Steely Dad

A couple of weekends ago, I went on vacation. (In addition to some of my other fringe benefits, my boss gives me a few days a year for vacation.)

But Steely Dad, how does a stay-at-home dad (SAHD) go on vacation? Isn’t your entire life a vacation?

To that I answer, “Well, yes it is,” but that’s not the point. The point is, like anyone else, I too require some time away. How does that happen with kids? Steely Wife simply takes over. Thanks hun!

So on this vacation, we went to stay with my best bud at his lake house in Elkhart Lake, WI. In a word, it was AWESOME!

I went wake boarding for the first time. It took me a few times to get the hang of it (don’t laugh; remember it was my first time) but here’s some video: Steely Dad Wakeboarding

My buddy also has a bunch of dirt bikes and quads so we went out to his track and tore it up. I’ve ridden dirt bikes a few times before (I am, after all, from El Cajon, CA, home of many a Supercross hero) but I wouldn’t call myself an expert. Here’s some footage: Steely Dad Riding Dirt Bikes

And just to round off the weekend, we also did some skeet shooting. Again, I’m no expert like my mother-in-law (who is an accomplished competitive trap and skeet shooter) but I do OK: Steely Dad Skeet Shooting

It was just an amazing time and one I hope to relive again soon. You might be thinking with all the dangerous sports in which I partook that injury would be inevitable. Well, funny thing about that. I did actully hurt my knee but it was an injury unrelated to the aforementioned activities and didn’t occur until the following weekend. Want to know how I hurt it? Of course you do. I wish I had some gripping story, like I was wrestling alligators or something, but alas it would not be an honest tale (like the ones above). I hurt my knee jumping up in the air. Yea, just jumping up in the air. Mind you, when I jump I achieve Jordaneque-type air, but nonetheless I was just jumping. My wife and I went to a Yelp party and there was this cool camera, provided by Actionbooth, that takes photos of people jumping, dancing or just plane acting crazy. The dude from Actionbooth and I decided to do a chest bump.

Here’s the photo: Steely Dad’s Mad Hops.

(Note my three-foot tall Guinness hat.)

As you can see, I got up there pretty good but when I landed, I felt a “pop” in my right knee.  I’m sure mere mortals would’ve called it a night. What does Steely Dad do? I fought through the pain, with the assistance of several malt beverages, and kept the party going. That was Friday night. Saturday morning, when I attempted to get out of bed, my knee let me know under no uncertain terms that I’m a complete dumb shit. I couldn’t walk (in fact I still can’t put all my weight on it) so Steely Wife and Steely Kids had to escort me to the ER. Nothing is more demeaning than having to explain to your kids why Daddy has to visit the doctor, why Daddy smells like a distillery and why Daddy woke up wearing only a three-foot tall Guinness hat. Here’s how the conversation with my son went down:

Hungover Steely Dad: Ohhhhhhhh, my knee!

Steely Son: What happened, Daddy?

Hungover Steely Dad: Daddy hurt his knee.

Steely Son: How?

Hungover Steely Dad: By jumping up in the air.

Steely Son: Why’d you do that?

Hungover Steely Dad: Because Daddy isn’t so smart.

Steely Son: I’m smart.

Hungover Steely Dad: Yes you are, buddy. You’re much smarter than Daddy.

Steely Son: Daddy?

Hungover Steely Dad: Yes son?

Steely Son: Why do you smell like that stinky guy we always see in front of the grocery store?

Hungover Steely Dad: Uh, is that your mother calling you?

Steely Son: I don’t hear Mommy.

Hungover Steely Dad: Yea, I hear Mommy calling you. (Me does his best ventriloquist impression.)

Steely Son: No she isn’t, Daddy. Are you goofin’ me?

Hungover Steely Dad: Here’s $20.

Steely Son: Daddy, this is $5.

Hungover Steely Dad: Consider it a down payment.

Steely Son: OK. Hey Daddy, why are you wearing that hat?

Hungover Steely Dad: It’s a magic hat. Watch, when you put it on you become invisible.

Steely Son: Daddy?

Hungover Steely Dad: Where are you?

Steely Son: Daddy, I’m right here!

Hungover Steely Dad: Oh, darn, I guess you left.

Moral of the story? If you drink, don’t jump and if you jump, don’t drink. Make sure you assign a designated jumper when you drink. And please jump responsibly.

That is the question.

Perhaps someone else has written about this topic but I wouldn’t know; I don’t read much. I realize this might be a bit high-brow for many a Steely Dad reader but it’s important to expand one’s mind and horizons. After all, Steely Dad is nothing if not a place of culture and refinement.

Case in point.

