A slow work day and stuff…

Hot damn, another post! If this post reads like it was put together hastily by a hungover jackass trying to kill time while not paying attention at a legal training seminar, that’s only because it was  hastily put together by a hungover jackass trying to kill time while not paying attention at a legal training seminar.

I was sort of laughing at the absurdity of my job the other day. Not the job itself so much as what passes for a “slow day.” Somebody asked me how my day was, and I replied that it was really slow and uneventful. I was being completely honest, but the more I thought about that day, the silliness of calling it uneventful hit me.

Part of my morning involved coming across this little lady.

Poor baby.

Poor baby.

Some dickhole tied her with a rope to a pole that ran up a viaduct that trains pass over.

Who knows the reason, but the dog was in pretty good shape (for a north St. Louis stray) and at least had the shade of the viaduct to keep her from the oppressive sunshine.

I tried to get close to her, but she wasn’t having any part of it past about six feet.

It was actually pretty funny. If I was at five feet, she growled, but if I took one step back, she’d stop. I’d step forward, she’d growl, then back and she’d stop. I fucked with her like this for several minutes because it was amusing and I’m an immature fucktard.

Thankfully for old girl, the local Stray Rescue of St. Louis group came and got her. They’ll find her a good home. Oh, and I was totally not offended that she let the young lady who came to get her walk right up to her without regard for the arbitrary six foot barrier that I was subject to. Bitches, what can you do?I think that woman smelled like dogs or had hot dogs in her pocket.

It was such a slow day, that I was able to sneak away for some lunch. There are a million places to eat in North City, if you like Chop Suey, Tripe, Snoots, gas station fare or fast food. I’m not a huge fan of any of them, so I eat Subway nearly every single workday. I could totally make my own sandwich at home, yes, but I’m just so lazy and the Subway is half off.

I took my usual footlong club to one of my spots, only to find that my normally desolate spot was not as desolate as usual. Somebody had left this baby parked there.

The fuck??

The fuck??

Somebody’s car done been burnt to a crisp and left here, probably because it was too hot to tow the night that it was left here by the fire department. It’d make a nice flowering pot or something, for somebody whose HOA allows such monstrosities in their yards.

My slow day was briefly interrupted by a woman calling to report a burglary in her house.

The fuck again?

The fuck again?

This was the cleanest room in this house.

There is a whole mess of a story about this call that I won’t get into, but suffice to say it’s supposed to be a vacant house and nobody should be living there and calling to report burglaries.

The woman wasn’t having any part of hearing why the house wasn’t habitable or why she had to leave. I assure you that this picture doesn’t do justice to how deplorable the rest of  it was. At least this room was dry.

My slow day ended with my dumb ass running after bad guys in the 100 degree heat. Bad guys crashed a BMW into some parked cars right in front of some nice church ladies. I had no intention of running after people half my age for crashing a car, but the ladies were very persistent and excited so I ran.

Well, I jogged.

Plodded?

Hey, it’s hard to look fleet of foot with twenty pounds of gear on.

It turned out that the BMW was, of course, stolen. Alas, the chase was for naught as bad guys got away. Is that a word?

I will say that I got close to nabbing one of them, but dummy ran through a back yard and woke a sleeping dog, a very large, sleeping dog when he sprinted past it. When I came after him, Gigantor was no longer sleeping and was now standing and very curious about what was transpiring in his backyard.

Thankfully, the dog was tethered to something or other so he couldn’t go where he wanted to (i.e. where I was now standing after coming to an immediate halt). Unfortunately, now that I was drenched in sweat and huffing and puffing, that was the end of this guy (me) running any farther on this slow day.

There’s always next time.

While I was enjoying this slow shift at work, I was missing one of my favorite tasks, coaching Cool and the gang on the baseball field. It’s not so much coaching when they’re that age as it is what I imagine herding cats is like and keeping them between the lines.

Still, it’s cute.

Damn, how tall is this girl?!

Damn, how tall is this girl?!

Ha, even standing on the base and wearing a giant helmet, poor Cool is tiny next to this girl his own age.

Anyway, the “uneventful” day I had earned me some good time lime time, so I spent yesterday with a longtime friend who was visiting from Washington. He came to town with his lady friend and her chillens and we hung at our neighborhood pool.

Good time limin'

Good time limin’

Mercifully, lady friend and her older kids amused my boys by taking turns helping to fix their goggles 157 times during the course of four hours because they don’t stay where they should for reasons I can’t pinpoint.

I still had to take Gman to the bathroom 49 times and get up to feed all of them snacks another 492 times.

Despite all the trips to the head while at the pool, Gman still decided to piss like a racehorse all over the floor when we got home. Not to be outdone, Jojo shat in the kitchen while we were trying to have dinner. Oh, then she ate a good chunk of it before anyone realized what was going on.

She ate her own shit in front of our guests, yes.

WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING!?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!? was basically my response.

My unmarried, childless friend no doubt appreciated my contribution to reinforcing his decision to not reproduce.

Disgusted, tired and drunk, I finally called it a night before I had to witness another excretion from another body part from another creature. Good times.

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Monday funday tale of the dented garage…with pics cuz words are hard!

Oh my Lord…sitting in this chair typing a post is much more relaxing than being at that nasty gym again.

