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At Least I'm Not Chewing My Toenails
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2006
My wife claims that I have a particularly nasty habit that she claims is "disgusting" and "gross." I, on occasion, will chew on my beard.
In my defense, I only have a goatee, and I keep it neat, groomed, and clean. And yes, I sometimes gently nibble on a few strands in a thoughtful and contemplative manner. Much in the same way that other men smoke a pipe, stroke their chins, or fall asleep in front of the television.
But my wife expresses such horror and outrage at my habit that you'd think I was some long-bearded wildman trying to suck the remnants of last week's dinner from the fringes.
The problem is it's an unconscious habit. Most of the time I'm not even aware I'm doing it. I usually find myself gnawing away while I'm driving or working on my computer. And now that my wife has brought it to my attention – numerous times – I'm worried that I might accidentally start doing it when I'm in an important meeting, like with the president of the Extremely Rich Germophobes Foundation.
I try to keep my beard trimmed to avoid chomping on it at inopportune moments, but I stillfind an errant section stuck in my mouth from time to time. But it's a weird habit to have, when you consider that I also have a strong aversion to finding a loose, unknown hair in my mouth.
There's nothing worse than sitting down to a nice meal, and finding a hair in my food. The only thing worse is when the food is in my mouth, half-chewed. Then I want to run screaming from the table to sterilize my mouth with rubbing alcohol and lava soap.
Instead I repress a shudder and pull the offending strand from my mouth. More often than not, it turns out to be one of my mustache hairs.
Crisis averted.
But sometimes it's a longer hair, and I'm nearly apoplectic in my revulsion. I can't spit fast enough, hard enough, or far enough to expel the disgusting thing.
I usually accuse my wife of being the donor and tell her she can't complain about me chewing my beard, when she apparently has no problem with me chewing on her own hair.
She points out that she's not a blond with pink highlights, which sends me into new waves of revulsion. Ewwwww!
I can pinpoint exactly when I developed this near-phobia.
I was in high school, way before I ever had a mustache or beard, and I had been on a date with a girl. We were kissing, when I realized I had a hair in my mouth. I actually hesitated for a minute as questions raced through my head: Where the &#^$! did that come from? Do I stop and pull it out? Should I even make a big deal about it? What if it's hers? Is it rude to push it into her mouth?
I finally just stopped and pulled the thing out, sticking my tongue out and grabbing at it until I removed it. I didn't bother looking to see whose it was – I assumed it was hers – and we went back to what we were doing. But the moment was ruined. We sort of trailed off, she mumbled something about having a text the next day (in July?), and that was the end of the date.
We never went out again. I'd like to think it was because we weren't compatible. Or that her boyfriend came back early from summer vacation. Or that her family moved to Wyoming the following week.
But deep down, I've always known it was that stupid hair. It turned what could have been a shallow two week high school relationship complete with two hour phone calls and cute baby talk nicknames that secretly make me sick into a single slobbery date.
I suppose I could argue that if it hadn't been for that little hair, my life might have taken a completely different direction. I should be grateful for that errant little follicle, because I wouldn't be where I am today if I hadn't stopped to remove it.
And that's actually a pretty good idea. I could carry it one step further and argue that if I continued to chew my beard, I could become rich someday. Then my wife couldn't accuse me of being disgusting. By chewing on my beard in a thoughtful manner, I could come up with an invention that would change the world. Something that would save lives and make me fabulously wealthy.
Something that -- ooh boy, barbecue sauce from last night's dinner.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of April 7th, 2006)
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Because I'm the Daddy, That's Why
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2006
Erik is out of the office this week. That's right, an old column. From September 2003. Yes, he's on vacation. Next week. Yes, he'll have a new column. Of course he appreciates you as a reader! Because he told me so. Alright. You're welcome.
"Alright, we're here. I want everyone to be good."
"Yes, even Mommy has to be good."
