This House Is Clean. No, Seriously.

So we're putting our beloved, 1930s-style house on the market, after living here for six years. It's actually on the market right now -- like right this very second. (Yikes.)

We love our house. We don't have a dire need to sell it immediately. Our reasons are all Big Picture: we've banked a lot of great memories here, but our mortgage is big, and we want to simplify our fiscal lives. Saucy wants to find a new career outside of Law, one that doesn't chip off a piece of her soul every day when she goes in to the office. Selling the place will be the first step of several that might help us move out of California, if we get brave enough.

See? Makes sense, right? A decision based on clear, logical thought. Not that Saucy and I aren't feeling conflicted about the prospect. (For the record, Mini-Pirate isn't conflicted at all. She's refusing to move. She says if we do move, she will simply befriend the family that's going to move in to our house, and live with them here.)

But one thing's become clear during this first week of being on the market -- if we do want to sell this house, it's very, very important that I am nowhere near when potential buyers come and check it out.

Turns out there's a reason why realtors don't want homeowners to be around when visitors come. It's just too easy for the owner to say something -- oh, I don't know -- INCREDIBLY STUPID by accident.

Our house is great, and we love it. It's in fine shape. But it was built in 1938, which means that, aside from being wonderfully unique and full of character, it's got your typical Old Home issues. Small closets, creaky floors, stuff like that. Stuff that you don't necessarily need to point out to potential buyers who are walking through.

That's fine. Unless you have a chronic need to make conversation, coupled with a tendency to, as my wife graciously puts it, "try way too hard to be funny in front of strangers." Which might explain why I said the following to our own realtor this weekend, during a walkthrough the day before our first big Open House:

"We sure do love this place. Of course, the previous owners were such half-assed fix-it-yourself people that everything they touched started falling apart about two years ago. Can you believe how some people think duct tape is an actual plumbing tool? Ha ha!"

"Check out how old this porch is. I'm amazed it hasn't collapsed."

"Oh, don't get me started on our next-door neighbors. If I have to hear those screaming kids next door one more time, I'm gonna put a bullet in my head. Seriously, once they get going, it's like they're in our living room with us."

"Don't look too closely at the paint job in this room. No reason."

"We had a termite guy come out and inspect the house a couple years ago, and everything was cool. Of course, that was before the neighborhood-wide infestation of aught-9. Ha ha ha!"

"Listen to how loudly these stairs creak. This is all really old wood down here."

"Aren't these front windows great? They let in so much more light since we had the bars taken off. Not that this neighborhood isn't totally safe. Except for that pedophile scare. Ha ha ha ha ha! Ha?"

I don't know what happened to me. It was some sort of homeowner Tourette's. The whole time, my wife was staring at me in disbelief.

When I was done, our prim, British-accented realtor just looked at me for a moment and said, "Perhaps it's best if we don't mention these little details to anyone who pops in for a visit tomorrow."

"What was wrong with you?" Saucy asked me later, still incredulous. "Why not just tell her the house was built on a cursed Indian burial ground while you're at it? Or about the evil pet cemetery out back? My God!"

So now I'm not allowed within a five-block radius of our house when any potential buyers stop by. Fair enough.

I'm sure someone will buy this house. It really is a beautiful place. Especially since Zelda Rubinstein stopped by to give it one last cleansing. The TV rarely talks to our daughter in the middle of the night anymore. Ha ha ha!

Better Than Dickens

Her: Daddy, can we get some popsicles?

Me: No. I told you before – we’re just going to the store to get a couple things to tide us over. Milk, bread, and ketchup. So don't ask for anything.

Her: I know, but we really need popsicles.

Me: We really don’t, kiddo. Don’t we still have a ton of Otter Pops in the freezer from last summer?

Her: But those are different!

Me: Why?

Her: Because they aren’t popsicles!!!

Me: I guess I can’t argue with that.

Her: So can we get some?

Me: No.

Her: You are the meanest daddy in the world.

Me: Yes. Yes, I am.

Her: I’m not kidding, Daddy.

Me: I know.

Her: You are the cruelest of all the fathers in the land.

Me: No, I know. I’m saying, you’re totally right.

