Bang! Bang! You're crazy!

There's always that kid. You know the one. You're nice to them, you give them gifts, you play with them; you might even let them sleep over at your house from time to time. Then one day, out the freakin' blue, he whips out a pistol and puts a cap in you. I hate pre-teens.

Before the underage gang shooting, Angie and I were busy entertaining other strange guests.

While Kika was flashing her rather interesting 'frozen ballerina' pose to Angie, I was downstairs keeping an eye on Sami.

'On Sami?' you ask. 'You mean David, right?'

No, actually. I really do mean Sami. See, I have discovered over the years that Sami has been directly responsible for some incidents where the burden of blame had somehow inadvertently landed on David's shoulders. Like that time when David tried inserting a computer mouse cable into our cat's rear port because Sami didn't quite grasp that a three-year old couldn't quite grasp his twisted humor. He's also been known to hang David's bicycle on trees and other events that I won't detail here out of fear that it might encourage other insane Godfathers.

At least today's lesson was not your typical Sami outing. This may or may not have had something to do with a certain hairy-chested and rather muscular chaperone that was keeping a vigilant watch over Sami's every move.

At one point the Incredible Hawk witnessed Sami encouraging David to water down the section of sidewalk used mostly by elders to gain access to our building. As funny as it would have been to watch old-timers tumble around on ice, I did intervene.

After icing a few trash cans beyond recognition, we parted ways with the Godfather and headed to Artin's for a rather loud gift frenzy.

Tommy didn't quite get what was going on. He kept trying to give everyone else's gifts to Sharpur and got angry with Artin for trying to open the gift we gave him. David kept running around screaming his self-invented nickname for Sharpur.

'SHAMPOO! Hahahaha! Hey, Shampoo! Mr. Shampoo head. Hahahahahaha!'

Sharpur claimed afterwards that he simply thought David was an oversized slipper that we had given him. Doesn't really matter, but I'm fairly certain he's not too keen on the nickname. Whatever, Shampoo.

Every now and then Angie shocks me by doing something in public that she would never dream of doing in the privacy of our own home.


That's right - sewing! Apparently one of the boys had a snagged sweater and I came in the room to find Little Miss Homemaker busy at work.

'What in the sweet hell??!! Are you sewing?'

'Yes.'

'You know how to sew?!'

'Yes.'
There was a tone in her short and simple answers that my brain probably would have picked up on had it not been so flabbergasted. I have thrown away so many shirts over the years because of rips and tears (mostly in the bicep region). And coats!! I pitched several of my favorite jackets because of a tiny hole in one of the pockets.

The discovery of Angie's unknown talent actually led to a self-discovery of sorts. My brain is pretty talented when it comes to witty comments, but absolute crap when it comes to defending clever retorts that were made to irritated seamstresses. Who knew?

The time between Christmas and New Year's is normally reserved for visiting friends, exchanging gifts, and forgiving loved ones for accidentally calling into question certain household management skills. Angie decided that two out of three was sufficient and we stopped by Ute and Alex's bearing presents.

Their apartment, like ours, has high ceilings. Their apartment, like ours, had a Christmas tree. Okay, theirs actually touched the ceiling, whereas ours was about as tall as David, but who cares?


Oh, that's right - Tommy does. It may have been the overload of an exciting day without a power nap that caused the meltdown, but it may also have been the humongoid tree that Ute and Alex had crammed into their apartment that made ours look like a vertically challenged Lilliputian living in Smurf village. Thanks again, tree-braggarts!

After explaining to Tommy that he didn't miss out on any potential gifts that he might have gotten had our tree been a showcase to giant people, the ladies decided to have coffee and gossip.

'So, what did your husband get you?'


The dual 'cat-look' captured here would explain why Alex and I quietly disappeared to go check out his son's room. He had posters of beer hanging up, so he was cool in my book from the get-go.

