Before I jump into the weekend, a little story from Thursday. Following soccer class through the City (Gray likes to use his hands…a lot) we baby-sat my nephew, who is about four weeks younger than the twins. In that 90 minutes he pooped, so I was going to change him.
I saw him waddling towards the changing table in the twins’ bedroom. That’s not a good sign. Either it’s oozing out his diaper or he crapped the Rock of Gibraltar. I placed him on the changing table, removed his shorts and then froze. I can’t do this. I can deal with loads of poop stemming from my own kids’ tushes, but not others. And it’s totally different when they’re 2 compared to 9-months-old.
A crowd now developed in the bedroom. The twins wanted to hang out and experience it too. Those freaks. I stood staring at my nephew.
“I need a mask,” I thought out loud. My wife went on a mission. I continued to stare at my nephew. He stared back with a look like “What’s the hold up here?”
My wife returned after a couple of minutes with panties hanging on her fingers. I was desperate.
She hooked the strings around my ears and the fabric around my mouth and nose. I felt like a surgeon. As I began to operate, I gagged. It turns out my nephew had been backed up for a couple of days. Had we chipped down that poop, I’m 90 percent sure we would’ve found a diamond.
I finished cleaning up and dressed the boy. I was still wearing the mask.
“Daddy wears a mask,” Ellie observed. “He wears mommy’s panties for a mask.”
I’m sure this will come up again in 25 years when she’s in therapy.
And now on to the weekend…
Despite breaking up with the Angels last month, I still had previously purchased tickets lying around, so my buddy Ian and I attended the start of the second half of the season against the Oakland A’s. Mike Trout, Albert Pujols and Erick Aybar homered while Angels ace Jered Weaver tossed 6.2 innings of scoreless baseball which led the Halos to a 4-1 victory.
A friend from college celebrated her birthday at Bobby D’s Bar and Grill in Lake Forest. My wife worked so I went alone. Located at the end of a strip mall, the Bobby D’s is a classic southern California dive bar adorned with ancient tube televisions and a handful of local regulars all 55 or over.
My friend and her boyfriend arrived to join me and my Bushmills and we caught up while the joint slowly filled up. My friend picked the place because it features karaoke. White butcher paper hung behind the stage with hand-written rules prohibiting the F word and swinging the microphone from the cord.
A mix of young, old and in between packed the bar. Five of the six singers I watched were really good. Unfortunately I had to leave before anyone from our party shined on stage.
While my wife caught up on sleep, the twins and I played throughout the day. They were both in a good mood and especially enjoyed closing their bedroom door and playing alone. Which, as long as they’re not emptying the diaper trash or flinging folded clothes, is an awesome thing. It’s a sign of independence. They can entertain themselves for a bit and let us go ten minutes without a munchkin chirping in our ears for more pirates or “daddy hold you.”
At night my buddies and I drove out to Hollywood to watch some friends of ours perform at The Viper Room. Their band, Saints in Rehab, rocked the famed tiny venue with their self-proclaimed wickedly styled, deadly funk rock. It was good to see familiar faces in the crowd. And that uber drunk chick hanging on her boyfriend as a crutch didn’t puke on me outside the club after the show. So it was a good night.