One of the many, many things that sucks ass about working out is that it’s supposed to be a part of your “lifestyle” in order for it to make any difference. Apparently, going once or twice a month, or even once a week isn’t going to cut it.

That’s total horseshit. I should be able to reap the benefits of my two good workouts last week for at least a month, but instead, in order to not feel like a bloated piece of fuck later tonight after I pound some beers on my couch, I have to go workout yet again today. Please wish me luck to make that happen.

Anyway, even though it’s Monday, today is actually my Saturday. After seven straight days of work, I get to enjoy a fucking Monday and Tuesday off doing Monday and Tuesday things like take Ace to swimming lessons and maybe cutting the grass later on, if it doesn’t rain.

There are a million other chores that need to be done around the house as well.

We’ve become “those people” on our street.

Do you know “those people?”

“Those people” are sort of like “that relative” that we all have. Those people can be the neighbors that everyone else sort of rolls their eyes at when they pass by.

Their grass is often too long. Their dogs bark way too often. They drink beer in their driveway.

…on Monday

…at 10:39 AM.

Yeah, it's Monday morning. Go fuck yourself.

Yeah, it’s sooooo good though.

You can sometimes identify “those people” by their vehicles.

They may own cars that have lost a hub cap and just decided to say, “fuck it” to spending $8 to replace it. Maybe, if they’re lucky, the other ones will fall off and it’ll bring symmetry to the family roadster once again.

Ole Girl!

Ha, this is an old pic because that front hub cap is long gone!

Those people also like to keep some vehicles on blocks or just a jack, like me.

Sigh....yup, we're "those people."

Sigh….yup, we’re “those people.”

That was the front of our house this morning. No worries, kids, just don’t rock the car too roughly while your friend is hiding underneath it.

You may have noticed that our garage door has a giant fucking dent in it.

That’s very astute of you.

No, no, I didn’t come home from happy hour one evening and use the garage door as my brakes, but thanks for going there, jerk.

Another, to remain unnamed person, but who lives in my house and is of driving age and has a uterus and is called mommy sometimes by the kids, left the boys unattended in the aforementioned hubcapless van while it was running for all of 58 seconds before Cool came inside prattling on about the van and the garage door.

“What are you saying, Cool?” Asks Mommy.

“Gman…uh, yeah, Gman did something and the van is trying to roll through the garage door. Yeah, Gman did it.” Cool says.

“What?!” Asks mommy.

“I know, right!?? It’s all Gman’s fault though!” Assures Cool.

I was all WTF, Gman!??

I was all WTF, Gman!??

So then daddy is all, “What?”

What?

What?

And then daddy was all, “how?”

How?

How?

And then Cool is all, “Look at my face, daddy. I couldn’t have done it.”

Look at me not ever doing anything bad, daddy.

Look at me not ever doing anything bad, daddy.

WTF?

Remember this?

307427_10200561081299760_766907713_n

Look how happy I am…

298739_10151825785706542_1550411151_n

Yup…still smilin…

And then daddy’s all, “Really?”

For real? It was Gman?

For real? It was Gman?

And Cool is all, “Really, daddy. Look at him.”

He isn't smiling.

He isn’t smiling.

And again.

See whos being good, daddy?

See who’s being good, daddy?

One last time?

He always breaks the rules, daddy.

He always breaks the rules, daddy.

So daddy’s all, GAGE DID IT?!!

GAGE!!

GAGE!!

And then mommy is all, “you’re an idiot. It was Cool.”

Et tu, mommy?

Et tu, mommy?

“Daddy is very tired from working all the time!” Says daddy to mommy.

“What were you thinking, Cool? Do you even have a brain?” I ask.

Where is your brain, son?

Where is your brain, son?

“I do have a brain, daddy. See? Mommy had me tested.”

The MRI confirms that yes, Cool has a brain.

The MRI confirms that yes, Cool has a brain.

“How many times have we told you to never play with the gear shift or anything else in the car while we leave you unattended with your three year old brother?” I ask.

“Never.”

“Have you ever told him not to drive the van, dear?” I ask. “Because now that he says that, I don’t think I have asked him to not drive our cars yet.”

“No, I’ve never told him to not drive the van.” Says Wife.

“Well then, you win this round, Cool, but please promise you won’t drive any motorized vehicle without consulting your mother or me first, okay?”

“Deal, daddy.”

 

 

Posted in Family, Humor, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , | 68 Comments

Catchin’ up…for what, the third time?

I promise to make this what have I been doing/where have I been post my last! Lol.

I’ve stared at this white screen for a good two hours already, insisting that I’m not turning the computer off until I’ve pulled a post from my ass. It needn’t even be an entertaining post, just a post will do. I’ve missed not being regular with my posts for several months now, so I’m forcing myself to write.

So far, I’ve distracted myself with eating crap I don’t need and some Family Guy. It’s 11:32 PM and this is it so far, so time to get at it.

Let’s see….what have I been doing, you ask?

Well, the weather has finally heated up, so that means the boys want to be outside ALL THE TIME. I love that they like to play outside. Drinking beer in my chair while the kids do whatever it is they do is one of my favorite pastimes.

Occasionally, they check in with the old man for eats and drinks.