When Alex and I returned from admiring what we would probably have both gladly exchanged for the coffee we were holding, I found Peter making David smile for a change.


Not smiling was Mama, who had just about reached her limits with Tommy's screechery.


It probably didn't help that the hot cameraman could barely hold the camera while chuckling and pointing fingers. Luckily, said camera guy is also wiser than grasshoppers and decided to go check on the boys.


At first glance, it looked cute - David, snuggled up on the sofa. It wasn't until I noticed Peter's flailing foot and heard muffled screaming that I realized why David was smiling so contently.

It didn't take long for Peter to express his dislike at being smothered by his younger brother. I am Peter, hear me roar!

I thought about helping out, but in the end I just decided to shoot the building violence. War-time photographers sometime suffer emotional anguish because they are torn between helping innocent victims and documenting the carnage for the world to see and judge. I'm not sure if I had emotional anguish, but laughter is a form of emotion and my belly was actually hurting after the whole ordeal.

Not laughing was Peter's victim, who suffered neck and lip wounds while attempting a counterattack.

There's always that kid. You know the one. You feel bad because they just got the shit kicked out of them, you give them hugs and comfort them; you might even give them an ice-pack to help with their swollen lip. Then one minute later, out the freakin' blue, they leap out of your lap and start power-choking their closest sibling. I hate pre-teens.
--------------------------------------------
Ladder Talk:
1) What was the best part of your day?
Peter: That we did the CD's.
David: I read with Mama the story.
Tom: I was in the BIG truck!

2) What was the worst part of your day?
Peter: That I couldn't look TV by the dinner because of you, Papa.
David: I don't got a worst part.
Tom: I bonkey me head.

3) What would you like to do tomorrow?
Peter: I want to play with you the new game.
David: I want tomorrow that Yuki, Lorenzo, and Laticia come over.
Tom: I want to go up, but not up there.

Pack it up, pack it in

Pack it up, pack it in,

Let me begin,

I came to win,

Battle me that's a sin

--House of Pain

On the way to what was sure to be another fun-packed family camping adventure with David's kindergarten class, Angie dared to challenge me to a tent-building contest. Please, woman.

I honestly couldn't believe that Angie was coming on the trip in the first place. Last year, she bailed with the whole 'Tom's a baby' excuse that only too conveniently fit with her hatred of nature and large gatherings of screaming kids. I had honestly assumed and planned on her not coming until the night before when she was gabbing away on the phone.

'Oh, damn, I'm so sorry - I'd really love to go to your cousin's neighbor's daughter's baptism rehearsal, but I'm going camping...'

Despite adamantly denying it, I still think Ms. Outdoors 'changed her mind' at the last minute. Whatever.

So anyway, I was enjoying a surprisingly quiet and pleasant ride until Angie started rambling on about how easy it is to set up a tent and how maybe even I could do it. That's it, lady - it's go time!

As we pulled up to the campground, there were plenty of parents who weren't two hours late who came up to gloat at us. They grinned and pointed at their deluxe super-duper-sleepers and explained how they had already pitched their tents, collected firewood, set traps and whatever the hell else over-zealous campers that show up on time do.

We promptly ignored them and raced for the colossal mess that we had crammed in our trunk. Angie beat me there and claimed stake to what I would later refer to as 'the easy tent'. I got there just as Angie was skipping away and was forced to take what I would later refer to as 'the WWII hut that requires an engineering degree and a blow torch'.

Normally I do not let David climb up on top of any car, moving or not. Angie had already unrolled her 'push-button' tent, though. I was torn between the safety of my children and kicking Angie's ass. In the end, I just pretended that David was wearing a helmet made of bubble-wrap and convinced myself that the pavement was not that hard.

In case I forgot to mention it - it was freakin' hot, and not in the 'Roseanne Barr naked' kinda way. For some reason, Angie was not breaking a sweat. I've read a few books, though, and realize that it's probably because she's from Venus. Apparently Venusians can't cook to save their lives, but they are fairly proficient when it comes to selecting the 'easy' tent from a pile of tents borrowed from said alien's father.

