I've been writing on and off for this great website and blog. You can find them at www.rockerbyebaby.com

This is my newest offering. Hopefully rockerbyebaby wont be pissed at me jumping the gun and posting it here first.

Mentoring Mondays

Teaching you to be a Lady while you teach me to be a Dad.

By-the-minute journal entry of Maddie and I earlier this week.

12:17 AM: I’m on whiskey-number 4 and whiskey-number 5 is looking pretty good right about now. Sure it’s late and I need to be up around 6:30 AM but what the hell?! Taking care of a baby isn’t too hard. She sleeps mostly anyway. Might as well enjoy the night.

12:42 AM: Whiskey-number 5 was just great. Here’s to whiskey-number 6 and getting all nostalgic over old music videos on Youtube.

01:29 AM: Bryan Adams is the most underrated songwriter of all time. I’m sure of it. Hang on, I’m going to call my ex-girlfriend, scream “bitch,” and then hang up.

01:31 AM: Alcohol made me forget about cell phones and their built-in caller id. This will be embarrassing tomorrow.

02:17 AM: ….must…sleep….room…spinning….thank…god….I…don’t….have…to…work…until…five..tomorrow…kid?.. what…kid?

06:57 AM: Baby crying. Head splitting. Momentarily try to think of child abuse statutes in my home state but my head hurts too much. Baby still crying. Must do something…

06:58 AM: Pacifiers RULE!

06:59 AM: Pacifiers SUCK! They only work for a minute when she’s hungry.

07:04 AM: Holding Maddie while feeding her. She’s so damn cute, I momentarily forget about my mental-threat of child abuse. Being a Dad ROCKS!

07:14 AM: Maddie just threw up all over me. Being a Dad BLOWS!

07:15 AM: After cleaning up myself and Maddie, she smiles at me and coos. Decide that Maddie can live a bit longer.

09:23 AM: Maddie falls asleep in my arms while we are chilling on the couch. She’s so beautiful and precious. I feel lucky to be alive and am grateful for her and all that I have.

11:35 AM: Maddie cuts a fart that would put the Blazing Saddles campfire scene to shame. I momentarily marvel at the awesomeness of my daughter.

11:36 AM: I check her diaper after the above mentioned fart. Oh. My. God. Screw that, there IS no god. Nothing that foul can come out of something so small and cute.

11:38 AM: Diaper changed and I am forever changed. I now understand battle-hardened Marines and their thousand-yard-stares. They saw it all and came back from the brinks. So did I.

12:04 PM: I get hungry and decide to make a sandwich.

12:05 PM: Every time I walk away Maddie starts crying. As soon as I walk in to where she can see me, she stops crying and smiles. Too cute. But I am hungry. Back to sandwich.

12:08 PM: After four minutes of back and forth from the kitchen to the living room and still unable to construct a simple peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I slowly come to the realization that I’m being schooled by a three-month old. I am shamed. Maddie keeps smiling.

01:17 PM: Maddie goes down for her nap and I hop on the internet to check my chances of spontaneous combustion.

01:18 PM: Outlook not good for spontaneous combustion.

02:19 PM: The wife calls and says we need more diapers. I tell her that she’d better go and get them. She asks me “what?!” I say “nothing, dear. What size?” The wife then reminds me that this is Minnesota and that it’s cold out and that I need to put Maddie in her bunting. I tell her that that is not an appropriate verb to use about our daughter. She says “I said ‘bunting’ you idiot! With a ‘b’ and not a ‘c!’” A quick check from Google confirms this. Again, I am shamed. And apparently a pervert.

02:24 PM: I finally get Maddie into her bunting. Spend a moment marveling at how ridiculous she looks. She looks like Ralphie from A Christmas Story. She looks like something Lewis Carroll would’ve dreamt of while on copious amounts of acid.

03:30 PM: In the past half-hour I’ve managed to feed Maddie, change her, take a shower and get dressed for work. Spend the next seven minutes making sure Maddie doesn’t throw up on my pants or shirt.

03:34 PM: Epic FAIL. Must find clean shirt. Hmm. The one on floor next to the laundry basket doesn’t smell too bad…

03:37 PM: The wife comes home and I leave thirty seconds later.

03:44 PM: Creeping onto the highway at twenty miles per hour, I try to remember what my wife looks like. But in my mind all I can see is Maddie.

04:46 PM: Pull into the parking lot of Best Buy to start my shift. I am beyond tired.

06:32 PM: A customer seems upset that we don’t carry the type of guitar strings he wants. I resist the urge to grab him by the shirt and scream “Hey man! It’s no big deal! They’re just guitar strings! You wanna know what happened to me today?! I got shit on, pissed on and puked on and I’m here smiling. You, you’re all bent out of shape over guitar strings!” But I say none of this.

07:11 PM: Even after all the above-mentioned events of the day, I find that I miss Maddie. I sneak out to call the wife to inquire about the baby. All is fine.