He: You’re probably going to go to Daddy Jail.

Me: For what?

Her: For trying to make me starve to death.

Me: Starvation from lack of artificially flavored frozen water on a stick. Yes. Sounds like a serious crime.

(Daughter’s Eyebrow of Skepticism, rising.)

Her: I bet you can’t name even five daddies that are meaner than you.

Me: I bet I can.

Her: Uh-uh.

Me: Darth Vader. He was way worse.

Her: Nope. You’re worse than Darth Vader.

Me: What’re you talking about? He cut off his son’s hand. I would never do that to you.

Her: I bet you would too.

Me: Well, you’d have to do something really bad first.

Her: Name another father meaner than you. I bet you can’t.

Me: Titus Andronicus? King Lear? Alec Baldwin?

Her: I don’t know who those guys are. I’m being serious.

Me: I don’t know what to tell you, kid.

Her: You know who’s lucky? Orphans.

Me: Ouch. That’s harsh.

Her: Well, it’s not my fault! Do you want to be the worst dad in the world? In the UNIVERSE?

Me: Absolutely not.

Her: Good. So we agree that you don’t want to be a bad dad anymore, and that you want to be good?

Me: So much, do I want that.

Her: So that means we can buy popsicles, right?

Me: No.

(We pay for our groceries and leave the store. Out front, in front of a crowd of patrons, she stops. Dramatic Sigh. Arms out, palms up, eyes heavenward.)

Her: Father, I ask so little of you, and you deny me so much.

I'm sure there's a commentary to make here about how children today don't realize how good they have it, how freakin' pampered they are. I probably should've given my daughter a stern lecture about how kids in some parts of the world don't have drinkable water, let alone the ability to turn said water into delicious frozen treats. At the time, though, I was too busy being entertained/annoyed by my little Oscar-polisher to pull it together.

But we still didn't buy popsicles.

Confused on the Couch: Watching Lost

Minor spoilage ahead, but not really.

8:55 pm, five minutes before the final episode of Lost

SaucyWench and I have just watched the last hour of the preview before the Lost finale, a retrospective where the producers attempt to say, “See? We told you, you guys. We had the whole thing planned out all along!” At least seven times in the last twenty minutes, Saucy and I have looked at each other with our confused Scooby Doo expressions (head tilted sideways, one ear cocked: Harrooo? Didn't that guy die twice already? When did that happen? Did we miss something? Why are they running? Is this in the past or the present? Which reality is this? Where am I?)

The finale hasn’t started yet, and already I’m irritated. Even after watching the retrospective, I’m still totally confused. This show has two hours to pay up. It’s been six years, and I’ve hung in there when friends and relatives have given up. Stephen Freakin' Hawking has given up on Lost. Hey producers, Bald Guy With Glasses and Older Guy With Glasses: YOU OWE ME.

Here we go.

9:00

Ok, we’re barely a minute in, and already the classic Lost maneuver has happened: one character (Kate) has asked another character (Desmond) a direct question (“What are we doing here?”) and received a maddeningly vague response (“No one can tell you why you’re here, Kate.”) See, this is exactly the kind of shit I don’t want to hear tonight. If I get more of this, I’m turning the TV off. (That's a lie. I’m not going to take this game to the 90-yard line and then walk off the field, and Bald Guy and Other Guy know it.)

9:05

Me: I'm already confused. What does Locke want Desmond to do? (Harrroo?)

Saucy: Help him destroy the island, apparently.

Me: How? I never understood the deal with him.

Saucy: I have no idea. I think he’s like a human Magic Eight Ball, with super electromagnetic powers.

Me: They never explained that well.

Saucy: What are you, new in town?

9:10

Those blurry Lost letters float out at us for the last time. Six years ago when I first saw this show, that opening title card was intriguing, and scary-cool. Since then, it has come to provoke a Pavlovian response of wary annoyance.

9:22

Saucy: How many times on this show has a good guy asked a bad guy, “Do I have your word?” Geez.

Me: I know. Like a thousand times.

Saucy: Seriously, in the history of television, has that ever ended well?

Me: These people lack the ability to learn.