This evening after consuming two massive triangles of a mushroom/black olive/spinach stuffed pizza that I personally garnished with sautéed pancetta and several whole cloves of RAW garlic, the following thoughts suddenly occurred to me when my digestive tract started to sound like an overactive aquarium: With whom is it appropriate to expel flatus? How long before you do so, say, in front of your significant other? Is it ever OK to blow butt breath in front of your kids and, if so, what words do you use to describe the expulsion of gas? Most of all, is it appropriate to laugh when someone rips a stinky poop cloud in your general direction?

These are all very important and legitimate ponderings and I would like to get to the bottom of one of life’s great mysteries: To fart or not to fart?

Passing gas has been a part of our common human heritage since the dawn of man and it’s been a source of comic “relief” ever since a caveman farted on his buddy and thought the entire episode worthy of a cave painting. In fact, Aristotle and Plato were known to have engaged in rather noisy debate about this very topic.

But what is the proper protocol for farting in various situations?

I’d like to do my part and conduct a poll of the Steely Dad Nation. It is highly scientific, of course. Please be sure to leave your answers in the comment section. Your participation is much appreciated and will help to construct a veritable guide on the etiquette of the fart.

Before we begin, I have a hypothesis about farting in front of others that I’d like to share with you. Through your responses, I will be able to prove or disprove my theory.

I believe there is a direct and irrefutable correlation between the appropriateness of farting in front of a certain person and the time either knowing and/or spending with that person. For example, you presumably spend a significant amount of time with your SO. Therefore, it is appropriate to fart in front of him or her. You probably don’t spend a large portion of your time with, say, your insurance agent therefore it is NOT appropriate to fart in front of him or her.

Let us proceed, shall we?

1. Do you fart in front of your significant other? (If your answer is “YES” please proceed to question #2. If your answer is “NO” please kindly go fuck yourself because we all know you’re, quite literally, full of shit!)

2. If so, how long before you actually expelled ass gas in front of your significant other (SO)?

3. Who was the first one to break the smell barrier: you or your SO?

4. Do you and your SO fart in front of your kids?

5. Even if you do fart in front of your kids, do you think it is appropriate to do so?

6. If so, what word or phrase do you use to describe the act of expelling flatus (i.e. fart, gas, cutting the cheese, etc.)?

7. Who has the more noxious/pungent farts: men or women?

8. Is it acceptable to laugh if a member of the family rips a really good one?

9. Do you and your family members participate in farting contests that test such things as the smell, duration and frequency of the farting episode? If so, who holds the record?

10. When girls get together, do they fart out loud and do they laugh about it? Guys never do this that’s why we’re so curious.

11. Has anyone in your family successfully attempted the “Blue Flame”? If so, who?

12. I’m a stay-at-home dad (SAHD) which provides me a lot of time with my kids. As such, I have developed an odd Darwinian olfactory adaptation that enables me to distinguish the farts of my daughter from those of my son by nothing more than their distinctive aromas. Does the parent who spends a majority of the time with your kids possess this same ability?

13. Are there specific situations in which it is permissible to fart in public? If your answer is “NO” would you reconsider your position if there was no way the fart could be linked to you? I’ve heard of a specialized technique called “dusting the crops.” It’s employed by people in certain industries, such as flight attendants, who sometimes have no choice but to expel their ass pollution on a crowded plane (another reason I hate to fly). It works by walking briskly down the aisle while simultaneously letting the noisome air escape. When done successfully, it is virtually impossible to identify the offender leaving everyone on the plane to speculate and guess. You will notice that many times people will pull their shirt up over their mouth and nose as a signal that they were not the offending party that floated the air biscuit. It’s diabolical if you think about it.

The results will be carefully tallied and reported in a future posting.

More drama on the blogging front.

I made the egregious mistake of upgrading my blogging software to the most recent incarnation of Wordpress, the seemingly innocuous vintage 2.8. I, however, have found a more fitting title: Satan’s Software. I’ve been up all hours of the night for the past few days trying to exterminate the bugs that infest this piece of work. In any case, this is the main, but not singular, reason to explain my hiatus. I even had this cool Father’s Day story about my father-in-law but who the hell wants to read that AFTER the big day? Exactly.

In the immortal words of Bob Marley, when one HTML code closes another opens and in my case this is no exception. Today marks a major milestone in my heretofore modest blogging career. This post is my first submission as an OFFICIAL columnist for the social network juggernaut Dad Blogs.  Why they picked me to write for them can only mean one thing: everyone else they asked declined. Anyhow, I’m happy to oblige and I hope you’ll check out this awesome site as there are some seriously fantastic bloggers who call Dad Blogs home.

