Scratch and Fix

Our cat either really likes the guy that came to fix our radiator or he hates repair folk with a passion.

We haven't had Luke long, but he normally just hides under the stove whenever someone new comes over. For whatever reason, he chose today to break out of his reclusive shell.

Angie had run into the kitchen to get the repair guy something to drink. When she came back into the living room, Luke had clawed his way up to the guy's shirt and was just clinging out. If the guy hadn't been screaming his head off, I bet we would have heard purring.

Who let the dog out?

For the past year and a half, Angie has been the Quiz Mistress at The Dubliner, our local Irish pub that is conveniently located within crawling distance. The Quiz, for you non-German-Irish types is a weekly trivia night, where Angie reads out 30 questions and people huddle around in teams of six or less and try their damndest to not get caught looking up the answers on their iPhones. Yes, we also know what you did last summer.

The difference tonight was that it was her birthday. A rather tragic event that started at 00:01 with an innocent but completely serious question.

'So, you didn't forget my birthday again this year, did you?'

For those of you with short memories (and Angie is definitely not part of your posse), I had a birthday malfunction last year that has resulted in me being stuck in the doghouse for 365.25 days. Not that I was counting.

So, yeah - back to the not-so-innocent question, which was followed by my carefully thought-out guilty answer.

'Honey, I tried to pick up your gift today, but it simply was not there. They promised me that I could pick it up tomorrow, though.'

'Okay.'

Now let me tell you, the 'okay' you see in text above probably looks cute, sexy and innocent, but it might as well have read 'O.J.' I tried to explain my defense, but the plaintiff adjourned early and went to bed. Love means never having to say 'you're forgiven'.

The next morning was awkwardly quiet, if you exclude the noise being generated by three boys screaming 'Happy Birthday' at the top of their lungs.

When I came home from work, I had to break more earth-shattering news to Angie.

'Look, I'm sorry, but I went to pick up your gift and it's still not there.'

'Okay. Whatever. I'm getting in the bath.'

I made Angie a warm glass of tea that is supposed to calm stressed people down and brought it into her.

'Did the boys at least make me a card?'

'Of course they did - all three of them. They're just finishing them up now.'

In my book of love, lying is allowed if it involves a naked chick and her emotions. Two seconds after leaving melancholy Mama to shampoo her misery away, I raced into the living room, flipped off the T.V. and started chucking crayons at the boys.

'QUICK! You guys need to draw a picture. NOW!!!!'

Peter immediately broke out into a sweat and began furiously scribbling. At least he didn't start crying. Tom freaked out and for some reason demanded that I help him draw a dragon - 'a mean one'. David took everything in and rather calmly explained to the collective freak out crew that 'Mama does not like scribbles' and 'she certainly does not like dragons.'

It was at this point that I yanked David up and somewhat gently placed him on the table.

'And what, exactly, do you think would make Mama happy?'

'A super-duper pattern with no white on the paper, of course.'

'Great, then why don't you draw that and leave your brothers alone?'

'Okay.'

I hovered over the trio like a coach on the eve of a big game, loudly encouraging them to finish in showers of spittle. In the end, my threat tactics and vocal tutoring paid off. Angie came out in a robe and gave all three boys a super-big hug. In the end, Peter was so thrilled with himself that he asked Mama if he could have the drawing back so that he could take it into school. Even with only two drawings, she looked genuinely happy. Then she turned to me.

'I'm going to Quiz. Bye.'

'Okay, ba-bye. Happy birthday again! Love you!'

Other than a totally non-flirtatious glare, there wasn't much of a response that did anything for me. That's okay, though, I was busy preparing my surprise and waiting for the baby-sitter that glare-chick didn't know about. Yet.

When I showed up at the pub, Angie was certainly surprised, but it was more the 'what the hell are you doing here?' surprise than the 'oh my God I'm so happy to see you because you put Brad Pitt to shame on a daily basis' surprise.

I think I scored some points when I forked over my homemade birthday card.


Okay, maybe Angie wasn't so thrilled about the funny team name, but I had also organized a birthday cake - that's gotta count for something, right?


Truth be told, I did not know about the cake that Sarah had spent three days baking until I got there, but I still gleefully took credit for it because Angie had suddenly started to warm up. It probably had more to do with the 39 flames blazing on Sarah's Torta di Trionfo, but whatever - one bark closer to leaving the doghouse.

Not only did Angie damn near collapse a lung blowing out Sarah's mini forest fire, she also made Signora Cucinare reel back from what I can only hope is garlic breath.


I didn't have a paper bag to help out with the pursuing hyperventilation attack, so instead I whipped out the big guns. That's right, I brought out the iLuv.

iLuv my shit-eating grin as it finally dawned on Angie that I had actually not forgotten her birthday and that I had even taken some measures to organize a kick-ass evening. Oh, ye of little faith.

