November 28: Quality Time

My wife is at choir practice.  My daughter is at dance class.  I am taking care of my son.  And by "taking care of my son," I mean washing out three pairs of pants and underwear in the toilet.  Yes, our quality time has been an exercise in potting training hell.  My son knows when he has to go to the bathroom.  He just chooses not to inform me until after he has crap running down his leg.

All my family and close friends know I have a pretty strong stomach.  I can clean up vomit.  I can go through a refrigerator and empty all the containers of four-month-old chicken breasts and moldy broccoli.  I can scrape off dishes used as ash trays and cuspidors.  However, I have a real problem with fecal matter.  I can't stand the smell.  I can't stand the sight.  And I certainly can't stand the texture.  In my time with my son tonight, I have had to deal with more shit than Ed Norton from The Honeymooners.

I tend to lose my patience with my son in these instances, simply because I am trying not to throw up.    I want him to wash out his clothes.  He refuses to do it.  I stand there and wait.  He stands there and waits.  It is a battle akin to Godzilla versus King Kong.  Or should I say King Dung.  The score currently stands at Godzilla-2, King Dung-1.  I am winning, although I don't feel like a winner.  I feel like taking a three-hour shower in scalding water when I get home.

I am sure the fun is not over yet.  When I pick up my daughter, she will probably find some reason to hate me.  I will not have the heat at the correct temperature in the car.  Or the WiFi will not be working at home.  Or my eyes will be brown.

Saint Marty is having a shitty night.

Ed Norton knows his shit

August 14: Gone Girl, Bingo Birthday Party, Dance

Well, as I said this morning, I missed being with my kids today.  However, my daughter isn't quite as sentimental.  She is currently in a car with her aunt, headed downstate for a week-long visit with relatives in the Detroit area.  She spilled no tears when I kissed her goodbye this afternoon.  She barely acknowledged that I was leaving the dance studio.  So much for missing her daddy.

Speaking of dance, I registered my daughter for her dance classes this afternoon, as well.  She is taking ballet, hip hop, tap, and modern.  My daughter is going to be one very busy little girl in the fall.  That doesn't even take into account religion classes, piano lessons, or gymnastics (which my daughter wants to sign up for this autumn, as well).  I always said I wasn't going to be a chauffeur parent, driving my child from one commitment to another.  I am going to be eating those words this year.

Tonight, I have to go to a family bingo birthday party.  Most people don't know what a bingo party is.  Think of a garage sale where everything for sale is crap nobodoy wants.  Then wrap that crap in birthday tissue or newspaper, and use that crap as prizes in a bingo tournament.  That is a bingo birthday party.  Most of the time, I come home with a bag of prizes I just wrap up and save for the next bingo birthday party.  Tonight will be no different.

On this night, the first night of being back at work, I would prefer to go home and relax.  Maybe feel a little sad for the absence of my gone girl.  And watch
America's Got Talent.

Saint Marty isn't going to get what he wants tonight.



B-16!  O-69!