sacrifice and offer a word or two of encouragement then who is?

Blog(ger) PTSD

I'm not real sure whether it's the blog or me that's suffering the most after the past couple of weeks as a series of unfortunate and rather traumatic events have unfolded here in the phish bowl.

As many of y'all know the missus is with child and due to give birth in about six weeks, everythings as normal as possible with her so don't worry about that. Now the preparations for Junior's arrival have taken on precedence as the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel is drawing nearer, both figuratively and literally. The wife's honey-do list as now become a list of demands and she's now barking orders out at a decibel and with a ferocity that would make General George Patton seem like a wee little schoolgirl. It's a tad bit disconcerting to say the least.

Now as y'all can imagine I like to take things at my own pace (as long as the missus isn't looking I'm the boss around here damn it!!!!) and this has lead to a couple of "misunderstandings" as to the time frame in which she'd like things done. You'll notice I say she, because my opinion apparently no longer matters. Really she wouldn't be in this mess "with child" if it weren't for me so shouldn't I have a say in some of the decisions? Sure she could have found some other drunken hobo to sire her child, but then he wouldn't have my charm, good looks, sense of humor and humility. Of course, I've recently been informed that when she wants my opinion she'll give it to me.

The largest part of these plans of course involved getting the nursery ready. Now three weeks ago we didn't have a nursery. I had an office / blog room, but we didn't have a nursery. I had a domicile of sanity and a place hide from the women that have overrun my home, but we didn't have a nursery. I had a room that laden with testosterone and free of Estrogen, but we didn't have a nursery. Now we do.

My "crap" has been cleaned out, the carpet shampooed, the walls painted and we're office to the races. The custom desk I'd built has been removed and replaced with a crib. The entertainment center removed and replaced with a changing table. Light blues, greens are the colors and ducks now adorn the walls where pictures of the Hatteras and Ocracoke Lighthouses and maps of North Carolina's Ghost Fleet and Outer Banks were once proudly on display.

As a side affect from these traumatic actions is the normal level of suckitude on display here has suffered. Anyhoo, I too have seen the light at the end of the tunnel, a majority of the pressing matters have been addressed and the regular levels of dysfunction should return any day now. If that doesn't work there's more beer.

One thing this exercise did help with is the realization that for at least the next eighteen years everything I say and ninety percent of what I'll do from hereafter will be wrong; thus I'll sit back, relax, drink beer and laugh as the remainder of my sanity slips out of grasp. It is of course all very well worth it.

Update: Now with a picture that explains everything!!!

Lumberjack Syndrome

I awoke this mornin' about 2am askairt. As askairt as I've ever been before in my short thirty years hear on earth. When I was shocked awake I realized that at some point during the night aliens had snuck into my bedroom and replaced my lovely bride with an ill mannered twin.

The thing that startled me awake was loud snoring. Matter of fact I was pretty sure that a drunken lumberjack had passed out on the other side of our bed. But the snoring quit when I pinched her nose shut so I'm pretty sure her boyfriend snuck out before I woke up.

She's making frequent trips to the bathroom. She's up every couple of hours, if I didn't know better I'd think she was spending all her spare time at the bar pounding beers with all the other pregnant chics in town.

Then there's the swelling, everything is swelling, including the lump she left on the back of my head.

Pregnant women scare me, they're so damned mean and violent.

note: Parts of this post are complete and total B.S., but I'll leave it to you to decide which parts.

Home alone

The missus is away for the better part of the weekend, hopefully coaching her basketball team to victory in a Christmas tournament. By default, I'm home, alone, a bachelor again. I'm thinking I'll need angioplasty before she gets back.

The theme for tonight’s meal: If it ain't fried it ain't food. On the menu Fatback, Fried Pork Chops, Fried Okra (See green veggies Ma!) and Fried Squash. Maybe a Spam sammich for snack.

Breakfast tomorrow: Country Sausage & Bacon from the local butcher, fried eggs and hash browns.

Tomorrow's trip to the butcher will determine tomorrow's lunch, dinner and snack.

The Eskimo and I

I've determined that my wife being pregnant is turning her into an Eskimo. An Eskimo that enjoys spending time in a sauna.

Now since the wife says I tend exaggerate and if I've told her one I've told her a million times I'm not embellishing these stories one bit. So I figured it best to give y'all some background information. When it comes to indoor temperatures I like to keep it fairly constant, in the warmer months the thermostat is set on 70°, in the cooler months somewhere between 67° and 70°.