As anyone who’s been following Steely Dad since its inception way back in January of this year, you know that I often share some rather intimate details of my life. I feel an obligation to be open and honest with the Steely Dad Nation and I’m not going to change that approach just because I’m some dude with a by-line. But I’ve got to tell you, this story is so bloody embarrassing that I’m not even sure I can share it with you. It’s way worse than even Telemarketing Phone Sex. Should I compromise my integrity, my reputation, my character and in the process cause irreparable harm to my children’s self-esteem? Sure, why the hell not? I’ve got nothing better to do.

So Steely Wife took Steely Kids out to the park last week. I thought they’d be gone for at least an hour which meant I could get some Steely Dad time all to myself. What do guys do when their wife and kids aren’t around? What do you think we do? Well, I should say that 99 percent of us do and the other 1 percent won’t admit it. Come on guys, you all know what I’m talking about. Uh-huh, that’s right. I’m not afraid to admit that as a SAHD I so deeply cherish these moments for they have become as rare as an red diamond and just as valuable.  But guys, don’t be fooled. Mine is a cautionary tale, the message of which you should heed.

Feeling kinda frisky, I went to what I thought was a private area of the house. I proceeded to prepare myself for fun and frivolity and in the midst of my solo dalliance, just as things were getting interesting, I hear a key slide into a lock, the pins moving as they’re engaged and then I see the knob turn as if in slow motion. Intruders! My initial reaction was to flee but I had no where to run. I was cornered and it was far too late to get myself back to normal. I was caught, shall we say, red-handed?

Of course  Steely Wife, at least after shielding the childrens’ eyes, seized the opportunity to capture this rather delicate situation for digital prosperity. She is nothing if not skilled in the art of extortion. Below is the visual product of her extraordinary effort. Now be forewarned, Steely Dad Fan, the photo is exceptionally graphic. Not only should minors never, ever, under any circumstances be subjected to such a disgraceful display, no adult should either for that matter. I’m warning you now before you click on the link. Trust me when I say you’ll never be able to return to that safe and happy sanctuary after viewing this photo. Still want to look? OK but it’s your nightmare.

Daddy’s Little Secret

So sue me, OK? Yea, I like to wear princess stuff and rock some brews and smoke cigars with my Dale Jr. teddy bear. Is that so wrong?

How did I respond, you might ask? As if spontaneously filled with the Holy Spirit of Nacho Libre, I raised my head, mustered what little pride remained and said, “Honey, when you are a man sometimes you wear princess stuff, in your room. It’s for fun.”

The lesson here? Guys, it’s OK to wear your princess gear; just don’t get caught wearing your princess gear and for Pete’s sake never get caught wearing your princess gear by your wife and kids.

Being a stay-at-home dad (SAHD) provides me with a lot of time to think (because even though I’m watching my kids, my mind is roaming it’s own private Internet).  Although this can be productive, it can also be downright dangerous for someone like me to be alone with his mind because ideas like the following are created.

Steely Wife and I have been engaging in some serious discussions regarding the Hat Trick. Yup, we want to increase all the joy and bliss that entwine our lives by adding another little member to the Steely team. As a SAHD, I don’t belong to a union so this provides me with additional job security.

I love trying to make a baby. It’s pretty much the best thing in the world. I don’t get excited for the romantic reasons of bringing another life into the world, although that definitely enjoys a spot in my top 10 list. For me, the process is thrilling for much more debauched reasons: it’s the only time when my wife becomes a sexual Vegas buffet. She’s open all the time and I can have as much as I want. Now imagine if the Vegas buffet had one of those guys who stand out front a Tijuana nightclub blowing a whistle trying to lure every passerby with cheap drink specials. You know, like a carnival barker. That would be my wife when she wants to make a baby. “Step right up and come inside,” she will say in her best Jimmy Durante voice (but hopefully in this case I’m her only customer).

Throughout our history together a pattern has certainly emerged. This insatiable sex drive only presents itself when Steely Wife desires a shiny new infant. During our off season she has a “No Trespassers” sign prominently displayed on her vagina. I think she gets it waxed that way. It makes me feel like she only uses me for my DNA.

So I have devised a plan that I believe will enable me to lengthen the time that her fields will be available for plowing.

Since the days of Adam and Eve, women have used pregnancy as a means to trap unsuspecting and overly-trusting men into a long-term relationship. “Of course I’m on the pill,” a girl might say with the conviction of a seasoned con artist. The man believes her and nine months later he’s saddled with dirty diapers and the obligation of making child support payments. Well, I say let’s turn the tables, men, and assure our woman that we are off the pill. What the hell am I talking about? I want to invent a birth control pill for the guys. It occurs to me that men possess a natural aversion to any modification to their stones but before you reject my idea hear me out. As I was saying, I’d like the buffet to be open more often and for longer hours. How to do that? Tell my wife I’m no longer taking my birth control pill for men (the BCPM) but in reality, I’ll still be ingesting the daily dosage until I’m ready to plant the seed.

