Thursday, October 29, 2009

I Am Not Bon Jovi...


The Dream Machine chirps like a retarded bird. It annoys the living shit out of me. I want to beat the snot from its 25-year-old circuitry. I want to Jean-Claude Van Damme its Faux wood paneling and make it cry mercy but I refrain. Thanks for simply doing your job old friend. I appreciate you.


AAAAHHHH! Holy Mother of Mary! I must have fallen back asleep. Damn you, dark mornings. You trap me in your cold abyss and leave me for dead. I curse you. Time to make the Donuts. I should grow a mustache and gain 80lbs. It seems to be my destiny.


I press the same God Damn buttons everyday. The sheer monotony is enough to drive a man insane. Light Switch – Flick, Remote Control – Click, Computer – Press, Treadmill – Beep. I fill my Hannah Montana water bottle with warm, slightly rusty, tap water. I tie my running shoes that have never kissed the pavement. I suddenly become aware of the fact that I am wearing nothing but my socks, sneakers and my underwear. Fuck it.


I am sprinting on the treadmill at a pace of a 10:56 mile. I run like a three legged, fat Gazelle. In another world, I would be a mythical creature. I sweat like a Frosted Donut on a hot summer day. I don my dark rimmed glasses. I am hairy and I wear a Navy Blue Head Band to keep the salt from stinging my eyes. I look a mess. If the dude from Loverboy had boned Sally Jesse Raphael and the condom broke, I would be their demon seed.


Run. I think I am having a stroke and my testicles hurt. Only 27 minutes to go. I will work through this like a Bob Ross painting. I taste blood in the back of my throat. I remember the warmth of my Nana’s house. I remember eating Oatmeal cookies and watching The Rockford Files in her army green, leather swivel chair. Help me Nana. Give me strength. What would James Garner do?


I am sweating. I watch the Sham Wow guy peddle his garbage with the sound on mute. His day of reckoning will come. Maybe he will share a bunk in Hell with Billy Mays. I check my blog for comments. Nope. My last entry must have sucked. I don’t deserve them. One quick visit to Definitely Landing Strip. Dammit! I always guess wrong. How would I know anyway?


I turn on the shower and the exhaust fan. I lock the door. I sit on the toilet bowl for 15 minutes and I read everything ranging from the back of a Shampoo Bottle to Prescription Ball Cream. I am smarter because of it. I should be on Bathroom Jeopardy.


I am in the shower. I am still sweating from my run. I am beginning to think that I will continue sweating for all eternity. Maybe if I make the shower a bit colder, that will help? Nope. Maybe if I cut off my head that might help? I could use my wife’s Gillette Venus Razor. My face is red like a tomato. Perhaps it is male menopause…


I am arguing with my youngest daughter about why it is inappropriate for her to bring a giant superball to daycare and my oldest daughter is yelling at me because I suggested she wear sneakers with her tights. She calls me the dumbest father ever. I have to concur with her assessment but not out loud. I am still sweating.


I am in the car with my daughters, driving them to school. Ashley Tisdale is playing on the radio. My kids urge me to make it louder. I tell them no. They protest and ask why? I tell them it is because Ashley Tisdale SUCKS! My oldest daughter tells me that I SUCK. Again, I must concur but not out loud. I dab my sweaty forehead with a paper towel. I am beginning to lose my fucking mind.


It is cold outside and I realize that I have failed to outfit my children with jackets. Neither of them has brushed their hair. They look like orphan, zombie children. I feel guilty for a moment and then realize that I too have no jacket and messy hair. My wife will be angry with me but I will distract her with Ice Cream and Gilmore Girls.


I am late for my train. I am running to the station with bag in hand and stuffing my face with a Dark Chocolate Strawberry Zone Bar. I am drooling on myself and find it very difficult to breathe. I am self conscious about the way I am running. It must look very awkward, even disturbing, like an Ostrich with Turrets. I am sweating again. What is wrong with me?