The girls (and by girls I mean programmers and by programmers I mean smelly computer geeks) at the office are constantly fussing about it being to cold. I of course laugh and tell'em if they had a normal diet, something other than Cheetos, Coffee and energy drinks, their bodies would function normally.

It seems however, that learning first hand what they're always bitching about. As the lovely bride's time of being "with child" has progressed her sense of comfortable temperatures has also managed to take some pretty wild swings and they're only getting more erratic. One minute she's donned clothes enough to face sub-arctic temperatures, two minutes later she's stripped down to shorts and a t-shirt and is talking about it being hotter than forty hells. All the while I'm sitting on the couch, eating Cheetos and drinking a Rockstar energy drink, wondering if she's going to find a happy medium, temperature wise.

The past several nights the happy medium has been found. It's called she controls the thermostat. When we've gone anywhere she's cranked the heat up in the Oto-mo-biiile so high I'm sweating like its mid-July in Death Valley as she shivers along. As soon as we reach the house, she's hot, it's winter and we're running the A/C. When the icicles start forming in places where icicles ought not be its just too damned cold.

When I start bitching she of course plays the whole I'm pregnant with YOUR child card. Right like that's gonna have any, hey wait a second it works every time. Damn, I'm so easily manipulate and you wimmins are so damned crafty.

Thus as a prospective father I'll begin prematurely by blaming the boy. I'm pretty sure Junior's going to have a great since of humor and will be mechanically inclined as he's already having a field day toying with her internal thermostat. I've asked Junior to leave her thermostat alone, begged even, yet it appears he'll have her ability to listen as I've been repeatedly ignored. Of course my life of requesting Junior stop fooling with the Thermostat and anything else he's not supposed to play with is probably just beginning.

Note to the Parental Units: You may stop giggling at any moment now, it really ain't that funny, I'm DYING OVER HERE, there's frostbite even.

The wolves den

This morning involved a trip to the doctor's office with el pregito aka the lovely bride for a routine check up and the gestational diabetes test. Now I've always been one to study for tests (family members need not correct this lie) so the gestational diabetes test seemed kinda easy to me. All you've got to do is drink a yummy looking orange drink and then wait an hour for them to draw a couple of vials of blood.

I sure hope she passed the test as she didn't study much and she must not like orange drinks 'cause she was making funny faces as she drank it. I tried to taste the drink, but she wouldn't let me, something about me getting pregnant, she was mumbling so I didn't quiet understand it. Well that and I was busy opening a honey bun to eat for breakfast, the cellophane wrappers sure are noisy.

Something I did observe though is the "pack mentality" of pregnant women. See there we were, the missus and me, and three or four other women who are pregnant or have the biggest beer bellies I've ever seen, chatting away. Then a somewhat, but not really*, attractive woman walked into the office and had the audacity to be skinny around all those pregnant chics. Now that's when the snarls formed and the fangs started showing. From the glances these women, who'd be basking in each other's pregnancy glow just minutes before, you could hear them calling the chic that walked in a skinny bitch.

The other expectant father in the lobby noticed the same thing and we laughed about it until we were became the recipients of said glances.

* The utilization of a six pack and a paper bag would've made her a knockout.

Sick blogging

Why is it that women feel every time one of us men fall ill we revert back to a infantile state of being. That we're no longer capable of taking care of ourselves, that we have to be catered too and require being spoken to in a tone of voice resembling that of a mother speaking softly too a newborn.

Yet while adhering to the ladies' Florence Nightingale complex, instead of going to the intensive care unit where we rightfully belong, if we mention, in passing, that we aren't feeling so hot we suddenly transform into the world's biggest candy ass. It's as if a woman's ability to give birth to a teeny tiny little baby entitles them to kick us while we're down; the birth giving process often being one in which the lady’s every whim is attended to while they comfortably recline on a bed with foot rests, waiting for the doctor (often a man) to come in and help them through a natural process they can’t get through on their own.

Now you're probably wondering what's brought all of this to light. This weekend I was stricken by an illness, once so severe that my mere survival of said illness is a testament to my deity-like status. Yet while I was battling this viral infection, fading in and out of consciousness, struggling to stay in this world, the missus chose to kick me while I was down. Oft referring to me as whinny and saying she's carrying one baby she doesn't need another to take care of.

