Breastfeeding at the Mall

Recently I read a story about Salma Hayek breastfeeding some African baby whose mother couldn't produce any milk. How disgusting. An American mother would never shed her modesty, even to help a hungry child. Modesty is a hallmark of American ideology. Just ask anyone at Fox News. All I had to do was ask a group of teenage girls hanging around Hollister. Who I only talked to, by the way, because I thought they were prostitutes.

With a wife that's seven months pregnant, I get alot of people asking me if we're going to breast feed. It's a serious question meant for a mature audience. I know this, because every time someone asks me I giggle. First off, I won't be breastfeeding the child. I've tried and I've failed. If my breasts could provide some sort of sustenance, trust me, I would. But even if I could, I wouldn't breastfeed in public. Pooping is natural, but you don't see me doing that in the middle of the food court. Right?

The point is, if you want to breastfeed in public, go to Europe. Or Sierre Leone. Or wherever it is people like Salma Hayek go to feed their children. But in America, we keep our shame and our breasts closely guarded. So will my wife breast feed? That's almost as intrusive as asking if we have sex. Which, of course, we don't. We're modest people.

Snookie from Jersey Shore and the Epic Gynecologist Appointment

The wife and I spent over three hours at the doctor’s office this morning. She went in for her second round of testing for gestational diabetes. I’m so excited. A highly restricted diet and health concerns are a huge negative, sure, but imagine how fun introductions would become. “Hi, I’m Michael and this is my wife, Bekki. She has diabetes”. I would pronounce diabetes with a soft e at the end, strictly as an homage to actor Wilford Brimley.

The long wait as the wife got blood drawn four different times did allow me to catch up on pop culture. Luckily there was an issue of People Magazine lying around and I was able to read all about television’s latest craze, Jersey Shore. What better way to eradicate racial stereotypes than by casting people who fit them to a t and then giving them their own show. That’s exactly the same strategy that BET has been using for years. You’re welcome, black community.

After reading the article, the wife and I spent the next two hours and fifty five minutes judging the receptionists lack of courtesy and professionalism and wondering how our experience would have been different if Snookie was in charge. Towards the end of the ordeal, I noticed that the light bulb directly over me was burnt out. I said to Bekki that if Snookie worked here, this never would have happened. I don’t know what’s worse; giving Snookie fictional reign over the doctor’s office or taking three hours to notice I was sitting in a darkened corner.

An Open Letter to My Son

Dear Lukas,

I know it may be awhile before you can read, and if you attend the schools around here that day may never come, but I wanted to take a minute to let you know that I love you. I don't love you the way I love breasts, but deeper and less superficial. I still worry sometimes if I'm the best role model for a child to have. I would hate to pass the family nose or the family temper on to you. No one needs that kind of baggage. At least I know I'll be a better dad than Scott Stapp. He sings for the band Creed. Yeah, I know.

I promise to make the best effort, though. I'll read to you every night. I'll play catch with you. I'll do all those things that a good dad is supposed to do. I promise. And I'll never engage in group sex with Kid Rock and a couple strippers in the back of a tour bus. Yeah, Scott Stapp did that. While he was married and fronting the pseudo-religious rock band Creed. What a jerk.

It's hard for me to imagine anything more beautiful than that big bulbous belly that your momma has right now. I place my hands on it and feel you kick and it brings tears to my eyes. But I know that it will pale in comparison to the first time I see your face and hear you cry. I can't wait to meet you. If I never do anything monumental in life, at least I can say that I created a wonderful child with a wonderful woman. I don't care if I'm never an astronaut. Or a NBA star. Or the singer for a pseudo-religious rock band that plays songs about fatherhood, but then attempts suicide. Yeah, with a wife and two kids, Scott Stapp tried to kill himself.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I want to give you everything and I want to be everything for you, but if I fall short just know that I tried and I love you. And at least your dad isn't Scott Stapp, because that guy really sucks.

Love,

Daddy

9 Chubby Nerds and a Black Guy

Urinating is a very important ritual for me. Where I go, how I go and with whom I go matter greatly. For instance, if I'm going to go in public, I wash my hands prior. It's not that I'm afraid of the outside world; it's that I realize my penis is cleaner than most people's hands. Do you really think your coworker washes his paws after every bowel movement? Hardly. When I'm at home, however, it brings me great joy to pee in the backyard with the dogs. Allowing them to pick up on my scent helps to unify the pack.