I make my train by the margin of a pubic hair. I am a sweaty, out of breath, chocolate face. People walk past me and shake their heads. I don’t give a shit. I can feel my heart beating in the balls of my feet and my testicles hurt again. I take out my Ipod and make a bet with myself.

I will shuffle all 20,000 songs on my Ipod. If the first song is a good one then it will be a fine day. If it sucks, then my day will continue to be a disaster. These little games keep my pea brain occupied. Here goes…

ASIA – Heat of the Moment.

Too close to call.

It’s only 8:15AM and I’m already Out-Numbered.

Fatherhood Friday at Dad Blogs

Monday, October 26, 2009

Ode To Plasma...

You were lonely but not alone.

Burning bright in a sea of glowing color.

You were bigger than the others.

A gentle giant.

Don't look at me like that with your C-Span eyes.

You had me at Hola.

We have no room for you. Too much clutter. We already have two babies.

Stop it! You know how I love Infomercials. That was a dirty trick.

One Hundred weeks and free shipping? Who says you can't buy happiness?

I want you. I need you. I feel dirty.

We like the same things; Football, Hockey, Planet of the Apes.

How will I tell my wife? She'll be jealous. I don't want to hurt her.

I heard a rumor. Is it true you're fifty inches?

Ohhhhh. Naughty.

I've never had one that big.

You know what they say?

We could do it from every angle. That's your thing, right?

I like to watch.

If I take you now, we could be together by the weekend.

Easy like Sunday Morning. Just like the song.

I don't even know your name.

Shhhhhh. Don't say a word.

I'm going to take you home.

I don't care if I have to pay for it.

It's worth it.

You can't put a price on happiness.

Bigger is definitely better.

Now that we're together, I won't be Out-Numbered any longer...

Thursday, October 22, 2009

They Want To Know...

One of the most daunting things about being the Father of two Daughters, is trying to decide how to teach them about a multitude of life's lessons. Not everything is a cut and dry explanation and I certainly don't have all the answers. In fact, there are certain questions that come up, that have me absolutely perplexed. When this happens, I feel helpless. I want my kids to feel empowered with knowledge. I want to be the one who provides them with that knowledge. Unfortunately, it doesn't always work that way.

This is why it is important to have a multi-level, Fail Safe "System" in place for when certain unanswerable inquiries find their way to your jurisdiction. There are three particular levels of code that I employ in such, said situations (Not to be confused with the lyrics to Elton John's, "Sorry seems to be the hardest word" - Such a sad, sad situation...)

Code Fuchsia

This is the lowest and least threatening of situations. Most of the time, they can be handled with a yes or no but often require some sort of deflection or measure of distraction.


Daughter - "Daddy, Why is the sky blue?"

Father - "No."

Daughter - "No what?"

Father - "No way! Look at all the candy over there."

Daughter - "Cool! I love you Daddy!"

Code Chartreuse

This can get quite tricky and most often can escalate if not dealt with, in a swift and cunning fashion. Although not admirable, answers to a fair number of these inquiries, might best be met with a white lie.


Daughter - "Daddy? Why are those two Dogs stuck together?"

Father - "Sweetie, If I tell you, do you promise not to get upset?"

Daughter - "Yes. I promise."

Father - "It seems as if the Dog on top is blind and his friend is carrying him home."

Daughter - "That's so sad but his friend is nice."

Father - "Yes. Very nice indeed."

Code Crimson

This is perhaps the most alarming and the most sensitive of all scenarios. It can be handled in one or two of the following ways or even a combination of both. When engaged with a child who is prying for information that you can not possibly explain, it is sometimes best to ignore them until they go away or if necessary, pretend to cry or sleep, depending on the time of day. Please exercise extreme caution when navigating through these testy, shark infested waters.


Daughter - "Daddy? Who do you love more, me or Mommy?"

Father - "I... I... Can't..."

Daughter - "Daddy, why are you crying?"

Father - "I... Cheese Sticks... Just... I... Zamboni"

Daughter - "What?"

