Step into the WayBack machine for a moment if you would, and set the dial for 1977, the year my daughter, Bronwyn the Flatulent (you didn’t know we were royalty, did you?) was born.
(Full disclosure: Bronwyn is not her real name…the name has been changed to protect the bewildered.)
I always enjoyed being a “hands-on” Dad…the dressing, the bathing, the hair-fixing, the diaper changing (although that would fall well to the bottom of the list of my fave baby activities, believe me), the shoe tying, the cruel and vicious beatings using weapons of brass construction, the playing on the floor together, I really loved it all; she was a good baby with a sunny disposition and a sweet little laugh.
(Phone rings in the background)
Excuse me…lemme’ get rid, sorry, see who this is…
“Hey, Tammie, wassup?”
“I’m sorry, it’s what?”
“Oh, okay, I guess I got that one wrong. Thanks for the heads-up.”
That was my First Mate, Tammie Wetzel; she monitors/spell-checks my posts in real time and tries to keep me from stepping on my johnson too often. Apparently, that’s “mass destruction”. Thank you, Tammie.
Anyway, I recall one warm spring afternoon when B the F was just a few months old and I was giving her a bath in the kitchen sink: I really hated it when my ex- gave her a bath…she wanted to get in with Bronny and it always made a helluva mess in the kitchen.
So there we were, the sink full of water, soap suds and a small naked baby; I was responsible for the bathing and rinsing, and Her Royal Babyness was responsible for the splashing, giggling and the soaking of Daddy’s shirt, an activity she approached with great diligence.
After a period of minimum bathing and maximum laughing and splashing, by both parties, it was time to end all the frivolity and get on to more serious matters such as cleaning up the mess we’d made in the kitchen and doing disgusting things to our cat with a salad fork.
I reached down and pulled the plug to drain the water and then picked up Her Babyness under both her armpits, holding her up facing me, getting ready to put her down on the towel I had stretched out on the counter next to the sink. As I held her up, eyeball to eyeball with me, I started making faces at her, which usually got her laughing and silly, which it did this time as well.
For a moment anyway, until she stopped, screwed her face up and proceeded to poop, one of those soft, yellowish baby poops that come from the consumption of nothing but strained marmets and apple/turnipsauce, all over herself, the sink, the counter, most of the kitchen, a good part of our backyard and the street out in front of the house.
Finished, she resumed laughing; she was, however, the only one in the kitchen who saw the humor in this.
A classic case of wash, rinse and repeat.
I told her mother later that evening that I was convinced the child would not see her 1st birthday, and if by some miracle she did, that I was further convinced she would have a solitary life as an adult.
It seems that a number of my loyal readers also lead solitary lives these days, by no choice of their own apparently, and they occasionally send me letters and emails and texts and telegraph messages, asking for my advice on how to meet that “special someone”.
Like I would have a clue.
Anyway, I thought I would share a few of these pathetic, err, sad tales of woe with the rest of you…
“Dear Cap’n John:
I’m a mid-30ish hetero male and I make my living as a freelance fortune cookie writer; I’m fairly good-looking, have all my teeth and am the proud owner of all the albums ever recorded by the 1910 Fruit Gum Company. Problem is, I can’t get a decent (or indecent for that matter) women to go out with me, no matter what I do. I’ve tried online dating sites, church groups, singles bars, tree-prunings, makes no difference, nothing works. I need some new ideas on how to meet “a sweet thing”.
Yummy, Yummy, Yummy, My Love Life Is Crummy”
According to the State of Florida Wildlife Commission, there is only 1 chance in 3.2 million of being seriously injured during an unprovoked alligator attack; however, if you deliberately provoke one of those big fuckers, the ‘gator will be happy to assist you with your weight loss program.
Where does a smart, funny, attractive, 40-years old and totally hot professional dumpster diver find a great guy who would make a great partner? The only eligible guy I’ve met lately was some mope who wrote fortune cookies for a living and had all the albums ever recorded by the 1910 Fruit Gum Company. I need some help here, Cap’n.
Well, for one thing you could stop hanging out in Chinese restaurants, and if the rank aroma wafting off the envelope and letter you sent is any indication, you may want to rethink the “dumpster diving” work as well; either that or provide any men you meet with personalized gas masks. As characterized by the late, great Richard Pryor, “She had ohDER!”
“Krissongs Cap’n John:
This is your final notice before we begin proceedings…”
Okay, never mind that one.
“Dear Cap’n John:
I apologize for the carrier pigeon, but I’ve had a lot of problems with emails over the last few years. I’m a short, dumpy married woman in my early 70s and I’m planning to leave my philandering husband soon since he can’t keep it in his pants; I’m sick and tired of Mr. “I Didn’t Have Sex With That Sheep” and all his crap. Bad enough I had to suffer the ignominy of being beaten by a misogynous asshole who once said he grabbed women by their pussies, although he never tried to grab mine, thank heaven. (Sorry, I got off the subject there.) Anyway, I’m getting ready to start all over and I’m wondering if you can help me find a new mate, either romantic or running; any suggestions? (FYI, I’m straight…ignore all that crap about “crooked”, okay?)
I Thought Monica Was My Friend”
Repeat these words…klaatu barada nikto. Now go away, please.
Well, that’s all I have the time for today, boys and girls; I hope you’ll all consider me when you have problems with your love life. Because my advice on “matters of romance” is about as good as the advice I give people about treating a common cold…try Jack Daniels, applied liberally; it won’t cure the cold, but you won’t care.
And in the immortal words of yours truly…
“Living alone means never being able to leave one ice cube in the tray so the next person has to fill it.”
Love and marital aids,