One of the more highly anticipated events of the year for the preschool set took place today. Indeed, the Mini-Puddinette has been talking, and talking, and talking about it for months. Actually, she started talking about it matter-of-factly long before her mother and I even considered the possibility of hosting such a soiree. I suppose we can all take a lesson in the power of positive thinking from my five year-old.

Today, finally, the time her grand 5 year-old birthday party arrived. And there was much rejoicing!

So. In the past, I might have subtly questioned the strange proliferation of organized, offsite birthday parties for kids nowadays that typically include many friends as well as family. All but one of my childhood birthday parties took place at home and never included anyone but siblings and whatever cousins happened to be available for the event. As I was a child with a relatively limited set of social skills, I will concede that, at the time, I might have been less than enthusiastic about having to deal with, what I considered, distant relatives more likely to torment me than celebrate my day.

I’ve clearly been destined for computer work for a long time.

Anyway, the point here is that back when I was a boy, you didn’t get no fancy birthday party with your real friends and high falutin’ activities but maybe once your whole childhood (in my case, 10 years old, Chuck E. Cheese). Typically, you got to pick the kind of cake Mom would bake, and if you were lucky, you might be able influence the menu; many variables went into that, though, such as sales, coupons, and the market price of potatoes. There was no use asking for a roast when the chicken was $0.99 a pound.

At any rate, it turns out I was wrrrrrrr…..um…..wrrrrrronnnn…..uh….I might have misspoken. Offsite birthday parties for young kids are like, The Best Thing Ever. We did the Mini-Puddinette’s party at a local place that does laser tag and has a big room full of inflatable bouncy stuff. Obviously, given her age, the laser tag wasn’t really option, but the kids had a blast being semi-weightless for an hour. We were then brought to our party room where the consumption of much cake took place, followed by the opening of gifts.

I can’t say enough how much easier this was for my life than previous birthday adventures. The place appointed us a “party coach”, whose sole task for the time we were there was to keep our party rolling through all the checkpoints a child’s birthday party should include. Playtime, cake time, gift time, whatever. She kept the clock, she cut the cake, she wrote the damned guest gift list. All we had to do was follow her lead, help out when necessary, and take pictures.

The thing is, events at home are stressful, no matter who is on the guest list. The cake got ruined, huh? Guess who gets the blame. Burnt chicken? That sucks; looks like someone’s making a run to KFC for 30 people – cha-ching! Twenty kids under the age of 9 in your house? Pass the bourbon and hide the cat. And that doesn’t even touch on the 36 hours of house cleaning you have to do before you can have your family over. Sure, sure, family is family, and supposedly not company, but that apparently doesn’t mean you provide them with dirty toilets. Who knew?

The birthday party today was an unqualified success, and I’m sold on the benefits of taking the party on the road. Next time though, two words: full bar.

Pud’n

A peaceful interlude in the midst of a busy holiday weekend is about as pleasant as it is rare. As I write, all of my children are asleep, and it’s just 4 o’clock in the afternoon.

We’ve had a busy weekend, of course, because that’s what you do with summer holidays, you keep busy. Our business (and that’s busy-ness, not an organization dedicated to the generation of revenue) will be capped off tomorrow with a potentially chaotic birthday party event for the Mini-Puddinette (formerly known as The Daughter) including her preschool classmates, all her cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and knowing her, whatever strangers she sees in the road on our way there. It will be loud, chock full of young children bouncing on huge inflatable things, and wonderful. Rumor has it there might be some exhaustion too, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.

On today’s square in the family day planner, we intentionally penciled in nothing besides the year’s First Swim Club Visit. The pools open universally this weekend, and we figured it would do us good to have little else to do besides lounge idly in the pool in the early afternoon, and take in some good old-fashioned sunlight.