9:30

Me: Wait. Why is Miles the good guy talking to Ben the bad guy? And what’s Richard doing unconscious? (Harrroooo?)

Saucy: That’s from the last episode, I think.

Me: I saw the last episode.

Saucy: Then I can’t help you.

9:35

Me: Aw, it’s Juliet. I like her.

Saucy: She’s good.

Me: I like Lost Juliet better than V Juliet. Did we DVR the V finale?

Saucy: Yes. We watched it together.

Me: We should rent the original mini series sometime. I loved that when I was a kid.

Saucy: I know, you’ve told me.

Me: When that girl gave birth to alien muppet babies, I totally freaked out.

Saucy: You’ve mentioned.

9:45

Our cable flickers a little during commercials and the audio gets off sync from the picture, making Saucy and I wonder if there’s some sort of strange electromagnetic monitoring station underneath our house.

9:50

Saucy: Who's that girl again? I don’t remember that girl.

Me: She was on the science team.

Saucy: Which science team? Weren’t there like three different science teams?

Me: She was on the team with Daniel and Lapides.

Saucy: Who the hell are Daniel and Lapides?

10:00

Me: What… which guy was that? Was he from before? Are we supposed to know who that is?

Saucy: Zzzzzzz.

Saucy will wake up soon and have several questions about whatever just happened. Too bad. Don’t come crying to me, Missy.

10:10

Ok, I don’t want to spoil anything if you haven’t seen the episode yet, so let me just say this: the part just now, where the guy goes into the thing, and takes the thing out of the thing, and the big thing happens? Sorry, but that was a lame-ass plot device right there. And yet I'm riveted.

10:20

Saucy: (waking up) What’s going on?

Me: (busy watching)

Saucy: Where did Locke go?

Me: Don't talk. Tell you at the commercial.

Saucy: Why is the island shaking?

10:35

Spectacular fight scene.

10:43

Spectacular jump off a cliff.

10:44-50

Various and sundry emotional reunions. Kate and Claire. Sawyer and Juliet. Sniff.

11:10

Apparently, the entire island is actually a giant sink, complete with a mystical giant drain clog. Wtf?

11:20

Unexpected emotional upheaval happens in a surprisingly intense almost-last scene with a ton of major characters. Wasn't expecting this. It's partly melancholy, and partly joyful, like the last day of camp. A lot of hugging and crying -- I half expect everyone to break out yearbooks for signing. Stay awesome, Sawyer! You so crazy, Claire! BFF, Kate! Gonna miss you sooo much in Bio next year, Smoke Monster!!!! But still sweet and sad.

Saucy and I both catch each other with slightly watering eyes as Jack's final moment approaches. Oh, man. That dog.

11:30

And... done. Saucy and I agree: some frustrations remain, but the finale completely delivered on an emotional level. I still have questions, but fewer than I expected. It's not that the show gave me concrete answers, but in the end, it did succeed in making me worry less about getting them.

Well played, Lost.

I was a Teenage Were-Butt

A few years ago, Saucy and I discovered the edutainment value of Mad Libs. A total bullseye for the kid, we thought: an easy way to teach the parts of speech, a quiet diversion in restaurants and plane trips, plus: Wacky Family Fun! Bonus!

Brilliant, we high-fived each other. Our kid is going to develop a love of language the old-fashioned way, technology-free. Suck it, Nintendo.

We thought we were geniuses. And yes -- back during her pre-school years, Mad Libs did help teach her the difference between her favorite noun (Princess), adjective (Princessy) and adverb (Princessily), thereby supplementing the rigorous Schoolhouse Rock curriculum we’d already been providing her.

That was a few years ago. Worked great. We just didn’t anticipate how the pedagogical power of Mad Libs sort of gets pushed off to the side when kids get a little older, as their playground vocabulary --ahem-- evolves.

Basically, we've been thwarted by the fact that Mini-P and her friends have now realized how much funnier everything is when you involve butts.

During a recent family dinner out, Mini-P starting getting bored with her kid’s menu, so, on cue, Saucy whipped out our tablet of “Spooky Mad Libs.”