As I battled this viral infection, locked in a life or death struggle for the ages to remember, the missus gleefully went about her way. There I was laying in what could have quiet possibly been my deathbed, running a fevered temperature of 99.2 degrees, as she was gallivanting about the city running errands and carrying on as if everything were normal. Why is it that women, who expect the world to come to a screeching halt when during the brief time they give birth to a child, are unable to express compassion for those who shelter and protect them on a daily basis and instead turn to mockery to deal with what they know must be a serious illness as well?

All we men are asking for is a bit of equality, yet we're repeatedly kicked in the ‘nads for asking for a bit of help when we're down.

Another update on the way...

Another massive, major, earth shattering, life changing announcement coming soon (at least in my little world). No the missus isn't having twins or triplets.

However I will leave you with this question:

Why is it the little things in life that bring us so much amusement and the greatest pleasure; yet they also get us into the most amount of trouble?

If anybody's looking for me I'll be on the couch; at least until the missus quits trying to elbow me in the ribs.

The new math

My collegiate career left me three or four courses shy of having a bachelors of science in Mathematics. For some reason the brain trusts that formed the Computer Science curriculum, and not just at the school I attended, decided Math should be the predominant theme.

The early years of my collegiate experience (I spent a total of eight years enrolled full time) were spent studying Linear Algebra, Calculus and Statistics. From there as I moved into courses geared more towards my "major" I was taking Discrete Mathematics, Computation and Complexity Theory, and other various math courses mixed in with the computer science courses. During these courses I've seen and studied numbers enough to drive sane men batty and to push those of us already teetering on the edge into full blown insanity.

After gradiashun I'd decided the real world wasn't for me, plus the tech bubble was about to burst, so I decided to stay in skool. I'd started out going after my Masters Degree in Computer Science, then after another semester spent in the hallowed halls of the Math Building (which had a perpetual aroma of body odor) I decided I'd switch gears and become an SOB. Well at least I'd be a certifiable SOB since I was going after my MBA, I'd officially be a School Of Business student.

Thus the focus of my mathematical edumicatshun switched focus. No longer was I writing three and four page proofs to solve one question, I was now concerned with Debts and Credits, Micro and Macro Economics, Financial Reports and how to tame the Shrew using Statistics once again.

Yet all these courses failed to teach me anything about the facts of life. Yes during my eight years of College one course backed up theories of "New Math". That indeed 1 + 1 = 3, and in some cases 1 + 1 = 4 or more. I've spent hour upon hour researching this on Al Gore's wonderful internet and I've found a couple of sites stating this to be true, yet they fall to the way side with all the naked midgets and dancing penguins available.

Proof folks I've got photographic, and other graphic, proof that 1 + 1 = =3. See the missus is "with child", so Me + Her = phin jr. Of course negotiations are still taking place in the naming arena as she isn't a fan of naming him phin. The missus has reached week 22, or is it 23, of the impregnation cycle and all things are progressing fairly well. No morning, afternoon or evening sickness, not significant cravings of any sort and she hasn't broken my fingers yet (although a couple of ribs are in questionable shape).

A couple of weeks back she had an ultrasound done, things are progressing as expected. Ten Fingers, Ten Toes, Eyes, Ears, Mouth, a dangling participle, Yay a dangling participle. He's a boy and he isn't bashful (just like dear ole dad). We were given pictorial proof that we (or at least she) had had "the sex" and gotten it right.

The pictures are below in the extended entry, bloggering may be light the next day or two as I'll be in meetings since 1 + 1 an additional mouth to feed.

It's a Boy!!!

I've tried to talk the missus into the nickname of Tripod until he's born but she isn't going for that name either. I guess in the interest of self preservation and harmony we'll go with Whozit or Junior.

Once upon a time

Reading Preston Taylor Homles' A Brief Conversation with the Mrs. reminded me of a conversation I had with my lovely bride not too long ago. We were watching television and the lead actress (Jodi Foster I think) was getting the crap kicked out of her by her husband.

Me: What do you tell a woman with two black eyes?

the Wife: Spousal abuse isn't a laughing matter

Me: unless you're married to a clown.

the Wife: *Shakes head and wonders out loud why she married me.*

Parenting

There are moments when you can't help but be a proud parent.
If he my son, this would have been one of those moments:

As would this:

Season's end

This weekend marked the ending of the summer softball season. The sister-in-law's team won their tournament. Through the fourteen innings she pitched she allowed two hits, three walks and one run; even more impressive considering she spent a majority of the summer recuperating from a stress fractured shin.

