Aug
6
August 6, 2006
Highway…to…the Danger Zone!
Ride into…the Danger Zooooone!
Is that song totally stuck in your head now because I sure hope so. I don’t want to suffer alone, over here. I’ve had it running on a mental loop ever since we watched the air show on Saturday.
(I had this joke about the other Kenny Loggins song from Top Gun, “Playing With the Boys”, something about Tom Cruise and dirty pilot-holes and sausage-jets, but this is way funnier.)
The in-laws were visiting this weekend, which allowed JB and I to briefly escape to a movie theater where we watched Talladega Nights, which was either fucking hilarious, or the giddy thrill of being outside of the house without the boy – after 7 PM – turned me into the sort of drooling idiot who laughs at the Cingular commercial that runs before the previews. I don’t know for sure, but either way I think I’m sort of in love with Will Ferrell now.
In other news, JB finally convinced me to allow him to clipper Riley’s hair. He promised that he would be careful and that the results would not be horrific, despite the historical evidence fueling my deep misgivings.
Luckily, the boy looks fine. Like a tiny (slightly moth-eaten/suspicious) boot camp inductee.
(Note JB’s shirt: KEEPIN’ IT RURAL. Hee.)
Also, I feel the need to share this fact: tonight, the boy pooped so vigorously it ended up on his shoulder. Perhaps you remain unimpressed? Well then, let me inform you that he was standing upright at the time. Parenthood is a never-ending magical garden of delight and wonder.
(Redneck baby sleeping through the Blue Angels. Not pictured: sippy cup full of Pabst.)
Aug
3
August 3, 2006
I was in a crappy mood this morning as I drove to work. Yesterday’s birthday celebration with JB involved a series of misunderstandings and a flagrant disregard for the cake onto which I had so carefully lettered HAPPY BIRTHDAY ASSHOLE (touchy, touchy!) and really, that whole thing is probably the topic for another blog post, which I will then get in trouble for, but ANYWAY, not only that but also, also I cleaned the entire house from top to bottom in preparation for the in-laws’ visit and this morning I swear to god you could not tell I had done a thing: the polished tables were covered in magazines and crumbs, the floor a sea of dog hair, the previously gleaming kitchen and bathroom counters spotted and smeared.
Worst of all, Riley apparently got the memo that I SUCK because last night and this morning I couldn’t hold him, couldn’t feed him, couldn’t change his goddamn diaper without him pushing at me, moaning in discontent, and violently arching his back, all in a frantic attempt to get away, get away, get away. And the minute he saw Daddy, he went crawling for him so fast his little knees were a blur.
That’ll put a wet turd in your morning, right there. There’s nothing quite like having your own baby reject you. Especially in favor of the guy who didn’t like his HAPPY BIRTHDAY ASSHOLE cake. I mean, really.
However! Just as I encountered the giant wall of SUVs that had ground to a halt on the approach to the 520 bridge, I heard it: the scream of turbofan engines, the roar of F/A-18 Hornets, the sound of America.
That’s right: Blue Angels. In town for Seafair, and practicing in the Seattle skyline today. I pumped my fist in the air as they blasted overhead; three of them flying at a seemingly impossible angle, trails of vapor pouring behind them.
ROCK. How can you stay in a bad mood when the Blue Motherfucking Angels are filling the sky with noise and hot, jet-fighter action? It’s like being pissy while you’re watching Top Gun, it’s just not possible, what with the barrel rolls and aviator shades and sexy gay dialogue like “He’s on our tail, coming hard!”. The Blue Angels are awesome, even if they do cause some major traffic issues and tick off my bike-riding, vegetarian coworkers who say things like “I just think of burning dollar bills” when they hear the engines rocket overhead.
I saw them go by again when I was on the west end of the bridge and I thought well, I guess I just enjoy big loud fast machines and maybe that makes me a Pabst (non-alcoholic, of course)-drinking, plastic-lawn-chair-sitting, meatloaf-with-ketchup-eating plebe, but let me say this – when you’ve had kind of a shitty 24 hours, I highly recommend watching a fighter jet or three. Because just for a second, you can picture yourself up there above the city and the traffic and moving so fast nothing can keep up with you.
Plus, this is just a bitchin’ sound.
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