10:36 PM: Done with work. My whole body hurts. I’m so tired that even my hair hurts. I stagger to my Mazda and drive home.

11:11 PM: Home. The wife is asleep on the couch with Maddie resting belly-down on her chest. It is easily the most beautiful scene I will witness all year.

11:22 PM: I make a light dinner, careful to not make too much noise and sit down to eat. As I sit down the wife stirs and opens her eyes, sees me and smiles. Now I remember what my wife looks like. She looks like love and joy. I remind myself that I am very lucky.

12:17 AM: We put Maddie into her crib gently as to not disturb her slumber. She’s a sleeping angel with light red hair, big blue eyes and a mouth that can’t help but smile. The wife gives me a hug and a kiss and thanks me for taking such good care of our baby. Shucks Ma’am. T’was nothing.

I'm no Superman

The other day at work, I dealt with this horrible customer. You know the type; thinks every store he walks into is full of people who’s sole mission in life is to kiss his ass and jerk him off at the same time. Now I deal with this particular brand of asshole everyday, and have been doing it everyday for fifteen of my thirty years. I’m used to it but have never grown comfortable with it. But I’m not complaining nor am I thinking that things will change for me. Assholes will always exist and as long as I decide I’m only good enough for customer service jobs, I will always have to deal with them.

After dealing with Sir Jerkoff, I went outside for a smoke. The sun was setting and the summer heat was finally dissipating and I swear I could almost see the heat bleed off of the cars in the parking lot. The sky was a typically gorgeous Minnesota blue and full of huge pillows of cumulonimbus clouds that were stationary in the sky. I smoked my smoke and stared at the clouds and was suddenly reminded of a recurring childhood memory of wanting to be able to fly like Superman. I would dream I could fly and I would soar straight up into the clouds. Lose myself and lose the world in (what I imagined would be) silky, soft whiteness. I would fantasize that I could nap on top of the clouds as if they were the world’s largest and most exclusive pillows.

I hadn’t thought about that in at least twenty years but there I was, a grown man, married with a child, staring at the clouds and dreaming. The last time I had had my cloud fantasy, I likely had a toy in one hand and the world in the other (for all children hold the world in their hands, even if it’s only their world). I wasn’t regressing into a childhood fantasy of being able to fly. No sir, just merely believing in myself again. Let me tell you; it’s been awhile.

After work I went home and made more room in our tiny apartment for our newly arrived daughter. I grabbed my toolbox from the hall closet and proceeded to take apart a long neglected exercise bike that had been slowly decaying in our living room. Like most exercise equipment owned by a fat American, I got more exercise moving the thing around than actually using it for its intended purpose. Rather than letting it continue to become a glorified hat rack, I decided to get rid of it. Nobody on Craigslist wanted the damn thing either so I took it apart and carried it three floors down to our dumpster outside. Then, against my better judgment, I dead-lifted the heavy fucker and threw it into the rusty green dumpster outside our apartment building. My semi-healed hand that I had surgery on last month bitched a little but not too badly. After that I trucked back inside and headed to the storage room in the basement of the building. Once there I furthered my manhood/idiocy by carrying a leather Lazy boy up three flights of stairs and deposited it where the exercise bike had previously called home. More room in our tiny apartment: Check. Comfy place to hold and rock the baby: Check.

Feeling like a better husband and father, feeling like a provider (“See honey, I provided a chair!”) I went outside our apartment for a smoke. In stark contrast to the afternoon, the sun had set and it was dark outside. The day’s heat went with the sun and it was a typically cool Minnesota fall evening. The sun was set but there was a full moon hidden beneath the clouds, backlighting the entire sky. Contrary to the afternoon‘s stationary Cumulonimbus clouds, the ones in the evening moved quickly and were thin and wispy like a stretched cotton ball. They seemed to be flying by while breaking all known speed limits to the sky.

Seeing the clouds moving that quickly made me think of the story-telling device used in many movies. You’ve seen it. The one where you see a city skyline sped up really fast with the clouds whipping past the screen and the sun rapidly sets as the sky darkens. It’s a way of showing the viewer that the day has ended. That night, watching the clouds speed away, I realized that I wasn’t Superman and would never be. Not even Batman, who had no super powers to speak of. I realized I would likely never be any of the grand things I used to picture myself being when I was a wee lad. I would likely never do any of the grand things I used to picture myself doing. It made me a little sad. It made me feel old.

When I walked back into the apartment I saw my wife sitting in the chair I had just hauled upstairs and put together. She was holding our newborn baby and rocking her slowly in the chair. She looked up at me and smiled contently, silently thanking me for bringing up the chair, for providing the chair. A nice place to sit with the baby. A good spot to rock her to sleep. Madeline, my new daughter, looked at me and smiled one of these early-baby smiles that melts away all hardness that exists in the hardest of men.