The page was titled “Famous Scary Movies.” I was in charge of taking word suggestions and writing them in their appropriate blanks. Mini-P was responsible for coming up with the words themselves. I'd fill in the words, and we would then read the movie titles, enjoying a hearty family chortle at the humorous juxtaposition that would emerge when whimsical new words transformed familiar film titles! Oh, the laughter that would ensue from our sophisticated repartee! Our booth would transform itself into a veritable Algonquin Round Table!

Here’s what emerged:

Night of the Living Butt

The Butt of Frankenstein

Invasion of the Butt Snatchers

The Butt from the Butt Lagoon

I was a Teenage Were-Butt

The Butt of the Opera

And our favorite:

The Hunch-Butt of Notre Butt

How about that -- turns out butts do make everything funnier.

P.S. By the way: according to Mini-P, these movies all received two butts up from critics.

An Open Letter to Graduating College Students

Dear Graduating Seniors,

First of all, congratulations on the whole getting-your-degree thing! Knew you could do it.

I taught almost 100 of you this Spring, you Seniors about to graduate. I'll never tell you to your face (you know how I favor the tough love over nurturing), but I'm really proud of you. For all my bitching about students (see here, here and here), the fact is, a lot of you guys have worked your asses off to get through school and earn your degree. Several of you did it on your own -- you paid your own way, and that in itself is pretty freaking impressive. Whether you paid your own tuition or not, a bunch of you took ownership, and decided that college was an opportunity to transform yourself, and your brain. For that, you have the right to say that you officially kick ass.

Most of you have the right to be extremely proud of what you've accomplished. Some of you... not so much. But that's ok. Sure, a few of you came into college with that classic consumer attitude that we teachers hate: the idea that, since you (or someone who's invested in your future) is paying for your education, that education should be easy, convenient, and guaranteed. You bitched about the workload or about 8 a.m. classes. You complained about having to take any class that wasn't directly in line with your major, saying that General Ed courses like Religious Studies, Anthropology, and English Literature were not relevant to your Business and Management degree, and therefore a waste of your oh-so valuable time. You know, that really drives me crazy -- I mean, how you can tell me my classes about Writing, about Argument, are a waste of time??? It's like, think about your place in the world!! About the persuasive influences you're subjected to every day!!!!!! I mean, Christ!!!! How can you POSSIBLY tell me--

--Sorry, I got a little distracted. Let me start again. Like I was saying. Really, really proud of, like, 90% of you guys.

The sad part is, I'm not completely sure what you learned during your time in college. I wish I could say you're leaving with strong critical thinking skills, the ability to question old-school ideas and perspectives (both yours and ours), and an appreciation for creativity, analysis, language, and achievement through hard work. But it's more likely that, through no fault of your own, you're emerging from college with a talent for learning how to work The System. You've learned how to successfully cram for multiple choice mid-terms in 24 hours, as well as how to erase all that information from your short-term memory banks right afterwards with a line of fast Jager bombs. You've learned that when the teacher reading listlessly from his or her PowerPoint in the front of the 500-seat lecture hall doesn't care whether or not you're learning, you don't have to care either. You've learned that C's get Degrees. You've learned that units earned is more important than knowledge discovered.

Again, this is not your fault.

So if you'll indulge me, I just wanted to leave you with a few parting words of advice, stuff that we didn't really have time to cover in class, that might actually come up as you go from College to World.

Post-College Advice from Professor ToughLove:

1) Your opinions are valuable, and it's important that you have them, about all kinds of stuff. But having an opinion means being responsible for understanding it: where that opinion came from, what influenced it, and how much of it is based on what you yourself have learned about the world vs. what parents and pundits are shouting at you.

2) Being chronically late to class gets you a lower grade. Being chronically late to work will get you fired.

3) If you're a girl, and you played dumb in class because you thought it would make you more attractive to guys, you were probably right -- but it wasn't worth it. From now on, be as smart as you are.

4) If you're a guy, and you played dumb in class because you wanted to maintain a high Sardonic Cool Dude Quotient (SCDQ), that crap got played out in 11th grade. Real men read books.