Watermelon is so hit and miss. This one was a hit.

Watermelon is so hit and miss. This one was a hit.

Too much inside time causes the natives much restlessness. Every little thing turns into a pissing match, including who “gets” to clean up sugar that Gman spilled all over the island.

They aren't as eager to pick up dog shit or Lego pieces.

They aren’t as eager to help pick up dog shit or Lego pieces.

As for me, I finally broke down and joined a gym again. I have weights in my basement, but they just weren’t doing it for me. More power to people who can workout at home, but there are too many things to do at home that suck a lot less than working out, so I never really accomplished my goals by going into the basement, aside from short naps on the weight bench.

The gym I joined rocks. It’s rarely  crowded, and in fact, the location closest to my house is often completely devoid of other human beings, thus allowing me to take gym selfies like a teenage girl. In spite of what Julie thinks, gym pics are awful.

Just awful.

 

I'm actually quite ashamed about taking a gym selfie. #douchebag

I’m actually quite ashamed about taking a gym selfie. #douchebag

Awful, narcissistic feeling selfies aside, I really do feel a lot better about myself than I have in a long time, and I’ve only been at it about a month.

It’s cool to have people mention that I look like I’ve lost a couple of pounds. I don’t weigh myself or worry about what my scale says. I know I’m doing fine by the way my pants fit or how far I have to suck my gut in to fasten my gun belt.

I’ve also spent a couple of afternoons at the pool with the kids, so I’ve got a little color on my skin. Being tan makes everyone look better, right?

Speaking of work, look what still exists, junk yard dogs!

Junk yard warriors.

Junk yard warriors.

They bark aggressively at EVERYthing that goes past their gate. After dark, I sometimes park my car near them when I have to work on reports or do some other mundane task. It’s easy to forget to keep an eye on what’s going on around you when you’re doing certain things, but I trust these two to bark like crazy whenever they see somebody come within fifty yards of the car (their gate).

Let’s see, what else?

Oh, Ace had her last day at the elementary school and Cool graduated preschool.

Here’s Cool thrilled out of his fucking mind that school’s out!

Woo Hoo?

Woo Hoo?

Sort of.

And baby girl is no longer an elementary schooler. I’m working on getting her out of that whole black concert tee shirt look. I don’t even think she went to the Taylor Swift concert for god’s sake.

Ace

Ace

Okay, mercifully for you guys, that’s all I can force myself to put into this post now.

Thanks to those of you who’ve stuck with me and asked where I’ve been. I appreciate it and promise to try and come around more often.

 

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Nice things and making hookers cry…wtf ever for FTSF…

The nicest thing someone ever did for me was…

Haha, I’m going to totally admit that my mind went straight back to when I was 14 and that nice 15 1/2 year old girl had the sex with me. I know, right? That’s sick. I only remember she was 15 1/2 because she had a 1965 Mustang in the garage, but she couldn’t drive it because she wasn’t 16 yet.

That whole story about my first tryst is actually pretty funny and maybe a little sad and sick and somewhat sordid, but I’ll save it for another day.

There is so much non-niceness in the world today that it should be pretty easy to pick out the nicest of the nice, right? I mean it’s so bad nowadays that when a person actually gives me a courtesy wave when I let them over in traffic or says, “thank you” when I hold a door open for them, I just want to fucking hug them and say, “no, THANK YOU!!!! THANK YOU FOR NOT BEING A TOTAL DICKWAD LIKE 98% OF THE REST OF HUMANITY!”

K, maybe it’s not THAT bad, but it’s sort of sad.

I like nice people and I like nice deeds. Last week my partner and I were having lunch at a bar and grill, in uniform, and some guys paid our bill, anonymously. That happens every now and then and it always touches me every single time.

I’m not living with somebody else’s kidney and nobody has paid off my school loans or anything great like that, so I’m having a hard time coming up with the nicest thing someone ever did for me. I bet I’ll read some of the other posts tomorrow and be reminded of something really great that somebody did for me, but right now, I’m drawing a blank.

There are thousands of things that people have done for me and my family, from our great neighbors picking up our son from school as a favor to us a few times, or cutting my grass or buying me beer. Yes, my neighbors kick ass.

I have a great extended family too. Some aunts and uncles of mine have let me live with them when I was younger or let me borrow a car or cash or taught me how to tie my shoes and drive a stick shift.

All nice things and all things I appreciate a lot.

I’m going to cop out on talking about any of those or other nice things to talk about work again, because that’s what’s on my mind the most, outside of my family these days, so here goes.

The nicest thing somebody has ever done for me was…put me back in a patrol car.

For those new to my story, I’m a cop who went to law school while working as a cop. I’ve worked in the Legal Division as an attorney for most of the last six or seven years, only wearing my uniform a few times a month to work secondary on my own.

When it first happened last month, I was angry and somewhat hurt. I felt unappreciated for what I’d given and given up to work a desk job that required much more of my time than those who make snarky comments about a “cush” job will ever know. I’ve had cush jobs at the department, don’t get me wrong, but working as a lawyer isn’t cush by any stretch.

Anyway, I’m back on the beat and

*looks around*

and I’m sort of loving it.

I haven’t had to use my brain in a month. I go to work, do my eight hours and go home without having to think about it at all, for the most part.