I am not Superman, nor even Batman. But all of us have daily opportunities to be heroes to our loved ones and, let’s face it, they’re the ones who deserve it most from us. I realized that night that I’ll never fly (under my own power anyway) but I could always be Superman to my daughter because that’s my job. That is my life now and it’s a good life. One definitely worth living.

Dirty story

FYI The latest Mentoring Mondays post is up. Go to http://punkrockerbyebaby.blogspot.com/2010/03/mentoring-mondays-who-i-am.html

As far as most people that know me are concerned, I was born with facial hair. While being nearly true, I decided to shave 10 days ago. Mainly just to see what I'd look like and whether or not I'd look any younger.

The very next day I got nailed with a nasty sinus infection. I cannot recall the last time I've felt this bad or been in this much physical pain. Being the tough guy (dumbass) that I am, I waited a week before going to the doctor and getting some much needed meds. Here's me after 9 days of being REALLY sick.

Do I look more like I'm in pain or mad? Frankly I'm feeling both. If this is karma for shaving the beard, I'm sorry! See, it's back! It doesn't take long! Sheesh.

Anyhoo, there's this great website. Check out http://nerve.com/ for some excellent writing on sex, dating, and general pop culture madness. They take submissions so I sent one off the other day. No idea if they'll publish it but I figured I'd better run it here just to take up some more bandwidth. Cuz I'm that guy.

I originally was going to post this here during the "Countdown to my 30's" bit that I was writing last year. I quit mainly because I found out that we were having a baby and my focus quit being on the past and more on the future. But this was a crazy encounter that was, in retrospect, pretty funny so I thought I'd share. I submitted this for Nerve's "My weirdest time" bit. To those following me in response to the rockerbyebaby blog, just a warning; this is a bit more hardcore. But I'm a pretty open guy and usually don't hold anything back. Be it my opinions, experiences, etc. So you've been warned.

I was 21 and had had my heart shattered by a singer/actress recently so I did what any self-respecting male pseudo-rockstar does to get over such shatterings: get laid often by multiple people to convince myself and all within earshot that I was not alone, if only to recertify to myself I was, in fact, the most alone person on the planet.

This lifestyle, while looking great on a notched bedpost, had caused its fair share of headaches. There was Abby. I met her at work. She was the customer. I was the handsome, rejected, jilted lover. And I was a musician! Poor Abby never had a chance. After two nights of so-so sex, I was happy to never see her again. And I never did though her mother found my number and called me at eleven one night to say Abby had run away to “live with some musician” that understood her better. Abby never showed up but her mom kept calling for a few weeks.

Then there was the time I slept with my coworker’s sister. To date, I remember neither of their names but the next morning was my first “walk of shame.” My head splitting from PBR’s and Amaretto sours, wondering what Work would say if they knew I’d slept with such an unattractive person. A few weeks later the owner, after hearing jokes and rumors, came to me and asked if it was true. I admitted it. He said he didn’t care. Just wanted to make sure I didn’t go down her (I did). He said it would’ve been nasty (it was).

Which takes us to (arguably) the weirdest encounter of those dark days. Sheila was the friend of my band mate’s girlfriend. Through talking with my band mate and his girlfriend, I came to discover that Sheila can’t. Can’t come, that is. They tell me she’s tried everything; sex with men, sex with women, vibrators, etc. “No worries,” I exclaim! “I’ll make her come!” I’d yet to bed a woman that I couldn’t bring to climax. So it was with zero trepidation or anxiety that I appeared at her parent-less abode a week later with a big bag of assorted liquor products. We swapped a guitar and a bottle back and forth. One of us playing/singing about an ex while the other accompanied on the bottle. After an hour of singing/boozing, we retired to the bedroom for some post-singing/boozing frolicking.

And. I. Couldn’t. Make. Her. Come. I tried every trick I knew. Fingers? Fugetaboudit! Oral? Only in your dreams! Undeterred, we switched to sex. Thirty minutes in and there were no orgasms to be had anywhere. We tried all manner of positions. Missionary? Mission unaccomplished. Doggy style? That dog didn’t hunt. Reverse cowgirl? Apparently even cowgirls get the blues. After a few feeble attempts at other positions, we started what wound up being the final position of the night; plain ole’ cowgirl.

