Looky, Daddy!

Eleven Months Longer Than The Mom Thought We'd Last

Put on something nice, grab a jacket, and let's go. I'm taking you out to dinner. Yes, you. C'mon.

It's our blogiversary.

You deserve something nice, something really special, so you know what I did? I stopped by that store, you know, the one you like so much, and I bought that necklace you've had your eye on. I know, I know, but I already bought it. I bought it and I threw away the receipt so you can't make me take it back. You deserve it.

Yes, you. You who read me day after day. You who comment when something tickles your fancy. You who lurk endlessly without so much as a hello. You who have read from the beginning and you who who found me today. You who write me with advice, and you who don't. Especially you who don't.

There were times when I didn't think we'd make it, and to be honest, as I peruse my archives, there were times when you had every right to leave. But I was new at this thing called blogging and I guess you sensed that and you forgave, and continue to forgive, my occasional missteps.

Many days I feel this little site is about to go belly-up, that if I can't come up with something out-of-the-park clever to say, then you won't come back tomorrow. I sit down on the floor of the twins' room as they nap, laptop warm on my thighs, and I fight the urge to pull the plug on us, so that I no longer feel you looking over my shoulder, wondering where the funny is, or I hear you counting the days since my last post, feeling that with each new day I had better be that much more riotous when I come back.

And then other days it all just comes together, like magic. Usually those days involve poop. But not always. Okay, always.

Still, we've had some wacky times. Like when my oldest daughter accidentally locked herself in your bathroom. Or when we met in New York City to take pictures of our shoes. Or when the New York Times linked to me by accident, or Time Out Kids took away my third child, or PrimeTime Live filmed me looking like an ass. There was the time when you introduced yourself at that store in Montclair and we stared at each other for a few minutes, neither of us knowing what to say next. Or when you sent me coffee because I had forgotten to buy my own. And I know I'll keep this site going just so I can add more of you to my list of yous. Because, really, and I mean this sincerely, with no tongue firmly planted in any cheek, it is because of you that I write.

So put your new necklace on and let's hit the town. You look great.

Unless you're a dude.

Or maybe even if. Send a picture and we'll see.

Eating Crow and Nickels

The response to Thursday's post has been nothing less than awe-inspiring. The Mom badgered me for months to let her write that post, and I have to say she was right. Literally. I have to say it. She's making me. Every time a new comment comes in, she makes me say it. And if I don't, she threatens me with her army of full-term twin moms and their uterine cavities that could swallow me whole.

This whole blog thing has gone to her head.

Despite my lack of pregnancy parts, I can totally understand the need to publicly proclaim the astounding feats that have been posted here the past few days. Once, when I was thirteen, I swallowed a nickel. For the days following, as it lounged its way through me to the exit, it was all I could talk about. It was a BIG DEAL. And if that nickel had taken forty weeks to pass and had it weighed 15 pounds by the time it did, you better believe that even 25 years later, this blog would have been called www.ihadafifteenpoundnickelinsidemeforfortyweeks.com and every post would have begun "When I had that fifteen pound nickel inside me..." Which, of course, is just one more reason why I would make a sucky woman.

Despite the fact that I cut a nice figure in The Mom's little black cocktail number.

Time Out New York Kids Giveth, and Time Out New York Kids Taketh Away

In one fell sentence, I had both my Internet anonymity and one of my kids stripped away.

If only.

In Which You Curse Your God for the Gift of Sight

Here it is. 1987. Twenty years ago. Not exactly a date, but I don't know what else to call it. Later on that evening I confessed to The Future Mom that I was seeing someone else. Then she confessed to me that she was wearing the dress her grandmother had asked to be buried in.

If that's not worth a few more votes, I'm not sure what what is.

So Hot, My Basement Is Steaming

Four activities are taking up the time that I would usually spend writing: sopping up my basement, hauling waterlogged trash to the curb, packing for a family flight to see the in-laws, and trying to imagine the next unspeakable torture Our Lord has planned for me.

In the meantime, I'll make a deal with you. Over the weekend, I was nominated for, among other things, "Hottest Daddy Blogger" over at the Blogger's Choice Awards. I am truly honored by this nomination and pleased that it only took five phone calls before I found someone willing to make it for me.

Here's the deal: I have no pictures of myself on this site. Neither are there any photos of my wife (despite many of you thinking that this might be her). How can I expect votes from my readers if they've never seen the goods? So while I am down in the basement, shoveling buckets of mud back to the backyard from whence it came, I'll send my wife on a quest to find the quintessential picture of the two of us together. When she finds it, I'll post it here.

In the meantime, take my word for my unspeakable hotness and go over and vote. And also petition the contest organizers to begin a new category for Soggiest Daddy Blogger, because I've got that one in the bag.

Professional Blogger

Over the weekend, I stumbled across a reference to myself as a "professional blogger." I want to say that upon reading that designation, it gave me pause and I then took time out and reflected upon what it means both to blog and to blog professionally, and that this post is the culmination of my ruminations which will enrich and enlighten the Internet. But really, I just fell off my chair.

Which was the exact wrong thing to do. In my tiny little duplex of a house, we have only one real computer--we don't count Kathryn's, which is so old it crashes with any application more complicated than Hunt the Wumpus--and upon hearing the thump of my rump hitting the floor, my wife appeared like the wind to take my place. She's surprisingly light on her feet for her age.

She had told me before that she needed computer time this weekend, something about "work" and "deadline" and "not getting fired" and "out on the street" and "blah, blah, blah" and I knew the computer would be hers for hours unless I acted quickly. So to get back in the seat of power, I announced to her my newfound status as a "professional blogger." I even pointed to the site, still on the screen, which had proclaimed me so.

The Mom turned and regarded me.

"My, what a crappy-assed job you landed." Then she swiveled her chair back to the computer screen.

"Oh, and Victoria's got a poopy diaper," she called to me as I slunk out of the room, back downstairs to the girls. She needn't have bothered to say it, though. I could smell it halfway down the stairs.

Today's To Do List

1. Rewash moldy laundry left in washing machine. Again.

2. Find second cat.

3. Repaint twins' toenails different colors for easy recognition in bathtub.

4. Buy lightbulbs.

5. Locate source of smell in living room (cat?).

6. Write service provider check for yesterday's bandwidth overage.

7. Kiss Alice Bradley's ass.

But Enough About Me

I'm pleased. Very pleased. My blog account tells me that there are either an awful lot of you reading my little blog daily or my mother has learned how to mask her IP address and just make it seem like I'm popular. And I really did not expect this. To tell the truth, it's kind of weird to have these limited one-way conversations with so many people. I mean, who are all of you? Some of you are simply numbers on my stats page while others comment so regularly that I speak of you as friends to my, um, real friends, which makes me look mighty geeky to say the least.

So I'm going to step away from my computer for a while (consider it a three-day weekend) and I'm going to open this post up to you, Gentle Reader. Tell me a little about yourself. You need not include any real identifying information, just little stuff like where you are from, if you have kids, what you do, etc. And fellow bloggers, feel free to plug your own blog here if you like.

I'll start on the first comment.