What are my thoughts on “The Greatest Generation”? (Hint: It involves their tendency to use profanity in public). How is the grocery store a lot like a strip club? Will I be arrested for dishing parenting advice like “make your kids run hill repeats before taking them out in public.”?
Find out the answers to all these questions by reading my latest blog at Breathe Magazine!
Every time I hit the park with the kids, I come away with name envy. Nobody under the age of 10 is named Jack or Suzie anymore. At our neighborhood playground, we’re swinging with kids named Stellar and Finger. Magic and Fellow. Seriously, I know a kid named Mars. We take gymnastics with Fate and Beta. Beta! How cool is that? My wife and I took a more traditional route in the name department, although, we did name our son after the dog. That’ll be fun to explain when he’s old enough. (Does anyone know what age is the right age to tell your child they were named after a golden retriever?) Cooper’s a great name, but is it as great as Fast-track Johnny? Is Addie Shore as memorable as Skittle?
Before I had kids, I thought parents were setting their kids up for failure by choosing outlandish names. Can you imagine a woman named Pickle leading a business seminar? Or a dude named Nintendo running for Congress? And let’s face it, if you name your girl Glitter or Champagne, she’s going to be a stripper. That’s a scientific fact.
But now, I say the wilder the name the better. It’s actually a little shocking that it’s taken so long for our names to evolve into the awesomeness that we have today. (Does anyone out there have a kid named Awesome?) Why stick to tradition? Instead of naming your kid after a beloved relative, name your kid after the thing you love most. You love canned meat? Name your kid Spam. Or Vienna. Of course, if I had followed that rule, I’d have twins named TV and Budweiser…which would be awesome. Everyone loves TV and I guarantee you that a boy named Budweiser would never get picked on in school.
Really, all you’re doing when you name your kid Pabst, is taking the opportunity to tell the world just how cool you are. I get it. Sometimes, the ironic t-shirt and mustache just aren’t enough. You need to take it a step further and name your son Singlespeed. Well how about just cutting to the chase and name your kid after the sexual position used during conception. Talk about honesty in advertising. The world would know immediately what you’re into, no bumper stickers necessary. Introduce the neighbors to your daughter named Missionary, and they’ll know you’ll be voting Republican this November and probably won’t be having any late night parties. But strut your son named Wheelbarrow around the company picnic, and colleagues will envy your sense of adventure.
Probably best to keep that kid named Orgy under wraps though.
How do you work Maxim magazine, public urination, and 3am donut runs into the same essay? You write about toddler independence–that golden period in a kid’s life when she figures out she can do things for herself, but has no idea about the consequences of eating carbs after 7pm…or public nudity.
Check out my latest blog at Breathe Magazine. And before you ask–no, my kids didn’t suddenly become two cute Asian girls. Although I think the new iPhone 5 has an app for that.
No, not a Tall Boy. A 24 ouncer, which is like, a third bigger than a Tall Boy and demands significantly more commitment. Preferably, the beer should be pre-warmed in the bottle cage of your road bike. Enter that road bike and Super Tall Boy PBR in a sprint race up the side of a mountain—the kind of race where Olympic medalists show up, and everyone talks about “tapering their training.” You should immediately get disqualified from the race because your wife beater and jean shorts don’t meet US Cycling Association “standards,” but then demand to race anyway, promising to donate all of your winnings to the charity of the USA Cycling Association official’s choice. Drink that warm PBR slowly, at the finish line at the top of the mountain, in front of that USA Cycling Association official. Preferably, you should drink it with at least two other friends, also over-worked, over-tired dads dressed in jean cutoffs and wife beaters. Because sometimes, dads need to get together and do something that embarrasses their wives.
I hit rock bottom today and almost bought a journal with inspirational messages in it. You know, a leather-bound, important looking book with messages printed at the top of each page like, “You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.–Wayne Gretzky”, or “A wise man will make more opportunities than he finds.–Francis Bacon.”
Maybe I’m jaded, but I have little patience for inspirational messages. Who has the energy for inspiration? You know what gets me motivated? Coffee. Eight hours of sleep. My wife naked. The mortgage. That’s about it.
What can I say? I’m a simple man with simple needs.
So screw you, Sir Francis Bacon. I don’t need your inspiring quips.
Now, what I do love, are misspelled inspirational messages. Like this beautiful little nugget on my coffee cup. Right on the lip of the cup, it reads, “Love the Momet.”
It’s my favorite mug. I love to sip my coffee in the morning and wonder, “what’s a momet?” (I put the emphasis on the “e”). I picture the momet as a cute, furry animal with a blonde stripe down its back. Maybe it was was prized for its pelt by Germanic tribes during the 15th century.
But in the spirit of posters with kittens hanging on trees, I’ve come up with my own inspirational messages for other parents with young children. When times get tough, (you know, around 6pm every freaking night) just think about one of these gems.
1) Money can’t buy love. But ice cream can.
2) Take a deep breath. They’ll be in public school soon. Then they’re the city’s problem.
3) Somewhere, some scientist is working on a study that claims Vodka is a superfood.
4) You can’t beat your children. But subtle manipulation using the promise of Disney cartoons and M&M’s? There’s no law against that.
Daddy Drinks 