The paradigm shift was cataclysmic. She started moaning and going faster and faster. After a few minutes I found myself clamping onto her hips to keep her from flying off. Her moans, sexy and womanly, changed to growls. The growls changed to snarls. She was baring her teeth like an animal and had a predatory glare in her eyes. She was obviously, although oddly, enjoying herself and although I badly wanted to give her her first orgasm, I found myself struggling to stay erect. The straw-breaking moment, or erection-ending if you prefer, came when she raked her fingernails down my chest and roared. Now don’t get me wrong. I like a little pain. I’m down with fingernails and biting and what not. But this was a nails-dug-in gashing that went from neck to navel. Followed by roar that would make a lion’s nuts shrivel and ascend back into his body. It sounded like one of those dog-things from Ghostbusters. Before I could protest, she did it again. Another disemboweling chest-rake and another erection-busting roar later and I couldn’t take it anymore. I stopped her and stammered through some excuse about the timing not being right filled with a dash of not being over my ex and topped with a dollop of just wanting to be friends. I pulled on my clothes and got out of there like my pants were on fire and my ass was catching. A few months later, she left for school and I haven’t seen her since. I do hope she’s since cashed in her “O” card. An orgasm is a wonderful thing to give and receive and no one should be without regular ones. I hope she’s having hers and I hope her lover is wearing a bullet-proof vest.

(all names changed to protect the innocent and guilty alike)

Great Parenting Blog

Mine and Aymee's friend, Amber Zrust runs a great store out of etsy and she's got a killer daily (remember those Blaine!) blog about the ins and outs and ups and downs of being a parent. On Saturday she asked me to do a weekly guest blog. I was drunk so of course I said "yes." So every Monday I'll be writing Mentoring Mondays: Teaching you to be a lady while you teach me to be a dad.

Check out her whole blog by clicking the title or go here.

http://www.punkrockerbyebaby.blogspot.com/

If you're REALLY lazy, here's my post.

Mentoring Mondays

Teaching you to be a lady while you teach me to be a dad.

I’m your dad.

Hi Madeline. You don’t know me. Hell, you don’t even know your own name. (BTW it’s Madeline.) But I’m your dad and by rights, in four and a half months I’ll be one of the two biggest influences in your life. While I may just be “daddy” to you, that title means I’ll be engaged in a 24/7 job of raising you and somehow having to make it look seamless and effortless. Don’t get me wrong; I welcome the challenge and the most rewarding part will be watching you grow from a helpless baby into an intelligent and confident woman.

There’s so many things I want to show you and tell you. I suppose I have all of your life and the rest of mine to show and tell but let’s get two biggies up front. These aren't rules for you. Those will come plenty soon enough. Rather, these are constant variables. Just like a science experiment. I know you don’t know what science is yet but just bear with your old man for a sec.

Constant One: I’ll always love you.

The unconditional love between a parent and their child is the most pure emotion in the world. The reason why is that both parent and child start with clean slates towards each other. I haven’t wronged you and, until your first loaded diaper, you haven’t wronged me. And even the whole diaper thing isn't really your fault. I, along with your mother…and I suppose by proxy, the doctor, will be the first people you meet. And essentially for your early years, I and your mother will be the only people you’ll know. I’ll feed you and read you books and make funny faces just to make you laugh. I’ll rock you to sleep and sing you songs. As you get bigger I’ll buy you a bike and teach you to ride it. When you get even older I’ll teach you to drive. As these events unfold, you’re bound to make mistakes. And that’s okay, Maddie. Everyone makes mistakes. My job as a parent is to help you learn from them. You’ll leave your bike out and I’ll tell you to bring it in. And if you take after your mother’s driving habits, you’re probably going to get in a car accident or three and I’ll tell you to pay more attention. And you’re likely to think ill of me during these moments but they only exist because I love you and know that you can learn from what happened. Through it all, I’ll always love you and I’ll always be your dad.

Constant Two: You can come to me for anything.

And when I say “anything,” I mean ANYTHING. I will always listen to you. While you’re a baby I’ll happily listen to you babble. When you get older, feel free to come to me so we can converse about Big Bird or Yo Gabba Gabba or anything at all that your beautiful mind wants to talk about. I’m always your ear. Full disclosure: the secondary reasoning for this whole “come talk to me” stuff is for when you’re a teenager. Things can get pretty hairy in your teens, and I’m not just talking about your body. (Any excess body hair you might experience is all my fault. Sorry kiddo.) You and your friends/boyfriends/girlfriends are going to be turning into adults. Your hormones and emotions will be going bat-shit and you’re going to often feel like a pinball bouncing around all corners of a pinball machine. Sucky as it is, it’s all normal. “What,” you ask? “This is normal?! This sucks!” Yeah Maddie I know it sucks. That’s why I’m here. To help keep BS to a minimum and to help you stay your course. And I’ll never ever tell you “Because I said so.”

Constant Three: I’ll never ever say “Because I told you so!”

I mean, let’s face it. It’s a weak come-back. It says “I don’t have a good reason for saying ‘no.’ I just don’t want you to do whatever it is you‘re about to do.” If I do or don’t want you to do something, I will always give you a valid reason why or why not. This is so I can always treat you as someone who has the ability to make their own decision about something. Now I may not always agree with your decision and may try to direct you to more harmonious endeavors, as I stated above, part of parenting is helping you learn from mistakes. That said, I’m not going to let you play a game of Russian Roulette. Why? Not because I told you so. Because I would’ve already told you that Russian Roulette is a very dangerous game where the best you can hope for is to still be alive afterwards and the worst that can happen is that you’ll share a death amongst all Arkansas rednecks; one that starts with the sentence “Hey y’all! Watch this!” Bottom line is: I’ll always give you a reason for my decision.

