Dodo Eggs

I didn’t know what it was at first.  Bob and I would meet every Tuesday morning as we drug our trash bins to the street curb for pick-up.  Both of us were dressed for work, me in my shirt and tie, Bob in the filthy jumpsuit the city issued him.  The irony of a garbage man wheeling his bins out to the street just so he could pick them up later wasn’t lost on me.

“Morning Bob!” I begin, “Say, you only pick up the trash one day per week.  What do you do the other six days?  Is being a garbage man secretly the best job in the world or is there something I’m missing?” (suppressed snicker)

It took Bob a moment to reply.  His face was downcast and his tone muted.  “Do you have to ask the same thing every week?”

“What’s wrong Bob?”

He finally looked me in the eyes.  “Wanda has been pestering me about where I’ve been throwing my dirty work clothes.  She doesn’t seem to like it when I drape them over her mother but DANG that woman’s been visiting for almost three days now!” He unzipped the front of his jumpsuit and I leaped backward.  The skin on his belly was covered in small, faint reddened areas.

“Oh no, Bob.  She’s started pinching you again hasn’t she?”

*******

With the plight of abused women so well documented, it is easy to neglect the scourge that is the abused husband…or in this case a HAS-BEN (Husband Accosted, Scrotum Bereft, Emasculated, Neutered).  Pinchings and ugly looks are only the beginning of this horrible spiral of events.  Soon, the abusing woman is going around in public without make-up.  It can even go so far as withholding the “kissy-kissy.”

HAS-BENs aren’t always easy to spot.  They may wander about society with brave faces but at home they cower in front of the TV watching a sporting event….any sporting event to escape the pain that is interacting with their spouse.  In Bob’s case, he was in front of ESPN from the moment he got home until he went to bed.  His health was even effected!  In an effort to comfort himself, he’d developed a snack food dependency.

Here are some of the undocumented traits of the abusive wife….

1) Sends her husband on errands…in the house!  She’ll send her HAS-BEN after children’s clothes, express displeasure at his selections, then send him back to try again.  Rinse & Repeat.  The abusing wife will to fetch a million things or perform other errands for no better reason than, “I’m already in bed.”  Outrageous but true!!

2) If abusing wives are busy, they require their HAS-BENs to be busy as well.  “Why should he not do household chores when I’m still doing them?!” She reasons.  “Whether he’s done or not with his duties, he should still be working or at least helping me!”

3) Among the most devious of these tactics is serving food the HAS-BEN despises.  The offending wife sadistically thinks, “I know he doesn’t like squash and there are a hundred different vegetables he would eat instead but…I think I’ll fix them anyway.” Treacherous!

I did nothing for Bob and years later he was a three and fifty pounds and resorting to online role playing games in order to avoid his wife.  At that point it was too late to change the HAS-BEN back into a husband.  If you know anyone who needs help, please, take a moment to call 1-888-HAS-BEEN to speak with someone who may or may not care.

 Today marks the end of a long drought – a chain of endless days will finally break.  Greg Dillwine and his family is stepping off a plane in Nashville and I’ll be there to greet him.  Until I met Melissa, Greg was the almost singular definition of “friend.”  Time and distance have been useless against our common traits:  mild pessimism, milder pragmatism, and a dangerously weak sense of.humor.  Heck, we even have the same genetic back ground – German/Bohemian.      

 We’ve been “co-conspirators” for almost three decades.  Since our fledgling days in one of Dickinson’s small private schools through the very latest DodoEgg.com post, Greg and I have always been Person #1 and Redundant #2.  We sometimes switch roles to no great effect.  Much of our growing up together was used to perfect two separate art forms – amusing only ourselves and soaking our romantic ineptitude in high fructose corn syrup.   

 Here’s a good example…We’re cruising Villard Street hoping a carload of pretty girls would wave us down.  We would have been more likely to see a herd of buffalo fly by.  Greg takes a long look at his Arizona fruit punch (he’s driving) and says,  “You know, once I bought an Arizona with low fructose corn syrup.  I took it back.”  We laughed and cranked up the Hot Pink Turtles.