Father - (Curling up into the fetal position, eyes closed and snoring loudly.)

Daughter - "Daddy? Are you awake? I'm sorry Daddy. I'll leave you alone."

Father - (Back to watching Hockey...)

Today, my oldest daughter picked a large quantity of lint from my bellybutton. She asked me where it came from. I told her I have no idea.

Godspeed and Out-Numbered...

Monday, October 19, 2009

Ass Blanket: A Love Story...

We've been married for 12 years. A testament to the strength of our union.

We have climbed quite a few mountains along the way and we have also been blessed with more than our share of sunny days.

All those years ago, we looked deep into each others eyes and pledged words that we couldn't have possibly understood until now. We were very young back then.

I fell in love with you the first time I saw you. You looked like Winnie from The Wonder Years. I wanted to become your Fred Savage.

We met at a Halloween party in college. I had a Mohawk. I was dressed like King Diamond. Either you were very brave or very foolish. I still can't believe you let me walk you home.

Time has a way of changing things. It changed our bodies. It changed our dreams. It can break a man's spirit if he lets it whisper in his ear for too long. I have never been afraid of time because I have you. I can count the days and even the years and it never seems to get too far in front of me.

Every season reminds me of us.

The coming of spring reminds me of your laugh. You squeak like a mouse. One of my favorite things about you.

The warm summer breeze conjures up images of holding hands and falling asleep on the beach. I can't think of anything more comforting than the sound of waves crashing and the touch of your hand.

The fall will always be ours. The crisp air was made for us. Every leaf that falls, comes from the eternal tree that has roots in our love.

But The winter is how I know I love you. The mornings are always so cold but your ass is so warm that it makes it impossible to get out of bed.

It warms me like a heavy quilt.

You are my ass blanket. This is our love story.

Out-Numbered by the blessings. So many, I can not count...

Postscript: I registered the Patent for the ®Ass Blanket weeks ago, so don't even try it, Shamwow guy.

Thursday, October 15, 2009

I Don't Do Bath Time...

I don't do bath time. It's that simple. It's just not my thing. I'm not good at it. I excel at other things, like taking out the garbage and changing light bulbs. I'm also good at loading the dishwasher, screwing things into other things with screwdrivers and even on occasion, tightening things on other things with wrenches.

Just don't ask me to do bath time. I'll simply look the other way and say, "I don't do bath time." I won't do that talk to the hand thing though. That's cunty.

To be completely honest, I don't really have a good reason for my disdain. It's just a man's intuition. A gut feeling. Please just trust me on this one. Don't make me do it. Nothing good ever comes of bath time. This much I can tell you...

Wife - "Please! I am exhausted. I need to lay down. My feet are killing me and I think I have a stye in my eye. I'm begging you. Please bathe them tonight."

Out-Numbered - "A stye? Now you need two eyes to bathe our kids? C'mon now."

Wife - "Don't be a dick. You never bathe them. I'm serious. Just do it. You could have been done by now."

Out-Numbered - "Ughhhhh. Fine! Not happy about this."

Kids watching TV. Looking extra dirty.

Out-Numbered - "OK ladies. Bath is ready. Let's do this!"

No response what so ever. Nada. Zilch.

Out-Numbered - "Hey! I said the bath is READY!"

Kids run to the bathroom and begin getting undressed. This isn't so bad after all.

7 Year Old - "Daddy can we take a bubble bath?"

3 Year Old - "BUBBLE BATH!"

Out-Numbered - "I don't see why not. Bubbles it is."

7 & 3 Year Old - "Yay! Bubbles!"

Wait. This is way too easy. I don't trust them. They are trying to trick me. Evil wears the face of a child.

Out-Numbered - "OK. You guys can play bubbles for 5 minutes and then you need to wash up. Got it?"

The two of them proceed to use the bubbles to decorate their faces and bodies.

7 Year Old - "Look Daddy. I have a looooonnnnng white beard. I'm an ooooollllllddddd man."

Out-Numbered - "That's nice."

