Introducing a new word: CHUSBAND

This one is for the married men out there. We need a new word in the English language. And that word is chusband. And it means…wait for it…life.

This is what it would look like in the dictionary:

Chus-band /chɘzbɘnd/ noun life.

If we all band together and use it regularly, inconspicuously, in everyday conversations, it’s bound to catch on. Here are some sample phrases to get the ball rolling:

It’s a shame you dropped that piece of bacon. But you know what they say, chusband goes on.

Did you hear they found new evidence of extraterrestrial chusband on Mars? I guess like some specks of ice or something. Far out, huh?

Feet up. Cold beverage. Now, isn’t this the chusband?

I don’t often eat Mexican in back-to-back meals, but that’s chusband in the fast lane for you.

Let’s get in and out of Costco as fast as we can, as if our very chusband depends on it.

I don’t care for spicy food. (With raised eyebrow) My real appetite is for chusband.

Aren’t my daughter’s thirty-seven flower and sun drawings beautiful? It’s like they say, art imitating chusband.

He was in the hospital and it wasn’t going well. It was a matter of chusband and death. And you know what they say, chusband’s too short.

Did you paint your shutters? It’s like you breathed new chusband into the front of your house.

No one even knew I was in the blanket fort. For hours. I was having the time of my chusband.

There, that should be enough to get us started.

If all goes according to plan, in a year or two, when our wives turn to us in the doorway before heading out to the nail salon and say, “happy wife, happy life,” we’ll be able to counter with “yeah, well, happy husband, happy chusband.” Then, at long last, we’ll be able to live out the chusband of our dreams.

Imaginary Swim Results— Medal Round

Recently, while I was stirring away at Mac ‘n cheese, I heard a loud smack and it came to my attention that Mia (age 5) was upset with Mazey (age 8). As it escalated into scribbling on artwork I intervened, skillfully, by yelling at them both to stop. Later, I discovered the source of the conflict. Mia was unhappy with the results of Mazey’s imaginary swim contest. Understandably so.

First Place: Bunny

Second Place: Gumdrop

Third Place: Blank-blank

Fourth Place: Mia

DNP: Waddles

DNP: Delaney (age 2)

12 Things To Say To Dampen The Mood In The Delivery Room

  1. Congratulations on your new baby! Also congratulations on never sleeping in again! Even on Saturdays. Especially on Saturdays. Even when your birthday is on Saturday. Especially when your birthday is on Saturday.
  1. I’m so happy for you! But no so happy for the millions of perfectly healthy adoptable children in third world countries that you’ve forsaken.
  1. Wow. The first breath of Life. It’s a miracle. Really special. But what about the rest of the breaths from here on out? I just looked it up and the average person that lives to 80 will breathe 672,768,000 breaths in a lifetime. That’s millions and millions of them that will use up precious oxygen and spew yet even more carbon dioxide into the existential threat that is our warming atmosphere. Still think your newborn’s breathing is a special miracle? Yeah, not so much. Congratulations on making another suckhole. But I’m glad you’re happy. Your happiness. That’s what’s important.
  1. Those first few moments with your newborn are so precious. You know what won’t be precious from now on? Vacations. Terrible. The worst. Airplanes. Hotel rooms. Restaurants. It’s a nightmare. All that manufactured fun when you’re just tired and pissed off. It’s the pits. We just went to Hawaii. Sure, it was nice. What wasn’t so nice was lugging carseats through the airport or getting kids and strollers through security, I mean have you even given a thought to what that process is like? Just getting there was exhausting. And let me throw in a little visual: an educational tour of a plantation when it’s super hot and all the snacks are gone and the complaining is like an ice pick in your eardrum. Do you think anyone gives a rat’s ass, at this point, about how to cut open a coconut? 
  1. Peek-a-boo is a great game to play with your new baby. You know a great game to play with your partner? Spread a bunch of rakes around the living room and take turns running around and getting smacked in the face.
  1. Here is a sweet song you can sing: First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in the baby carriage. After that it’s an endless stream of bickering with your spouse about myriad subject matter ranging from dishes to diapers to who’s turn it is to rock the baby to sleep at 3 AM to why book club and girl’s night have to be on back-to-back nights?
  1. Birth is a time to say hello, but also goodbye. For example, now would be a good time to say goodbye to your peace of mind. Here, let’s practice. You try thinking of things you need from the grocery store and I will shout “Mommy” every four seconds.
  1. You know how they say Disneyland is the Happiest Place on Earth? Well, judging by these smiles, I would say right now, it’s this delivery room. But you know what will be the Happiest Place On Earth pretty soon? Your bathroom, where you can lock yourself inside for thirty minutes and watch random Youtube videos as your feet fall asleep.
  1. Your baby is an absolute dream. Speaking of dreams, I hope you’ve already achieved yours. Because otherwise we’re talking about a real uphill climb. And by hill I mean like Everest or El Capitan or both of them combined into El Neverest Capitan. Like it’s not going to happen. Like that bloody umbilical cord might be symbolical right about now.
  1.  Isn’t life a miracle? So is paying for college. If I were you, I would get out of this hospital ASAP and start saving. I’m not kidding. Even little things like that apple juice and crackers on your tray. It all adds up and it’s gonna cost you a fortune. An arm and a leg. A fortune of golden arms and silver legs. A lot.
  1. It’s so sweet how you just gazed into your baby’s eyes and said, “I love you with all of my heart and I always will.” In about four years you’re going to gaze backwards, with yogurt and snot all over your yoga pants, while making a cheese sandwich without the crust and shout towards the bathroom “Do your very best job to get all of the poopy out!”
  1. That was some delivery. When do you think you’ll have sex again? I mean, it’s going to be like months, maybe years….