Well Madeline, that about does it for your dad. We have plenty of time to go over this stuff again and this isn't a test. This is your life. I’m committed to seeing it be a great one. I’ll always be here for you. I haven’t even met you yet and you’re the love of my life. I love you Maddie.

-Your Dad

Wha...?

I can't believe I'm going to be 30 in two weeks.

I can't believe I'm going to be a daddy in 6 and a half months.

Drinking with Ma, Epipens, and Fatherhood.

Having worked retail my whole life, Black Friday (the huge shopping day after Thanksgiving) has long been a point of contention in my life. Never do Aymee and I work harder all year then we do from Thanksgiving til New Years. This last Black Friday started out the same.

I WAY overslept and was nearly late for work. Aymee, using The Force and sensing I was still asleep, called me and I sprang awake seeing that I had 10 minutes to get to work. I had spent Thanksgiving doing what most Americans do; eating and drinking too much.

My mom and younger bro and sis had come up two days prior to spend the holiday with us. At first I was a bit put off by the self-invitation. For Aymee and I, Thanksgiving isn't a holiday spent with family cheer. For the past 7 years she and I have been working for Guitar Center which means we try to go to bed early and get ready for the retail onslaught that begins the day after Thanksgiving and runs til New Years.

So back to T-day, my fam drove from St. Louis to the barren wastelands that is Minnesota, gave me a hug and my mother asked me "Why is it so damn cold up here?!" Now you have to know my mother. She will often ask me questions that sound angry and accusing. Picture a mother sternly asking her kid "Why is there weed in your sock drawer?!" Now we've never had this conversation. Really, we didn't! I kept beer in the toilet tank but she never found it. So with the accusatory speech pattern firmly in your head, you will now understand the mixture of annoyance and amusement I feel when my mother asks me things like "Why is it so damn cold up here?!" or "Why does my car make this funny sound?!" and my personal favorite "When are you going to move back home?!"

Mother diatribes out of the way, Thanksgiving was fun with my mom and Aymee cooking a wonderful non-Thanksgiving feast of pot roast, potatoes and carrots. My mom and I had a good and long talk over 2 bottles of wine, beer, and whiskey with water. They went back to the hotel around midnight and I passed out full and hammered. Cut to 6:50 in the morning and Aymee calls me and wakes me up. I have 10 minutes to get to work for a 10 to 12 hour shift. With no time for the two things I really needed (a shower and a shit-load of coffee to battle my impending hangover) I pulled on some clothes, brushed my teeth and ran out the door hoping I didn't reek too badly of Jim, Jack, or Jose. Fortunately I didn't smell of at all of the Big 3. I'm rather sure I did smell of the best "J" which is Jameson Irish whiskey which is what Ma Kettle and I were drinking. I made it to work with about 9 seconds to spare and settled in for a long day with my body in some dangerous location between still drunk and not quite yet viciously hung over.

The day wound up being fine. I made a much needed run for coffee and a muffin. The hangover of doom I was anticipating never showed. I had good day at work that got really scary in the early afternoon.

Around 1 or 2 in the afternoon, I went outside to the side of the building to have a quick smoke. Two of my coworkers were already there and I wound up bullshitting with the two of them for a few minutes. Shortly after I got out there, I noticed a woman in her early thirties trying to move quickly to her car across the parking lot but was doing it while doubling over and coughing profusely. While chatting with my friends I kept watching her. She walked over to her ride, a green Ford Escape, and threw the door open forcefully. She was still coughing up a lung and at the time, I thought she was just really crying hard. At this point I was, for all intents and purposes, out of the conversation with my coworkers. My eyes were firmly on her. I was watching this coughing, weeping, retching woman trash the interior of her car. She was tossing shit out of her SUV left and right, obviously searching for something. I don't know what I was waiting for her to do but if she pulled out a gun and started walking back into the store, I figured someone should probably be ready do something.

She apparently found what she was looking for and started staggering towards us with what appeared to be a Magic Marker in her hands. She was still coughing horribly and her checks each had a blazing red spotlight on them. The rest of her face was awfully pale. My friends had quit speaking and were just staring at her with mouths agape. When she was about 10 feet away, I spoke to her.

"Hey, are you okay?"

No answer from my friend, the coughing blonde. I tried again.