I don't know what was more humiliating - that I was beaten in a simple tent-building contest by a freakin' extraterrestrial that can't even cook, or that the creature's offspring just stared at me in pathetic disgust as it's Mama hammered in the victory pin.

For not being able to cook, this Alien could certainly chow down. She didn't even mind that I was somewhere in the background, cursing and tripping over cryptic tent pieces as I tried to decipher non-existent instructions and reconstruct pieces that had decayed years ago.



After finally getting my Quonset hut assembled, I stumbled my way over to the well-fed for some bread and water. Tommy stopped me on the way and demanded my head for his creative foot stool.


I noticed a potentially disturbing trend forming with Sitting Tom and decided to kick his lazy ass out of the chair for a bit of exercise. He chose instead to sit on a blanket and play poker with La Principessa.


I understand and can accept responsibility for the poker part, but where does this kid get his 'lounging around' bit? Hmmm...

In a totally unrelated segway, Angie was busy preparing a string of candy for a game of 'gummy bear dipping'.


I wasn't really sure if Tommy's dallying had warranted a treat, but I called for him anyway.


'What? I can't hear you and there's no way I'm walking over there. Come closer!'

'I said - you better get off your ass if you want to chow down on some yummy gummy candy'


Okay, not exactly what I meant, but at least he understands me. He also comprehended the growing crowd of children surrounding Mama's string of goodies and mosied on over for a snack.

The whole 'walking over' and 'chewing candy' must have really tuckered out poor Tommy. He plopped his lazy boy down and watched as Mama took her turn.

I don't know what it is about this picture, but it somehow reminds me of the scene in Pinocchio when the bad boy shooting pool suddenly turns into a donkey. You might think that obscure jackass comparisons might irritate the crap out of my wife. As it turns out, it just meant that happiness came an hour earlier. Hee-haw!


Bed time inconveniently coincided with the USA-Ghana World Cup match, so I conveniently left the camp site in search of more beer and a satellite TV. Yes, in that order.



I thought that Angie would be happy that neither of my searches were in vain, but let's just say that happy hour was over by the time I made it back to the camp site. The cool thing about tents - no sofas.

The morning after the night before was rather interesting for the boys. Peter and David are old enough to retain memories for more than 24 hours, but Tommy woke up completely baffled.

In computer chat talk, it would probably be something like WTF R WE? I know, I'm so hip it hurts sometimes. I understand and can accept responsiblity for the whole 'waking up and not knowing where you are' part, but instead of inquiring about his whereabouts, Tommy frantically searched the camp grounds until he found his coveted chair. Hmmm...
--------------------------------------------
Ladder Talk:
1) What was the best part of your day?
Peter: When we were by the camping.
David: When I play with the fire.

2) What was the worst part of your day?
Peter: When I in trouble over the flashlight.
David: When I throw in the fire and you say that I no can do that.

3) What would you like to do tomorrow?
Peter: To play soccer and do the treasure hunt.
David: To go home again.

Attack of the Snow Cone

I think it's great that Sharpur wanted to build a snowman with the boys, I just wonder who the hell taught him that they should be shaped like a pyramid. It didn't help that he cracked open the only round part of his creation while trying to shove in the biggest carrot nose I have ever seen in my life. Sharpur looked a little disappointed as Frosty's cranium crumbled to the ground, but I think my laughing helped. Nice snow cone, buddy!

After Geometric Snowshapes 101, we moved on to pelting the kids with frozen water.

It's a little hard here to tell if the snowball was being thrown at or by Artin. I wouldn't want my two readers to lose any sleep wondering, so let me just put that one to bed. It was thrown, full-force, at Artin's head, who somehow managed to karate chop it to powder. I won't say who was pelting ninja boy in the head, but I will state that snowman building can apparently be a tad bit frustrating for some people.