I’m not in a stuffy, hot as fuck break room “office” anymore either. I’m outside all day. I can drive around, walk around in a park or near the Mississippi River, if I want. Sure, some of the areas are rough and the abject poverty can be depressing, but the area has much more to offer than just those things. Plus, every day or even every call is something new and possibly unexpected.

This week alone, I’ve managed to make one man I thought I was going to have to shoot with a Taser when we first encountered each other try to hug me before we parted ways, convinced an older gentleman that his plants were probably dying because an asteroid had hit the earth somewhere in Africa and moved the planet off its axis a little bit, so they probably weren’t getting the right amount of light anymore, and just yesterday, I made a hooker cry.

Before I worked in the office, I’d patrolled an area of the city where prostitutes were errrrrrrrywhere, so I know one when I see one.

I noticed this woman from across the street, bent over at the waist as she jiggled her chest at what I can only assume was a passing car. She looked to her right, saw my car, and immediately started walking in the opposite direction than she was before.

Prostitutes are wonderful people to get to know as a cop, because if you want information, they got information. Since I was new to the area, I pulled up to her and asked her if I could talk to her for a second.

She was young and rough looking, but not beyond hope to be beautiful again. She was angry that I stopped her and she let me know it.

“What the fuck, man! I ain’t doing nothing wrong,” were the first words out of her mouth.

“I didn’t say you were. You don’t have to stop and talk to me just because I asked. You can tell me to get bent, if you want,” was my truthful response.

It was true that she didn’t have to talk to me, and if she’d have given me the finger and walk away, that would have been the end of it, but she looked quizzically at her cigarette and then at me and then at her feet.

“I don’t got any warrants. That fat cop who always harasses me locked me up last week. I just got out yesterday. He’s a fucker.”

I laughed and asked who she was talking about and when she said his name, I knew who she meant.

“Ah, he’s okay, really. He’s just doing his job.”

“He’s a fucker anyway.”

We talked for a couple of minutes. She is 24 and homeless and not interested in help getting off the streets yet. Not yet, but she is going to be one of my projects I think. I’ll nag her or whatever it takes until she finally tries to get her ass off the streets and into something more stable. It may work out, or she may get stabbed in the chest and bleed to death in an alley because some dude mistakenly thought she was laughing at his penis.

That happened a long time ago to another hooker. That’s also sort of a funny, sad, sordid story. I told this young lady that I’d hate to see that happen to her, so if I could help find her some resources, I wanted her to call me. I told her that she could do better for herself. She’s still young enough for god’s sake. I told her that outside of the cursing, she sounded really bright and that she had a great smile. She’d do well in customer service that didn’t involve such high risk blow jobs. She looked at me sort of stunned for a second and laughed. I watched a tear race down her face. It was one of those fast ones that comes from nowhere. I think it surprised her, but it told me that she can be moved, if the right person can point her somewhere interesting enough to move towards.

She more than likely won’t ever call, but that’s okay. I tried to do something, which is better than doing nothing. I will stop her every single time I see her on the street and ask her to talk to me for a minute. Maybe she’ll tell me to get bent, or maybe one day she’ll be tired enough of having to talk to me that she’ll let me do something to help her.

I like doing something, and now that I’m back on the beat, there’s no shortage of something for me to do.

——————————————————————————————

This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post. The sentence is “One of the best things somebody ever did for me was… ”  by Sarah at Left Brain Buddha. Please go show her some extra love.

Hosts:
Janine: Janine’s Confessions of a Mommyaholic
Kate: Can I get another bottle of whine?
Stephanie: Mommy, for Real
Kristi: 
Finding Ninee

Posted in Humor, Police Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | 51 Comments

Alive and well in the hood…

The trail of blood stopped then started again on the sidewalk across the street. Droplets led west on the sidewalk into a gangway then disappeared.

“Who dar?” A woman yelled out her back door.

“Police ma’am. Did you see anyone come into your backyard recently?” I asked.

“Ain’t nobody been on my property who don’t belong.” She insisted.

I stifle my annoyance and point out to her that there is blood on her side walkway.

“Well I didn’t see nothing,” she says before going back into her house.

Her indifference is both amusing and aggravating to me.

There are over 50, WAY over 50, shell casing on the street and sidewalk, some from an AK assault rifle. An old man’s two cars have taken some serious collateral damage while parked at the curb. I feel bad for him, but he’s taking the assault on his cars, broken windows, flat tires and holes punctured in the hood and seats, as just another minor nuisance.

The old man’s cars and the shell casings are a good 60 yards from a very bloody porch, and as I’m walking towards him I notice a woman sitting on her front steps smoking a cigarette as our eyes meet.

“Evening, ma’am, how are you?” I asked, mostly out of habit more than anything. I expected her to simply say she was fine or ignore me altogether, but she did neither.

“Terrified.” Is all she said, before taking a last drag from her cigarette and going inside.

I could hear her locking her doors as I stopped in my tracks, slightly stunned by her simple response.

I’ve been back on patrol for about three weeks now. My transfer was sudden and completely unexpected, so it’s taken me a bit to get myself in a good place mentally.

Wife and my own schedules have been thrown into complete disarray, but we’re figuring it out.

