Potty Training

   Its been six weeks. Six intense weeks. Every 45 minutes, "Jack? Do you need to go potty?" or "Hey Jack, let's go poop," but nothing. Not a drop, not even a little rabbit pellet. Honestly not even any effort. I say push, he goes "unnnngghghg," but doesn't really push. He grits his teeth, but clenches his cheeks all at once. It's a game. A game where I lose 30 minutes and he wins a piece of chocolate after I give up. A game I'm certain will confuse him later in life, or cause him to believe that he can have whatever he wants if he is stubborn enough. Makes me think he is more like me than I originally considered.

   We decided on break though. Now that all my neighbors know I'm attempting to potty train the boy, I figure its time for a break. Actually, I calculated that it was time for a break. Only so many times a man can yell, "Would you just take a crap? Please for the love of God!" Only so many times my neighbors can hear that. I started to feel I needed a break the first time a neighbor quoted me in annoying head bobbing high pitched voice - "would you just take a crap..."

   I find this all surprising though. This child, the one who refuses to take a dump, is the master of dumps, or so it has been for the last five years. Every time I turn around he takes a dump. I've often wondered if there is a wormhole in his colon that allows crap to come from others, and get dumped into his diaper. I could swear that more comes out than goes in. A hot dog goes in, and three small turkey sized loads come out, spaced one hour apart. I don the gas mask so often its left impressions in my face. My poor wife has nearly lost her sense of smell. Its so bad we started spraying shoe deodorant on him bum hoping it would lighten things up. It doesn't smell like a meadow though, at least not one that hasn't been defiled by a pack of well-fed bears.

   All that crap, and he can't squeeze an ounce out on the toilet. Its like watching water boil. You start out status quo. Then you get a little bored and start to stir the water, as if that will help the little bubbles form. The same goes for the potty training, time passes and you intervene - "You want to sit on the big potty/you want to sit on the little potty?"

   Its sad, because he's not my buddy anymore. He's the little bastard who makes me miss the primetime lineup every night. He's the backwards redneck kid who can drop a deuce unless there is a wad of cotton wrapped around his ass to catch it and smear it into his nether regions.

   But tonight was different. Tonight - he looked at me at dinner, and said he had to go to the bathroom. It looked urgent. It had been more than two days. A sort of standoff had started. I insisted he go on the toilet. He insisted that he needed to keep things under wraps. What resulted was a stubborn naked child who couldn't leave the house for three days and grow increasingly uncomfortable.

   I was excited, but it was the wrong moment. I was alone at the table, with two purses and two boys. I would have to leave this in the hands of the eight year old. The older one, the one we didn't have this much trouble with. He wasn't easy either, hereditary I think. So off they went. The wife and a friend of hers has gone off to the ladies room together, leaving me with the kids, the purses, and the food.

   They hadn't been gone for five minutes when a concerned looking waiter approached the table. "You are needed in the restroom sir." My mind was reeling. I had no idea what could possibly have happened. The waiter wasn't panicked, but didn't look happy either. At just that moment my wife and companion arrived at the table.

   "Where's Jack and Evan?" I let her know that they went to "work things out," but that a waiter had just come asking for me to come see a situation. She looked concerned. Which wasn't surprising. Somehow my children always managed to cause a scene, or to do exactly the opposite. To cause a massive catastrophe, but to so cleverly hide it, that no one knew until we were long gone. If only that had more developed that talent tonight, I could have stayed and enjoyed my food.

   I rose and went to the bathroom not knowing what to expect. What I found surprised me. There, buck naked, poised on a urinal, squatting like a monkey, and holding a plate that didn't belong to him, shoveling food into his mouth was Jack. In the urinal a pile of shit so tall that had it been dropped behind and elephant, the elephant would be surprised when he turned to see it.

