At a cookout a couple of weeks ago, #1GF!’s three year old niece was crouching in the middle of the yard…

3 Year Old: Oh noooo!
Me: What’s the matter, honey?
3 Year Old: The ants are eating the cracker!
Me: That’s ok. It’s on the ground anyway.
3 Year Old: They’re taking little pieces!
Me: Yup. They’re taking it home.
3 Year Old: Those are probably the mommy ants taking the food back to the babies.
Me: Sure, Ok.
3 Year Old: And there’s ones on the side not doing anything.
Me: Yup.
3 Year Old: Those must be the Daddy ants…

It’s no secret that I’ve been getting my hair cut from the same guy for the last 18 years. He doesn’t even ask me how I want it any more. He just cuts it, shaves my neck with a straight razor, and sends me on my way. I think it’s one of the few places that I’m a certified regular.

Today, his daughter brought in her 3 kids, who range in age from weeks to five years. When her mother would say things like “I hate that,” the middle girl, who is about two and as cute as a button, would chastise her for using “bad” words. While I was getting my neck shaved, she started sweetly singing, causing me to laugh so hard that I’m surprised that I didn’t get my head cut off. Before her mother stopped her she was singing,

“Shit is a bad wooooorrrd. Shit is a bad woooooorrrdd.”

I guess she made the song up earlier and had been performing it at the top of her lungs at a local department store before her mother had quieted her down.

Concerned Parent: Do you know how dangerous myspace is?

Admiral Ackbar: Come on.

Concerned Parent: There are predators that prey on children there.

Admiral Ackbar: Oh come on. It’s media hype. Predators have been around for a thousand years. That’s why your parents told you not to talk to strangers or get in vans with clowns. Right now, the media hypes the predatory hunting ground as myspace to freak people out and get them watching the news. 20 years ago, the same stories ran about telephone chat lines for the exact same reason. And in the beginning, the news was controlled by the Church, so the story was quietly squashed so as not to choke off the supply of alter boys. Oh, and video games cause violence and Judas Priest kills children.

Concerned Parent: [stunned] But, I like Judas Priest.

Today, I found out that my ultra-kick-ass suggestion of ROCKIN’ STEVE AUSTIN will probably go unused because the woman who I suggested it to is having a girl. Also previously unknown to me, to extend a naming trend, she is trying to pick a name that starts with the letter “M”. Not allowing myself to be beaten, I did a tiny bit of googling for a list of more suitable suggestions. I sent over my list:

• Mavis,
• Meghan,
• Maisie (optional middle name: Doats)
• Madhulika,
• Majondra (”Jon” is hidden right there in the middle like a piece of spyware),
• Marilyn Manson (for double word score),
• Manhattan (probably a career choice limitation name),
• Manjula (optional middle name: Nahasapeemapetilon)
• [The mother’s name] v. 2.0,
• And then there’s Maude. (Compromisin’, enterprisin’ anything but traqulizin’ Right on, Maude.)

She was somehow unimpressed with any of my suggestions.

I headed to lunch and found myself staring into space thinking things like “Mango? No. Minty? No. MooMoo? No,” until I realized that my coworkers had noticed that I was randomly staring into space and laughing. I was forced to let them in on the project.

After lunch, I sent my second edition, explaining that even though I had incurred additional cost by outsourcing some of the work, the baby naming service would be free of charge if there wasn’t a clear winner on the list. I even categorized them for easy perusal:

Uncategorized

• Moon unit (not original, but only used once by the Zappas)
• Maxine (virtually guarantees a job as a waitress)
• Massasoit
• Mabaline
• Mila
• Mariah
• Mackenzie
• Mary Jane
• Mandy (you came and you gave without taking, but I sent you away, Oh Mandy…)

Career Limiting Names

• Misty (borderline)
• Monique (borderline)
• Mercedes
• Mocha

Nice, But Almost Guarantee Teasing

• Melanie
• Monica
• Mona

TV Raises Modern Children, Let it Name Them

• Mickey or Minnie
• Markie
• Marsha (optional middle Marshamarsha)
• Marcy
• Maggie or Marge
• Mallory
• Mothra
• Morgan Mindy

I’m not saying that we won the contract, but I will say that there was a very strong reaction to both “Mocha” and “Morgan Mindy”.