Side note from the weekend: The creator of juicy shorts is brilliant.

If you're wondering how I'll be passing the time this fall don't worry. The missus is coaching Volleyball, so I'll still be able to watch attractive ladies running around in shorty shorts. (The wife coaches a collegiate team, so I don't feel too guilty watching them frolic about.)

Some of you may not believe me, however the follow links provide photographic proof there are quite a few attractive ladies that play volleyball. (primary per zonker's request that I photoblog more)

Softball blogging

As summer draws to a close many of the warm weather actives we use to keep us preoccupied are also winding down. This weekend is the last area tournament for the 19 and over girls fast pitch softball. Watching these collegiate athletes take the field in person is an awe inspiring experience.

The slap of the bright yellow ball as it reaches the catchers mitt. The ping of the aluminum bat when the batter makes contact. The grunt of the pitcher as she unleashes a sixty mile-per-hour fastball that looks like a yellow blur only thirty-five feet from the batter. The chants / cheering of the teams as they go up to bat. Attractive athletic women in their prime. They're all the unmistakable sights sounds of a softball game.

Last night the sister-in-law's team won 4-0 in the first game of the tournament. The second game starts at five this afternoon. Where I shall take my seat next to the fence and gorge myself on over-priced hotdogs, pizza and watered down soft drinks that help support a great cause. If you're looking for some family fun this weekend try finding a fast pitch softball game or two in your area.

Did I mention there are almost always several that are attractive and you don't get fussed at by the misses for watching at least ten young ladies on the field at anytime? Oh how I'm going to miss softball season. Did I mention the attractive girls?

Cross posted at the LLama Butchers Shop, since they ran away and left me with a set of the keys.

Birthday wishes

When I went to bed last night I had figured my wife would be the first to wish me a happy birthday. Boy howdy was I wrong. The first one with greetings this morning, my seventy pound boxer:

She normally sleeps in a carrier / kennel, it's been routine for the past three years. Well this morning around four o'clock she decided she wanted to visit with the wife and I. We awoke to the carrier door dropping back shut and the sound of a seventy pound beast running though the house. She ran back to the bedroom, once I hoped out of be she headed towards the living room. I found her in my recliner, sitting and waiting patiently for me.

She walked back to her carrier, when I lifted the gate she walked inside and laid down happy and content, with a smug look of achievement on her face. I returned to bed where a giggling wife who then wished me a happy birthday.

Twenty minutes later, sensing that I'd just gotten back to sleep, the beast struck again. She'd apparently figured out that she could slam her nose into the bottom of the kennel door and it would bow just enough to pop open. This time she was at a dead run towards the bedroom, being lead and trailed by the wife's now terrified cats.

This time I popped her on the tail a couple of times and she trotted back to the kitchen; after being let outside to run around the yard a couple of times she was ready to go back to bed. In her kennel she laid down to sleep the rest of the morning. When I got back to the bedroom the wife was still amused since the cats, now scared witless, had decided my side of their bed was safe refuge.

Damned animals, I think they're plotting against me. 'tis rough being out smarted by a three year old boxer on your thirtieth birthday. Oh well, I can honestly say that my thirtieth birthday shall be one to remember.

Outed

I had originally planned to keep my turning 1E (Hex) tomorrow quiet; well as quiet as possible anyhow. I'm still a teen by some standards (we aren't discussing my mental capacity, that's still in the single digits).

It seems however that my older and sometimes wiser brother and the queen of feistiness have ensured this special day doesn't pass without recognition. So yes for all of you who feel the ominous overtones of tomorrow 'tis nothing to worry about it's just me turning 00011110 (Binary).

Yes I am vain enough that I would make you click this link to determine my age if you aren't sure what the conversions are.

Reminds me of one of my favorite jokes: There are 10 types of people in this world, those who can read binary and those who can't.

Definitions by example

Demasculinated: being refered to as one of the girls by your 19 year old sister-in-law.

Used in a sentence: phin was demasculinated yesterday when his sister-in-law referred to him as one of the girls as he chauffeured the axis of evil (the wife and her two sisters) to the mall.

The greatest con ever

Four years ago today at Two O'clock in the afternoon I managed to pull off the greatest con ever.