   Jack smiled at me, and held the plate out, mustering a mouth filled "whan sum?" The waiter stood there, quite annoyed. He proceeded to tell me that moments ago an undressed child had walked up to the table closest to the restrooms and commandeered a guests plate. He simply started at the guest, pursed his lips, grabbed the plate and walked away. Another boy, this one dressed, had looked on shrugged, and said "thanks for the grub dude."

   Moments later, the same boy, plate in hand had emerged from the restroom, walked up to another table, grabbed a banana from one plate, and a piece of chicken from another, looked around the table, rolled his bottom lip out, and then went back to the restroom.

   On the plate were the remnants of some mashed potatoes and a half eaten drumstick. All I could muster was "Where's the banana?" My other son made his timely appearance and pointed to dung pile and the banana peel that protruded unevenly from the side, almost buried as if here were trying to hide it.

   At that, Jack jumped down, looked up at me and said, "That wasn't so bad. I like these tall toilets." He then proceeded to put his clothes on, and gave the urinal a flush, sending bits of poo and water onto the ground.

   Jack walked over, grabbed Evan's hand and said, "Let's go man, I'm all done here." Evan shrugged, but didn't quite look horrified. Somehow he know, and I knew too that this was par for the course for our family.

   Jack walked up to the waiter, and in the most impressive sentence strung together by a five year old, he said "You shouldn't stare at people, its weird." Then he left the room. The waiter stood there mouth agape, and before I could even say a word, Jack walked back in, handed the waiter the plate, and pointed to the toilet saying "Your probably gonna want to get someone to clean that up," and then left again leaving the waiter without words.

   Needless to say, that was the proudest moment of my life in relation to him.

The Morning Grind

   I was sitting in a Starbucks today, merrily drinking an iced venti stirred caramel machiatto, when much to my surprise a man of about 22 sat down at my table.  He grinned at me like he knew me and hadn't seen me in years.  I wondered to myself for a moment, "do I know this bloke?"  I racked my brain to determine if I had seen this fellow, but not even one spark of recognition.
   Then it began.  "Hi!"  It was an overly enthusiastic tone.  "Do you know Jesus?"  Also enthusiastic.  Way too enthusiastic.   I had come here because I needed a pick me up.  The kind of morning pick me up that can only be induced chemically.  Now, this moron sat across from me with some kind of unnatural energy, this I know because he was drinking apple juice.
   "I do."  Was really all I could muster.  For a moment he looked disappointed.  His subtle betrayal of his overly chipper self didn't last long though.
   "Are you saved, " he asked as his eyes widened like a starved cartoon character staring at you because you've just turned into a large baked turkey.
   "From what?" I asked him back, beginning to enjoy this exchange.  My question bewildered him for a moment.  I could see his wheels turning as he was thinking that everyone must surely know what "being saved" means.
   "Um...saved from him."  Him?  That was the best this guy could do.  I could tell he was quite unprepared.  Probably some left over energy from a particularly uplifting Bible study or evening church where someone told him to go out into the world and spread the word of Christ, and like an idiot he had gone out, but forgotten to take the words with him.
   "You mean Pete?  Yes, I've been saved from Pete since I was six, when I got this tattoo."  I said as I lifted my shirt revealing a hairy belly with no tattoo upon it.  Now he looked really confused.
   "What tattoo?"
   "This one, right here in the middle of my rummy tummy."  I grabbed his hand, and made my eyes all wide like his had been.  He started to shake a little bit.  So I took advantage of his momentary panic and pulled his hand toward my naval.  "Can you feel my tattoo?  Its in the hole that God gave me, when he poked me to find out if I was done, before taking me out of the oven."  His face twisted a bit, into what I was certain was fear, with a tiny bit of disgust.
   "What are you talking about dude?"  He asked me, trying to feign anger over top of his fear, but the slight whine in his voice gave him away.
   " I was talking about our marriage.  I think we should get our vows renewed."  Now he definitely looked afraid.  "I'm just saying its been too long, and I think our Jesus cards are close to expiring.  We wouldn't want to get a notice in the mail from God telling us our Jesus cards had expired - then I'd have to get a new cat."
   He started to stand up, but realized I hadn't let go of his hand.  So he started tugging.  I played along, acted like it was a game.  A game which he was clearly losing as I almost pulled him into my lap.  This game was getting boring though.  So I stood up and yelled, "give me back my bagel you little punk, Jesus wouldn't want you to steal."
   "I didn't take your bagel let go of my hand you freak!"  He was nearly in tears.  I suppose I had done enough damage.  I let go, tried to wipe any emotion of my face.
   I sat down and shrugged my shoulders.  "I guess I ate it, " I said as ambiguously as possible.  I stopped looking at him and went back to my coffee and the grumbling I was starting as he interrupted me.  I didn't feel right anymore.
   He looked upset though.  He moved away from my table like I was made of spikes, he put his hands out carefully as if to guide himself backwards without taking his eyes of me.  "You need help man!  You are some kind of freak!  I'm leaving, don't let this freak touch you, " he yelled to the other patrons who barely looked away from their electronic devices.  They were like me.  They needed their coffee and needed to check their emails.  They wanted to grumble while the woke up.
   Once he got far enough away from me, he bolted, making strange noises as he left.  I looked at the customer next to me, who looked back.  "What got into him, " I asked.  The man shrugged, and went back to his e-book.
   I felt suddenly better.  Ready for the day.  I love Starbucks, it always has a unique way of bringing me up.

