Guide to Bachelorhood: Tip #4

Tip #4: Embrace the lame.

I’ve never been much for house parties, clubbing or bars and such. Which, to most people, translates to “the fun stuff.” Consequently, I am pretty sure I am not considered the most “fun” guy. In fact, one might even use the word “lame” to describe me. Girls hate lame. One can be lame in a variety of ways (mollestaches, liking things women like, having a ridiculous diet, etc.), but being actively lame by women’s standards needs to be done properly. Luckily, I have it perfected.

As the saying goes, “Girls just want to have fun.” It’s cliché, but it’s true. Who doesn’t know that? There’s a catchy song and everything. Women are like their own brand of human and their advertisements are that Cyndi Lauper song if it were played over the Vegas ads on TV (the ones with the party montages, not the ones where people fake holidays to get out of work). On repeat. For eternity. It was predestined. Even before instruments existed, cavewomen had that song stuck in their head. It is a little known fact that the Y chromosome contains immunity to enjoying that song. Adam had a lobotomy when Eve wouldn’t stop humming it and from then on, men were then created with equal hatred for the song. Several of the previous statements may or may not be true, but the first one stands. What does this mean for you? That’s simple. You have two options: you can avoid fun altogether, or you can learn to have fun doing things that women hate. Assuming you haven’t had any part of your brain removed, you have probably chosen to go with Option Two, embracing the lame. Good choice!

Now, we already know the key things we can invest time into to ward off women. If you want a woman to leave the room, turn on ESPN, cartoons, a non-romantic comedy or a videogame. But this is becoming increasingly more difficult now days. Now, more than ever, women are embracing sports and, in some cases, videogames. Women are seeping into the cracks of the things they hate so they can pretend to like them in an attempt to drive us away from these activities. So now, much like the black population changes slang words once white people start to butcher them by trying to sound cool, men need to adjust our entertainment sources to keep women the hell out.

Panama City Beach, Spring Break 2007!!!

Personally, I have always been a huge proponent of board games. I have also always been single. Now, I can’t definitively say that there is a direct correlation between the two, but I can say that I do have hard evidence to support that claim. Once, in a public speaking class, for an informative speech, I chose Uno (the card game) and its many variations as my topic. 60% of the class was female. 60% of the class stared at me like I was an idiot. Guess which 60% that was… I’ll be waiting for you at the next paragraph when you’ve made your guess.

(I am not dignifying your guess by revealing the correct answer.) Bachelors, I submit to you this: Board games can solve the above mentioned problems. I am not talking about poker either. There’s nothing wrong with poker, but women are too enticed by it. It’s too mainstream. They even televise it when real sports aren’t being played on ESPN. And at 3am. Nothing turns a girl off quicker than “Hey, instead of me taking you to dinner and a movie, do you want to come over and play some Scrabble and order pizza?” That’s the end of the conversation. Nothing more need be said. (On a side note, if you need to gamble, why not switch to Tonk? You might remember it from such gambling debts as “Gilberts Gotta Gun” and “Barkley Blows Bankroll.” Apparently the game my family from the South has always loved has surfaced as one of the issues behind the NBA gambling problem. I am afraid to play with my Grandma now for gun related violence concerns.)

The great part of this strategy is that it’s not going to have to change again. With sports, women can sack up and dive in and learn because there’s nothing other than “it’s boring to watch, let’s watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade” keeping them away from it. There are no actual obstacles between women and liking sports. If anything, members of the opposite sex running around and dominating each other should be enticing them. They are learning this. Whereas with board games, we’re set for life. You can whip out a deck of cards and play some Solitaire to drive her off. There are so many aspects that have an innate ability to immediately repulse women from board games:

Rules:

Women make their own rules and have no interest in following yours, the department of licensing or Hasbro’s. Fortunately, there is a rule book. This renders “You killed my army because you rolled a higher number than me? That’s stupid,” a pointless argument. I am not giving you pity because Cyndi Lauper replaced the part of your brain that processing logical reasoning with that song when human beings came to be. This rule book may be written in broken English in some places, but we both know what “First, it the first player turn to roll die first,” means. And no, you don’t get to go first because you have more ovaries and less testicles than me.

Duration:

Now, I am sure some women will read this and think, “Hey, I like board games!” But I have yet to meet a girl that has any interest in playing Risk. And very few that enjoy Monopoly. Why? Because they take for-ev-er. Do you know who cares very little about how long a game takes on a Friday night? Someone who doesn’t have parties and bars to go to, that’s who. It’s funny how many women have issues with some things taking too long and some things not taking long enough. The length of the game gets them every time. Which is strange, because I always thought it was about width. Man I hope my Grandma doesn’t read this...

Names:

The biggest potential repellant of a woman from a board game has to be the name. The names of everything in the game can work against it (or for it, depending on how you look at it). There are several different name categories that provide shelter from women. Some names can scare them away based on the nerd factor (The Settlers of Cattan). Some can relieve you of their presence simply by virtue of the terminology of the game (“Your level four Elf is no match for my level 7 Trogdor the Burninator!”). And most importantly, the inherently dirty sounding names of some games (Quelf, Bonkers, Parcheesi, Mancala, Scrabble, Tonk, etc.). Again, Tonk is highly recommended…

So give it some thought, find a game you enjoy that has all of these elements and then submerge yourself in it with your friends. You’ll be shacked up with four other single men on a Saturday night racking up gambling debts instead of out socializing in no time. I can promise your immediate shelter from pretty girls. I can’t think of too many situations where it wouldn’t sound out of place for a girl to exclaim “Man, I wish we had a few more people here so we could get some good Mexican Train going!” Well, save for the set of some sort of X rated film or NBA All-Star Weekend. 