3 Year Old - "You can't be an old man. You have a girl face."

Out-Numbered - "She's just pretending baby."

7 Year Old - "I have an idea!"

Out-Numbered - "What are you doing?"

7 Year Old - "I'm making a giant bubble penis!"

Out-Numbered - "What? NO!"

3 Year Old - "I want to make a bubble penis."

Out-Numbered - "Stop it guys! That's not nice."

Now my 7 year old is laying on her back, molding a giant bubble penis.

7 Year Old - "Now I look like a man."

3 Year Old - "You have a Penis!"

Out-Numbered - "No she doesn't!"

3 Year Old - "Yes she does!"

7 Year Old - "Daddy, do you want to see her do the Giney dance?"

Out-Numbered - "The what?"

7 Year Old - "Do the Giney dance."

3 Year Old - "OK."

3 Year Old grabs her vagina and crouches over and starts swaying from side to side.

3 Year Old - "Giney Dance. Giney Dance. Giney Giney Giney Dance."

Out-Numbered - "Please stop it."

7 Year Old - "Daddy, look at my bubble penis."

3 Year Old - "Giney Dance. Giney Dance. Giney Giney Giney Dance."

Out-Numbered - "HONEY! GET IN HERE NOW!!!!! PLEASE!!!!"

I told you nothing good will come of this. But you push and you push and you won't stop until I am broken into tiny little man pieces, strewn across the wet, hairy, tile, bathroom floor.

I am Out-Numbered by a million tiny bubbles in the shape of a giant penis. I hope you are happy now...

Fatherhood Friday at Dad Blogs

Monday, October 12, 2009

When The Time Comes...

To My Sweet Daughters,

If you are reading this post, chances are I am either dead, watching football or hiding from your Mother. It is also quite possible that it is a combination of the latter two. Regardless of the circumstance, I am assuming you are reading this some years from now...

You might be wondering why I have an entire journal of my life and experiences, posted on the internet, for all the world to see? (with the exception of the Amish. Assuming they are still not using the internet.) The answer is complicated but I'll try to explain it to you now.

Parents take a lot of pictures of their kids. We also take a lot of videos to capture some of the most important moments in our lives. The problem is we're too lazy and often too inept, to organize them and put them into photo albums for you to look at later on in life. The videos also become totally obsolete and useless after about three years because the tape formats change so frequently. This is precisely why your Mother and I will never get to watch that video we made together in college. Who the hell has a God damn C-VHS converter nowadays? The point is, I wanted to keep a detailed journal of all the times we were going to share. Good, Bad and even Ugly.

My hope was that someday, when you have Rugrats of your own, you can look back on the hundreds of entries in this journal and find some extremely specific references that relate back to experiences you might be having in your journey through parenthood.

The truth of the matter is, being a Dad hasn't always been a cake walk and contrary to popular belief, raising kids isn't always by the book. Every day isn't always a Brady Bunch day. As a matter of fact, it's fucking hard as hell. By the way, I curse a lot in this journal. I know I've always told you not to say bad words and it seems a bit hypocritical of me but that's why I curse here. Because I always thought it was important not to use bad language around you two. This journal was my safe haven.

I want you to know that I'm totally fine with you reading all of these things but at the same time I want you to understand that there are things in here that you might find a bit hurtful or confusing... I promise this was not my intention. When I think about this, it upsets me. The problem is, even though daughters sometimes think of their Dad's as perfect, this couldn't be further from the truth. Your Dad has a ton of flaws and sometimes those imperfections are hard to hide but this is exactly why I want you to read this stuff. Being a parent is anything but perfect. It's impossible not to mess up. Sometimes you screw things up daily. Only when you accept, that this is OK, is when you gain the power to understand that it is all part of the amazing journey.

The two of you make me so proud. I can't imagine what my life would be like without the two of you in it. Getting up every day is so much easier knowing that your precious faces will be there to greet me. Even though you both know exactly how to push my buttons, there isn't a second that goes by that I don't feel the essence of your very soul, pumping through my veins. You are truly a part of me and I can't remember myself before you came along.