"Don't look at me like that. I didn't say you were bad."
"No I didn't. I was trying to set an example for the girls. . . never mind."
"What, Sweetie?"
"Yes, I know this isn't our usual restaurant. We thought we would try something new for a change."
"Because I'm the Daddy, that's why."
"What do you mean you don't like it? How can you say that if you've never even been here?"
"No you haven't."
"Because we've never taken you here, that's how. Mommy and I were here one time without you."
"No, we didn't leave you at home! We would never leave you at home by yourselves. You were with Grandma and Grandpa."
"Because you're seven. So are you hungry?"
"I don't know, we'll have to look at a menu."
"Probably the same kids' stuff they have at every restaurant -- chicken strips, cheeseburger, spaghetti, and grilled cheese. Real children's cuisine."
"It means 'food.'"
"No, you can't have a balloon. They don't have balloons."
"It's not that kind of restaurant."
"Because this is a nice restaurant. Some nice restaurants just don't have balloons for kids."
"I don't know. It's just part of the atmosphere."
"It means how they look and act."
"Yes, I'm sure they like kids."
"Because we want to try something new."
"Because I'm the Daddy, that's why."
"Wait a minute. What, Honey?"
"No, they won't sing 'Happy Birthday.'"
"Because it's a nice restaurant. They don't sing 'Happy Birthday' at nice restaurants."
"But it's not even your birthday."
"Not for another two months."
"That's right, you'll be three."
"No, Mommy's not three. She's. . . uhh, let's go inside."
"Sweetie, why don't you sit next to me?"
"Because you both can't sit next to Mommy."
"But then Mommy won't have enough room to eat her dinner."
"Because I want to sit next to you."
"Because I'm the Daddy, that's why."
"Sure, I'll color with you. Can you hand me the green crayon?"
"I don't want red. I'm coloring grass."
"Look, there's 10 other crayons. There's even another green."
"What? I am NOT being selfish."
"Well, she started it."
"Hold on, let's decide what to have for dinner."
"We'll color again. We just have to decide what you want for dinner first."
"Not macaroni-and-cheese."
"Because it's not meat and vegetables."
"Macaroni is not a vegetable."
"Because it isn't."
"Because I'm the Daddy, that's why."
"I know, that doesn't make sense."
"No, Honey, cheese isn't a vegetable either."
"Broccoli is a vegetable."
"Broccoli."
"The green stuff."
"Yes Honey, you like it."
"How about spaghetti, Sweetie?"
"What do you mean you don't like spaghetti?"
"You liked it fine when I made it last week."
"You did too! You ate every bite and asked for more."
"Right, Worms and Guts."
"What? She did call it Worms and Guts."
"It was the only way to get her to eat it."
"Oh, it's not that gross."
"Okay Sweetie, do you want Worms and -- I mean, spaghetti?"
"Good. How about a vegetable?"
"No, it's not Boogers and Brains. It's broccoli and cauliflower. At least when Mommy's around."
"I am not undermining anything!"
"Because I'm not."
"Okay Sweetie, do you want milk to drink?"
"Good. Let's color."
"But I need the green crayon."
"Alright, give me the red. I'll color the sun."
"It doesn't have to be yellow. It could be red."
"What about in the evening, when the sun is setting. Doesn't it look kind of red then?"
"I know you're not supposed to stare at the sun. I'm not telling you to stare at the sun. I'm just saying if you've ever looked at the sun in the evening, it looks kind of red."
"Because I'm the Daddy, that's why."
"Trust me, it does."
"I don't know. It has something to do with the atmosphere."
"No, not the atmosphere of the restaurant."
"No, it doesn't have anything to do with how everyone looks and acts on the planet."
"Well, I suppose it does."
"Yes, cars and factories do cause pollution. How do you know all this stuff? You're only seven."
"You watch too much television."
"I know it's public television."
"Yes, I know you learn things from it."