Parenting 101: Questionnaire

The things you learn when babysitting teach you a lot about where you’re at in life. It tests your patience. It tests your attention span. It tests your ability to not murder someone you’re definitely capable of dismantling. And ultimately, it just all around lets you know if you are ready for parenthood. While the answer can never be an outright “yes” after babysitting, it can absolutely be an outright “no.” 

Sometimes the cuteness factor of children can blur the line between “maybe” and “no.” In these cases, we need to have a self-questionnaire. Here’s where I come in. The man who was raised (very passively) by a man who claims he has “always thought” that the plot to War of the Worlds might be true. (Don’t worry; he’s referring to aliens stashing spaceships in the ground, not Tom Cruise getting himself and his children through the impossible in a mini van. That would be crazy talk.) I will be creating this questionnaire. And when I say that, I mean right now. Instant gratification! So, grab a pen and play along!

Are you ready for parenting? (That’s the title of the questionnaire, not a question from it. However, if the answer is “no,” you can probably stop reading.)

Want one? How about three?

1: Do you like owning things that are in tact and in good condition?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. People who voluntarily have children make a bold statement that says, “You know what? Our house looks a little too nice. Let’s have someone completely destroy it.” Bam. Nine months later, a kid pops out. My four-year-old nephew broke my roommates model Lamborghini’s side mirror and somehow managed to rip the steering wheel out which had been immediately preceded by him causing my roommates Washington State University Mr. Potato Head to disintegrate upon touching it as if it were made of ash. Man, they sure make those novelty Mr. Potato Heads true to form. 

2: Do you like to sit and do nothing at any point during the day?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. With kids, not even TV can spare you for a few minutes. You’d damn well better start liking Spongebob Squarepants and all of those movies where the dog manages to dominate seven-year-olds at sports and the refs allow it simply because there’s no rule specifically against it. You had also better start drinking coffee mixed with a Mountain Dew creamer (add sugar to your liking).

3: Do you hate playing Hide and Seek, especially when in small quarters?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. Nothing is more appealing to a child than playing Hide and Seek. If there were prisons for children under five, there would be nothing but 8’x10’ cells full of children yelling, “Found you! Your turn!” and being incredibly proud of their accomplishment, no matter how horribly the other person is hidden.

4: Do you believe what children tell you?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. They lie for the same reasons everyone lies. Either because they are avoiding trouble, or think it’s funny. And really, who doesn’t love a good lie? Kevin (my nephew) decided to lie about needing to pee 10 minutes after he had just peed, which resulted in me leaving my two nieces unattended in a crowded Red Robin for 5 minutes once he started yelling “I have to pee! I have to pee!” His intentions were relayed by him from behind a locked stall door moments later with an overly excited “I tricked you!” Simply hilarious.

5: Do you hate saliva, urine or fecal matter?

Well, it's a step up from grapes!

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. Because with children, you will get all you can handle. They put everything in their mouth. (Not the urine and fecal matter, I am specifically talking about saliva here. The other two are self-explanatory as to why they are deal breakers.) Plus, they have fat cheeks. This leads to seeing a two-year-old start chewing, you squeezing theirs cheeks and then having a grape completely smothered in saliva dispensed into your open palm. Followed by a matchbox car, a paper plane and half of a chopstick. 

6: Do you hate cats?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. While they won’t claw the hell out of you like cats will, children routinely want to climb, hang, jump, hold and cuddle the hell out of you when you least want it and yet never have any interest in being held when you want to hold them, just like cats. This is just one of several things that children and cats have in common.

7: Do you hate it when someone tells you they’re hungry and yet, won’t eat?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. Being a parent is like permanently being on a bad date. My starving niece ordered a mini pizza and I handed it back to the waiter an hour later with marble sized bites taken out of just two of the pieces. And hell yes she wanted some fries with that! 

8: While babysitting, do you focus too closely on the child that you stop focusing on yourself to the point where you might need someone to babysit you?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. After joking to the waiter about wanting a sippy cup with a plastic lid and a straw like my nieces and nephew all received, I managed to spill my water everywhere while trying to stop Kevin from shoving a napkin in his mouth. This happened right in front of the cute girl in the next booth who was also babysitting. Wonderful. After dinner, I grabbed their four coats (yes, three kids, four coats) and while waiting for balloons was approached by the bus girl who handed me my own coat which I had forgotten. 

9: Do you often have difficulty restraining your hands from aggressively attacking the head, eyes and or throat of the child or children you are watching?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. In my most recent babysitting excursion, I flashed back to a conversation I had with a good friend of mine about the theory that children are cute because they have to be in order to survive. They use it as a self defense mechanism. We would simply kill off anything ugly that did most of the things that children do, but because babies and children are cute, we cover it up with, “They didn’t know any better!” So, while babysitting, I began to develop more to this theory. I introduce to you, “The Cuteness/Annoying Ratio!” 

If the child in question isn’t adorable enough to at least make up for how obnoxious they are, they have a very low (under one) Cuteness/Annoying Ratio and are probably on the verge getting smacked upside the back of the head. Children learn this and instinctively reduce their obnoxiousness to up their ratio and survive to see another day. This is why the smart people in the world are seldom attractive and the attractive people are often morons. As a matter of fact, this same ratio applies to adults as well. There is exactly zero chance that Jessica Simpson would have left the Newlyweds marriage on anything less than a stretcher (more likely in a body bag) if she fell below a C/A Ratio of 1. None. 