So go ahead and read on my dear children. I hope that you take solace in knowing that the times we had together were anything but ordinary. Because each of you are so completely and utterly unique as human beings, there are plenty of surprises you will find in here along the way. Enjoy them and take them for what they are. Honest moments in time...

While writing this journal has been rewarding and fun in so many ways, it's also been a test of wills at times. When you expose your life in an honest way, people judge you based on the words you write. More often than not, this judgement is passed by total strangers who can't possibly know how much I care for you. I've learned from those people but not about parenting. I've learned that I write this journal for YOU and for no one else but you. If I'm not true to myself with the words that I write, than in turn, I'm not being true to you.

Someone once said that, "Words are like feathers in the wind. Once you let them go, you can never get them back again. They are gone forever, so be careful with the words you choose."

Unfortunately I heard this after I called you guys assholes in one of my entries. Sorry about that. I took a lot of shit for that one from Mom and Grandma. My bad...

If in fact you are reading this and I am watching football, can you please bring me a beer? I've probably gained about 60 pounds since writing this and it's a good bet that I'm too God Damn fat and lazy to get up the stairs to get it myself. Oh and bring the Chips and Salsa while you're at it. Thanks. I love you both!

Your Out-Numbered (Hopefully watching football or at least in Heaven.)


Friday, October 9, 2009

Kenny Rogers...

It’s 8:40am and I’m writing this on my commute to work.

There are three dudes on my train that look like Kenny Rogers. I’m pretty sure one of them is the real Kenny Rogers. There is also one man that is a dead ringer for Ben Kingsley. I’m pretty sure it’s not the actual Ben Kingsley though. This guy looks more like Ben Kingsley as Gandhi and I’m almost positive that Mr. Kingsley wore makeup in that film to look more like Gandhi. I can’t be sure though because I’ve never researched the production of the film.

There is also a woman on my train that looks like Maude. I know for a fact that she’s not the real Maude. I was and still am a huge B. Arthur fan and I know she has recently passed. May she rest in peace. She seemed like a tremendous woman.

The man directly to the right of me is really creepy looking. I’m not sure what a pedophile looks like but if this were a movie, he’d probably be playing the pedophile. Thank God I’m not a child and that this isn’t a movie. What’s even creepier is that we’re both on our laptops and we are both wearing cheap looking mirrored sunglasses. People must think we’re brothers. I hope they don’t think that I’m a pedophile too. Shit! Hold on. He’s looking at me. I think he knows I’m writing about him. OK, I just took off my sunglasses. Now he’ll think I have nothing to hide and no one will think we’re twins of the pedophile variety.

I wonder if I’m the first Dad Blogger to ever use the word Pedophile five times in a post. This can’t be a good thing. I hope there are no awards for that. That would be a dubious distinction.

“And the award for most usage of the word Pedophile in a Daddy Blog goes to…”


There is no applause. The crowd is silent. You can hear the crickets even though the awards ceremony is taking place indoors. Perhaps the windows are open. If I had to guess, I would say those are actually Cicadas and not crickets. Not a huge Jon Secada fan.

I just did a spell check on this post and Gandhi was spelled incorrectly. I’m embarrassed for myself. He was such a great man. So altruistic. I should know how to spell his name. I’m sorry Mr. Gandhi for bringing shame upon you. I will never, ever forget the correct spelling of thy name again. But you know who should be even more ashamed? The fucking spell check programmer guy. The correct spelling of Gandhi wasn’t even the first choice. It was Handy. That’s messed up. I’m embarrassed for him because he knew how to spell Gandhi’s name but he didn’t think Mr. Gandhi was important enough to make him more of a priority than the word Handy. Bastard Red Tape. There’s always politics involved at every level. It’s impossible to avoid the bureaucratic bullshit. I’m appalled.