5) Before you get that celebratory graduation tattoo, think about the Five Year Rule. Sure, that beauty shot of a giant phoenix devouring a unicorn across your lower back seems super cool now, but just sleep on it for a couple nights, ok?

6) Yea, whoever told you four years ago that C's get Degrees was right. But after college, mediocrity gets you nothing. It's time to adopt a new attitude.

7) Hey, that's a nice résumé you've got there! Guess what: 99% of all college graduates look awesome on paper. There's like 5 jobs, and 5,000 fresh grads who want it. And they all have the same degree as you. So what else you got to stand out? Find something. Maybe start with volunteer work. Seriously.

8) Please proofread your writing, even though I'm not standing over you. Good writing is important, no matter what your career is. If nothing else, read your correspondence carefully before sending. You know what to look for. Remember what I told you in class: every time you misspell a word in an email, a puppy somewhere falls down dead.

9) Do you know how many college graduates get a job that's actually related to their major? Well... I don't actually know myself. But it's fewer than you'd think. There's some study somewhere. I'll find it. The point is, don't be afraid to change career plans. Remember, a lot of you guys chose your majors when you were 18-year-old doofuses.

10) Facebook in college and Facebook after college are very different. In college, those pics of you at the university Midnight Undie Run made you popular. After college, those pictures could keep you out of the job market. Because future bosses are so gonna check your page. Consider scrubbing it up a little.

11) The world owes you nothing: no job, no future, no guaranteed spot anywhere. Remember how you blamed your shortcomings and grade problems on your teachers for being too tough/unfair/vague/boring? That's meaningless now. There's no one else to blame for what happens next. The only person who's the boss of you now is you.

Remember that I am a big fan of you. I'm rooting for you, even the 10% of you that pissed me off. Now go be awesome.

Your pal,

Me

Remember: Proofread for the Puppies!

Happy Mother's Day -- Suck it, Michael's.

I go to Michael’s (local craft store that smells like grandmas) exactly once a year -- three days before Mother’s day. The goal: to find some raw materials for my daughter so she can make my wife a homemade gift. I never know what the hell I’m looking for when I go – just some art supplies that will enable the kid to make something from the heart that says, Hey, thanks for giving birth to me – I owe you a solid, yo.

I don’t know what I’m looking for at Michael’s, but I know this: I am not welcome there.

When a man goes into a crafts store, it’s like a pedophile at the playground. All the friendly, matronly employees in aprons suddenly turn and stare. They’re suspicious of anything with hairy forearms, and I’m pretty sure they have security cameras hidden behind their barrels of fake flowers, trained on me until I leave. I went this week, and it was the same feeling as always – I bumbled around like a Cro-mag, bewildered by the rows of art supplies, aisles of scrapbooking technology (who knew gluing pictures onto pages required so much crap… seriously), barrels of wrapping paper and ribbon, greeting card kits, and everything you need to cast molds of various body parts in Plaster of Paris.

(Side note: Did you know that Michael’s sells whittling supplies? I did not. Go to the back. Way back, near the taxidermy section.)

As I wandered around under the watchful eyes of the Ladies Who Laminate, I reflected on the territory Mini-Pirate and I have covered over the past eight years, in the interest of celebrating my wife’s awesome momitude. We’ve made hand-drawn picture books. We’ve painted countless picture frames. My wife’s visage has been rendered in countless mediums, from crayons to pastels to macaroni on a paper plate. And then there was the year of the Rock Slathered in Green Paint. Happy Mother’s Day: here’s your… let's say paperweight.

Pressure builds over the years, to come up with something new. And the Craft Gestapo over at Michael's isn't helping. Neither my daughter nor I are possess the skill or dexterity to, say, mold a lifelike bust of my wife's head in clay. Even with a special kit.

I could always take over the process myself, leave Mini-P out of it and go big this year, buy Saucy an actual present present. A shiny new car with a bow on top. A diamond-encrusted pony. A beach-side massage administered by Saucy’s boyfriend, international action star Daniel Craig. Who rides up on a diamond-encrusted pony. And as international action star Daniel Craig gives my wife a massage on the beach while the diamond-encrusted pony waits idly nearby, he leans over and whisper to my wife in a dashing British accent, “You are right about everything. Only an idiot would question your ideas or opinions. Tell me what colors you’d like to paint the rooms of your house.”