"Do you need help or can I call someone for you?" Still no answer. Just her staggering towards me. At this point I started walking towards her and as we were near arm's length, she simply fell into my arms. I slowly let her down to the ground so she was in a sitting position with me crouched behind her, supporting her with my arms. I kept telling her shit like it'll be okay and do you need an ambulance and the like. She just kept coughing, gagging and crying. Finally, with all her strength, she whispered "Mike" and I realized I already knew my new friend, the coughing blonde. She was Mike's girlfriend, Dahri and I had met her a month prior on Halloween. I didn't recognize Dahri because she was in a costume when I first met her. Mike is one of my coworkers and a good friend of mine. I turned to one of the smoking coworkers and told him to go grab Mike and to call an ambulance. He left to fetch Mike and I continued to hold her while cussing myself for not remembering her name. If I knew her name it would help in maybe calming her down. I didn't know what was going on with her but I knew it was serious and I was rather certain she was scared.

She started slapping me on the leg and arm really hard and over and over. I asked her if she was choking but she rapidly shook her head but kept hitting me. I kept holding her, not knowing if she was trying to tell me to "fuck off" or not. She then held up the Magic Marker I saw in her hand earlier, only this time I got a good look at it. It wasn't a Magic Marker. It was an Epipen. I'm as dumb as the next guy but I knew that an Epipen meant Anaphylaxis. I knew an Epipen was basically a shot of adrenaline called epinephrine like what John Travolta gave to Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction when she was overdosing on his heroin. For the record, I didn't know how to spell epinephrine til I looked it up for this post. I'm not that smart.

So my choking, coughing blonde friend hands me this Epipen. Nearly yelling at her (I was that freaked) I say (yell) "Do you need this?!" She just keeps slapping me over and over in my leg. I keep asking her if she needs "this." "This" being the Epipen. She keeps slapping me in the leg and after a few seconds, I realize she might be giving me The International Sign for 'I need an Epipen Injection in my Leg!' To which I ask "Do you need this in your leg or in your chest?!" Visions of Pulp Fiction again flash through my head. She just keeps slapping my leg. I look at the pen and it says something to the effect of "Inject in the upper thigh."

At this point, her face was completely pale and her lips were blue. I force away the impending panic and start pointedly asking her if she needs this right now? She responds by slapping me over and over in the leg. I decided this indeed meant that she needed it right now. I took the Epipen from her and give the side of the pen a quick read: Remove black cap. Bring pen forcefully into thigh and hold until pen 'clicks' and hold the pen in place. Alright, I can do this. I'm not sure how I looked but I probably looked like this if I'd been kneeling over her rather that kneeling behind her and holding her.

Okay, I didn't look quite like that. I didn't have Eric Stolz and his weird wife next to me. I gripped the Epipen in my right hand, held my arm up (not unlike Mr. Travolta above this paragraph), and brought that fucker down hard on her thigh.

And nothing.

No click. No deep breath from her. No bloodied Uma Thurman rising from the dead.

I tried again. And again. And again. Pretty soon I was just hammering it rapidly down on her thigh over and over. Still no click. I all but gave up on the Epipen and just started gently rubbing her shoulders and softly saying that everything would be okay. That Mike would be there really soon (I hoped). Her breathing had all but stopped when I heard footsteps behind me.

I looked over my shoulder to see Mike standing there. "What's going on," he asked? I held up the Epipen.

"Mike, make this fucking thing work!" As if he'd done it a hundred times before, he took the Epipen from me, made some click noise near the tip and then stabbed it into her thigh. There was no Uma-Thurman-gasping-wake-up but she did take a somewhat deep breath. Mike then turned to me and asked me to call an ambulance. I pulled out my phone and had the following conversation.

"Edina Emergency."

"Yes, I need an ambulance at 3650 Hazelton Road. It's the Guitar Center."

"What's the nature of you're emergency?"

I've got a huge crack in my ass. "There's a young women having trouble breathing-" At this point, Mike looked over his shoulder and told me she was having an allergic reaction. "-an allergic reaction. We've administered an Epipen but she is still having problems breathing and we need an ambulance with oxygen immediately." At this point, every cop movie and hospital show I'd ever seen came back to me and I was trying to be as succinct as possible so they would have all the info the need yet at the same time, trying not to piss my pants. Ego aside, I think I did pretty well on the phone. Helluva lot better than I did with the damn Epipen. She put me on hold for about 30 seconds which, true to form in emergencies, felt like 10 fucking minutes. During the hold time, Mike looked over at me. Now neither Mike or I are panicky types. We're, by nature, pretty level-headed. The look in his eyes wasn't panic but I could see we were about to enter dangerous territory with Dahri.

"How long til they get here?"

"I'm on hold. Not long." Now I had no idea when they were getting there but I was subscribing to the age-old creedo of emergencies: hope for the best and when in doubt, lie your ass off.

The emergency operator came back on and said an ambulance was on it's way.

"Do you have an ETA?"

"Unknown. Not long. They've already left."