It's also important that my pee not touch someone elses pee. A small part of me insists that this is nothing more than my racist subconscious. I am, after all, from the South. And what is more discerning than having my healthy fluid mix with inferior urine? I thought that the online dating service I signed up for would help to ease my troubled subconscious. That's why when the questionnaire prompted me to select the nationalities I was most interested in dating, I proudly clicked 'African American'. Sadly, all I got were 9 white chicks and an Asian.

Luckily, my wife also signed up and took the aforementioned questionnaire. Who was she paired with? Nine chubby nerds and a black guy. I didn't even know she was into black guys. That tells you how much I pay attention. Hell, I didn't even know that I liked Asians. In fact, I was so sure that I didn't like Asians that I left the 'Asian' tab unclicked. I was so positively and undoubtedly sure that Asian women were so far removed from my preference that I would never in a thousand years have romantic feelings for one. Fortunately for me, I took the Chemistry.com questionnaire and now know otherwise. Apparently, I'm quite fond of them.

On a side note, this post is a few days late due to a few more battles with the now slain computer virus.

You and Me and Baby Makes Three

I love you, Bekki!

Oh, and you too, Lukas!

Hunting for Strange Ass at the Grocery Store

Flowers. Hallmark cards. Heart-shaped candy and boxes of assorted chocolates. Is there anything that sums up February more than Valentine's Day? Well, besides black history? I doubt it. The fact is, February is for lovers. And why should I be denied love just because I'm married? That's why I've decided to throw my hat into a couple of the better known dating sites; Match.com, eHarmony.com, ect. I'm hoping to find someone who looks like the Sun Maid Raisins lady. And if that doesn't pan out, I wouldn't mind having lunch with the girl from the Santitas bag.

The wife is strangely unopposed to this idea. Perhaps she's too distracted by the ungodly creature that's tap dancing on her bladder. Whatever the case, I'm overjoyed by the opportunity to bring disappointment and regret to a new generation of women. I say women, because I was under the impression that these dating sites are strictly heterosexual. I'm just waiting for a few queens out there to prove me wrong and point me in a more flamboyant direction. I wonder if the Brawny guy is available.

Oddly enough, my son is also for sale. The wife and I have been pimping out his baby registry info to anyone and everyone who will listen. Well, are you listening? #43691882 at babiesRus . And if unrewarded generosity is as unappealing to you as it is to me, I'm offering the consolation prize of naming my son. The first person to buy something from our registry will get the honor of naming our son. I'm not just talking abut the first name, either. I'm talking about the whole shabang. How does Louise Larsen, Jr. sound? Or Prince Gomolvilas, Jr.? And, Prince, if the Brawny guy is available, I'll take the one from the 1980's. I can't resist a guy with a moustache.

Vagina Envy (The Vagina Trilogy: Part III)

With this being the third post in the past week and a half relating to the female reproductive organ, one might say that I am a leading authority on the subject. Sadly, I'm no more a spokesman for vagina as Steve-O is a spokesman for universal health care. Sure he's been to the hospital more times than Michele Duggar, but I heard he got his doctorate from a clown college.

No, I'm what you would call an amateur enthusiast. My heart's in the right place, but I lack the knowledge and field work to be a true professional. I honestly don't even know what a vagina looks like in the wild. What are its migration patterns? What is its life span? What is its natural habitat? -Possibly a bottle of Tylenol, because every time I go looking for it my wife gets a headache.

I do know that it's where babies come from, and this fact is constantly held over me by the old ball and chain. "Until well after this child's born, it's 80/20. I'm invested 80%, you're invested 20%" And a small amount of vagina envy has definitly been brought to the surface. Peeing while standing up and having an external sack are dwarfed by the awe inspiring magnitude of child birth. Her breasts will become larger. Her stomach will expand. The bones in her hips will actually move. It's almost like I'm married to Optimus Prime. Sadly, their's only one thing on me that can double in size, and that's my waistline.

Guy on a Red Couch

Yes, the couch is red and the guy is me. Enjoy:

Christmas with the Family

Despite his best efforts, Ernie did not ruin Christmas after all. In fact, it was pretty enjoyable all around. The wife and I woke up about noon and exchanged presents. That was followed with roughly three hours of listening to the Chanukah Song by Adam Sandler. We're not Jewish, but when I listen to the song I wish I were. Sorta like when I watch the Color Purple, I wish I was black.