Now what do I do?

   I find myself again in one of those positions where I have no idea what I should do next.  I can't call my father because he said not to call him again after the whole "sir there are no sea lions allowed in this bank" incident (I'll go into that another time).
   At this very moment I am driving around in my 2006 Nissan Altima, and I don't feel like I can stop.  You see in my trunk is a very angry person.  Mind you, I didn't put this person in there.  Actually, I just discovered they were in there about 10 minutes after I left to go to work this morning.  I was driving along peacefully, navigating my way through traffic, and just shortly after jumping on the 101, I hit bump.  Then it started, "thump thump thump."  Then, "bang bang bang."  Like a guy kicking his feet, and then beating with his arms.
   You may ask why I didn't stop to check.  Well I will tell you why.  I'm not entirely certain it wasn't me.  I did have quite a bit to drink last night and there is more than one person I'd love to stuff in my trunk.  So I might open the trunk only to receive a well deserved foot in the face.
   At any rate, stopping and checking was no option.  At this stage, stopping anywhere isn't really an option.  I don't want other people to hear them as well.  I've got my radio up loud, and I'm playing 80's hair band with cranked up bass.  Perhaps people will just think one of the subs in my trunk is coming loose.
   I feel like I have a few options at this point.  First, I have one of those trunk popping clickers on my key fob.  I'm thinking of driving around all day, finding and empty parking lot, walking quite a ways off, and popping the trunk, just to see what happens.  Maybe if it isn't someone I know they won't recognize the car.  If it is, maybe I should have a secondary plan, like sneaking up and hitting them with a tire iron.  Wait, that won't work the tire iron is in the trunk.
   I'll get back to you later with and update.

***********

Okay, funny story.  As it turns out I did lock the thing in the trunk.  It wasn't a person though.  See, I have a cat in my neighborhood, and she has a tendency to make my dog bark.  I guess, while I was drunk last night, I shoved them both in the trunk, and went back into the house to find the keys and feel asleep on the couch.  This is good because I think drunk driving is bad.  At any rate, the animals apparently fell asleep and were awakened by the bump in the road and proceeded to chase each other in circles at high speeds.  I know this because it continued when I opened the trunk (or at least I assume that is what they were doing as the sounds were the same).  

    So here is where it gets weird.  I guess I must have been a little enraged at the cat because somewhere in there I found time to shave it.  It was definitely a long haired cat yesterday.  I also must have felt very guilty about it because it appears that I made 3-5 coats of that baldness cover up spray.  This is actually more guilt than you might originally think because I am not balding at all, and don't own any of this stuff.  Which means I must have gone out and bought it sometime last night.  