Let’s take a look at the pros/cons of my plan, shall we?

Pros (in order of importance):

More sex

Cons (in order of severity beginning with the least severe):

A loss of trust

Divorce

Homicide

Less sex with my wife

No sex with my wife ever again

Genital mutilation

From this analysis, one can clearly conclude the positive reasons far outweigh any potential negative consequences. I could probably maintain the charade until my wife freaks out because she doesn’t get pregnant and has a nervous breakdown that results in a trip to the local fertility clinic. By my estimation this will be no more than 28 days. It would also require some pretty adept maneuvering on my part to explain why there is the BCPM in my system. “Someone must’ve slipped it into my fertility smoothie, love,” I might plead. “Let’s question the boy. He never did want siblings.”

So guys, let me know your thoughts, if I should move forward with inventing a BCPM. If you agree, I’ll get to working on it straight away. I’ll just need to borrow one of those home chemistry sets and a high school science text. Also, just remind me: can you mix acids and bases?

My daughter is a thief and a pretty good one at that.  One time when we were on vacation, my wife was climbing in the back of our rented minivan (I refuse to drive a minivan under any other circumstances) and while she meandered her way through the labyrinth of collapsible seats my daughter picked her pocket and stole her wallet.  My wife didn’t know that the Viper had struck.  ”Where’s my wallet?” she exclaimed.  ”How the hell should I know?” I retorted, obviously aggravated because I hear that same question like 100 times a day.  My wife, in a panic, surveys her surroundings only to find my daughter, mind you she was only 13 months old at the time, sitting silently in her car seat examining her “kill.”  My little princess was rooting through her mother’s wallet!  I’ve never been so damn proud.  (I should explain that my daughter surely took her life into her own hands because G-d only knows what lurks in that wallet.  It makes George Costanza’s wallet look petite.
(I dare not look inside the abyss that is my wife’s wallet.  Grown men have gone mad after even peering at this diabolical item.)

Well, today I had the day off from my stay-at-home dad duties, meaning my wife took the kids out to play or do whatever, maybe jack some cars, shoot craps, who the hell knows.  What I do know is that my wife came home with a brand new T-shirt.  However, this wasn’t just any ol’ T-shirt.  Oddly enough this was a PINK Mickey Mouse T-shirt that just so happens to fit my little girl to, um, well, a “T.”  When I inquired about the shirt, assuming she purchased another superfluous piece of Disney memorabilia (remember, we recently spent 4 days at the Happiest Place on Earth so in case you missed the gory details you can read about them here  http://www.steelydad.com/i-shouldnt-be-alive.html), the missus had an alibi.  ”Your daughter stole it.  She ripped it off the hanger and I didn’t notice the thing until we got to the car and I was putting away the stroller.”  Normally, I wouldn’t buy it but considering my daughter’s proclivity for theft, it seemed at least plausible.  My daughter, my sweet, beautiful innocent angel, my infallible princess, is a pickpocket AND a shop lifter?  Where did I go wrong?  How can this be?

Oh, it be!

Steely Wife passed my foolproof lie detector test, which is me looking into her eyes like Larry David does when he’s trying to determine if someone is telling him the truth. It looks something like this:

I had to accept the truth about the situation: my baby girl can steal with complete impunity!  How rad is that?

Think about it.  If she steals something we simply pretend not to notice.  If someone “catches” us in the act we, very convincingly, plead ignorace.  Plus, my daughter is so damn charming no one can get mad or upset with this angelic creature.  Trust me, I’ve tried thousands of times.  This is so awesome!

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right: she can only five-finger some insignificant clothing items.  We’ll have to work our way up to big-screen TVs and exotic automobiles but this is a great start!  The girl’s got mad skills.

You know what they say: a quick hand is a terrible thing to waste.

I’ll keep you posted.  If you see me on an FBI poster for grand theft just don’t let ‘em know my whereabouts, cool?

Oh, and by the way, during the same outing with Mommy, my son apparently “found” $2.  What sort of crime ring is my wife running here?  I don’t even know who she is any longer!

(NOTE: All “stolen” merchandise mentioned in this story will be returned to the rightful retail establishment.  That’s my wife’s idea.  The individuals depicted here are guilty until proven innocent.  Please take the gushing descriptions of my daughter as absolute truth devoid of any hyperbole.)