If you have your own bids on this contract, post them in the comments…

So, this past weekend we drove up to New Hampshire to see #1GF!’s niece perform in a dance recital. Given that I have had testicles since birth, I was sort of against doing the dance recital thing, but there was no real way to attend the niece’s birthday party while missing the recital. I really think it was cleverly planned as a package deal by the womenfolk of the family.

On the drive up, we noticed that on the official Cow Hampshire border sign, they’ve replaced the slogan “Live Free or Die,” with “You’re going to love it here.” I don’t know who pulled off that slight of hand, my friends, but being allowed to pussify the U.S.’s most kick-ass state slogan is like jamming Mr. T. into pink hot pants, calling him Mr. Theresa, and thinking no one would notice or care. And I pity that shit, my friends. I pity it to hell. Once they slip the death reference out of the slogan, it won’t be long before they’re forcing bikers to wear brain buckets and charging sales and income taxes. Then, Taxachusetts citizens will have no taxless, barbarian neighbors to the North to threaten our officials with, and we’ll all end up at the mercy of big government. So, do us all a favor and put the damned slogan back before you wreck everything.

Anyway, once we were safely “loving it” across the border in Massachusetts’ fastest growing new suburb, we headed to #1GF!’s niece’s dance recital which was to be attended by the little one’s teacher, “Miss Alexis,” who I would only refer to as “Missile X’s” complete with missle sounds and forearm crossing, superhero exploding X noises (for the kids benefit of course).

I have to say that I was a little confused when we were actually introduced to Missile X’s because in my day, an elementary school teacher was a pudgy, middle-aged woman in a long skirt and stubby heels who was addressed by her last name, not her first. Given the number of years that I was a recipient of a fine, public education, when I’m set to meet a teacher, that’s what I’m expecting. If you introduce me to a nice looking twenty-something with a nose ring, I’m going to retreat in confusion and just listen to the drums to “Hot for Teacher” that have involuntarily filled my head until drowned out by whatever Shirley Temple music the recital happens to start with.

Once the show started, I spent a lot of time laughing my ass off at the really young kids who couldn’t have been corralled into a routine even if they could’ve been stopped from waving. In the middle of thoroughly enjoying the sixth or seventh act in a row, I suddenly thought to myself, “Oh fuck. Have I finally crossed that age where I actually like dance recitals? Shit, I think I have. Double shit. From here it’s only a short jump to putting the hat collection in the rear window of my car or stuffing rolls and sugar packets in my pockets at restaurants. We can safely say that if I ever had a temporary visa to Coolsville, someone, somewhere officially just tore it up for good.”

Then, at some point toward the end, the recital got a little weird. I’m no prude, but when pre-teen girls start doing gyrating booty-shaking dances to thump-thump music, I get a little embarrassed. When it happens in the middle of a dance recital, I now know that I officially get creeped out. The girls looked as uncomfortable dancing as people were watching it, and I just sort of stared at the floor until the whole thing was good and over. If I get a vote, I’m voting that we save that shit for the buxom, legally-aged glitter critters at the Conference Room Mashpee.

After the recital strangely and abruptly ended without the expected bowing encore, we headed back to the cabin for the birthday party. The kids are always a blast, and I think my favorite moment was when one niece wearing green pajamas turned to the other and said, “Hey. Make pretend that you hate green,” and then ran out of the room squealing, chased by a sister who for that moment suddenly sought to destroy anything green. I love it when kids come up with strange things like that.

Soon after, we had to hop in the car to start the long trek back to home, leaving me to reflect on the day in between picking CDs to keep #1GF! calm in the nighttime downpour that invariably seems to manifest itself on the ride home from the state formerly known as “Badasssss.”