With that said, my nieces and nephew, whom I love dearly, are lucky their ratio’s are all significantly over one. I’d even say they’re in the two range. Except Kevin. He’s been around 1.50 since the recent deflation of his grape-wielding cheeks.

10: Do you regret having agreed to babysit in the first place?

If not, you may be a good parental candidate. 

I asked myself that question, and despite every answer until now being a very emphatic “YES,” I am proud to say that I have never regretted a second that I have spent with those kids. I am absolutely not ready for children, but I can at least see why someone would be. Let’s just hope my kids have an unparalleled C/A Ratio so I don’t end up in an orange jump suit playing Hide and Seek with a man named Shark. He is probably very good at it.

Guide to Bachelorhood: Tip #3

Tip #3: Be “nice”.

Women develop plans for men in their head early on. They love nothing more than to have a guy around to help with chores and errands. Anything from washing dishes or doing laundry to building shelves or taking out the trash can help you gain a woman’s heart. They are just little, simple things, but they are key when trying to win a woman over. Soon they think to themselves, “Excellent, this guy can help me grocery shop, help me move in with him if things go well, and maybe even one day change our guest room into a nursery.” No. No he cannot. And do you know why? Because he’s read this. He’s wise to your trickery, ladies. 

The key to this tip is acting. If a girl can fake an orgasm, you can fake like you’re foreign to dish washing. But you must be careful here. Never let her see you do something that you never want to do again. This is something that needs to be set up well in advance. It’s a two-step process and if Step 1 is executed well enough, you’re in the clear. Step 2 is for emergency situations in which you may be assaulted by a pretty girl’s feelings and love. Ugh.

Step 1: Scare her off from the get go.

Yeah, women in a relationship love guys doing things for them, but they want to feel like they have earned it. While it may seem counter intuitive, doing or offering to do things for women you’re not with gets rid of them quick, fast and in a hurry. Some of them (known as bitches) will let you follow through with some offers. Don’t back down. Go to Sephora with them. Go pick up their dog from the vet. Drive them to and from the doctor and pick up their medication. Play your cards right and… Congratulations, you’re a desperate, clingy pushover! Way to get the hell out of the way of that potential girlfriend.

Ugh... Weekend chores.

However, if you didn’t execute that to perfection, you have just dug yourself into a bit of a hole. Proceed to Step 2.

Step 2: Mess things up “accidentally.”

Nice work dumbass. You have failed Step 1 while also letting her know you are capable of doing a few select things. Luckily, if you took good notes, she doesn’t know you can perform tasks you absolutely despise and won’t assume you can do them. And, fortunately for you, two people high on illegal substances decided to fornicate 25 years ago and nine months later I began to develop (very) slowly to come to your rescue. So listen well, and EXECUTE this time. You are in very dangerous territory.

Now that you have a girl hanging around, (we’ll call her… “Bad Idea”) you’re in some trouble. Bad Idea was a bad idea from the start. She has not bought into your crappily acted charade of pretending to want to do things for her. But it’s okay, there’s still an out. 

At this point, she is doing a million things to manipulate you. Consider that a low end estimate. You will need to focus on just two of these things, one constant and one variable. She is determining whether you have interest in her (the constant; you clearly do), and she is sizing you up to see if you are a capable male specimen (the variable). By now, you clearly have fallen victim to all of Bad Idea’s traps. Who wouldn’t? She’s a seductress. She has pheromones, ovaries and boobs. It’s like Mike Tyson in his prime, fighting a midget dipped in concrete. It’s really not even fair. Those things have been making bad ideas seem great since the dawn of time (the physiological things, not Tyson and the midget). And because you didn’t run far enough or fast enough, she’s now asking you to perform every day tasks. Damn it. So, you have to attack the variable, if you can still see clearly through her trickery. Time to fake that orgasm.

Feed Fluffy? No problem!

You’ll need to focus and pay close attention to her for any chances to showcase your lack of skills here. Especially since she knows you are capable of some of the things you performed for her when trying to scare her off initially. So take the next dishwashing opportunity to break a couple glasses. Offer to fold some laundry and mismatch her socks. DVR the wrong show. Tell her all about the weird thing you watched Toodles, her dog, eat near the dumpster on your walk. Buy her the wrong tampons. Make sure to be openly proud of all of this.

“There’s eight dishes left still. That’s like a B! High five!”

“I just thought you would look cute with one pink sock and one black one. Kelly did it one time in Saved by the Bell.”

“I was going to record Dancing with the Stars, but then I remembered you liked that football player who was on it last season. So, when I saw that Dallas was playing Philadelphia I remembered his cousin twice removed was the backup guard for the Eagles. I knew you wouldn’t want to miss that!”

“That condom outside didn’t look used or anything, Toodles is going to be fine. I couldn’t believe he could swallow it! I like Toodles! …But yeah, I probably should have told you before he licked your face.” 

“I went to get tampons when I saw that bulk 2-ply toilet paper was on sale for even less! Phh, who the hell would buy tampons?!”

Now, unless you’re dating Jill Taylor from Home Improvement, you’re set. One day, your Bad Idea wants to get the reward she has earned by fooling you into liking her, the next day, you’re nothing but a story she tells to her friends. Now, you’re Bad Idea’s bad idea. Plus, you have TP for the next couple of months and can sleep a bit better knowing there are two less Twilight novelty glasses in existence. Victories all around.