To the parents of Darby S.

Dear parents of Darby S.,

Greetings. My name is Mr. Asthenosphere and I am your daughter’s science teacher. She comes to my class once a week for hands-on science lessons. It is my great honor and privilege to play a role in developing Darby’s scientific mind!

I am contacting you regarding my concerns for her progress in my class. It started week one, when she first asked to go to the bathroom and didn’t return for twenty minutes. I let it go, but she repeated this act the next two weeks so I asked her to please use the restroom during snack time, which is right before her science class.

The following week she forgot her water bottle in P.E. And the next week. She was very upset as— in addition to her dire thirst— apparently this water bottle from Mammoth Ski Resort has deep sentimental value for her. Despite having a water fountain in my classroom sink, and the probability that Mr. Hurdle, her P.E. teacher, would most certainly hold onto it for her, she insisted and I relented.

The next week, week six, she complained of a stomach ache. The week after that, her ankle hurt. She was quite adamant regarding the throbbing, which I guess is ironic because I had a throbbing headache at the time. In week eight, her ear was bleeding, the small pierced hole in her lobe smeared with red (though later I found a ketchup packet under Darby’s seat).

I have asked Darby if she doesn’t like science or has a problem regarding the class or me, but she says “everything is cool.” I am concerned because she has missed the entire unit entitled “Energy In Ecosystems.”

Last week, we began “The Physical and Chemical Changes In Matter.” And, unfortunately Darby missed the entire introduction searching for her sweatshirt from Vail Ski Resort.

So I thought I would contact you because of this tremendous scientific learning opportunity for Darby. Since we are learning that matter cannot be created nor destroyed, it hit me that, if you were to drop off Darby’s sweatshirt on Thursday mornings, I could hide it in the school and thus begin to play a role in developing her scientific understanding. In fact, if there are other sweatshirts from pricey vacation destinations at home, please bring them by the science lab. While Darby is aimlessly wandering the halls until lunch, I could use these overpriced materials for various demonstrations (like melting points and the pH of hydrochloric acid). In this way, when Darby accidentally stumbles upon her burned or melted sweatshirts, she will realize this important scientific concept that will further her development as a young scientist.


Mr. Lithosphere

Me So Snarky

Recently I attended a two-day education conference. It wasn’t very good. The less I say about it the better. As the caffeine wore off on hour three of day two, squirming in an uncomfortable chair, I was feeling, well, downright snarktastic.

The woman sitting across from me, the same woman I sat across from for all eight hours of day one, was once again wearing two name tags. Catherine. Outdoor Outreach. And…Catherine. Outdoor Outreach. She had the laminated, clip-on one that they passed out at check-in, the one we all wore on our collars or shirt-pockets or blazers or wherever we could find to clip it. But then she had another one, hand-carved, wood, varnished, probably something like cherry or walnut or maple, but possibly something exotic like bamboo.