 Our courage with the opposite gender had the strength of eggshells.  I would stress sweat sitting in the same row as a girl I found attractive.  We tried breaking this vice with weight lifting and inflated titles.  Since we couldn’t speak to girls directly we’d let our pectorals do the talking.  I’ve written about the Gorgeous Hunks Club in previous posts like this one and this one.  Unfortunately, the Club’s clout extended only to Greg’s front door.  (Greg’s mom and older sisters unanimously thought we were indeed hunks.)

 Greg’s father could have helped but didn’t.  Instead of teaching us the devious tactics he used to snare Mrs. D he would take us fishing.  We averaged one catch per day and almost 6,000 stories on how the fishing used to be much better.  Since we were in a camper miles from civilization, we had no choice but listen.  (Greg’s dad also skipped buying real toys.  Instead of providing cool toy guns he gave us chicken wire and plaster telling us to make our own guns.  He owned several apartment complexes and needed to patch a lot of holes.  The guns were cool…I guess.)  

 It took years before my parents bought our family a Nintendo and Greg’s family only watched one station.  (I’m not kidding.  Huge TV…satellite dish…VHS…and ONE station allowed!)  With such a dearth of entertainment, we spent most of our time swimming at the local pool (Swam there for years – surrounded by girls and I never remember speaking to one.), assembling puppet shows (early years), and constructing movies with deodorant sticks as the characters (college years and no we were not on anything).

 One occasion Greg and I were allowed to prepare supper at the Dillwine residence.  We were given five pounds of ground beef and told to make hamburgers.  “Hey Greg….onion, onion powder, and I’m out of ideas.  (digging through the cupboard and pulling out the food coloring).  Wait, what about coloring the burgers?!  Food coloring doesn’t effect the taste right?”

 ”No,” Greg replies, “I think green might be funny.”

 The burgers were a flop and Mr. Dillwine vowed that Greg and I would eat every last burger.  He eventually relented when it was decided there was no way to tell whether the burgers had gone bad or not.  Safety first!

 Greg and I eventually DID find interested females.  We have families now and what seem like a million other pursuits.  He lives in Fargo and I live near Nashville.  When I pick him up in a few hours,  that fact, finally, won’t matter. 

 Note:  Greg was snowed in and caught in the Chicago airport.  So….never mind.

Congratulations!!!  It’s been nine months since you ordered your Human Starter Kit.  Although we haven’t had any complaints, we apologize if you were forced to order multiple times.  (Note: We no longer use storks.)  If you’re new to being a “Infant Enthusiast,” you may be confused about the right applications for successfully growing your child.

Initially, babies are like high intensity hobbies or long term pets – both really.  They come out ready for nothing other than an aristocratic existence with you as their faithful suckers…uh, subjects.

Like any good “infant enthusiast” you need the tools to succeed.  Lame stuff like love, patience, and a nurturing spirit, are primarily used when other people are watching you.  Think about it…if you fill a box with “love” or “patience” and try to pass it off at a baby shower, you would have your finger sandwich taken from you!  Deep down inside all the best mothers know it’s the equipment that makes the difference.  

Here’s an abbreviated list of must haves just to get you started…

1) Stroller - Because you carried that kid for nine months!  Don’t do it another second!
 
2) Interactive Toys-  Remember, only toys with batteries are effective…at inducing insanity.  

3) Diaper Bag- It’s like a purse!  Now you can accessorize on both shoulders!

4) Changing Pad - Babies leak…wrap them in plastic or use one of these.

5) Diaper Genie- Grants wishes – makes diapers disappear!  (Quick story, Melissa got one of these during her baby shower and so we set it up in the upstairs nursery.  One of Saul’s first pee diapers went into it before we started changing his diaper downstairs. The diaper genie was pushed aside but never emptied.  I think we kept that diaper for over two years before finally taking it out. 

“Hey Melissa, we’ve kept it so long now…shouldn’t we just tape it into his memory book?”) 

6) Diaper Basket-  Here’s where you keep all the cleaning supplies.

7) Butt Paste- It’s white, creamy, and defiantly not for bagels…but you can put it on hot buns.