I'm sure you're wondering what the scheme was, what could be so brilliant, what could top the IMAO Cat Blog, or Ana Marie Cox and Steve-O reproducing or an accredited university giving me both undergraduate and graduate degrees.

The scheme was my plan to marry well beyond my means and I was able to convince an extremely attractive, athletic and intelligent woman to marry me. And on June 9th, 2001 we were wed. To date it's been the greatest experience of my short life, I've matured (she told me just the other day I have the mentality of a four year old as compared to a two year old when we first got married), I've become a responsible member of society (that's right the cats litter box gets cleaned by you know who and she only has to tell me to take out the trash three times) and I've become fiscally responsible (I make money she spends it). To top that off she hasn't replaced me with the mail or milk man, yet.

I sincerely hope everyone reading this is able to experience the joy and happiness she's brought into my life over the past nine years. (To the men reading this I hope you find a woman that won't kill you when you take every chance to get that you got married on 69.)

Since we're planning to escape this weekend to celebrate, posting may be light as I'm unsure about the internet connection where we're staying. Thus I'll repost some older crap to keep you entertained, trust me I know how dangerous and idle mind can be.

Things every man should know

Being a simpleton as I’ve been told on more than once it doesn’t take much to amuse me. Often times I find things thoroughly amusing that my wife is appalled by. Having only been married a short time four years (wonderful years if you’re reading dear and an eternity if you aren’t) there are several things I think every man should know.

• It is never intelligent to discuss your wife’s sister’s hotness with her, or the hotness of her friend (that is single and promiscuous) or the hotness of her mom.
• Referring to your wife as “Ol’ Hatefull” because she spouts off at the mouth every thirty seconds isn’t a wise decision.
• Who lit the fuse on your tampon is not an appropriate response to any question for any reason.
• It isn’t acceptable to pee in the sink, even if you move the dishes to the other side.
• If you have a dog and it is a female, you still can’t get away with saying you’re going home to spend time with the bitch.
• Using all the hot water for any reason prior to the misses taking a bath is equal to giving her written permission to remove your whozits, through your nose.
• According to some unwritten law attempting a covered wagon is grounds for a swift kick in the nads at a date to be determined.
• The answer to "Does this skirt, top, dress, etc.. make me look fat?" is never: well since you’ve mentioned it…
• or Nope, but your ass does
• If you’ve ever complimented your wife and she replies with: "daddy says I’m the best" you should be very concerned.
• I don’t care how hot her sister is you can't discuss it with your wife

It's just important that we learn from each other's mistakes right?

The house of women

I live in the house of women. It's me, my wife, her 3 cats (all female), my boxer (also female) and my 19 year old sister in law. I’ve always respected my father in law; but it has been during the past several months of my sister in law living with us while she goes to college that I’ve realized the hell he must have lived through with three daughters. Now that I have his oldest and youngest living in my house I realize just how little my opinions matter.

There’s just way too much estrogen running though the house and me being the simpleton that I am, well I say some pretty stupid things, and now I think they’re planning to neuter me. Below is a list of things that sounded funny at the time:

• You’re going back for seconds again?
• I promise you that if the clothes in this house were shrinking, mine wouldn’t fit either.
• If you want your boobs to grow just rub a little toilet paper between them, it worked on your butt cheeks.
• If you don’t want me peeing on the seat leave it up.
• So when you say you're leaving does it mean you aren't coming back? Oh, you're just going to work, damn.
• Really, you can leave the seat up, I promise you won’t fall in.
• Those are what we call child berthing hips.

Me a deathwish, why do you ask?

Softball Blogging, sort of

The Maximum Leader recently posted about his new found admiration for collegiate fast-pitch softball. I often agree with the Maximum Leader and this time is no exception. My admiration for the sport however evolved somewhat differently.

The first year my wife and I were dating her middle sister was pitching for one of the local Babe Ruth teams; this was my first exposure to the world of women's fast pitch softball and for the most part competitive women's athletics.

I remember being impressed with the speed and accuracy her sister had while hurling one pitch after another, sitting down batter after batter, inning after inning. Those were the early days of fast pitch softball in our area and her dominating pitching lead to rules being created in the local Babe Ruth League limiting the number of inning the girls could pitch to give the opposing teams a chance.