Scars

If you look closely enough at anyone, you are going to find scars. I don’t care how smooth and fine their skin may be, everyone has one scar. Most go unnoticed by anyone other than the bearer. Some look everyone you know in the eye on a daily basis. Some people are proud of theirs, and some people can’t stand theirs, but they’re still there. And barring plastic surgery, it’s always going to be there. But a scar is more than just an abrasion in one’s skin. A scar tells a story. 

“I put my hand on the oven when I was four.”

“I got shot here during the war.”

“I missed my mouth while eating cereal and managed to cut my lip with a spoon.”

There’s always a story. As a matter of fact, a scar is both a story and a lesson. I would go so far as to say that everything you know could even be referred to as microscopic scars in your brain (or even your heart) that are branded in from life lessons, repetition or, in many of my cases, trial and error. 

“Don’t touch hot things. They hurt.” (Trial and error)

“It hurts a lot less to get shot in a video game than in real life.” (Life lessons)

“You’re a moron. How do you cut your mouth with a spoon? Have you never done this before?” (Repetition)

But I feel like not everyone should have to touch a stove to learn it’s hot, or get shot to realize getting shot sucks. Have I ever been shot? No. No, I have not. But I think it’s safe to say, “yes, getting shot sucks.” (If deemed necessary by the three people who will actually read this, I can go do a face to face interview with my grandpa who has several purple hearts, just let me know if I this is necessary.) The bottom line is that, as a collective species, if we all learned from each other’s mistakes, we would have so many less problems that it would astonish us. Less scars for everyone! High-fives all around! (There would also be way less high-fours because less people would be missing digits.) 

So, here is the plan… I did a recap. I stared at myself in the mirror completely naked for 45 minutes (I had to do my research here), and after being thoroughly disappointed by my abundance of body hair, freakishly white skin tone and lack of muscle definition (especially for a skinny guy), I managed to see the scars that give me some of my best life lessons that I will pass on to you. Brace yourself, as you are going to learn the top five most valuable lessons that I have to offer you, directly from my scars themselves. I will be listing them in order of importance (least important to most important). So let these lessons brand themselves into your brain and learn them well.

Lesson 5: Never permit your three-year-old sibling to cut your hair. Even if you are only a few months old.

I am the younger of two children in my family. My sister, Danielle, is three years and 27 days older than I am. She was a child prodigy in the hair artistry world. At the ripe age of three and a half, she opened her own hair salon. Infantile Roy (or, Really Lil’ Roy) apparently consented to being her first ever customer. (Really, it’s all a little hazy. I was hitting the baby formula hard those days. I have since joined a Baby Formula Anonymous club and have been clean for almost 23.5 years now). I am not going to lie to you, I have no idea how many snips were taken, but I estimate that there was exactly one snip. Unfortunately it touched zero hair, and all ear. I now have a small chunk missing from my right ear and always have. I have since learned my lesson, and won’t let it happen again.

Lesson 4: Do not participate in “Rock Wars.”

I know what you are thinking. “Rock War? Does that really need a lesson to never participate in again?” Yes. Yes it does. You see, Lil’ Roy (see “Lil’ Roy Goes to Kindergarten”) had very few friends his whole life. He could have been the talk of the town from day one had he kept letting his fashion guru sister cut his hair, but instead he was a goofy looking outcast. Terry the Bounty Hunter (his dad) realized this, and decided to take action. 

Jay, the leader of the pack of kids that always picked on Lil’ Roy, was recruited to be Roy’s friend. As he was the oldest and biggest kid around, it made sense that it would almost be a form of protection for Roy to befriend him. It was a highly more innocent (and forced) form of those guys in prison who dress like women and offer “favors” to the biggest guy in their cellblock in return for protection. Only “favors” were more like he was welcome to come play video games whenever he wanted. Unfortunately, this also gave twelve-year-old Jay plenty of time alone with five-year-old Roy. This essentially meant that Jay did whatever he wanted, picked on Roy, monopolized all of the cool toys, and forced Roy to do things he didn’t want to do. 

One day, while the two of them were in the back yard, Jay began to throw miscellaneous objects at Lil’ Roy in a less than playful manner. Roy tried to return the assault, but that just made it worse seeing as how most five-year-olds throw like… well, five-year-olds. It was at this point, from twenty feet away, Jay decided to escalate things. Jay picked up a rock and exclaimed, “Let’s have a rock war!” Defenseless Lil’ Roy was standing motionless in the grass while Jay was by the one and only bed of rocks in the yard. Even at five, he knew he didn’t like the sounds of a rock war one bit. Scurrying to look for a rock, Lil’ Roy objected to the proposal, but to no avail. A 3” rock was hurled rapidly toward him and, like a man who had just been picked off from a mile out by a sniper, he dropped and began bleeding profusely from the forehead. Two inches above his eye (and from being blinded for life) there was a large gash spewing copious amounts of dark red fluid. And it was not cranberry juice. While blood flowed from the wound, a manly battle cry (that definitely didn’t sound anything like a dying pig/hyena hybrid) emitted from his mouth. 

TTBH who had been sleeping inside when the crime went down, ran to the rescue, demanded they go to the hospital to get stitches and heroically ripped a bright blue strip of clean towel he found in the dryer (with blatant disregard for the fact that it was one of his wife’s good towels) and wrapped it around the boy’s head. He looked strikingly like Leonardo from his favorite show at the time, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (see Lesson 2). And he definitely wasn’t still making that high-pitch, blood curdling screaming--- Err… I mean manly battle cry, anymore. His lesson had been learned. He made a mental note to never participate in a rock war again.