But is that really a gift from the heart? Is that what Mother's Day is all about? I think not.

Actually, what I should do is remember the brainstorming strategy that worked best last year. Mini-P, age 7, was having a hard time coming up with something on her own for her mom. She was getting frustrated. I suggested she write a poem or a letter. We both sat down at the table and I said, “Just think for a minute. What do you love most about your mom?”

The Mini-Pirate meditated on that for a bit, and then pulled out some construction paper and wrote a poem. Just your basic “Why I Love Mommy” sonnet. But it ended with the line: “Mommy reminds me of clean fresh air.” It was sweet, it was true, and it said something that a plaster mold of Mini-P's hand never could've communicated.

So suck it, Michael’s. We'll get it together. We always do. And I'm pretty sure Saucy knows that she's loved and appreciated. She still has that paperweight in her office somewhere.

P.S. Below is the funniest Mother’s Day video ever. You’ve probably already seen it. Watch it again.

P.P.S. Hi, SaucyWench. Thanks for getting all knocked up and stuff, and producing this amazing, quirky, hilarious kid. You good mom. The more our daughter continues to turn out like you, the more relieved I am.

If the embedded version doesn't work, you can see it here.

Girlzilla

I picked Mini-Pirate up from her after-school art class today. Once we were both buckled in the car, she said, "Hey, guess what: Miss Dina told everyone that she's going to have a baby!"

"Wow," I said, "that's awesome. Is she excited?"

"Totally," Mini-P said. "She says the baby is going to be really BIG."

"No wonder she's excited."

"She's already showing in her belly."

I have not met Miss Dina. I don't know if my daughter has a sense of scale when it comes to infants. I'm confident saying that when it's birthing time, all babies might as well be Gigantor. Just guessing.

"And and and," Mini-P said. "It's going to be a boy. The doctor already did the thing where they find out."

"Does she have any other kids, or is this her first one?"

"Oh, she already has two other ones. Two BOYS." Mini-P says boys like she might say Vomit, or Oozing Sore.

"What a handful," I said, "I wonder if she was hoping for a girl on the third time around."

"I'm sure she was, "Mini-P said, gazing thoughtfully out the window as we pulled out of the school parking lot. "I bet she wanted a girl for a change, since a girl would be nice and sweet." (She paused as our car swerved, the result of my driving vision being momentarily impaired due to uncontrollable eye-rolling.)

"Yea," I said, regaining control and looking at her diabolical cherubic expression in the rear view mirror, "I bet you're right."

"It's true," she said zinging me with her own I-dare-you-to-disagree look, "girls equal nice and sweet. Boys are always so... rampaging."

Ok: loving the fact that my girl just busted out with that one. "Do you know what 'rampaging' means?" I asked.

"Yes. It's when you're stomping around on buildings all the time and stuff."

So the kid knows exactly what she's talking about. "Yep, pretty much," I said. "Like Godzilla. Tromping all over Tokyo."

"Girls don't do that."

"Of course not."

"They don't!"

"Never."

"Ok," she said, "maybe sometimes girls rampage a little."

"Noooo. You think?"

"Daddy, I don't like it when you're sarcastic."

"Sorry. Go on."

"Maybe girls rampage. But not as often as boys."

"If you say so."

"Godzilla is a boy, though, right?"

We drove in silence for a bit, and I thought about that one. I don't actually know. Godzilla could just as easily have flattened Hondas and thumped down Rodan whether it was a boy or a girl. (Plus I think in at least one movie, he/she/it had a baby 'zilla that blew smoke rings and bleated like a trumpet.)

"Everyone rampages sometimes," Mini-P finally conceded.

"Everyone? Even girls?" I asked, realizing that my daughter was having another one of those blogworthy self-awareness moments that seem to increasingly take place when we're in the car.

"Daddy!!"

"I'm just trying to understand."

"Fine," she said, "even girls rampage sometimes."

Topic concluded, we finished the drive home, where graham crackers were waiting.

Yes, my dear. Even girls rampage. At least, my favorite ones do.