5.  Going sledding in Delaware park with my family.  Sat there shivering... Dad notices the only thing I wore under my winter coat was a flimsy t-shirt... Dad says, "Jesus.  Are you stupid or something?" as he takes off his own sweater and puts it on me.

Labels: the hometown

Funny thing about taking a hiatus from something like blogging... you never know quite how to begin again. It's not like there is any shortage of material. Fletch-monster still does and says crazy sh*t. O-Dog is still handsome and sensitive. Serpico is doing all that baby sh*t that makes people go awwww. Then there are all the ongoings in the nation and the world that can raise an eyebrow and cause a blogger to go ape-sh*t, writing a 1,500 diatribe about some shoeless Muslim newshound throwing his Hush Puppies at Dubya. Nope. I'm also not going off on that well-coiffed public servant from Illinois any more press.

I'll keep it simple.

I had one of those instances that usually have me scratching my head, thinking "Why didn't I think of that first?" Only this time, I did think of it first.

Directions:

1. Purchase a child's t-shirt
2. Purchase package of iron-on transfers
3. Download this graphic

Print on your inkjet printer and apply to the garment, following instructions

4.Throw the shirt on the young 'un.
5. Spend 48 minutes trying to explain to the missus why you don't think it's inappropriate.

Or you can skip the last step and just print one for yourself.

Optional step - Take digital picture and send it to yours truly...

Man, how do I break the shackles of writer's block?  

Mrs. P pumped out another boy a couple of weeks ago. Atta-girl!

You can see here that the Fletchmonster isn't a big fan of that 'new baby smell.'

Yeah... everything's rosey here, as the Sarge gets acquainted with his brothers. He came out of the chute at 7 lbs. 15 oz., though I'm not sure why anybody cares. I might care if I was a woman, though, and had to push out something that sizeable out of my cooch. Goddamn.

I always have to remember not to look down after the baby comes out. For those gentlemen who've never had the pleasure... What do you get when you cross your wife's 'chocha' with a Jackson Pollock painting?

Heh.

Heh-heh.

Heh.


All kidding aside, I'm proud of the Mrs.

That looks painful as f*ck to go through, and she's gone through it willingly three times. Of course, she comes from Irish stock... All they need to birth is some Bailey's, a pot of warm water, tree bark, a rope and a couple of dishrags (á la Christy Brown's mother), though Mrs. P's a bit Americanized so they had to throw in an epidural.

Well, then, I'm off to go play hockey tonight... and to have a toast to the O-Dog, the Fletchmonster and the Sarge.... to the advent of the daddy stitch....

and to Jackson Pollock.

ON GENDER
Well, nine months after we bumped uglies and created another month to feed, Mrs. P and I are on the home stretch. I'm jazzed about finally getting to meet him or her, finally... You know, other than the occasional high-five through a fleshy tummy, I haven't had much bonding time with him or her.

Of course, the gender question comes to play. Being on the receiving end of a Mrs. P tirade, I wished for a girl.

Mrs. P - (screaming) BLAH-PITY BLAH-BLAH BLAHHHH! BLAHHHHH! A**HOLE!

Of course, deep down I could care less if it's a boy or a girl, though I look at my two little bastages, out of the chute now for three and six years and wonder aloud, "Wouldn't it be cool if it's another boy?"

"It'd be cool if it's a girl, too!" comes the icy response.

"Yes, dear."

Of course, there'll have to be some minor adjustments. For instance, when Mrs. P goes to work, I may no longer be able to turn to the brood and say, "All right, boys. Let's hang out like gentlemen," before we retire to the couch to scratch our balls or drive down Elmwood Avenue to check out the Hey-Now, Hey-Nows...

Yes... a girl will definitely tip the balance of power in favour of the XX chromes... Three kings usually trumps two queens, unless the queens are three-dimensional and have a pulse. In this case, the camps are equal, or estrogen laden and feminized. Now we may actually have to stop in the pink-ish section of Target, or those three aisles of Disney princesses, tea cups and skanky Bratz dolls (which will garner a resounding 'F*CK no!' if she ever asks for one).

On the other hand, when O-Dog and the Fletch are grudgingly on their way to their in-laws, muttering their own pained "yes, dear...s," hopefully my daughter will come around to wipe my *ss and feeed me Metamucil while her husband mutters "yes dear" as he mows my lawn.


ON WHIPTITUDE
Something about a pregnant wife and an impending birth exonerates men from even the worst offenses. Take for example my 'faux pas' on the bench during my hockey game this past Thursday.

Mrs. P - Take your phone with you on the bench. It might be tonight.
Prego - Huh? Uh... are you sure?
Mrs. P - I don't know... they might just be Braxton Hicks contractions, but you never know.
Prego - Uhhh. um... yes dear. (God... If she's going to call me, let it be late in the third period.)

Fast-forward an hour... end of the first period. This is where the defencemen, such as myself, switch to the other end of the bench as we switch sides of the ice. Two young teenage forwards come down to the end.

Teen #1 - Hey, who the f*ck brought the phone on the bench?
(Prego pretends not to hear... fixating on the action on the ice.)
Teen #2 - Ohhh... I think that's Prego's.
Teen #1 - That's right... At least he's got an excuse. I thought it was someone with a concerned girlfriend or something.

Today, 6.38 am:

40-Something Defenceman - Hey, whose f*cking phone is this?
(Prego pretends not to hear... fixating on the action on the ice.)

ON OTHER PEOPLE'S FARTS
Yeah, people are pretty much judgmental. I'm no exception. Just for sh*ts and giggles, I put Mrs. P on the spot a few years back when we went to one of those useless birthing classes. You know the ones... where some cupcake from the 'burbs pats her belly and says "And this is Kay-Li," during those insipid introductions.

From there it went to stupid-*ss queries like, "We're going to Cancún after the baby's born. Is it okay for her to drink the water?"

During our lunch break I turned to Mrs. P and shouted, "Hey... you got your smokes or did you leave them in the car?"

Mrs. P, indignant, immediately hits me in the arm saying, "Jesus. What's wrong with you? Now all these people are going to think I'm some trashy *sshole."

"When are we ever going to see any of these effete f*cking couples again?"

Yeah. I suppose that made her feel pretty darned low, but I guess not everybody feels that way. Last week, I was walking out of a shop and saw a pregnant girl talking to her friends. As I walked past, I noticed something that looked like a lit cigarette in her hand, so I did one of those double-takes that my brother and I always do, where we think people don't notice we're scrutinizing them, but they do.

Her response was, "Yes, I'm smoking and I'm pregnant, so have a look."
(Prego pretends not to hear...)

Wise Prego knows it's better not to say anything. A few years ago I might have muttered something stupid like, "Gee. I was kind of hoping you were just fat."