I was sent to North St. Louis, which is the undisputed “bad area” of the city.

“Who did you piss off?” I was asked time and again by other officers and family members alike, when they asked me about the move.

Poverty and violence are a part of life in most north side neighborhoods. Many people distrust and dislike the police. Many don’t open doors to talk. Many who do talk say nothing more than, “I didn’t see anything.”

As frustrating as that can be, there have been many people in my short time in the new area who will open their door to talk. They will tell you when they’ve seen something. They will get involved to be a part of the solution to a problem that affects their lives in ways that most of us can’t comprehend.

Those are the people who need better than angry, discontented police officers patrolling their streets, so I’ve made an effort to keep most of my angry discontent away from the public. I find that I’m a much more patient police officer than I was 10 years ago, maybe parenting has helped that to happen.

I work with a good group of guys, most of whom look like they’re 15 years old to me. I don’t understand half the shit they say and they think it odd that I don’t know who Ron Ross is, but they’re willing to listen and even teach an old guy new tricks.

I enjoy not taking my work home with me anymore.

I enjoy the camaraderie of my fellow officers again. I’d forgotten how awesome that is.

Shootings, cuttings, drugs, guns, foot chases, car pursuits…there’s no shortage of fun in North St. Louis, that’s for sure.

And while there are a lot of thugs, shit bags, lowlifes, whatever you want to call them, there are still a lot of good folks living in these neighborhoods too.

There are folks who want to work, play, raise their kids and just live like you and me.

They want to be happy and feel safe in their own homes or out on their streets. If they’re willing to help us help them, then I’m all in to give them whatever help I can.

“Terrified?”

That’s no way for any person to live their life.

 

 

Posted in Police Stories, Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | 54 Comments

If i could go back in time…

I’d go back to lunch this afternoon and order a salad instead of that half fried chicken and giant plate of french fries I scarfed down.

Holy crap, I can’t move!

Hahaha, no, I’m kidding. I had that for lunch on Monday. I had a yogurt and raisins for lunch today, then jogged six miles. I fucking swear it happened! I have Runkeeper proof for the naysayers. Look, I even took some train pictures for G$ while I was running because he likes him some trains.

Trains. for G$ cuz I'm a kickass dad.

Trains. for G$ cuz I’m a kickass dad.

Oh look, deer too!

Running is fun!!

Running is fun!!

Anywho…what to write?

I assume that many of the other FTSF people will write about adventures into the past so they can tell Lincoln not to go to that play, or maybe tackle JFK so he can’t get on a plane to Dallas, but fuck all that noise, I say.

I’m a pretty firm believer that people die when they do because that’s when they’re supposed to die. God or Jesus or Mother Nature or the universe, or death or whoever’s in charge of such matters is gonna get you when your time is up, and there ain’t nothin’ you can do about it.

So I guess it would be pretty darned cool to be able to travel back in time and just sort of hang around to see how things really played out. I don’t know how it would work, logistically, but it’d be cool to see where all these fossils came from. If I went back to dinosaur times, would I be there as myself? I’d think I’d stick out pretty obviously were that the case. Could I fly? Would I be invisible? I’d need more information I think. It could get dangerous to be back in another time looking like one’s current self.

No, that’s all too risky, so I’m going to cop out out on this post by only going back in time a little bit.

Just under three years would be great.

For this:

Awe, little dude on the belly.

Awe, little dude on the belly.

That’s G$ in one of his infrequent calm moods as a tiny one.

It’s sunk in that we’re done having babies here in the DOAT house, and I’m TOTALLY cool with that. I mean, if something showed up in momma’s womb again somehow, we’d raise it, but we’re pretty sure that won’t happen.

That doesn’t mean that I don’t miss it every now and then though. I’ve always liked babies; I’m fucked up like that.

I have to get my baby fix elsewhere now.

We have some pretty young neighbors still and I have some cousins who will have babies at some point, but I don’t get to snuggle with those kids at 2 am like I could with my own.

Awesome as it was, now that I’m thinking about it, I did almost die one time with Ace on my chest.

She was about the same age as G$ above and it was my turn to be up with her. It was obviously going to take more than a pat on her ass and a “go to sleep again dear” to get her to quiet down, so we went into the living room and flipped on the television. I grabbed some beer and my box of Snyder’s Hard Pretzels and settled in with her to watch a movie called Old School. That was almost eleven years ago.

You’ve all seen that movie, right?

There was a scene where somebody was having a kid party and I was several beers in already. I remember at some point that Frank the Tank took a tranquilizer dart to his neck and the other idiot, whose name I don’t remember, was all, “Dude, dude, that was awesome!”

I don’t know if it’s that funny now, but on that night, it was freakin’ hilARious! I started choking on one of my pretzels I was laughing so hard, and I nearly woke Ace from her slumber. Mercifully, I managed to pour enough beer in my gullet to dislodge the salty wedge of deliciousness. It was not my time to die, you see.

So anyway, dear friends, that’s where I would go, if I could go back in time…to a night where I was snuggling one of my babies on my chest or belly. It’s a favorite moment that I don’t see happening again in my life anytime soon.

What would you do, if you could go back in time?

