Fiddley Gomme - Family

Political Confusion

Pete — Thu, 28 Aug 2008 16:24:13 -0400

"Which tennis shoes would you like to wear to school today? Gray or brown?"

"Did you just ask her who she's voting for in November?"

"No. John McCain isn't gray, stupid."

"Sure he is. His face is the same color as the make-up that morticians use on dead people."

"Ashen?"

"Yah."

"I guess you're right. Beth, do you want to wear McCain or Obama shoes today?"

Say Uncle

Pete — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 23:02:13 -0400

I have a niece. Well, I have a bunch of nieces, actually. But there's this one in particular. She's four.

Her brain is a magical place where words go in, rattle around and, like those million monkeys sitting at typewriters, come back out as miniature gems of priceless comedy. Which is why I always go out of my way to teach her new ones.

Pants. On. Fire.

Pete — Tue, 05 Aug 2008 20:35:15 -0400

Our daughter is a big fat liar.

In fact, I'm going to start calling her wikipedia because if she tells you something, and you cite her as the source in your book report. Your teacher will write on your paper, in big red marker, "please use reliable sources for important work".

No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problem

Pete — Tue, 01 Jul 2008 01:57:00 -0400

You know how it would be really cool to have a time machine? Like, you could totally go back before you had kids and hang around the house in your underwear and drink beer or, you know, go to the demolition derby or a bar on a Sunday. Back before your mom lived in your basement. Back before your wife stopped wearing panties in exchange for full-time cotton long-johns.

I'm Really, Really Going To Need Your Help With This

Pete — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 00:01:53 -0400

I need a favor. Can you, real quick, go read every post on this site and tell me which ones I need to delete?

Earlier today, I was checking out my server logs and noticed a couple of referrals from Google searches for "ur mom's a nice piece of lettuce". Interesting. Then I noticed the IP address of the visitor. I mean, I recognized the IP address.

This Is Why They Invented Xanax

Pete — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 01:20:51 -0400

Some of you will be angry at me for what I'm about to tell you. If this makes you angry, let me know so I can come take a crap in your family room and see how you react. If that's no big deal to you, I can come back once or twice a week for six or seven years and leave a present for you in the corner of your kid's room and another under your bed.

MOST. UNSOLICITED. GUEST. POST. EVER.

Pete — Tue, 10 Jun 2008 00:51:12 -0400

Heather Armstrong didn't ask me to write a guest post while she's on vacation. She didn't offer me Hooters French fries either. I'm sure the writers she actually DID invite to write for her are, you know, actual writers. In fact, I don't even actually know Heather.

Just Like Riding A Bike

Pete — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 01:44:40 -0400

You may remember that despite being the freaking awesomest dance partner in the world, I'm actually a really bad and neglectful father. As always, it's a good thing the children managed to eek out some decent skills anyway. Probably stuff they learned from the wild animals that roam the neighborhood and help them with their homework.

The exact moment the snow melted, Beth started begging me to put together a Frankenstein bike from the tattered carcasses of the sad and broken hand-me-down bikes collecting dust in the corner of the garage. As the youngest she usually has to pick at the scraps her older sisters leave for her. This also means that sometimes after all the recitals and lessons and games and errands take up the day, there's only time left for a little malt liquor and then bedtime.

There's been no time to put a bike together yet, let alone teach her to ride it. So what did the little fart go out and do yesterday? She opened up the drawer marked wrenches, pulled out the number fifteen, took the training wheels off one of the bike zombies, strapped on some pads and a helmet, got on that bike and rode it like a pro.

Shake and Bake

First time. No crashes. As if she'd been doing it for all six of her grubby little years. By the time I got home from work today she was riding around the neighborhood with the boys on their dirt bikes jumping off curbs and plywood ramps. Proving once again, she's better off without me.

Of course, without her father's superior and athletic genes, she'd never have been able to pull it off. At least that's the sort of thing I tell myself while I'm locked in my car and stuff.

She's not SO amazing though. It hasn't even occurred to her to tape a playing card to the front fork so the spokes make a motor sound.

Daddy Daughter Dance: Film At Eleven

Pete — Tue, 03 Jun 2008 01:06:09 -0400

Friday, when I said tomorrow, I meant today.

I'm not going to spoil this with a lot of commentary. I think the video speaks for itself.

I'm the second dad from the left. That's stage right for those of you who've ever treaded the boards. And yes, the first twenty-seven seconds are video of a dark stage... but listen to the ladies scream. Pure gold.

Dancing With The Stars

Pete — Wed, 28 May 2008 22:52:00 -0400

The love for my children is infinite. It knows no bounds.

I know. Vomit.

I've never found the limits of my love for them... but I can see the edge from here.

Several of the last Saturday mornings have been spent in the basement studio of Cynthia's very pregnant, usually barefoot, frequently perky dance teacher. This alone isn't SO unusual. With four daughters there seems to be no end to the activities requiring leotards and sequins. I've sacrificed more than my share of weekends and evenings to recitals and lessons.

What made these particular Saturdays so unusual is that I was the one breaking a sweat. These rehearsals were for the dads. Or as the grammar-barren flyer, photocopied on goldenrod, now stuck to the refrigerator door called us, "the dad's." To be specific, we were rehearsing for a dance piece in the upcoming recital that the girls ("our daughter's" -sigh-) had prepared especially to include us.

I figured the teacher, who has seen me on stage, would know that I am simply too uncoordinated and graceless to be trusted with anything more complicated than, as we called it when I was a Madrigal, choralography. Choralography simulates dancing in kind of the same way curling poses as an actual sport requiring skill and coordination. Her misuse of the possessive apostrophe should have tipped me off.

The number is something like a five minute hip-hop cha-cha medley. Or exactly like.

We are required to not just stand there while our kids prance about is while we blush. No. There's actual dancing. And hands. Jazz hands. And possibly the moon walk.

"It's left, left, cha-cha-cha! Listen to the beat, dads (err... dad's)! Try to stay together! Watch your spacing!"

If her navel weren't sticking out six inches, ready to parry my blow, I might be tempted to punch her in the baby. Instead, I smile... I listen to the beat... I try to stay together.