Lesson 3: If a dog looks like he may be interested in biting your hand, move it before he does.

When I was three, my sister and I had a day care we used to go to. To be perfectly honest, I can’t remember many specifics to this lesson. But I think that speaks volumes for the point I am trying to drive home here. I managed to learn a lesson and remember it forever, despite not remembering much else from the exchange. I remember I was small. I remember that this woman had a small wiener dog. I also remember a very awkward exchange between the dog and I where I stood and stared at it. It stared back at me. I had always been slightly afraid of it, and apparently with good reason. This dog could smell my three-year-old fear. It probably smelled slightly like a dirty diaper. Or a lot like a dirty diaper. Again, the specifics are lacking here. Finally, after this monumentally long The Good, The Bad and The Ugly stare down (I was The Good, the dog was The Bad and The Ugly) this dog waddled itself at me ferociously and bit my dangling hand which fit conveniently inside it’s mouth. I still have a scar on the back of my hand. On this day, I learned to trust my instincts and not stand there like a moron.

Lesson 2: Don’t play Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles inside.

When I was younger, I was fascinated by things that spun, twirled, or moved quickly. It was fascinations like these that lead me to break essentially everything my father owned up until I was around the age of ten. This particular lesson was learned on a day when I discovered that my bike lock made an awesome swingy thing. Awesome enough to convince myself that I was now an honorary member of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TMNT), which were my idols at the time. I wasn’t a teenager. I wasn’t a mutant (that I knew of). I was definitely not a ninja. And I was absolutely not a turtle. And yeah, I had no nunchucks, sais, swords or a bow staff, but I did have what I believed could be of infinite value to the clan. A grappling hook! (Again, it wasn’t a grappling hook, it was a bike lock. One of those long cord ones with the little combo piece on the end of it.) 

Now don’t get let yourself get caught up in the fact that the TMNT had little or no, (mostly no) use for a seven-year-old Anthony Michael Hall look alike. Or, that even if they did, they already all seemed to have grappling hooks whenever they needed them. Just know that this boy would surely prove immensely value to the team with his dashing looks, flaming red hair and uncanny ability to swing that bike cha--- I mean grappling hook around like no ones business. If you wanted him to swing it like a helicopter… bam, consider it done. You want him to swing it diagonally? Phh, no problem. He’s got you covered. You want him to swing it up and down like a fan? Check this out --- *SMASH*

I had hopped up onto the living room table in incredibly acrobatic fashion and shattered the chandelier above me. That wasn’t the real problem. The real problem was that a large shard of glass used the wonderful force of gravity to propel itself downward and lodge itself into my ankle. Instantly, I became a fugitive. I rushed into my room with a paper towel and sat and bled all over it until I was found and taken to the hospital to be stitched up again. 

Of course, I got all the blame. Leonardo, Donatello, Michelangelo, Raphael and gravity all managed to get off scot-free. But I learned a valuable lesson. I would like to say “I haven’t done this again ever since,” but that would be a bold faced lie. I was fantasizing about being a TMNT until I was at least 20. 

Lesson 1: Under no circumstance should you ever attempt to blow dry a cat. 

Really, this should be more like lessons 1.1, 1.2, 1.3 … 1.100. That’s the number of scars I have from this lesson. And it’s precisely why it’s on the top of the list of wisdom I am passing down to you. 

At age six, I hated bathing. It wasn’t fun. I mean, come on… You sit in a bath tub, soaking in your own filth for twenty minutes, touching gross slimy soap bars and potentially getting shampoo in your eyes (side note: add bubbles and I was so there it wasn’t even funny) (side note to side note: I am not sure, but I am not ruling out that I am probably much the same today. Bubble baths were awesome). What was so great that I could be doing instead of bathing? Playing. TMNTs, GI Joes, Legos, video games… All were great fun. So every now and then I would spice up bath time. I would toss a couple action figures or Lego boats in there and have a blast. I would just play until I looked like a raisin. But even still, the toys eventually all run their course. They can’t remain appealing forever (and believe me, I wish they did. I would have so many TMNT right now…) something’s gotta give. 

Bath time arrived one day and I went to get in the tub and who follows me into the bathroom? Misty, our gray cat. Entertainment. Naturally, I immediately shut the door and trapped this unsuspecting animal in the bathroom with me. She would be my companion for this round of bathing excitement. To my delight (and surprise), I set her in the six inches of water I had in the tub without any sort of problem. She didn’t kick, claw or meow. She just sat there. She almost seemed to like it. So I bathed, she sat. I shampooed her and she seemed okay with it. All went fabulously. This was great; I finally had companionship in the bathroom.

I unplugged the drain, hopped out and dried off. This is when it hit me that a towel isn’t going to be enough to get this cat completely dry. I did everything in my power to get her as dry as possible and just couldn’t do it. My parents were not going to be happy about a wet cat running around the house. Thinking fast, I looked under the sink. Bingo! Hair dryer. Without hesitation (or thought), a completely naked damp six-year-old Roy plugged this hair dryer in and, holding the cat up with one hand and the hair dryer with the other, he flipped the switch to “On.” 