Baby Oil - Did you know a properly lubricated human starter kit will slide across a linoleum floor?

9) Breast Pump -  Men throughout history have been simultaneously fascinated and creeped out by this device.

10) Bottles + Accessories -  No, your human starter kit cannot be refueled with a shot glass.

11) Supply of Pacifiers – Infinite is the best kind of supply.

12) Children’s Tylenol – Because infants need drugs too…

13) Anti-Gas Drops-  …and not just one.

14) Crib - It looks like a cage but isn’t….well, maybe it is.

 ”Let’s see…”  Miss Nomar shuffles through her satchel as she approaches the Dead Rich Guy Memorial Community Center.  She pushes through two sets of filmy glass doors.  The entrance of the DRGMCC is a wide open atrium.  Colorful tiles on the floor and motivational posters line the walls.  In the distance Miss Nomar can hear the short, rapid squeaks of basketball shoes on hardwood.  Sweat scents the air alongside the pungent aroma of wholesale disinfectant. 

 The journalist pulls out a crumbled sheet of fax paper.  “Ok, I’m looking for Denis Holder – world famous for his bad ideas and creator of the original suggestion box.” 

 Miss Nomar steps to the wide check-in counter.  An older man, obviously bald except for a ridiculous looking comb-over, greets her with a friendly smile.  He wears a turtleneck shirt under his sweater vest.  “May I help you miss?”

 “Yes, I’m looking for Denis Holder.  He’s supposed to be the world famous developer of the suggestion box.  Does he still work here?”

 Still smiling the man responds.  “Why yes he does!  I’m Denis Holder.”

 “That’s odd.”  Miss Nomar replies.  “I thought this is just where you wanted to meet.  You work here?  You invented the suggestion box!  Shouldn’t you be rich or famous?”
  
 ”Well, I’ve been working for the parks and rec department here in Potsville for almost 45 years!  Does that count?”

   “Parks and Rec?”  Miss Nomar sounded a bit surprised.  “You’ve worked at a low end city job your entire life?  I’m sorry.  I had the wrong idea, maybe we should just skip the interview.”

 ”But I am smart!  And there are many good reasons to interview me!  Listen, have you ever heard of a city disappearing?  Working for the Parks & Rec department is what I like to call job security.  I may not make any money but it’s not like I’m trying to buy a house or something like that.  I just want enough money to buy an RV and then it’s PERMENANT VACATION TIME!!”

 ”You’ve worked your entire life just to buy an RV?”

 ”And Pop Tarts – the generic kind.  They’re cheap and make a great breakfast, lunch, or dinner…or all three!!  I’ve got all kinds of great ideas just like that one!”  He gestures to a common area with tables and chairs.  “Why don’t we go over there and I’ll tell you all about my greatest idea…the suggestion box.”

 Miss Nomar dryly responds, “You set this interview up….didn’t you?” 

 “Another great idea!”  Denis Holder steps around the wide counter and strolls to the nearest table with Miss Nomar closely following.  The journalist sits down first before pulling out a memo pad and pencil. “Fine then….Mr Holder what was your inspiration for the infamous suggestion box.”

 He sits.  “It all stems back to my family’s history of incredibly poor judgment.  Take my name for example.  My father thought it would be a good idea to cut out one of the Ns in Dennis so that I’d have an easier time writing my name.  Well, when you write Denis and add a little tale to bottom of the D you’ve got penis.  I went through elementary and middle school known as Penis Holder.  Ha!  It’s funny now that I stop to think about it!
 
 ”Anyway, since I never seem to be able to make the right decision so I decided to borrow them from others.  One day, I made a plywood box, painted it a subtle lavender, and hung it outside the a place I knew everyone went…the restrooms.”

 Miss Nomar took on a bit of enthusiasm. “Well, that was a good idea!  After all, suggestion boxes have found their way just about everywhere nowadays.  What kind of suggestions did you get.”