We had Christmas dinner with Bekki's parents. Three helpings of prime rib later, I felt as though I might explode. The twice-baked potato didn't help, either. Luckily, we had one more holiday tradition to look forward to- Scrooged, the 1988 comedy classic starring Bill Murray. It's a staple in our home. It's just not Christmas without watching it at least once.

We came to the conclusion that Murray's character would be viewed, from a medical standpoint, as going through a manic episode brought on by stress and fatigue. You know who else went insane? Musician Daniel Johnston. They did a great documentary about him called The Devil and Daniel Johnston. It isn't as funny as Scrooged, but it's worth watching. Overall, we had a great Christmas.

Fools in the Snow

A few days ago, the East Coast got pounded by a winter storm. Our little town rarely sees snow, and when it does, it's nowhere near this heavy or this quick falling. Bekki and I enjoyed it while it lasted. And, for posterity's sake, we recorded a quick romp in the snow. Watch:

Ernest Ruins Christmas

Did you ever watch those Ernest movies growing up? Ernest Saves Christmas was always my favorite. So much, in fact, that we named our first dog Ernest in honor of the film. And, yes, Ernie has saved Christmas on several occasions, but this year was not one of his better performances.

My mother and father trekked the icy roads to visit us this week. My mother was in the room during the ultrasound to play witness to the teary eyes and gasps of joy when the doctor announced that we would be having a bouncing baby boy. Few times in my life have I been happier than at that moment. I can't wait for all of the wonderful father/son bonding experiences. We can hike. We can fish. We can tell girls we love them just so they'll show us their boobs and then we'll never call them again. It will be truly magical.

After the ultrasound, we drove up to Asheville for some heavy duty baby shopping. My mom promised to buy us a crib, but went all out with a 4-in-1 convertible crib, bedding, a mattress and baby clothes. It was more than we were expecting, but we didn't protest too much. The bedding has a jungle theme which can only mean one thing: I have free reign to paint tigers on our walls.

On the drive home, we decided on an evening of pizza and television (none of us were capable of much else). But before I could even turn the lights on as I walked in the front door, I slipped on a huge puddle of brown grossness. Once I flipped the switch, we noticed four more piles of brown grossness. Then as we marched through the house, we were met with three more huge piles of grossness on our brand new couch. Then I found another pile on the old couch, and two more piles on our new area rugs. Just as we started to put the pieces together, Ernie comes walking into the room with a paper Christmas bag wrapped around his neck.

Ernie is fine. After Bekki going into hysterics and calling the emergency vet, Ernie is fine. Apparently, he got into some chocolate my mom had brought me. You see, Terry's Chocolate Orange is a Christmas staple for me. So my mom, being the superb gift-giver that she is, brought us up two. Ernie wasn't aware they were for us and decided to eat both of them and most of the tinfoil that they're wrapped in. The piles of brown grossness weren't poop after all, they were piles of orange flavored chocolate and orange flavored stomach bile. Thank you, Ernie, you saved Christmas.

It's a Boy!

Today was our scheduled ultrasound and I'm happy to announce that it's a boy!
I never thought I'd have to suffer through another man sucking on my wife's fun bags.

Babies and Dogs Are Kinda the Same Thing

"Kids are like dogs that slowly learn how to talk". I'm pretty sure that quote comes from the film Knocked Up. If anyone knows definitively, please clue me in. Wherever the origin of the particular quote, I feel it rings true. I for one can't wait until the first time I see my little bundle of joy dropping a deuce in the backyard. Or the first time s/he stands over me with a menacing look to establish pack dominance. Ah, precious memories.

Will I feel the same love towards the baby that I do towards the dogs? Don't underestimate my feelings for our four-legged family members. Hell, I even have a leather wallet with a corner chewed up. I can't remember which dog committed the crime, but I smile fondly every time I look at it. Will spit-up on my favorite shirt do the same thing? And when strangers walk up innocently and ask what breed the baby is, how should I respond? There are so many questions that I suppose I'll just have to figure out along the way.

Back to the Lab

I just recorded four new songs today, Love is Not Something. . ., Queer Bashing, Good Morning and I'm in Love!. Check them out on my MySpace page and let me know what you think. I need the good, the bad and the ugly. My ego can handle anything (because I'm that cool).