Never have I seen anything so displeased with what was happening. After approximately .2865 seconds of blow-drying time Misty performed a flip out of my hand and simultaneously scratched every square inch of my body. It was spectacular. Completely shocked at how rapidly she went from “cool and calm” to “oh-my-God-get-me-the-hell-out-of-here-before-I-unleash-the-fury-of-1,000-suns” mode, I opened the door and she scurried out. None of these sounds (the bath, the blow dryer, the commotion or the manly battle cry that immediately followed) escaped my mother who happened to be in the kitchen. She ran to the bathroom to be faced by a locked bathroom door, on the other side of which was a very naked boy who must have had 100 cat scratches all over his body; all of which were transforming from red marks to puffed up bloody lines before his very eyes. 

That was a lot of fun to explain. So much in fact that I decided to never do it again. 

Please learn from these lessons. Don’t make these words be written in vain.

Lil' Roy Goes to Kindergarten

My father has a million stories. If you knew him well enough, you’d hear Charlie Murphy echo in your head after hearing a story of his saying, “There’s some great story tells in the world today, man. But who the fuck could make up that shit?” Just as who I am doesn’t seem to indicate that I am a product of my father (or a product of my entire family for that matter), my father doesn’t seem to be a product of this planet. He’s something else.

I have never met a man who is harder to characterize. I have never met a man who gives less of a damn what other people think. I have never met a man who has a way with people the way he does, despite butchering names, places… and well, pretty much the entire English language. It’s truly remarkable. Some of his stories might be a slight exaggeration, but you’d be a fool to bet against its validity. Now don’t get me wrong, that isn’t to say he is not an intelligent man. He’s far from unintelligent. He knows what he wants to know, and nothing more. He has better things to do. 

He goes by Terry, but I have been fortunate enough to call him Dad my entire life. To this day I am still trying to determine if I feel fortunate because he’s my father, or because if he wasn’t, I may have had to one day cross paths with this man. No matter. What is, is and what could have been isn’t. All that matters now is that I have the urge to try and describe the indescribable because I am feeling saucy. But Terry Vincent (who I also refer to from time to time as Terry the Bounty Hunter or TTBH) isn’t a man who can be simply described; he needs to be told of. 

You could meet him once, twice, even a handful of times and still not quite have a gauge on him. The man’s real self requires a large sample size to get the full experience. And, since he moved away from home at 14 or 15, divorced my mother just a few years into marriage, and my sister lived with my mother for a bit and moved out before me, I probably know more of his character than anyone on the planet. So piece-by-piece, I can at least try to enlighten you as to what raised me. Or, at least was supposed to raise me. I begin with my earliest and probably all time favorite TTBH anecdote. Hope you enjoy it.

Lil' Roy Goes to Kindergarten

He would just sit at home all day and wait to start life. His mother would entertain him by feeding him those children’s workbooks from the grocery store for cheap entertainment. He would sometimes rip through two a day. Math was his thing. Workbooks were essentially what Danielle, his older sister, had been bringing home from school every day for the past three years. Something she called “homework.” She hated it. He. Was. Stoked. A newly turned five-year-old, Lil’ Roy (as my whole family calls me because I was named after my Grandpa) was preparing himself for Kindergarten, which was just days away. He was so close he could smell it. It smelled like a child’s urine and erasers (I am glad I didn’t go with “…could taste it” here. I feel like urine and erasers probably taste just like they smell). He was that close. For three years Danielle had come home with marvelous stories of class, friends, teachers, something called recess and, what he was secretly most excited for, homework! Envious, it was now his turn to go to school.

The big day had finally come. He was around three feet tall rocking some new clothes that were reminiscent of the Saved by the Bell intro designs, had his crayons, a pencil box and was running around screaming and throwing a fit when he realized he couldn’t find his backpack. The one on his back. Despite his parent’s laughter, he didn’t find it funny. It wasn’t funny. It was his big day. The day he got to ride the bus. The day he got to find out what the hell recess was. The day he got homework. And, the day he was finally going to make friends.

They lived in a circular development in Lacey, maybe 30 or so houses. 3085 Carpenter Hills Loop. He had his address memorized (probably for in case he got stolen or something). His house was at the bottom of a hill, which was exactly opposite the circle from the entrance to the loop. It was here that the bus would pick up the neighborhood children at the entrance of the loop. It was here and on this day that Lil’ Roy begin his conquest to become Roy. 

16 years later...

On foot, there was a path straight through the loop. It was a long narrow gravel trail surrounded by a large park, leading directly from his house, at the bottom of the hill, to the bus stop at the top. He and his sister traversed the hill, turned, and waited with a dozen or so other kids along a tall fence, which was parallel to the main road. These kids ranged from 7 to 11 and were mostly boys. Boys can be mean. Especially to small children with flaming orange hair. If there were a Young Roy hair dye, it would have been called “Freak Show Orange.” 

One of the bigger kids, Jay, was more or less the leader of the pack and for some reason, he didn’t like the cut of Roy’s gingery jib. It wasn’t long before 12 young children pointed, laughed, kicked and spit on Lil’ Roy for no reason other than he was dressed different or weird looking. Probably because of both. He didn’t look ridiculous. He looked awesome. Seriously, if I was a five-year-old girl, I’d have been all over that sweet ass rat tail… but I digress.

He ran back home (but a manly, Will Smith-like movie run, not like a tiny wiener kid run), hysterically crying his eyes out. His conquest had been ceased before it had even begun. He had been defeated. Not only did he not go to school on the bus, he definitely hadn’t made any friends. His father helped him rally and insisted he still go to school. Terry the Bounty Hunter drove him there and dropped him off. The rest of the day went on without a hiccup. And since he was on a half-day Kindergarten schedule, he didn’t have to ride home with the same kids from the bus stop since he was the only one in his grade at the stop. 