To calm things down, Sharpur took the boys on a magic carpet ride.

After approximately one minute and twenty-three seconds, the rug rats lost interest in Steppenwolf and demanded to be fed. What Sharpur lacked in snowbuilding he made up for in snacking.

Milk and cookies - what a great idea! That is, of course, if you ignore the inevitable aftermath of inhaling round sugar patties. I didn't care, though. Captain Peter was sleeping over, so I just mentally chuckled as they devoured their hyperinducing morsels.

At one point, I smelled energy in the air and sensed that things might get ugly soon. I grabbed David and Tom and wished Sharpur and Shayeste a fun-filled night with the caffeinated.

At home, Tom launched his own search for candy. After running around the house in circles for an hour, he sat down in David's chair for a five minute breather. Mistake. Rested, he continued his quest, but somehow 'the stash' continued to elude him.

Eventually, we did point out to Lollibutt that he should probably never ever sit in David's spot again; next time, he might not be that lucky. At some point, David strolled in the room.

'Hey! That's mine!'

Yup, you guessed it. Yuck.

Barb and Armin came over and ordered pizza and chicken wings instead of accepting our very generous offer of Ramen noodles and stale bread. Barb chuckled at our hospitality and began plotting something with the animals.

I have no idea what it was, only that it must have been evil judging David's grin. Just remember, buddy - payback is hell.

You know what else is hell? Getting a call from your firstborn who is spending the night at a friend's house and supposed to already be asleep because it is two and half hours after his normal bedtime but is instead wide awake and whining on about his missing snuggle bunny. I could only make out bits of his conversation through his incoherent sobbing and snotting.

'Papa, I need to come home. I don't have my bunny!'

'What?! Are you kidding me? Do you know what time it is? If you ever want to leave the house again, you better...'

Mama was motioning for the phone, so I handed it over. Yeah, you go, Mama - slam him! Show him who's boss! And tell him that hell will freeze over before we...

'Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry. Papa will bring over your bunny right away.'

Click.

At that point, I started hyperventilating and really don't really remember the next five minutes. When the haze lifted, I was glad to see that I hadn't beaten Angie with the phone. But only kinda glad, you know.

In all fairness, I can understand why Peter was upset; he has slept with this damn bunny every night of his life. In all stupidity, though, I cannot begin to understand how Mama managed to forget to pack Peter's essential rabbit. Even stupider - she suddenly volunteers me as the delivery boy? Payback is hell, woman.

You know what is worse than hell? Losing poker to your wife and her non-Ramen-noodle-and-stale-bread-eating sister all night.

Luckily, that didn't happen. After a long night of delivering stuffed animals to spoiled kids, I was in no mood to show mercy. Anger was on my side and even one of Sharpur's Frosty snow cones couldn't freeze my payback over.
-------------------------------------------
Ladder Talk:
[Peter was too busy crying his eyes out to do Ladder Talk]
1) What was the best part of your day?
David: When I make snow balls on your head - bonk, bash - ha, ha - you wet!

2) What was the worst part of your day?
David: When I can't not more with Barbara and Armin play.

3) What would you like to do tomorrow?
David: To play with Peter when he are back.

Weekend Whackos

Some weekends are relaxing and quiet. Others are overcast with whiskey-tasting over-hangs and not-so-silent kids who have lost their marbles. This weekend was an all-inclusive trip to the Whacko ranch.

It started out with a relaxing and quiet dinosaur dig.

This nice block of cement was Peter's leftover birthday gift from Brian. Peter's been dying to crack at it since April, but wise Papa avoided this with thoughtful comments like 'you're not strong enough' and 'you're just going to make a complete mess and get bored after two minutes.'
I don't call myself 'wise Papa' for no reason. Over the years, I have measured the height of my children's attention span and come on; Peter's not exactly the king of endurance.