Although I work in Edina, I only know where the Burger King and the liquor store is but I figured we had 3 minutes tops til help came. Not long but my mind started wondering to medical articles I'd read about oxygen deprivation to the brain. Something over 6 minutes and you were royally fucked. I wasn't sure how much oxygen Dahri was or wasn't getting but it was at least 3 to 5 minutes of watching her stagger to her Ford Escape and fumble for her Epipen. Then maybe another 2 minutes from the time she came to me and collapsed until Mike showed up and gave her the Epipen. Now another two minutes had passed and I silently cursed myself for not walking over to her sooner. As soon as I saw her thrashing about inside for ride, I should've run over. Instead I stood 30 feet away and watched with some internal commentary in my head about how it's not often you get to see someone spaz out in your parking lot. I felt like a fucking idiot for not trying to help sooner.

90 seconds after hanging up the phone, I heard the glorious sound of multiple sirens. My instant dose of hope was doused upon glancing at our parking lot. It was Black Friday, the busiest shopping day of the whole year. From Hazelton Road I could see 6 or 7 cars waiting to make a left into the lot. There were another 3 or 4 cars trying to leave our lot. To top it all off, I could see another 5 or 6 cars in parking spots with their reverse lights on waiting to leave their respective spots. With out making too much of an ass of myself, I started moving around the vicinity and getting cars to stay put in their spots.

The only time I lost my cool during the whole scenario was returning to my perch, which was at the apex of our L-shaped parking lot which is also where Mike and Dahri were. I was about 12 feet away from them so I could see the parking lot entrance so I could wave the ambulance over. I was standing at the rear bumper of a Buick. The driver of the Buick decided he didn't have to look in their rear view mirror or pay attention the multiple wailing sirens descending on the area. While looking ahead to the entrance and waving my arms to the ambulance slowly making it's way through holiday shopper's cars, I felt a hard bump against my leg. I look left to see this car backing into me. I slammed my hands on the trunk and screamed "HEY!" The Buick stopped I went back to waving over the ambulance.

In front of the ambulance was an Edina cop car. The proverbial Bandit to the ambulance's Snowman. The cop blocked parking lot traffic while the ambulance came over to where I was waving them. Two EMT's came over and Mike and I quickly filled them in. Allergic reaction. Epipen administered. Pros that they were, they carried Dahri into the back of the ambulance and started working on her. Once the pressure and responsibility was off my shoulders the adrenaline left me in a hurry and I danced with nausea for moment but it subsided. I chain-smoked two cigarettes and was suddenly thirsty. Mike then asked me if I would go into our employee break room and fetch him a soda. I ran in grabbed a soda for him out of the 12 pack he keeps in the employee fridge. After a quick second thought, I grabbed one too for myself. I was shaking, parched, and wanted the sugar. After that was pretty anti-climatic. The EMT's took Dahri to the hospital. Mike and I went back to work.

A few hours later, I came home from work. I was exhausted. Not only from my parking lot endeavours but from working yet another Black Friday in retail. I wanted a nap but knew that my fam was still in town and we had to have dinner with them. I got home before Aymee and reached into the fridge for a much deserved beer. Midway though my Rolling Rock (shut up, I like it) Aymee came home. She had stopped at Target on her way home and picked up a pregnancy test. About three and half weeks prior, we had decided to eschew birth control citing "whatever happens, happens."

Faced with the immediate consequences that stem form condom-less fucking, I decided I needed a cigarette. I told Aymee to piss on the stick and we'd view the results together when I got back from the gas station. I left our apartment and drove to the gas station. Could I be a father? I've always wanted to be. No question about that. Was I ready? I think so. Much of my selfishness is gone and all I want is to raise a child and be a parent. Were Aymee and I ready? Yes, I told myself as lit a smoke on the way back to the apartment. Aymee and I have been through a lot. Having work move us twice into states that contained no friends or family forced us to be pretty much everything to each other. It hasn't always been easy but it's always been pure and we always come out on top: as best friends and soul mates.

I walked in the door of our apartment. The way our place is laid out, when you're standing in our doorway you can look straight into the bathroom; a thought I always hold when Aymee's running a quick errand and I'm taking a quick shit with the door open. Anyway, I opened the door to our place and see Aymee in the bathroom with this big, yet weird smile. I walk in and ask "what's up?" She just keeps smiling that smile. I shrug off my coat and make my way to the bathroom. She says nothing and just points at this plastic stick on the bathroom sink.

I stare at this for a few seconds. I ask her "What does this mean?!" She starts laughing. I start smiling but again ask what it means. In her sweetest voice, my glorious and fabulous wife answers with...

"It means you're going to be a daddy."

My heart jumped into my throat. We embraced and kissed. On top of the already experienced fiascoes this day, I contemplated passing out but decided otherwise.

It was official: we were going to be parents. Even now as I write this a month after the fact, I can't quite believe it. Parenthood. Me? Us? Well, sure it makes sense in the grand scheme of things. We've always wanted it. It was always just a matter of when. I guess when you throw the "when" away it becomes the "now."