Once she aged out of Babe Ruth and traveling softball after her freshman year in College I took a short break in attending games with any frequency. During that break I feel even more in love with my wife and we got engaged. During that time I also began to view her sisters as my own, for the first time I was able to experience the joys of life with sisters. (As a side note there are times I'm sure they haven't forgiven her for that.)

Then along came the baby sister's softball career. When she started her freshman year in high school my wife, then fiancée, had volunteered to help coach her volleyball and softball teams. Thus my attendance picked up once again. My admiration for women's athletics began to grow once again. That year my wife helped her baby sister hone her athletic skills, she often starting as a freshman on varsity squads and on more than she more she outperformed young women her upperclassmen. During her the summer of her freshman year my wife and I were married and we started traveling more and more to watch the baby sister softball, it seemed she was destined for follow in her older sister's foot steps and become a dominating pitcher.

Prior to the baby sister's sophomore year the middle sister took over coaching and as the wife took a job at one of the local middle schools. During that year my two sisters, the older teaching and coaching the younger, began laid the foundation for a dynasty. They started in volleyball and carried over to softball. They dominated the other area teams for the next three years with runs into the state playoffs each year; and each getting closer and closer to the state championship in both sports. My wife lead her teams (volleyball and softball) to undefeated seasons in both sports for the next two years.

My baby sister's senior year saw them go further in softball than any team had from their school. They found themselves playing in Raleigh for the regional and state softball championships one hot June weekend in 2004. They won their first game and the regional championship. The next game found them facing the returning champions from 2003; they lost that game 2 - 1. In the losers bracket they fought back to win their next game in extra innings and faced the state champions again, this time for the state championship. It turned out however it was not yet their time and they lost the game 1 - 0. All things considered however it wasn't a bad run for the two sisters. They had combined for a Conference record of 30 - 0, three conference championships, one regional championship and a state runner up title during the three years they were teamed up.

This past year brought even more changes. My wife and I were elated when the baby sister accepted our offer to live with us while she attends college. The wife completed her first season as women's basketball coach for one of the local community colleges. She finished the season out with a winning record overall, second in the conference and second in the conference tournament. A record that is fairly impressive considering it was her first year coaching and the first year the college had women's basketball program.

The baby sister was offered and accepted an athletic scholarship to play softball at one the local community colleges. Her domination from the mound lead to her to be voted onto the All Tournament and All Conference Teams as well as being chosen the Region's Most Valuable Player Title.

The middle sister, with unfinished business from last year, coached her softball team back to state championships and finished what she started. She brought home her first state championship and finished out her first four years with a record of 39 - 1 in conference play, an impressive run to say the least.

To say I have learned to appreciate women's sports would be an understatement. The past several years I have watched my wife and sisters grow as people and I appreciate them letting me be a part of the game. I have been able to travel throughout North, South Carolina and Virginia watching my baby sister grow from a girl who was unsure of herself and her athletic abilities into one of the most dominating pitchers and beautiful young women on the east coast. I've watched my middle sister, who is often quiet and reserved to a fault take a commanding presence on the softball field and volleyball court that any professional coach would envy. I've watched my wife worry that she was doing the right thing by the girls as she surpassed the expectations of almost everyone around her, I for one never doubted her abilities. (If you're wondering why I didn't comment regarding my wife and middle sister's looks they were already gorgeous when I met them.)

Since I grew up in a household laden with testosterone, I have two brothers and no sisters; I was never truly exposed to women's athletics. To say a whole new world has opened up to me would be an understatement. I often find myself in awe of women athletes, not just because many of them are hot, but because they truly understand what the game is about. Women simply have a better understand of sport.

As The Maximum Leader said: "Frankly, all these women seem to have their mind in the moment of the game to a degree you don't often see with many men players. Male professionals at any rate." I couldn't have said it better myself.

If you're even the slightest bit of a sports fan and haven't been following women's sports I would urge you to attend a couple of games. I'd be willing to bet you'll find the experience almost as rewarding as I have, not quite, but almost.

You are my Sunshine

I was thinking, yes I know you find that hard to believe, after posting the picture of Steve-O and Wonkette's love child that folks might start to get the wrong impression about me. That all I do is poke fun of bloggers more successful than I am. Well it would be rude of me to pick on somebody that wasn't as smart or as successful as I am (plus they're few and far between) and I do write something somewhat unique on occasion that doesn't poke fun at other people. So I figured I'd share something with y'all that got me tickled today.