Today was bring your kids to work day. The sound of little girls giggling while I was trying to figure out IP ranges for sites halfway around the globe drove me absolutely batshit insane because we all know that work is work and no place for fun. The minute that I heard that run through my head, the childrens’ laughter was no longer distracting or bothersome.

Although one girl kept calling me Paul, and she explained that perhaps she was thinking of Pope John Paul, and just forgetting the Jon. I thought that was somewhat reasonable coming from a seven year old, given all the people that she had probably met that day.

That was, until when leaving, she said,

Girl: “You know this is really like you dying.”
Me:: [staring]
Girl: No, it’s like I probably won’t see you again, so…
Me:: [staring]
Girl: It’s like you’re dead. What, mom? It is.”
Me: Ok, then. See you next year.

I guess there is a guy named Steve that is the host of a children’s show called Blues Clues. On more than one occasion children have thought that I look like him. I looked him up on the web, and despite the fact that we both have brown hair and big noses, I just don’t see it.

4YO: C’mon, Steve, let’s go play.
Me: My name is Jon.
4YO: Jawan? Nooooooo.
Me: It is.
4YO: Are you trickin’ me, Steve?
Me: My name is Jon. Ask anyone here.
4YO: (to another adult) What’s his name?
Adult: Steve.
4YO: C’mon, Steve. Chase me.

On Sunday, I ran into a ex-coworker that I had sat next to for a number of years. She had left our company to raise her two children about four years ago, and I hadn’t seen her since. Even though we had a good working rapport and sat side by side for a number of years, the difference between a serious nerd and a stay at home mom quickly became very apparent, as the conversation dried up in a mere 10 minutes. I really wanted to talk more, but there was really nothing left to talk about. Time had dried up all of our common ground.

My favorite moment during the conversation came when I was introduced to the woman’s four year old son. When asked if he would say “hello” to me, he smilingly blurted,

“Hello, dick nose.”

If you’ve never met me before, and I’ve asked you to meet me at some sort of cookout (probably to pick up some secret documents regarding national security), I’ll be the tall guy being trailed around the yard by everyone’s kids.  A rough estimate will show that I will only know less than half of said children by name, and a quarter will only be able to speak well enough to be able to notify me of their intention to “get me.”

Now if this worked on pouty models, I would have some real trouble.

Lefty
Dad to 4 year old daughter while playing catch:
Dad: Are you left handed?
Girl: (exasperated) No, Dad.
Dad: Then why are you throwing with your left hand?
Girl: (exasperated) Because I can’t throw as good with my right hand, Dad.

A friend asked me what I thought were good baby names for a girl. I suggested the following (last name changed):

• Dr. Mary Smith
• Ellen Smith ESQ
• Sister Mary Margaret Smith
• Jonathena Smith
• Dyerella Smith
• Barbarella Smith
• Lea, Greeda, or Hana Solo
• [whistle] Seven
• Pepsi
• Mercedes, Porsche, Bambi, Bubbles, and other exotics
• Hootie McBoob
• Joey Jo Jo Junior Shabadoo

Even though I am hurt by the outright rejection of these fine names, I was glad to be involved in the process.

Morning
We saw two houses in the morning, both crap holes, both overpriced. One had a really fat, nice dude in it. The other was on pilings, and was full of whisky and shamrock.

Afternoon
After seeing a half-hour commercial from Dollar Bill’s Discount World a couple of weeks ago, I have wanted to go up to New Hampshire to see it. It’s simply a dollar store, but the owner seems to be a corny nut. So, seeing as we had no plans on Saturday, I suggested that we spend the day in New Hampshire or Maine…And if we were going North, we might as well hit Dollar Bill’s on the way, right? Right.

It was as I expected: tons of cheap crap. As a bonus, the nutty owner kept making corny announcements on the P/A System. While I wasn’t smirking over the announcements, I was smirking over the crap.