This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post. Today’s sentence is “If I could go back in time… ” and has been brought to you by the hilarious Jennifer Schario Hicks of Real Life Parenting! Blogger pals, you should totally join us! This is a fun group, really.

Your hosts: Janine: Janine’s Confessions of a Mommyaholic
Kate: Can I get another bottle of whine?
Stephanie: Mommy, for Real
Kristi: Finding Ninee

 

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To the woman behind me in Walmart…

Dear woman behind me in Walmart yesterday,

You taught my sons a lesson.

I thought and prayed on our encounter, and felt moved by the spirit to write, in the hopes that you will see this.

It was maybe fate that put us in line together at Walmart that evening.

You had been trying to engage my boys in conversation while we both waited patiently for Josephine, the high school drop out checker to get the 20 items or less line moving as express lines are intended to do.

You didn’t mind that my five year old asked why you smelled funny and pointed and winced at that goiter on your neck. You told him it was nothing, but it was the size of a softball for fuck’s sake, so it was definitely something to him.

You were patient and kind and probably hard of hearing, because G$’s screaming didn’t phase you at all as you stood there smiling stupidly at nothing in particular.

I noticed your “I Voted!” sticker and asked you if you had taken the time to vote. You looked at me funny and said, “No, I don’t have a boat.”

“No, I said DID YOU VOTE?!”

“Oh, no, dear” you said. “I don’t like goats.”

“What the fuck,daddy?” Cool asked.

“Cool!” I said. “That’s not appropriate language! Where do you fucking learn such terrible shit?”

“Sorry, daddy. From mommy,” he answered.

“Did he say fuck?” You asked out of the blue.

“Oh, THAT you heard, lady?” I responded.

The line mercifully moved forward, and when it was finally my time to checkout, I offered to let you go first because you only had two things of yogurt and a box of Depends Diapers, while my cart was pretty full.

You graciously declined and insisted that you were enjoying your line standing time behind my little ones.

When the cashier rudely announced to everyone within earshot, “Uh, this card don’t work, sir,” you didn’t have to make eye contact with me, but you did.

You smiled at us and I at you. You looked at my cart filled with diapers and cases of Bud Light Lime and Doritos and Lucky Charms and nodded your head yes.

“I have $34 in cash,” I said. “If you could get the rest, that’d be great.”

You suddenly looked up from my sons, seemingly startled, and said, “What?!”

“You’re going to pay for my groceries, right? Haven’t you read those letters to good Samaritans and Facebook posts about people being nice and paying shit forward? Don’t tell me you’re going to make me have to put my kids’ cereal and diapers away so I can cover the bill for my beer and Doritos with what little cash I have?”

You looked down at your shoes and twittled your thumbs as you clutched your purse straps with both hands. I sensed that I was not going to be the recipient of a kind deed that day.

“Ugh! YOU SUCK YOU OLD BAG!!” I yelled into the air.

You walked away, muttering something about having forgotten to get the prunes you wanted and left me there alone

It was just me, my boys, a cart filled with lime flavored beer and snacks as well as Josephine, the judgy looking bitch of a cashier.

She sneered at me as I tossed diapers and cereal boxes into her return to the shelves bin until I had under $34 in beer and nacho cheese Doritos.

As we left, Cool looked up at me and said, “That woman wasn’t very nice to you, daddy. G$ and I are still hungry.”

“You’re right, son.” I had to tell him. “Let that be a lesson to you. Never count on old people, buddy. They fucking suck.”

Regards,

DOAT

 

 

 

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Dealing with the terrible two’s…

Wife and I have been parenting for well over ten years now and, up until very recently, never understood what the big deal was.

We’d hear people talk about how difficult it was and just sort of roll our eyes and mutter, “whatever.” Between our ten year old, Ace, and our five year old, Cool, we never had a lick of trouble as far as tantrums, shouting, hitting, biting, pushing, etc.

I’m almost embarrassed to tell people how well behaved those two are. 

Both of them required nothing more than a one time verbal reprimand and they snapped right back into place. God forbid the words come out too loudly though, because they’d snap back into place and their lower lip would begin to quiver. There was never much yelling in the house, so they just weren’t used to it.

I attributed our good fortune in raising such easy kids to my excellent choice in mates. I’m a fairly laid back guy, and my wife is the same way. Neither of us is Type A or quick to anger or gets overly excited or emotional over every stupid little thing.

Much like breeding with a Chinese man will guarantee you that your kids will have some Chinese man traits, breeding with an idiot will guarantee you that your kids will have at least some idiot traits as well. Shame on people who have kids who are out of control, I always thought. It’s their genes that are part of the reason their kids are so awful, they just got what they had coming to them.

So when G$ surprised us by showing up in his mother’s womb one day, I just figured it’d be more of the same. Another angelic child who would cost us money we really didn’t have, yes, but not cause us anymore mental grief than the other two did.

He comes from the same set of chromosomes, so surely he’ll be more like his older brother and sister than not, right?

WRONG.

He’s a pill alone…

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And with his brother and sister…

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And on Christmas…

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You’ll have to trust me when I say that I can post hundreds of these sorts of pictures, but I’ll spare you.

Our high and mightiness and good fortune with well behaved kids has been recognized and appropriately dealt with.

I am sorry Karma, for my delusions of parenting grandeur.