The next morning he felt much better. Far less confident than just 24 hours prior, but a lot more confident than 23 hours, 45 minutes prior. So he gathered his things and got ready to roll. He waved goodbye to Danielle as she was on her way to the bus. Riding the bus?! She was a sucker. HA! Confused, TTBH asked why Lil’ Roy didn’t seem to be planning on going to the bus stop with her. Uhhh… did he not remember the day before? Wow. What an idiot. Surely he’d just forgotten momentarily and would come to remember and then take him to school again… Wrong. Lil’ Roy was to march back up there and face these ginger-hating-douche bags again. He was absolutely in need of some encouragement. His father kneeled down, put a hand on his shoulder, looked him dead in the eye and said, “Look, I will watch from the window and if there is any trouble, wave. I will come take care of it.” Terry Vincent was a problem solver. 

Roy swallowed the lump in his throat and tentatively walked to the bus stop with his sister. Never had he walked slower. He could have crab walked faster than this. A gold fish could have flopped on land faster than this. Hell, a pet rock could have out paced him. He finally arrived to the fence, which was hiding the enemy and as he approached it, he went numb. He flashed back to a day before and came to a complete halt before taking the final few steps. He came to the corner, the first spot he would be in sight of the group since, and the last spot his father would still be able to see him… If he was still even watching. 

Despite the fact that the other kids were probably 30 feet down the fence line, the corner of the fence was his station of choice. He wasn’t afraid… I swear. It was because the real estate at this spot on the fence was so spacious and he had elbowroom and well, he pretty much just liked that he wasn’t within 30 feet of Jay and friends. As his sister walked toward the group, she drew their attention. This quickly alerted the crew to the freckly ginger by the edge of the fence. Immediately a few of them broke off, walked over and apologized for the previous day and said they would like to be friends because Lil’ Roy was so good looking and well dressed. They said, “Damn it you are awesome. We didn’t see that when you were covered in saliva, but now we do. We should hang out sometime.” To this day, they are still close friends. It was a day that Lil’ Roy will never forget. How could he? 

Re-read that last bit. Only one part after “…broke off…” is true, and it isn’t the happy fun time part. The only true part is that he would never forget this day. The real reason he will never forget that day was what really happened. The group that broke off included Jay, immediately he rallied the remainder of the gang and began poking fun of Roy’s awesome nylon pants, his charming cowlick, his bountiful freckles and soon enough, his tears. Manly tears though. None of that little girl tear stuff. They began to spit on him yet again and he wandered closer and closer to the edge of the fence, wanting absolutely nothing more than for his dad to be down at the house, staring out the window, ready to pounce. 

The house was a good 150 yards down the hill and Lil’ Roy couldn’t quite make out what was in the windows. For all he knew, he was waving in vane. He waved to request backup. No sign of life from the bottom of the hill. The ridicule continued as manly “sweat” flowed from his tear ducts and he waved again. Soon the group laughed at the fact that he was waving to no one. He remained silent and waved one last wave and gave up. There was no one.

As he turned back to face the harassment, he felt cold and alone. In the words of Andre 3000, “New direction was apparent. He was a child, looking at the floor staring.” Then, when all was lost. When he had nothing to hope for, as the one thing he wanted so badly wasn’t there, he saw from the corner of his eye a very tan man, 6’2” tall, balding but yet also with a rat tail, wearing absolutely nothing other than short bright neon yellow Bad Boy shorts, not even shoes, moving full throttle up the gravel path. His athletic frame moved quickly and smoothly up the hill as he took long strides. These children would soon learn why Roy would one day write that he feels fortunate to have Terry the Bounty Hunter as a father. 

At this point Lil’ Roy now wanted these kids, who were just far enough tucked behind the fence that they couldn’t see their fate sprinting at them with ass-kicking rage in his eye, to get caught in the act. He knew it would diminish his credibility and make it seem as if he exaggerated the story if these bullies were behaving like perfect angels as Terry the Bounty Hunter and his wrath arrived. Unfortunately for them, that wasn’t the case. As one of them spit at him, Lil’ Roy could see the saliva leave his lips, and as if it were all now in slow motion the same boy’s eyes grow to the size of Rocky Mountain Oysters and the saliva hit his jacket and the boy made eye contact with TTBH. 

What happened next was like Ezekiel 25:17. This righteous man definitely found his gravel path and shepherded this weak boy through the valley of saliva and laughter. He was truly the finder of lost children. Only he didn’t need the Lord to help. It was he himself that struck down upon these children with great vengeance and furious anger in an exchange that went like this,

“Who is picking on you?!” Terry inquired.

Roy pointed to the general crowd. Terry could tell by the children’s faces that they were indeed all very guilty. He had the same look that Samuel L. Jackson and John Travolta have on their face in Pulp Fiction when that guy jumps out of the bathroom and misses them with all six shots from that revolver.

“The next person to make fun of, laugh at, point at, spit on, kick, punch, pinch or talk bad about my son is going to get the fucking shit kicked out of them! I don’t care how old you are! Leave him alone or I am gonna kick your fucking ass!”

“I am going to tell my mom!” Their fearless leader exclaimed.

“Everyone listen up closely! Go get your moms! Go get your dads! All of them! And tell them I am gonna kick their fucking asses too! “ TTBH retorted.