So there we were. Day two, hour three of a not-so-good education conference. Catherine was telling me about the history of floods in California. Then she segued, somehow, I wasn’t really paying attention, to how comets first brought water to Earth. Instead of listening to her transition, if there was one, I was thinking of snarky things to say about her two name tags. Things like:

I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name?

While I am fascinated by the origins of water on Earth, I’m perhaps equally intrigued by someone wearing two name tags at an education conference.

Excuse me. I hate to be the one to point this out. But your collar is obscuring the end of one of your name tags, so that it reads “Cath”. And your sweater is covering the front half of your other name tag so it only shows “ine.” Could you help me out here? I’m thinking Catherine, but you just never know. It could be Cathline. Or maybe there are more letters in the middle? Names and spellings are so crazy these days, don’t you agree… Cathzine?

What is that, mahogany?

(After making a second name tag for myself with a half sheet of paper and a paperclip.) Can you believe these people? I mean can you believe them. I’m astonished. The nerve. It’s like they just don’t give a fuck. Only wearing one name tag. I normally wear three but my nice one is being cleaned.

Catherine. It’s Catherine, right? I wasn’t sure. Have you ever thought of doing Indoor Outreach? Like kids that don’t spend enough time indoors watching screens. Or even Outdoor Inreach? What would that even look like? Or what about Indoor Inreach? Yeah, I know. I get a little carried away sometimes. Like sometimes I go to education conferences and bring my own name tag. What was your name again? I’m sorry. I’m just not good with names.

But the snark didn’t stop there. Oh, no. A question distracted Catherine and her discourse on early water. She turned, her head nearly tripling in size, to answer the following question, “Excuse me, was that name tag made by a 3-D printer?”

At which point, I turned and introduced myself to Heather, an education coordinator for an organic farm. I asked her if she coordinates field trips and learned that “field trip” is something of a taboo phrase, even an insult. With my mind on full snark, I imagined a couple of men in suits wearing sunglasses and white gloves, bringing in a soap box and mid-conversation lifting her up, chair and all, and setting her down on the soap box. I adjusted my gaze to her new, imagined height as she described the “field work” she does with students, and how it’s MUCH different than just a one day, quick and cheap and dirty field trip.

And I wanted to ask her, so badly, I practically had to bite my tongue to keep from asking it, as the imaginary men with suits came back and lifted her off her soap box…So, how would I go about setting up a field trip?

It was that kind of conference.

Duped By Punctuation

Megan and I have a few go-to, default restaurants whenever stumped by that bad penny of a question “What’s For Dinner?” One of these is the Old Spaghetti Factory, which has been around for fifty years—almost long enough for an “e” at the end of old (but still a ways off from changing the “the” to “ye.”)

It’s family-friendly, affordable, and serves ice cream. Everybody wins.

Last night was one of those nights. For starters, our two year-old has gone nuclear, aka is climbing out of the crib at night. Throw in soccer practice at four (for the seven year-old) and a music orientation at six-thirty (for the four year-old) and boom, we’re joining all the retired couples for a nice Italian meal at five-fifteen.

That’s when it happened. I got duped by punctuation.

“I thought you were going to get the lasagna,” my wife said later that night, as I curled up into the fetal position and prepared for another night of moonlight toddler strolls.

“It wasn’t just that the Chicken Penne with Pesto was listed as new,” I said. “Or NEW. All cap’s wouldn’t have done it. Or even NEW. Bold wouldn’t have put me over the top either. It was NEW!

It helps to hear it. So dear reader (and all you confused plumbers that keep clicking on my site and sometimes stick around and read), try saying each one, either out loud or in your head. New. NEW. NEW. NEW!

Do you hear it? That extra tinge of enthusiasm/excitement for a new menu item at a restaurant you frequent on a regular basis. It’s hard to resist.

“The thing is,” I explained to Megan, removing my thumb from my mouth. “I don’t think the Chicken Pesto Penne is all that new. In fact, I think I got it last time. I just can’t remember how it was presented on the menu.”

“You should’ve got the lasagna,” she said.