After, imagine that, two minutes of chipping away at their prehistoric brick, the boys gave up and started playing with their Gormitis, knowing full well that Papa would really like to take the digging hammer and chisel and go to work on these little bastards. And just witness the archeological patience needed to chip away such a huge corner in only two minutes!

Speaking of impatient fossils, Angie was busy in the kitchen falling in love with potatoes.


Aahh, that's cute. The potato is shaped like a heart - isn't that so sweet...

'Yo, potato head! Snap out of it and get back to your salad - I got a work party to go to. Chop-chop.'
I actually cannot publish Angie's witty retort without getting into all sorts of trouble with a few animal rights groups. You sure have a creative imagination, though, honey.

To make up for Angie's politically funny references to animals, I thought I would slap a few bugs on Peter's landing strip.

Angie, the teacher, was quick to start babbling about slugs not being bugs and some other nonsensical phrase that rhymed, but did nothing for me. At least she didn't whack me in the face with a squishy ball. Yes, this is one of her patented techniques that manages to keep her students quiet while she schools them. Whatever, psycho bug lady - you can throw all the squishy things you want; you won't shut me up.

So after Angie was done beating the crap out of me with bean bags, she handed me two bowls of potato salad and told me to have fun at my party.

'Uh, what? You're not coming?'

'Moron, it's Chiara's birthday party. In our garden.'

'Didn't she already have, like... three birthday parties?'

'Yes, but this one is in our garden.'

'Why isn't it in our family calendar? You know, right next to the entry that says 'Steve's BBQ Party' that's been there for a few months?'

'A better 'why' question is what you are still doing here.'

'That wouldn't be a 'why' question, that would be a 'what' question. Who's the moron?'

'Go. Now.'

Not one to argue with Master, I left and went to party, fully expecting to end up on the sofa at some point. The BBQ was great and all was fine and dandy until the whiskey-tasting train left the station. I hate missing trains, so I kept boarding every chance I got.

At one point, I got bored with boarding and wisely switched to a taxi as my preferred means of stumbling home. Despite a few marital calls like 'are you coming home soon?' followed by 'when are you coming home?' followed by 'you need to come home soon' followed by 'you better get your ass home soon', I still did not sleep on the sofa. To be honest with you, as I always am, this had more to do with the limited size of our sofa than any attempted kicking of my ass to said sofa.

That's right, Angie was hogging my place. I didn't like that my better half was snoring away and drooling all over my expected sleeping arrangements, so I woke her ass up and told her what a horrible teacher she is so that I could regain my coveted spot. It worked.

The weekend did not stop there, though. Oh, no, I had the entire Sunday to continue irritating family members other than my lovely wife. I knew there was a reason we had kids.

The day after the night before we invited Sheyeste and Sharpur over. Before you ask, no - I did not force him to change another flat tire for me, since that is something that I can do without help. Really. Quit laughing!

For some strange reason, they decided to bring their kid and before long, Sharpur was getting Artin and Peter high.

Getting high invariably ends up with a bad case of the munchies or inexplicable urges to get wet. So I've heard. Our boys had obviously eaten enough.

At some point during their wet trip, the little munchers started trippin'.

Luckily, they were under close adult supervision. Kinda.


As Shayeste and Sharpur enjoyed their bird's-eye view, David was quietly enjoying a bagful of choking hazards.


Not only did David lose his marbles; Tom also decided to WOW everyone with his newfound Johnny walker.

My only thoughts at first glance - 'WOW - that kid should be taken to the Whacko ranch.'

--------------------------------------------
Ladder Talk:
1) What was the best part of your day?
Peter: When I get to sleep with the Gormitis.
David: When I go down in the pool and I go BOOM and water goes out.

2) What was the worst part of your day?
Peter: When I couldn't sleep by you.
David: When my belly hurts.

3) What would you like to do tomorrow?
Peter: To play with David Gormitis, but only when he steal not.
David: To play with Peter Gormitis.