A nice googly-eye look is okay if you're not a hairy alpha-beast that can crack coconuts with his stomach, but I needed at least the PG version of a thank you. Luckily, Angie is an avid movie-goer and planted a PG-13 special right on the smacker that immediately opened the door to my cage. Right on, right on - you gotta dig on that!

It was nice to be out of the doghouse for a while. Three hours, to be exact. And before you ask, no - I did not do anything house-worthy after three hours. We actually had a great time just sitting at the pub and hanging out with old friends. We even played the Name Game, a drinking game that we haven't played since our B.C. (before children) years.

Back then, Angie had bangs, but other than that, not much has changed. I still won. She still claimed that she had won, and I had to yet again explain my view on drinking games.

See, in a drinking game, the more often you lose, the more you drink. Angie's goal was to lose less, which she did because she hates not winning at anything. For me, the only reason to play a drinking game is to drink - it's even in the name. By that logic, and my liver can confirm it, I won. Besides, it's my blog.

My three-hour tour was over too quickly, but I did not want to keep Ute waiting. She had been awesome enough to babysit on very little notice, so I did not want to push it. Thanks again, Ute - you made Angie's night. Actually I did, but you definitely helped. No wait, actually, I think the iPhone is what did the trick. Hey, wait a minute! I see now that she doesn't need either one of us any more and I just sent material girl off to get her party on with all of her new iFriends. It's okay, though. I still thank you for your help. To show my appreciation, I thought I would write you the longest side narration I have ever, ever written. Enjoy. Or not.

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Ladder Talk:
1) What was the best part of your day?
Peter: Papa! Did you see my picture? It was so cool, that was my best ever.
David: That Mama like my drawing the best.
Tom: When Mama have a birthday and we sing 'happy birthday' but the funny one with Mama smells like a zoo.

2) What was the worst part of your day?
Peter: When my friends ring the doorbell and I had pajamas on.
David: That Tommy hit me right on my nose with a book and he laughed.
Tom: When I bonk Davey on the nose.

3) What would you like to do tomorrow?
Peter: To go swimming in the pool.
David: To go to the pool and spring in like a water bomb.
Tom: To go to Grams and Opa.

Toe-jam Tommy

Today was the 10th anniversary of Anno 1589, Judy's gallery that's full of valuable paintings and things that are made of glass. It's a great shop for anyone in their double-digits, which leaves another seven years and two months before I consider letting the collective Zoo crew inside.

After a brief trip to breakable city to say hi, I chaperoned the kids to parts of the city that they could break.

It only took an hour of trying to kill themselves and others at the playground before the boys asked if we could go buy new 'Wheelies' because, according to David, 'I are so good being'.

'But what is a Wheelie?', the kidless readers ask.

Well, like the name implies, it's a wheel. That's pretty much it. You can roll them. And you can...uh,...um,....did I mention that you can roll them?

Okay, Wheelies are dumber than My Pet Rock, but at least they are cheap and they keep the yappity ones quiet. Hmm, maybe I should pick up one for Angie?

We picked up Barb along the way and headed off to the store that sold bags of broken car parts to morons with cash. The boys thought it was cool that the store had a revolving door. Of course, they also thought it was cool that we were buying a wheel.

On the way in, I carried Tommy. On the way out, I did not. Mea culpa.

What happened was Peter went first and like a normal human, he continued to walk outside when it was time to 'get off'. David went through next and like a normal David, he did not get off and instead kept going around in circles laughing.

I was holding Tommy's hand when it was our turn to 'get on'. At that point he saw David jackassing his way back into the store and decided to run in the opposite direction of the revolving door. If you ever wondered what it sounds like when someone's foot jams a revolving door to a grinding halt, it goes something like this:

'AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!'

So, just to recap - I'm stuck inside with Toe-jam Tommy trying to unwedge his foot. David has proudly made his way back into the store and is gleefully announcing to the forming crowd 'That is my BROTHER!'. Peter is stuck outside bawling his eyes out and screaming 'I'm sorry!' and will most likely be traumatized for life.

In the end, Barb was the one that came crashing to the rescue with a full-on shoulder attack against the glass wall that was pinning my third-born down. As Superchick pried back the wall of pain, I snatched up flat-foot and raced outside. Tommy and Peter were still screaming their heads off, but at least David had the sense to rejoin us on the sunny side of the death machine.

In America, I would have sued the shit out of the store for not hanging up a sign that clearly warned stupid dads against wedging their kid's foot under a revolving door. I'd be ree-yatch.

We were in Germany, though, Land of Customer Friendliness. Needless to say, we fled the scene before one of the helpful store workers could present us with a bill for a broken door. Dankeschön.

As we made it back to the shop, Barb asked if we wanted to come in to say goodbye. My response was a mix between an answer, a curse and a laugh. Barb gave me an understanding nod and went inside to tell Grams and Opa that they would have to come outside to say goodbye to Toe-jam Tommy and the Wheelie boys.