"Don't they teach about sharing on Sesame Street?"
"Good, share the green crayon with me."
"Because I'm the Daddy, that's why."
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Erik Deckers
(published week of April 14th, 2006)
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I'm a Big Boy Now!
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2006
Some people have likened it to herding cats. Others have compared it to teaching dogs to program a VCR. Whatever you call it, it's the challenge of a lifetime.
We're potty training our three-year-old son. Or as I refer to it, "housebreaking," since he seems more interested in doing his business anywhere in the house except the bathroom.
It's not that he's not smart enough to understand it (he is). He's just not interested in doing it at all. He would rather spend his time playing with his sisters or having epic adventures with his Thomas the Tank Engine stuff. He hates interrupting his "brain work," as he calls it, to deal with the daily duties of his, well, daily doody.
"Come on, son, it's time to go potty," I tell him.
"AGAIN?!" he whines and stomps off toward the bathroom.
"What do you mean 'again?' I'd like it if you'd go 'first.'"
He hates going to the bathroom. I've tried reasoning with him, rewarding him, and even clapping like a maniac whenever he does his thing. He just doesn't care. Even the old "this is what big boys do. You want to be a big boy, don't you?" lecture isn't cutting it.
Every time I take him to the bathroom, he just stares at the toilet, as if it's some new sculpture we snuck in during the night.
"What the heck is this?" he's wondering. "I'm supposed to do what in it? I thought that's what this diaper was for."
Then he gets that annoyed look on his face, because Thomas the Tank Engine was hauling a tanker load of ice cream to the birthday party, and now it's going to melt while I make him sit on the can for 20 seconds.
For a while, we tried taking him every 60 minutes, using a digital kitchen timer to count down the time. Every time it went "beep beep beep," he raced to the bathroom. This worked great for a while, but we finally had to stop when he started wetting his pants every time a truck backed up.
But he's getting better. He's even getting to the point where he'll tell us he has to go before he actually wets his pants. This was a big change from just a few weeks ago when he still thought "Daddy, I have to potty" actually meant, "Daddy, guess which little boy needs his pants changed for the third time in two hours."
This is our third round of potty training, but it's actually harder than the first two. We had it pretty easy with our two daughters who took to potty training like a duck to water. That was fairly easy, so my wife and I figured that training our son would be just as easy. We were even foolish enough to disregard our family doctor's advice.
"You've been spoiled by your two girls. But remember, boys don't develop as quickly as girls, and don't learn things as easily. So you'll find yourself wondering whether something is wrong with your son. There is: he's a boy."
We ignored his warning, fully believing that we could handle it.
It turns out, my son could try the patience of Job.
"What's the matter with you? I mean, I thought I had it rough when my servants and cattle died, and I lost all my wealth, and I was covered in weeping sores. But why on earth can't you pee in the freakin' toilet?!"
Our latest method is to give him a penny for every time he uses the toilet successfully. He collects his pennies in a jar, and if he can go through the day without an accident, the pennies go in his piggy bank. If he goes in his pants, he loses his pennies and starts all over.
"This is brilliant!" we congratulated ourselves. "This would be an easy way to teach him about consequences, as well as reward him for his good behavior."
Instead, he's got two U.S. Justice Department lawyers investigating me for pension fraud, my wife is facing a Congressional investigation, and Amnesty International just has condemned us for oppressing our son's personal expression.
But we're still trying to be patient with him. I keep reminding myself that these things take time, and that we should be as encouraging and supportive as possible. He'll eventually get it when he's good and ready.
At least I hope so. His junior prom will be here before any of us realize it.
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Erik Deckers
(published week of April 21st, 2006)
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Because We Don't Need Any, That's Why
Erik Deckers
Laughing Stalk Syndicate
Copyright 2006
"Alright, Buddy, let's get you into the shopping cart.
"No Honey, you can't ride in the cart."
"Because there's no room."
"Because your brother is sitting there."