 ”Oh, mainly a lot of stuff like, ‘Take down this stupid box!’  and ‘Here’s a suggestion….GET BENT!’  not really sure what that one meant.  Once I sorted through all the trash, I found a good idea from time to time.  But my favorite was a tattoo recommendation that I’ll never forget.”

 Miss Nomar’s brow went sideways.  “A suggestion for a tattoo?  That’s the best you got?”

 “Of course, anyone with a truly good idea usually takes credit for it.  Anyway, it had to do with getting  neck tattoos.  It really made sense.  With a tattoo on your neck, people can enjoy it even though you have to wear a shirt and pants in most places!  I thought it was genius.”

 Mr. Holder pulled down his turtleneck to reveal an ugly rainbow of distorted colors that ended in column of clouds just under each ear.  “I got this years ago before rainbows were adopted to mean….well…something else.  Why did they have to take all the colors!  That seems a bit greedy to me!”

 ”Mr. Holder, that looks awful!”  Miss Nomar was grimacing now.  “What makes you think yellow, orange, and the other colors would look right as a tattoo?”

 ”Why wouldn’t they?”  He replied.  “I’m supposed to be white, right?”

 Miss Nomar scribbled something on her notepad then tore it free.  Then she slid her notepad back into her satchel and stood.  “I’ve wasted enough time.  Mr. Holder, could you please point me to the suggestion box.   I’ve got directions on ‘getting bent’ that might come in useful.”

DodoEggs.com proudly announces the recall of its revolutionary, and popular baby monitor – The Ga-Ga Gabber!  Using space age materials, the Ga-Ga Gabber translates an infants cooing and crying into plainly understandable speech or English!  However, a translational “glitch” has raised the concern of  many caregivers and requires DodoEggs.com to publicize a recall. 

The Ga-Ga Gabber’s development team, a mix of intoxicated MIT drop-outs, engineered a product which computes the baby’s words AND calculates implied feelings as well.  The problem arises with a much too literal translational algorithm.  We at DodoEggs.com regret any embarrassing circumstances our product may have caused. 

All of our customers complaints have been throughly investigated and reviewed.  We now present a few of our favorites…

From Sally in Fort Smut, Ohio:  “I’m a nursing mother who had a friend over for lunch one day.  My twelve month old boy wanders over to her, grabs her knee, and coos.  We both thought it was adorable until the Ga-Ga Gabber blurts out, ‘Wow lady!  You’ve got a great rack!’  I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life!  How can you produce such a product!!!”

From Rachel in Travesty City, Utah:  “My infant girl was upstairs taking a nap.  She woke up and began goo-goo-gaaing with her teddy bear.  All of the sudden, there’s static and I hear my sweet Jessica mumbling, ‘Mr. Fuzz Butt, can you believe how tacky my outfit is!  My shirt says PRINCESS with a unicorn underneath.  Dang, is my mother colorblind!?”
 
Finally, here’s Joline from Busterville:  “I was fixing supper one night and trying to take care of my other two kids when my little Maxwell woke from his nap.  He must have had a poo poo diaper becasue suddenly I hear over the monitor, ‘Hey!!  How about a little help here!!  I’ve got a diaper full of crap here!!! I don’t see anyone else sitting in this stuff!!!”

We at DodoEggs.com apologize for any problems this “glitch” may have caused.  Please return your Go-Go Gabber to any DodoEggs.com office branch…conviently located in the Geographical Center of the Internet.

 I’m on the phone with my wife.  We start our conversation with recent developments, what the kids have broken lately, and conclude with a rundown on the dumb things our relatives are doing.  As the call winds down, I’m hoping to reach the obligatory “I love you” without any errands. 

This time – there’s no such luck.   “Matt, could you stop by the store on your way home and pick up…”

 What follows is never anything useful.  It’s never ice cream, a new football, potato chips, or ice cream.  It’s alway the worst stuff possible…if God wanted me to purchase feminine products, he would have made me a woman! It’s either that or diapers NIETHER OF WHICH improve my social status.  Making matters worse are the details you need to know in order to select the correct feminine product.  Finding the right one takes some time and concentration.  I look like I’m standing in front of the library’s reference section trying to find a banana.