See I was reading this post and it reminded me of one of the many reasons I love my wife.

Go ahead and read the post and the comments. I'll wait for you to get back.

Okay, finished? Really go read the post, if you don't you're gonna be kind of lost.

As soon as The Lad&trade referred to a certain someone a sunshine, I got tickled and started laughing. I tried to control myself and well I ended up giggling like a school girl. The last part of the post is what had me laughing like an idiot. Just about anytime I hear someone refer to their significant other as sunshine it brings back the memory of Valentines Day last year.

The wife and I normally don't go out to eat on Valentines Day, typically I cook something at the house and we watch a movie that involves me calling Brad Pitt a pillow biter or Tom Cruize a butt pirate; however since that particular V.D. was on Saturday we decided to go out to eat after running some errands. Big mistake, even though we'd left the house early each restaurant we checked had at least an hour wait and I'm just not a patient person.

So we're riding down the road and we pass a Hooters. Being a smart ass I asked the wife if she'd want to eat there. Her reply "Sure we haven't been there yet I wouldn't mind trying it". Hmm, I quickly tried to figure out the number of ways it could end badly and well, the numbers were astounding. I kept driving, she said she really wouldn't mind going to Hooters so we turned around and went back. There may have been five or six other couples in the restaurant.

We sat down, ordered drinks and food, the entire time I tried to keep my eyes locked on the wife's. I wasn't about to be caught checking out a scantily clad waitress on V.D. As the Wife and I were talking I noticed the waitresses pulling bar stools out to each of the booths and tables where some poor ingert rascal had decided to take his wife out to Hooters on V.D. Well once all the bar stools are lined up the waitresses, which had the men who'd brought their wives / girlfriends in outnumbered two to one, walked to each of the tables and proceeded to pull us from our seats and ask us to climb up on top of the barstool. Me I sat there like I was deaf and dumb, only half right though as I was pulled out of booth and given instructions to stand on the barstool until everyone else had mounted up.

Once we were all standing on the bar stools we were given instructions; we were to serenade the ladies we had brought in with us. If you're curious my singing abilities could best be described as the sound of a cat in heat being blended, it just ain't pretty. So there I was awaiting further instruction when the waitresses inform us we'd be running though the verses of "You are my Sunshine" complete with gestures until all of us got it right. Luckily it only took us a three or four of times and while we were singing the ladies were pointing, laughing and having a grand ole time.

I have to give it to the waitresses, they were brilliant. See they took a bunch of agitated women and joined forces with them to make asses out of us. And when it came time to tip (when I'm already fairly generous) the wife asked me to add more since she'd had such a great time. Damned skippy she had a great time, she wasn't on top of a bar stool making an ass out of herself. Needless to say that is one of her favorite stories, and she couldn't wait to leave the restaurant to call everybody we know to fill them in.

So when I'm poking fun at folks, it's cause they're defiantly smarter than I am. I mean they wouldn't take their wives out to eat at Hooters on Valentines Day would they? For those of you wondering yes I'm still married and no she hasn't hurt me (terribly bad) yet.

Growing older, but not up

I realized at a cookout this weekend being hosted by one of my wife's friends that my wife and her friends are getting old. Sure she’s a year and a half younger than me, but that’s beside the point. I decided a long time ago that twelve was the perfect age for me and I’ve been holding there ever since (this year I celebrate the 18th anniversary of being twelve).

In the past year a majority of the people that attended the cookout had replaced their beer stocked coolers with diaper bags & strollers and replaced their fashionable car with something more reasonable like a minivan or station wagon.

Of course at the get together we were peppered with the: “So when are you guys going to have a kid” question. There were two responses to this question, depending on whether or not the wife was within ear shot. If she could hear my response, it was: “I’m the only child my wife wants running around the house”. If she couldn’t hear me my response was: “What you got laid [Insert age of child plus 9 months here] and have been celibate from then on, are you so bitter that someone else has a great sex life that you’re trying to end it by pressuring them to have kids? What the hell is wrong with you? Can’t you stand to see someone else happy?” For some reason they normally walked away after I gave them my response when the wife wasn't within earshot.

She was of course met with questions about why I was so bitter. When they’d ask and look my way I’d just smile and wave. I'm not sure what her response was, but I'm sure it included her pet name for me (it starts with Jack, I'll let you guess the ending).

Me I’m still the same happy twelve year old I was when we left for the cookout.