And, oh, Queer Bashing is definitely about Prince Gomolvilas.

Pit Bulls and Pregnant Women

After weeks of seeing advertisements but never actually getting to catch the show itself, I finally saw the new show on Animal Planet, Pit Bulls and Parolees. Basically, a husband and wife team own the largest pit bull rescue group in the country. The twist is that they are both ex-cons and employ parolees to work on their 10 acre rescue. It's like American Chopper, but with dogs instead of motorcycles.

And if ranting about dogs bores you, just wait until this kid pops out. The ultrasound, by the way, is scheduled for December 21st and we're super excited to find out the sex. My mom and dad are actually coming up from Charleston to celebrate with us (and buy baby stuff)! We bought some cute bodysuits and, believe me, I'm eager to show them off. I've been trying to post a video that shows the bodysuits, but to no avail. I tried asking fellow blogger and professional mentor Prince Gomolvilas for help, but he just fed me some hippie bullshit about looking inward.

My wife, Bekki, is feeling better now. She still gets bouts of nausea, but I do believe that the three month long morning sickness is officially over. She's starting to show and she looks radiant. She would strongly, strongly disagree. The baby is due towards the end of May. I'm hoping it will be a Taurus for obvious reasons. Bekki says that it will probably be a Gemini and that wishing for a Taurus is wishing for premature labor.

I'm secretly still pulling for a Taurus.

Zombies Use Cell Phones to Eat Your Brains

I'm not what most people would call a technology guy. I don't have 3G wireless coverage. I don't have GPS that tells me when I'm lost, and I certainly don't ignore the company before me to text someone a thousand miles away. Truth be told, I don't even own a cellphone.

I know, how can a guy claiming to be so technology illiterate run such a beautifully laid out blog? Truthfully, Prince Gomolvilas met me a few years ago at a pool hall, killed me in a bathroom stall and stole my identity. He uses my moniker as his pen name and my life as his inspiration. He's a nice enough guy, but don't ever give him pointers at the billiards table.

I went out to eat the other night (celebrating the end of the 1st trimester) and a group of youngsters were sitting at a table together texting. None of them would speak, they just kept texting. They were like zombies! I know I'm suppose to be the zombie (remember, Prince killed me and dumped my body in the Hudson River? Stay with me, people). These folks, however, were like lifeless corpses plugged into the matrix.

The photo at the top just goes to prove that people in third world countries are more technologically adapt than I am. Ssh, don't tell anyone, but I've never texted(sp?) anyone.

Babies, Booklets and Breakdancing

Things have busy out here in the boondocks. The old ball and chain is back at work after the expiration of a doctor's restrictions. Our little embryo is doing extremely well. Bekki and her father are both insisting that it's a boy, but we won't be sure on that until about a month from now.

The collection of poetry I've been working on (and off) is finally complete. I've decided to "self publish" it. This is due more to my impatience concerning responses from publishers than any deep rooted fear that my writing isn't good enough to receive acceptance (which it probably isn't). More on that soon.

And I finally put up a MySpace page. You may have noticed (or not) the link at the top right of the page. Yeah, that's my MySpace page. If you're excited about hearing amateur poetry read at breakneck speed over pre-recorded beats, or if you're just curious to hear what my voice sounds like, check it out. Plus, I need as many friend requests as possible to justify the time I wasted in the recording studio.

The New Addition

In the song "Ballad of a Thin Man" by Bob Dylan he sings, "You've been through all of F. Scott Fitzgerald's books/ You're very well read/ It's well known". Like Dylan, I've always felt a mild cynicism for well-read intellectual types. I suppose that's why I married a bookworm. Keep your enemies close, right?

We hired a carpenter to build a massive bookshelf to house all of my wife's literary victims. It's eleven feet long by seven feet tall and practically covers the whole wall. I've never been much into the written word, but a home library says something about a man. Hopefully it says something to exaggerate my phallus.

Aside from my wife's pretentious obsession with books, there's another area she excels in - baby making. I like to think that I had something to do with it, but I was there the night of conception, so trust me, I didn't do much. All of our efforts for the past three years have been aimed at this outcome and, now that it's finally here, we couldn't be happier. I just hope our dog-childs don't get jealous.