 So here’s the story…I’m sitting in the aquatics office with a few of the other lifeguards.  I call Melissa and we quickly roll through developments, children, and relatives before she begins, “I need you to stop at the store and pick a couple things up.  I need a turkey baster and a hula hoop.”

 “What!?”  I protest.  I’m going to be home late as it is.  “You need a hula hoop and a turkey baster tonight?!”

 Both of the other guards lift their heads.  I can read the sly grins on their faces right away.  “Alright,”  I say into the phone.  “I’ll pick them up.  I love you…bye.”

 Immediately, Ashley pipes in, “Wow Mr. T!  What ARE you and Mrs. T doing tonight?”

 “Basting birds while hula hooping.  What does it sound like?”

 Things took a frustrating turn at Wal-Mart.  All of the hula hoops were pretty colors like hot pink, fuchsia, or neon pink. (By the way, there’s no good way to hide the fact you’re carrying a pink hula hoop – under the arm, between the legs, nothing works.)  The self-checkout was the only thing open so I stepped in behind a Latino couple.  When I reached the screen, I expected an option to switch back to English- I didn’t get one.

 “No problemo.”  I mumble.  “It’s not like I can’t figure it out.”

 What I couldn’t figure out was how to scan a hula hoop on a flat scanner.  The attendant had to come over and type in the UPC code quatro times for it to go in.  When she finished, she handed me the toy and walked off but my problems weren’t solved.  I wound up on a screen that offered me one option  which, of course, took me no where.  (I’m not positive but I think the machine was using some vulgar Spanish – just a hunch.)  The attendant eventually returned and the pink hula hoop and I made our way to the door.

 As I passed the greeter, he reached out and took my arm.  I’m guessing he’d watched my whole ordeal and wanted a parting shot.  “Hey son, how about a demonstration?”

  Addendum:  The hula hoop Melissa wanted for a little exercise / the baster was to take cream off the top of the raw milk we get every week.

 Bedtime…Saul’s feet seem to drag across the floor.  It isn’t because he’s tired.  He doesn’t want to go to bed.  When your primary preoccupation is play, why expedite the process?  Every kid seems programmed to think that bedtime is some sort of punishment. 

 “We are all going to bed.”  I swear to him.  “No one is going to have ANY fun while you’re stuck in that soft, warm, blanket clad prison up there.”

 I’m lying of course, when the small children finally go to bed is when parents of these intensive little projects can finally enjoy themselves but he doesn’t need to know that.  About five minutes in and he’s usually asleep.

 Let’s back up…Bedtime…After brushing Saul’s teeth and changing him into his pajamas I take a seat in the living room chair and tell him to put his toys back into his box.  Saul picks up the nearest toy and dinks around with it.  I watch as he sloooooowly makes his way to toward putting it away.  He’s in no rush because he knows dad has patience to spare. 

 Melissa is sitting at the table plinking away at the computer.  A timer goes off in her head and she stands up.  Saul’s eyes widen they connect with Melissa’s glare.  Suddenly he moves as if someone lit a firecracker under his rear.  My wife begins walking toward the kitchen and Saul almost leaps out of her way (think Indiana Jones and the massive stone ball). 

 I can’t help myself – I laugh out loud.  Saul knew he was playing the stall game and with a simple look – Melissa ended it.  To see my little boy suddenly and hurriedly switch from reverse to fourth gear was the highlight of my day.  It was perfect theater.

 Melissa hears me laugh and stops.  “You see that’s how you get a little one to do what he’s told.  He knows I’m on to him.  It’s classic good cop / bad cop.”

 “No,” I reply.  “If you remember, there was a day last month when I was stuck with Saul the whole time.  And yes, by bedtime, I was the bad cop.  What you’re seeing here is the difference between someone who’s been dealing with little boy games all day and someone who’s been at work and is just enjoying spending time with the little man.”

Then I added, “I knew he was playing the stall game.  When I’m done playing, he will be too.  I’m just more interested in spending time with him than I am being a parent.  It’s called the grandparent syndrome.”

Melissa shakes her head, “Matt, my dear, you’re not a grandparent.”