I promise that I am no longer of the opinion that I am grandeur, whatever that means.

We get it now.

The yelling, screaming, biting, pushing, hitting, and yes, even a public temper tantrum. We were THOSE people, in a Walmart of all places.

We understand all of it now, thanks to the little man.

It all started from in the womb, when he decided that coming out head first was total bullshit, so he made himself comfortable in a breech position.

Wife’s doctor and two other people literally wrestled him into the appropriate direction for egress via some awful procedure I vaguely recall being referred to as an e-version or something. There was a chance he’d be born that day, but it didn’t happen. All that procedure did, I think, was piss him off.

I thought we had another angel when he spared Wife a painful labor by making his way into the world more easily than the other two did. The doctor was about to say push, but wound up saying, “Wait, don’t push and oh, here he is!?”

“What?”

Easiest birth ever! Well, don’t tell wife I said that, but it looked that way to me.

Anyway, that was the last easy thing he did for us, as he’s been a dick handful ever since.

We tried to brush his behavior off using the usual parental excuses.

Yelling at the top of his lungs in public? – Sorry, he missed his nap.

Biting kids at the sitters? – Sorry, he must be teething.

Screaming no at everything and throwing shit all over the place? – Sorry, he must hungry.

Poking the neighbor lady in the eye? – Sorry, he’s just showing you affection.

Now we’re in the latter stages of the “terrible twos” I’d heard about but never had to contend with before.

Every night is a battle with that boy.

There’s so much yelling and screaming and pouting and throwing crap and pounding on things, it’s insanity. And all that is me reacting to him.

It’s gotten so bad that I did something for the first time ever that I swore I wouldn’t do.

I’m ashamed to even admit this, but I Googled how to deal with a toddler’s tantrums!

I know, right? Gasp!

As I suspected, most of the advice was a bunch of Kumbaya singing, tree hugger bullshit, so I lost interest pretty quickly.

I did decide that screaming back profanities at a two year old who’s pissed off for God know’s what reason is probably counter-productive, and slightly embarrassing, so I’ve promised to “remain calm” as a nod to the parenting websites.

Last night, I remained calm by stopping for gas and grabbing a twelve pack on the way home with the boys.

I drank some beer.

Then we ran to neighbor’s house to let their dog out while they were away, which for whatever reason, is fun for them.

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I drank another beer.

The boy child “smelled” the neighbor’s candles and declared, “they smell like green!”

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I drank another beer.

In spite of the shitty weather, and in honor of the Cardinal’s home opener, we played some ball together. G$ hasn’t taken an interest in sports like the other two had by his age, but he was on board last night.

They put on their game faces…

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I drank another beer.

We had a lot of fun playing ball.

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I had another beer, watched some basketball and didn’t yell as promised.

In spite of what G$ had to say, I declared the night a win.

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I mean really, how seriously can you take a boy in skull pleated, women’s shoes?

 

 

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Famous people opinions are also just like assholes…

I never understood what the big deal was about famous people’s opinions.

There’s been a lot of chatter today about comments made by former NFL quarterback turned sports talk radio host, Boomer Esiason, about his thoughts on paternity leave taken by a NY Mets baseball player, Dan Murphy.

The gist of the situation is that MLB players are entitled to three days of paternity leave or three games worth maybe, and this player, Murphy, took all three of his to see his wife give birth and be there for her while she was at the hospital. Murphy is 29 years old and this was his first child, so I’m guessing he was pretty pumped to become a dad.

Unimpressed with Murphy missing any time on the field, Esiason, who has played exactly zero MLB games, criticized Murphy for missing even a single game. Esiason went so far as to say that he’d have had his wife schedule a C-section before the season started so as to not miss any time.

Wait, what did you say, Don?

I said that he, Esiason, said on the air, that he would have made his wife schedule a C-section before the season started! You got that?

What a fucking idiotic thing to say.

Boomer Esiason seems to be an okay guy, so I won’t judge him entirely for saying something stupid on the air. Lord knows if I was judged for everything I’ve ever said, I’d have been crucified a long time ago.

Boomer has a family himself, including a son with Cystic Fibrosis. Boomer’s foundation has raised a whole lot of money and done a whole lot of good for other families who are going through life caring for a loved one with CF, so let’s not dismiss the good this man has done just because he said something stupid.

Boomer’s own website quotes him as saying the following:

One of the first lessons I learned in youth football was that winning requires all of the individual athletes on a team to come together, to cooperate and to support each other. It’s a lesson I think also applies to cystic fibrosis.

You know where else that applies, Boomer?

To your most important teammates, your family.

To Murphy’s family.

Winning at parenting requires the individuals on the family team to come together, to cooperate and to support each other. Murphy supported his wife by being there for her and THEIR baby.

It was their first baby, Boomer.

Do you remember your first baby being born?

I know I remember when my first one was born.

I was a wreck. Even as we were leaving the hospital three days later, I remember looking at my wife in the new SUV I’d traded my pickup truck in to buy and asking her, “now what the fuck do we do?”

The baby was in the backseat and we were supposed to take her home and figure out how the fuck to raise her. All of a sudden, we were responsible for another person!

Murphy’s wife will have plenty of time alone with her baby while her husband is on the road playing ball.