I wonder if I start humming “She Believes In Me”, the real Kenny Rogers will look up at me. Give me some sort of sign.


Today on the train I am surrounded, no, I am Out-Numbered by Kenny Rogers’s imposters. Bastards!

Fatherhood Friday at Dad Blogs

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Hockey Heals...

I've been going to New York Rangers games with the same buddies for the past 13 years. This year is different. Sometimes life throws you a curve ball. One of those buddies moved away. The other one has Cancer. This year, Opening Night at Madison Square Garden was a date marked on my calendar for all the wrong reasons. Hockey has always been a distraction for us. Through the good times and the bad. This year it was hard to predict who would even be at the game with me. Year after year, we would meet at the seats. The start of each new season brought a sense of hope. That's the beauty of sports. With each new year, comes a fresh start. With one of my friends hundreds of miles away and the other one battling for his life, Hockey season hardly seemed a priority.

Then I realized that Opening Night was actually more important this year than it has ever been. I spoke to my friend who is sick, during the week leading up to the game. I told him that I'd keep the ticket available for him until the last minute. I knew he'd been feeling awful as of late and it would be tough for him to commit.

"Dude. If you feel up to it, just call me that day. I'd love to see you there on Opening Night."

He said he can't make any promises but he'd try his best to make it.

"I want to be there bro. I just don't know how I'm gonna feel."

The night before the game, I thought to myself that if my buddy was gonna make it out, then I needed to let him know how important it was to me to have him there. I wanted him to know that it was more than a game.

Adam Graves is a former New York Ranger. He happens to be one of the greatest Blueshirts to ever don the sweater. Adam is still a prominent figure in the organization and is known for his selfless commitment to local philanthropies, as well as, being a stellar human being. I took a chance and sent him an email in the hope that my buddy would indeed make it to the game.

This is what I wrote:


I've been a Rangers fan my whole life and a season subscriber for 13 years. I'll be at opening night tomorrow and for many reasons, it will be an emotional night for me. For the past 13 years, myself and two of my best friends have been going to the games together. Lot's of great times. This year one moved away with his family, so he won't be going to the games with us. Then a few months ago, the other one found out that he has Cancer. He's been pretty sick. He had to stop working and he's lost about 30 lbs. It's in his stomach, liver and lungs. We've known each other since we were 12 and reconnected after years apart in 1994 at MSG of all places during the cup run. We've been going to the games together ever since. Obviously because of his health, it's impossible for him to commit to the games this year. This leaves me with an empty seat on most nights. There's not a day that goes by that I don't think of my buddy and the battle he's having right now. We both have little kids and stuff like this really hits you in the heart. His health is obviously bigger than any game but The Blueshirts have always bonded us through the years. I spoke to him yesterday and he said he's going to do whatever he can to get to opening night tomorrow. I'm hoping he feels up to it. I know it's last minute but I was hoping that if he made it to the game with me, there might be some way you could arrange to have some sort of meet and greet or special experience, no matter how simple, for him before or after the game. I'm not sure how many of these he'll get to see in the coming months and something tells me that if I can, I should try and make it a special night for him. I understand if you're too busy. I know you probably get 100's of these a week. I just thought I'd give it a shot.



The morning of the game, I received a call on my cell phone. It was Adam Graves. He asked how my friend was feeling and if I thought he'd make it to Opening Night. I told him that as of yesterday, he planned on coming. Adam said he would send someone to our seats to get us during the game. He said that he reserved a private sky box for us to watch a period with him. Just the three of us. I was blown away by his kindness. I had goosebumps.

My buddy made it out that night and we saw our beloved Rangers beat the Ottawa Senators 5-2. We also spent about 40 minutes shooting the shit with one of our heroes. My buddy cried when he realized that Adam and I arranged the whole night for him. I cried too. Everyone always asks me why Hockey is so important to me. Everyone always wants to know why I get so crazy over a Rangers win or a loss.

The answer couldn't be clearer. Hockey heals. Sometimes heroes really make a difference.