"Because he's three. He needs to ride up here so I can keep an eye on him."
"No, you can't ride in the big part."
"I want you to walk with me."
"You're old enough to walk now."
"Yes, like a big girl."
"That's right, you're five."
"No, you're not old enough to drive."
"You have to be 16 – I mean, 25 before Mommy and I let you drive."
"No, I won't let you date until you're 30."
"Because that's the age that Daddy feels comfortable in finally letting you move out of the house."
"Who told you I was 26 when I married Mommy?"
"She did, did she?"
"Well, Daddy has some different rules about dating."
"I know Mommy said you can date when you're 16, but I just – look, do you even know what dating is?"
"I'll have Mommy explain it when you're older."
"Because Mommy is going to explain a lot of things when you're older."
"What do you mean, 'like what?' I'm not saying anything for another 11 years."
"Okay, where's the list?"
"Buddy, do you have the grocery list?"
"Sweetie, do you?"
"Oh, here it is. It was in my pocket."
"Yes, yes, that's very funny."
"Let's see, we need milk, eggs, carrots, ground beef, cereal, and potatoes."
"Not tomatoes. Potatoes."
"Not potato chips."
"That's not on the list."
"Because Mommy doesn't want us to get any potato chips."
"Do you know what 'cholesterol' is?"
"Well, Mommy does, and that's why we can't have potato chips."
"No, we can't have Doritos either."
"Because they have cholesterol too."
"Well, carrots don't have cholesterol."
"That's why they're on the list."
"Let's find the milk first."
"That's right, Buddy. Milk comes from cows."
"Yes, that's milk in those big jugs over there."
"No, those aren't cows."
"I don't think the cows put the milk in the jugs themselves."
"Do you know what a dairy co-op is?"
"Those are the people who put milk in jugs."
"No, the cows aren't in the back."
"They live on farms."
"Here's the cereal aisle. We need some Cheerios."
"No, you can't have Cap'n Crunch."
"Because it has sugar in it."
"No, sugar isn't cholesterol."
"Do you know what sugar does to you kids?"
"Well, Mommy does, and that's why we're not getting Cap'n Crunch."
"I know you saw it on TV, but that doesn't mean we have to get it."
"I don't like to buy things I see on TV."
"Do you know what 'crass commercialism' is?"
"Well, Daddy does, and that's why we don't buy stuff we see on TV."
"Yes, that boy is being very naughty."
"I don't know why he's being so naughty."
"It could be that he had too much sugar."
"It doesn't look like he's going to get into trouble."
"It doesn't look like he ever gets into trouble."
"Huh? Oh, I was just talking to myself."
"No, I'm not going to tell his mommy he eats too much sugar."
"No, I'm not going to tell her that he needs a time out."
"Let's go this way."
"Shhh! Don't point like that!"
"And don't call people 'fat.'"
"I don't know why she's so fat."
"I don't know if she eats too much junk food."
"Buddy, stop pointing. And quit repeating what your sister says."
"Buddy, stop saying 'fat!'"
"No, ma'am. I'm sorry."
"Yes, I know it's genetic."
"No, I understand perfectly. I'm very sorry."
"Oh yeah? Well same to you!"
"Come on kids, let's go get the rest of our stuff."
"We'll cut down this aisle."
"Uhh, those are grown-up things."
"Uhh, mommies and daddies use them."
"They keep babies from – you need to ask Mommy when you're older."
"Yes, when you're 30. I mean, 40."
"Yes, Daddy does know what they are. That's why I want Mommy to tell you."
"I don't know if those people on the package are married. Uhh, I mean, yes they are."
"No, we can't buy those."
"Because they – hey, do you want a toy?"
"No, not those."
"Because they aren't balloons!"
"Hey, I know. If you kids quit asking about those, I'll get you some Cap'n Crunch."
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Erik Deckers
(published week of April 28th, 2006)
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