And I would’ve, too. If it wasn’t for that damn exclamation point.

The Dreaded Nap

My four soon-to-be five-year old is in that awkward phase where she doesn’t usually nap but sometimes, every once in a while, collapses into a heap of blankets on the floor.

When this happens, she is out, like really out, from around three or four o’clock until right around after dinner. Then she will wake up grouchy, be drowsy and cranky for another forty to fifty minutes, and then— get this— expect food and water.

The result of all this is that she will be wide awake, fresh as a spring morning in a place with a waterfall that gushes freshness, well past bedtime. I’m taking like after nine o’clock. Wide. Awake.

At this point, any parent in this situation, concerned for their child’s well-being, must make a choice.

Option 1: Put them to bed anyway so they get used to being bored in life.

Option 2: Take advantage of the other children being asleep for valuable one-on-one time (not recommended).

Option 3: Just watch Netflix like always and let the situation work itself out.

Recently I found myself in this parenting conundrum and chose Option 2. (Making decisions has never really been a strong point for me.) After some graham crackers and coloring (a lot of coloring, but that’s another post) I noticed my four-soon-to-be five-year old stretch her mouth in what might have been a yawn.

So we went up and laid in mommy’s bed, a special treat, and gazed up at the moon. And the following conversation took place.

“Daddy, has anyone ever been to the moon?”

“Yes, in fact, fifty years ago people went to the moon.”

“How did they get there?”

“Well, people worked very hard for a long time. They studied a lot of science and space and became what’s called an astronaut.”


“Yes. Asterknots. And other people studied a lot of science and math and became engineers. These engineers built rocket ships for the asterknots to travel in.”

She snuggled into my shoulder and we stared up at the moon. This is one of those moments, I thought. Those moments I will cherish forever.

“And did some people study really hard to become mermaids?”

And we’re back.

“Yes, some people studied hard to become mermaids. Aren’t you getting sleepy?”

So in conclusion, when your child is in that awkward phase where they don’t nap but sometimes really need one, just shove a screen in their face and give them sugar so that you don’t miss out on valuable “Me time” at the end of a day.

You’re welcome.

Not to brag, but…

This past weekend I was responsible for my three daughters for the span of roughly four hours. During that time they:

  1. ate a nutritious meal
  2. watched zero minutes of screen time
  3. only ingested one substance that required a call to Poison Control (a hefty dollop of froofy sun screen by Delaney, age 2)

So yeah…got this whole parenting thing pretty much under control.

My Fart Darling

There is an expression in writing, “You have to kill your darlings.” This means when you revise your work, kill everything you love before sending it out to agents.

So it follows that I had to cut the following darling from my novel. May you live on, my little fart darling, in my faucet humor blog that plumbers keep opening by accident.

My Fart Darling

Brian woofed down another spoonful. “Uncle John farts a lot,” he said, chewing. He inhaled quickly, lifted his leg and with vibrating lips motored off a long fart that resembled a well-tuned lawnmower. Barbara leaned away. Like a singer he sucked in more air and squeezed one side of his mouth, the motor humming an octave higher. Then he twisted his mouth, abruptly slowing the humming engine sound and giving it a juicy quality. He pulled air up his nostrils and released it in a halting sputter, ending with one final gust that died a slow, rattling death. On its deathbed, with the whole family aghast, Brian pushed one last poooooooffff through his wired teeth.

“Really Brian, was that really necessary?” his mother said.


No room for cream— the admiration is enough

If you— and by you, I’m referring to the confused plumber in Alaska that reads this blog— are wondering why I don’t post more, it’s because I’m currently revising a novel. Truth is, I haven’t really told many people that I’ve written a novel and get sort of embarrassed when people that know I’m writing ask, “How’s the book going?”

I won’t go into it. Rather, I would like to share how I’ve changed my tune and now tell every single person I meet that I’ve written a novel. I’ve noticed that Starbucks baristas are particularly impressed.
Here is a conversation from this morning:
Barista: What can I get for you?
Me: Well, since I am a novelist, I guess I’ll have an iced coffee.
Barista: Okay…. Any room for cream or sweetener?
Me: If I was a short story writer, I might, but I’m a novelist.
Barista: Your name?
Me: My real name or my pen name?
So yeah. Pretty impressed.