Needless to say, Lil’ Roy was never picked on by these kids again. I also think that it goes without saying that Roy and his sister were the only people to get on the bus at that stop that morning. The bus driver looked alarmed, wondering where the other dozen kids went, but saw TTBH standing to see his children off and she figured everything was okay. And it was. For Lil’ Roy, everything was finally okay

Parenting 101: Santa

It’s that time of the year, the time when children get all warm and cozy in their beds every night, yet lay awake because they simply can’t sleep with all of the built up anticipation of Christmas. It grows as Christmas arrives and children get less sleep and more impatient. Then one day, the kids ask the dreaded question that for some reason always seems to catch parents off guard. For some children (like myself) it’s at age four. For some children, it’s at age nine (or however old my sister was… I am three years younger than her and knew for probably four years before she found out).

“Is there really a Santa?”

This young man will one day be a very impressionable seven year-old.

Much like with the “Babies” question, you need to figure out how you are going to respond. Are you are going to answer this truthfully? Or risk losing your child’s trust at such a young age? Again, I am a firm believer that honesty is the best policy when handling situations with children. They are so impressionable and whatever you tell them now could last a lifetime.

When I was 17, I stood in Baskin Robbins looking over the various flavors trying to come to a good conclusion. Usually I am a peanut butter chocolate, or a chocolate chip mint guy, but this day was different. And I stood staring at the difference… my old friend rainbow sherbet. I wondered, “What the hell happened? Why did I stop loving you so much?” And my mind suddenly flashed back 10 years. Seven year-old Roy was asked what he wanted as he gazed upon the many flavors at his disposal. He replied “A scoop of rainbow sherbet please.” A tall man of about 30 with a fitted cap and a pony tail looked down at me from behind his sunglasses and said “Son, rainbow sherbet is for pussies.” A statement from my father that would scar me for the next 10 years. I hadn’t thought of that moment or had my ex-favorite flavor for 10 years, and that was largely the reason. Impressions upon anyone under 10 last a very long time, and you need to approach sensitive subjects like this Santa situation very tactfully.

With that said, here’s how I would handle the situation…

“Children, in a word, no. There is no Santa Claus. He doesn’t exist. There are no reindeer, there are no elves, there--- Oh who am I kidding?! Look, for the first time in your life, I am going to be 100% honest with you. But you can never, EVER tell anyone, or I will be in big trouble. Your mother will kill me. And if she doesn’t, I will go to a prison in Cuba for the rest of my life.

Gitmo? How did you know what that is? You’re seven. And no, it’s not closed. That’s just what the Government wants you to think. It’s very much open and harbors the people who get caught sharing this secret. I will be like Edmond Dantes in the Count of Monte Cristo without the Count of Monte Cristo part at all. There will be no comeback. As a matter of fact, maybe I shouldn’t tell you. The answer is no. He doesn’t exist…

Okay, fine! But… Don’t. Tell. Anyone.

The truth is that Santa does exist. Santa is very real. And he is very powerful. He has brought you all of the gifts you see under the tree every year. But long ago, he realized he couldn’t keep pace with the inflation of population and had to narrow down who he should bring presents to. Naughty and nice wasn’t cutting it anymore. There are too many boys trying to plant seeds and grow children that it’s ruining Santa for all of us. He now delivers to only the following: nice people who are believers, and people over 10 who try to reduce the amount of believers. That’s right. If anyone EVER tells you he is not real, it is because they either truly believe it, or are selfish and want more presents to themselves.

Every person over 10 on the planet will tell you he doesn’t exist. Some of those people honestly believe he is not real, and others are just lying to you. That is because once you turn 10, if you still believe, one of Santa’s elves comes to you and delivers a letter signed by Santa himself. The letter, in short, tells you that you can still get presents from him provided you try to convince as many believers to stop believing as possible. It also tells you about the horrors of Gitmo and how quickly you will be transported there if you ever get caught telling anyone about the letter. You never get Christmases again. You have to go to bed early every night, and without dinner or dessert. They make you watch sports and clean your room every day, Sponge Bob doesn’t exist. You also have to brush your teeth twice a day and everyone has cooties, and smell like feet, and they make you take naps. It’s horrible.

No, I can’t show you the letter. It self destructed Inspector Gadget style. True story.

The elf? Yeah, he self destructed too. Look, no more questions, just listen and listen well before someone catches me and sends me to this prison where it’s all clean and I have to sleep and watch sports all day.

Most adults are on drugs and believe the elf and the letter were a dream and pretend it never happened. This is great, because the fewer people he has to bring presents to, the more presents each person he delivers the presents to gets. Yeah, I never have any gifts from him under the tree, but that’s because he delivers them to me in person. With candy. One time he even brought me to the North Pole on his sleigh because I am awesome, but that’s beside the point.

The point of the story is this, children, don’t stop believing no matter what people tell you. Anyone over 10 is probably lying. And also don’t do drugs. Or you will miss out on gifts and candy.”

See? Was that so hard? Now you have a child that will forever believe in Santa. How can that possibly be bad? Oh, and that day I was in Baskin Robbins, I bought my old friend, and he was delicious. I asked my father about it a few years back and he didn’t remember it at all. He thought for a minute and claimed that it was probably largely due to the fact that I never finished it and he always had to eat my leftovers and hated rainbow sherbet. But the reality is, I still think my father tried to trick me into not liking rainbow sherbet because he wanted it all for himself. Who the hell would do such an awful thing? What an ass.