We left a few minutes later to meet my mom, my sis, and my bro at a nearby sports bar. Not that any of us are huge sports fans but the restaurant was near our place and their hotel. Aymee and I hadn't planned exactly how to spill the beans but there was a concern in telling my mother. Mainly a concern of her reaction. As you will remember from reading earlier, my mom has a seriously strong tendency to overreact and speak really loudly like she's angry. I didn't feel like having 150 people in the joint suddenly turn from watching two French-Canadians fighting over a sphere of rubber to watching a women in her fifties screaming about being a grandmother. One thing's for certain, she wouldn't look like this:

Right after our drinks came, Aymee and I make eye contact and I nodded my head. I then told everyone we had an announcement. My mom, who was sitting to my right, immediately stared at me with her mouth open.

I told her she couldn't freak out as we were in a public place. She said nothing. Just kept staring at me with her mouth open. I then told everyone that Aymee and I just found out that we were having a baby. There was no pandemonium. My mother smiled, started crying quietly, and I was spared certain embarrassment in the form of an overly emotional and outspoken mother.

Since then, Aymee and I have been working quite a bit. We've been reading all the books we can. I've been spending an inordinate amount of time talking to Aymee's growing stomach while Aymee's been spending an inordinate amount of time rolling her eyes and smiling at a new, excited will-be father. Here's her the other day at 8 weeks.

That's about it for now. This was lengthy post but there was a lot to toss out there so thanks for sticking around for the ride. I hope everyone is doing well and I'll write more soon.

Happy New Year.

-80T

I hate this woman...

First off, and I've been wanting to say this for awhile now, Carrie Prejean is the biggest fucking idiot and hypocrite I've maybe ever seen in my life. She might even rival my good buddy George W. Well...maybe not. One of the best compliments I ever got in my life was I overheard someone say "Nobody hates George W. Bush more than that guy." 'That guy' was me. It actually made my day.
Anyway Carrie Prejean's blind conservatism makes me want to pin her down and brick in her mouth. If you can't tell, I have a problem with people who say gay people can't get married. You can throw your good book at me all you want and I'm just going to respond by throwing my fist which is backed by millions and millions of people. If gay people get married, I assure there will not be social breakdown. All that will happen is that two people who love each other will get the same rights and privileges you and I have. My main problem with conservatives is I hear them bellowing from some pious soapbox about how our liberal ways are sending modern man straight to hell only to find out their dicking a church house full of young boys while off the pulpit. I mean, come on! Fuck you. At least most of us liberals are upfront about our shortcomings and most importantly, our fears.
This Prejean piece of shit just seems to embody my hatred. First off, during the Miss America pageant, the lovely Miss California says gay people shouldn't have the right to marry. While that's enough to earn my ire I hear shit like that all the time. She defended her views as coming from a religious household and I guess God and her parents still live in the dark ages and probably sleep in twin beds. Whatever. She loses the pageant and suddenly the conserva-nuts herald her as the second coming of Christ and that she's a martyr for their way of life. She says she lost the pageant because of her conservative views and that the liberal press is to blame.
Then it comes out that the pageant paid for her breast job. Not that that's a bad thing in and of itself. It just doesn't strike me as particularly conservative. Though I'm not sure why.
So while she's labeling herself as a conservative warrior for God and straight people, pics of her surface topless. She chalks it up to a young mistake and that she was poor. Alright, fine. Unless you make money by hurting others, I couldn't really give two tin shits how somebody makes a buck. But don't act like the last American Virgin when corporations are paying for your tit job. Don't act like a Madonna when there's evidence of you being the whore.
What evidence? She put out a book recently. I haven't read it so I'll be really careful with my paraphrasing and one-sided analysis. But it's all about her being railroaded by the press and liberals everywhere. About how she wants to be a role model for young, impressionable women and what not. She makes mention to the fact that their bodies are a temple for God and that they should be careful to not feel pressured to dress sexy. Now I'm actually all for that. I do think there is too much pressure for women, especially younger girls, to dress sexy and be sexual. That shouldn't be forced upon anyone. But I don't think Carrie fake-tits Prejean has the right to say that when she's already posed nude and is actively entering fucking beauty pageants where they put you in a skimpy two-piece and make you walk up and down a catwalk! To me, that personifies selling your body!
Further, it just came out that made a home movie of a um...solo performance that she sent to her boyfriend when she was 17. Not sure but I imagine her age at the time would make that illegal. But, as it's being reported now, apparently she was actually 20. I don't really care what age she was but I do care about how in her book, she makes a mention about how pornography is bad and that young girls shouldn't be enticed into the industry or the act because they think it will make them feel sexier. Than what's sending your boyfriend a video of you flicking your bean?! Ugh. Just makes me so pissed off.
The lying!
The hypocrisy!
The horror! (in a hushed Marlon Brando voice)
The fake tits!

Whatever. I'm off my soapbox and on my way to work. I have another good story for my "countdown to 30" series I've been doing. I'll share that tonight or tomorrow. Take care.

-80T