   I have to give props to the cat because despite all this, the moment it got out of the car, it should itself off, and didn't look one bit ruffled.  No smudges, no scrapes or bites.  As a matter of fact, other than looking like it shared hair lineage with a thousand youtube video commercials, it didn't look like its hair was damaged at all.  If I every do go bald I will definitely use that stuff.  To be honest, I should have filmed it and seen if they company would buy this as a commercial.  

   My dog on the other hand looked like had just survived world war three.  It was covered in vomit, matted fur all over, even had a bloodied lip.  Cat fine, dog, broke ass.  I'm certain there was a lesson there.  That lesson I believe, is that there is a clear reason that dogs are not allowed in race cars, but that maybe they should allow cats.  Those drivers do get lonely.

Clowns and Goats

   So I was taking a nice walk in the woods yesterday.  I reached about the middle point of my walk and entered into this grove on the top of hill.  It was beautiful honestly.  The grove was surrounded on all sides by tall redwoods, and sprawling across it was a sea of flowers and grass.  I think I might have laid down if I hadn't seen perhaps the most horrifying sight standing just in the darkness beyond the tree line.
   The goat was the first to make its way into my line of sight.  It was smaller, one of the kind that is a mixed gray in color, and has eyes that look like they are about to burst from its head.  The goat really didn't bother me.  The fact that it had a rope around its neck, made me feel like a moment that I had stepped into Jurassic Park, but it was quickly followed by a human hand holding the length of rope that connected to it so my mind was quickly put at ease.
   That ease only lasted a few milliseconds though.  For out of the shadows of the trees stepped a clown.  Not just any clown, but a clown with smeared makeup, torn and bloodied pants, and moving at a pace that was faster than I expected.  He was staggering, as if the goat was pulling him.
   Immediately imagery from the move IT flashed before my eyes and I screamed in horror.  Perhaps horror isn't the right word.  Perhaps I should say that I screamed like teenage girl in ghost movie.  You know, my head sort of turned a little to the side like I was trying to take in the scene, then my voice got all high pitched, my testicles retracted into my body, and my head did that shaking thing that only really happens in the movies (except to me).
   The clown and the goat paused for a moment.  I realized the goat was pulling, or maybe the clown was holding him back.  The clown actually looked as surprised as I was.  Honestly, he looked horrified.  Then he broken into the crazed walk run pace he was in before.  Right toward me.  I soiled myself, closed my eyes and waited for the goat to reach me.  I was certain the demon clown would set his hell spawned goat upon me and that they would both feast on my warm spasming body as I lay dying on the ground.
   Nope.  He ran right past me.  Said something too.  I wasn't quite sure I made it out.  He just ran by.  Smelled terrible too, like dirt and sweat and blood.  What was it he said?  It rolled around in my brain not making any sense.  For the first few moments I was still trying to process the bloodied clown running at me.
   Then something else came out of the shadows.   Bigger.  All at once the word rolled into that area of my brain where it started to have meaning.  Bear.  He said bear.  Shit.  So I ran.  Soiled.  I really would have crapped myself again but I didn't have to go anymore.  I managed to push some gas out, but that was really all I had left in me.  I immediately took off in the direction that the clown and his goat were running.
   So anyway, long story short.  It turned out the clown had been at a birthday party of a local family.  He had come in through a back gate and accidentally let out a pet goat.  Being a kind fellow, he jaunted off into the woods to find it.   Find it he did.  It was being accosted by rather larger and angry brown bear.  So being brave and entirely unclown like he rescued goat, put a rope around its neck, and proceeded to run it home, with the bear chasing them down.  While running up to the grove, he tripped, ripped his pants, got up, brushed himself off, listened to a guy scream and crap himself (yes me, so quit asking), and then ran down the hill on the other side.
   Why you might ask am I telling you this?  One lesson:  Always trust a clown with a goat.  I'm just saying, its rare enough, and weird enough, that if you see a clown with a goat, he's probably not up to no good.