On Opening Night 2009, I was not Out-Numbered. I was overwhelmed...

If you or anyone you know or love has a child that has been affected by Cancer or any other crisis, please consider supporting The Garden of Dreams Foundation. Garden of Dreams is a non-profit charity that works closely with all areas of Madison Square Garden, “to make dreams come true for kids in crisis”. In the two years since its inception, Garden of Dreams has worked tirelessly to fulfill its mission by creating unique and unforgettable events and activities -often involving unprecedented access to Madison Square Garden celebrities, events and venues -that have brightened the lives of thousands and thousands of special children and their families.

Friday, October 2, 2009

She's Turning...

Daycare turned my oldest daughter into an asshole.

Not a total asshole. Just a part time asshole.

It's hard to know for sure when the transformation happened but I'm pretty positive this is a fact.

I'm not making an accusation of any kind. In fact, I don't really give a crap. What's done is done. Because I was a first time parent, I wasn't fully aware of the signs. I blamed most of her "behavioral patterns" on Hannah Montana and Candy. To me the transformation seemed logical. Before I had daughters, I never knew what it was like to live with women. Sure, I live with my wife but that's different.

Living with your wife is like, partly cloudy with a chance of scattered showers.

Living with your wife and two daughters is like, watch out for the fucking tsunami, with a chance of sun.

The point is and I know I'm gonna get shit for this but I kind of expected my daughter to turn into a little bit of a bitch at some point. This is what Fathers of Daughters are told to expect. Now, you can interpret that statement however you want but I actually say that with one part sarcasm, two parts fear, a dash of love and a pinch of respect.

My wife and I always have the same discussion about our two daughters. It goes something like this...

Wife - "Why does she have to be such an asshole?"

Out-Numbered - "She just has a strong personality and remember... She's a Leo."

Wife - "She's an asshole."

Out-Numbered - "Well, the little one will eventually turn. You'll see."

Wife - "No way. She's too sweet and mushy."

Out-Numbered - "I give her two weeks at Daycare before the Asshole gene kicks in."

Wife - "Nope, not my baby. She's different."

Out-Numbered - "Keep living that lie, crazy pants."

When my wife went back to work in September, we enrolled our youngest daughter (Sweet and Mushy) in Daycare. The same establishment that her older sister graduated from with honors (GET YOUR DAUGHTER THE FUCK OUT OF OUR SCHOOL!!!).

7:53am - In the car with my youngest (Sweet and Mushy) daughter on the way to Daycare. This is the end of Week 3.

Out-Numbered - "Are you excited for school today Munchkin?"

Sweet and Mushy - "Yes."

Out-Numbered - "What do you think you'll do today at school?"

Sweet and Mushy - "Play outside on the swings."

Out-Numbered - "That sounds like fun baby."

Sweet and Mushy - "We have a swing set at home."

Out-Numbered - "Yes we do."

Sweet and Mushy - "And Flowers."

Out-Numbered - "Flowers?"

Sweet and Mushy - "Yes Flowers."

Out-Numbered - "I don't think we have any Flowers sweetheart."

Sweet and Mushy - "Yes we do."

Out-Numbered - "Oh. You mean the flowers I bought Mommy?"

Sweet and Mushy - "Yes."

Out-Numbered - "That's right but we threw those out last week. We don't have any more Flowers."

Sweet and Mushy - "Yes we do."

Out-Numbered - "No honey. We through them out. They're not there anymore."

Sweet and Mushy - "YES WE DO! They're in the kitchen you IDIOT!"

and baby makes three... the transformation is complete.

Thanks Daycare.

Now I'm officially Out-Numbered...

PostScript: I just wanted to proudly point out one thing. Upon returning home later that evening, I found said flowers still in the kitchen. It should be duly noted that my youngest daughter, while rude and disrespectful, used the word "idiot" in the proper context.

I think Louis C.K. sums it up best. Perhaps I'm not the only one after all. Forward to the 3:08 mark.