Without spending more than $20, we got coloring books for the nieces, ping pong paddles for my parents, a pizza pan, two sets of “sports maracas”, a giant gift bag, and two plastic bees on sticks to shove in the GF’s sister’s garden. Oh, and I got a Coke. The items that I passed up included were: shirts with wolves on them, anything with a wizard or indian on it, and an umbrella hat.

Evening
For a couple of hours in the afternoon, we tooled along exploring a little bit of NH, ending up at the GF’s sister’s house. Children are not only fun for making chalk drawings and playing, but I learned that they are just heavy enough to fix any problems by walking on your back.

One Lesson
I watched a two year old pick up a toy that he had never seen and listen to the Spanish word for trumpet: “La trumpeta.” He would listen, look at me, smile, and say, “la tupeta.” He later growled “swoooooooorrrrdddd” and chopped away at my legs for a while. I don’t think I told him how amazed that I was, as I couldn’t remember the Spanish word for “amazing.” Plus, give me a break, the kid had a fuckin’ sword.

Two for Fighting
The GF and I had a little spat about weekend plans on Sunday. They happen very infrequently, but they do occur. We were going to see a dance recital, and she wanted to stay at her sister’s overnight. As her sister has two little ones that are up when children normally are, and I was exhausted from the virus hell of last week, I knew that there would be no chance of recovery if I stayed. I figured that I would follow her and her mom up for the day in my car, see the recital, hang out a bit, and drive back in the evening by myself. That way, I wouldn’t poop on anyone’s overnight plans, and would get in some much needed rest. Everyone wins.

As I don’t know women well, I had no idea that my compromise was not a compromise. Compromising would’ve been me staying at the sisters. I thought that was called a sacrifice, but I’m still not sure. All I know is that I obviously made the wrong decision. As I tried to point out that she was telling me that I sucked and was an a-hole for not staying, she pointed out that those were not her words. This was true. My statement was merely an exaggerated interpretation of the impression given as run through the Jon-Translator. Then, as time slowed, she dropped the bomb:

“I wonder how badly Jenn really treated you.

Ohhhh shiiiiiiiiit. The girlfriend had just sided with the ex-wife from hell. Pigs flew around chasing the monkeys that flew out of my butt back to a hell that had completely and utterly frozen over. The words hung in the air and time stopped. If someone jumped in the air, I know we could’ve done that cool matrix style fighting (I really should’ve thought of that…).

I had pondered this point many times on my own, but when coming from someone else, the possibility stung. I really almost left, although a bit dramatic even for me, but nothing should be taboo in an argument, and I felt the need to stay and finish the fight off.

At that point, I had decided that I wasn’t going at all, and got in my car to leave. Within seconds, I caved when I saw how unhappy the GF had become. Even though I’m not one to back down, I’m not one to hurt people, either. I decided to breathe, and just go back to the original plan where I thought everyone won and pretended the previous hour never happened.

On stage of the dance recital, what does one of the little girls say while waving? Hi, Auntie? Nope.

Hi, Jon.

Worth every penny. Children of the world: Take me as your king.

Three Times Wrong
At a Dunkin’ Donuts on the South Shore before leaving for said recital, I noticed a blonde girl in the car next to me. As her boyfriend came out of the DD, I noticed, as utterly gay as this sounds and shameful as it is to admit, that he had nice eyes (wrong to notice, and double wrong to comment on). Two hours from the DD and four hours later, the same kid and the blonde girl were in line at the dance recital.

Just an odd coincidence.

P.S. Never used the phrase “purdy mouth” in the above section. Still not gay. Thanks. Have a nice day.

Twenty Rounds
To parents: Please don’t put your eight year old boy in dance lessons unless you have been intentionally raising him as a girl since birth. And for god’s sake, don’t make him wear sequined vests or a sailors cap. I saw that kid this weekend, and by the look on his face, once he can legally access a rifle, he will. He barely looked up the entire time, and only smiled when he tapped this funny rhythm that went: -.- .. .-.. .-...