Yes, he makes almost $6 million dollars a year and can hire a nurse or nanny, but that’s not the same as having dad there.

That he gave the three days that he could to her and his new baby should be applauded, not ridiculed.

While Murphy is a major league ballplayer, at the end of the day, he’s just a dude, like me. He’s a dude with more money than me, yes, but he’s a new dad just like millions of other men have been before him. He has the same concerns and issues that we all do as new dads.

Boomer Esiason is also just a dude like me. Yes, he’s also a dude with more money than me, but still just a dude. He talks out his ass for a living now. His words don’t mean squat more than if some homeless man on the street had said the same thing. They shouldn’t anyway. He’s no expert on anything parenting related, so take what he said for what it is, an opinion based on nothing more than his own limited experiences. His conjecture about the C-section his wife would have agreed to is nothing more than bullshit machismo for the sake of the NY area numbnuts who listen to sports radio.

He knows as much about what’s best for new parents as Oprah Winfrey does about what’s best for newlyweds. Oprah is always giving advice about marriage and, you know what? SHE’S NEVER FUCKING BEEN MARRIED!!!

You shouldn’t get to talk about shit like that unless you’ve experienced it for at least five minutes.

She hasn’t, but people are still enamored with her opinions because she’s rich and famous.

Rich, famous people are just people, people. Don’t give them more credit than they deserve.

They aren’t the big deal that so many people seem to think they are, people other than me, of course.

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This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post. Today’s sentence, I never understood what the big deal was about… is brought to you by the lovely Katia, of I am The Milk Show her some love on her site.

Your hosts: Janine: Janine’s Confessions of a Mommyaholic
Kate: Can I get another bottle of whine?
Stephanie: Mommy, for Real
Kristi: Finding Ninee

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FTSF, your favorite decade was… plus a brief conversation with the 90’s

My favorite decade was…

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Even though I do feel like Homer quite a bit, my kids are still young enough that it’s hard for me to imagine any period of my life that doesn’t include them being my favorite.

It’s no exaggeration for me to say that my favorite time in life is right now.

I’m happy. I’m healthy. I’m blessed with a great family, both nuclear and extended. I think nuclear family is a real thing, but you might want to Google it and call me a dumbshit, if it doesn’t mean the people who are living under my roof.

The prompt, however, asks to know what my favorite decade was, so I’m going to work under the assertion that I have to go back in time to pick one out.

I went in to this assuming that it was a no-brainer that I would choose the 80’s. The 80’s meant little league baseball, Big League Chew, Fruit Stripe Gum, Gator Gum (yeah, I love gum!), Michael Jackson, Weird Al, The Golden Girls, Manimal, The Greatest American Hero, high school, first dates, first kisses, first loves, first heart breaks, first everythings! It was decade of discovering who I was and laying the foundation for the type of man I’d grow to be.

While I was thinking about all these cool 80’s things and others, like Camaro hair, mullets, Coca-Cola rugby shirts, Swatch watches and Heather Thomas posters, the pesky 90’s kept asking, “Hey, what about me?”

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This Heather Thomas poster was my first love.

“What about you, 90’s?” I answered back.

“The 80’s wasn’t that great, Don. You wrecked your Mustang in the 80’s. What about junior high? You broke your collar bone. Also, what about Manimal? Manimal happened in the 80’s. Don’t even get me started on your gay boy crush on Ricky Schroder.”

“WE DON’T SPEAK OF THAT!!” I responded defensively.

“He had a fucking train in his house for god’s sake! A train you could ride on, and I already spoke about Manimal! I liked that show.”

“What’s so great about you anyway, 90’s?”

90’s didn’t answer me back, but I started to ponder (I like pondering) the 90’s and I was able to convince myself that the 90’s could make a solid argument for being my favorite decade.

I started the 90’s a young man or maybe I was more of an old boy? I was a junior in high school when the 90’s rolled around. That’s a pretty exciting time in a young man’s life, and mine was no exception.

The 90’s saw my high school soccer team beat our biggest rival in the state championship game after we started off the season pretty shitty for such a talented team. I think we may have been 8-7 at one point in the season, before things finally clicked.

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Just got my medal and the beginnings of a pretty sweet mullet.

Getting out of high school was pretty sweet for sure, not to mention the 4.5 years of college debauchery.

I began the 90’s in the best shape of my life, and I had soccer to thank for that, but then there was college.

College meant parties and red cups of beer and 39 cent tacos from Taco Bell. I started growing what would become a fairly impressive beer gut in the 90’s.

The nineties is also when I met a pretty young lady who’d become my wife, so that’s pretty okay.

I moved to Texas for a few years and got to live in Pasadena for six months as well in the 90’s.  Even though those events were both work related (work sucks, generally), I still enjoyed my time in both places.

Alas, I came back to St. Louis in ’98 to try out this police work for just a couple of years.

A couple of years has turned into 15 years and the 90’s seems like a distant memory now.

While the 90’s were pretty cool, that Heather poster keeps drawing me back to the 80’s, as does reading the back of cereal boxes and jumping ramps on my Team Murray bicycle.

Gah, I’m torn, but I think, to finally finish the sentence and this ridonculous post, that the 80’s is my choice.

 

 

 

 

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