Well, ok, so with a family like ours, there isn’t much idling taking place at the pool. The boys swam like fish, my daughter spent three hours kicking like a dolphin, and The Attitude even had some fun playing in “bubbles (his word).” The Puddinpop made his first solo jump off the meter diving board, and then several more followed. Sanford, who I’m henceforth going to refer to as Puddinpop ? The Sequel, made his own first jump off the board, and got much practice in the way of swimming where the water is deeper than a person.

My shoulders are pinkish, now, of course, as is my nose and the top of my head. I’m also sporting a bit of the raccoon look since I find actual sunlight difficult to see in. I’ve been told on occasion that I’m becoming a vampire; I try to make my accuser understand that it’s just because I write software for a living. We computer nerds spend most of our lives in darkened spaces, often beneath ground level, staring at a glowing screen. Clearly, there’s a certain level of mole-like tendency there.

At any rate, the only thing that irks me about the fact that several parts of me currently resemble the Mini-Puddinette’s preferred wardrobe is the top my head. It burns once, at least, every year, for no better reason than I tend to forgot ballcaps. The fact is, the top of my noggin is somewhat lacking in follicular density. I have just enough hair to not prevent the effective application of sunscreen, but each individual hair is far enough away from its nearest neighbor that my skull is completely susceptible to the sun’s blinding rays. So, yes, typically I’m the idiot in the pool with a hat. But not today. Today I’m just crispy.

I’ll take it though, because the trade was a no brainer. My children came home from the pool, wiped out to the point where they had little energy for more than stumbling up the stairs to change clothes in a zombie-like shuffle. I put in a DVD and within 20 minutes, everyone was asleep. The peace here is golden.

The Puddinette and I, of course, did what every couple of middle-aged, intimacy-starved parents one child short of a basketball team does when blessed with a little private time in the late afternoon.

We cleaned up the house.

Hello summer, after the struggles of winter, it’s good to see your shining face again.

Pud’n

I was so looking forward to watching my standard Friday night DVR’d shows this week, right up until I was smacked across the cheek by the scalding hot poker of disappointment. There are but a handful of shows I watch any longer with regularity, and Stargate Universe is one of them. Yes, I realize that it’s science fiction and that kind of thing is frowned upon by the cool kids unless it’s a big summer movie. As I’ve said before, though, I’m a nerd; so it’s totally ok.

At any rate, when I checked my Friday DVR list, and didn’t see my SGU available, I instantly realized exactly how my six year-old feels when I say “No” to having Sprite with dinner. Stupid SyFy, which I personally believe is the most poorly run television network ever, doesn’t like to run its “A” material on the Friday nights before holidays. I guess that’s because they figure their market is out getting loaded and having social lives. It shows how little they understand their target market. Did I mention the nerd thing? Yeah, we aren’t big on the social lives.

So, anyway, I decided to watch a DVD, instead, as the red envelope was beckoning from its place atop the DVD cabinet. The movie was, um, one of those violence-packed action things where something blows up every 16 minutes and all the actors are guys with questionable English skills, steroid-enhanced physiques, and a tendency to shoot…and then shoot again later. It was totally an uber-macho tough-guy movie. Definitely. No question.

Okay, look, fine…you got me. It was New Moon; yes, I watched the angsty vampire romance sequel. I’m not afraid of your judgment. It was for research or something…yeah, that’s it. Now stop looking at me like that!

So, since I’ve been teaching my kids that lying is frowned upon, I’m going to be completely honest. I found the damned movie mostly entertaining, all things considered. I’d prefer if there had been a complete plot with a love story rather than just a romance with some conflict tacked on, but you can’t have everything these days. That said, I believe that Robert Pattinson is quite possibly the worst actor since Keanu Reeves. However, I totally buy the lovesick angstiness provided by Kristen Stewart. I’m not sure how much range she’s got outside of being all mopey and heartbroken, and there are times that look like she can’t find the character with a map, but when it comes to the parts where she’s suppose to be all incapable of living without…um, I dunno…one of those teenage monster boys…well, I can see it.

Oh, and it seems to me that the pale girl has way more palpable onscreen sexual tension with the wolf boy then the skinny vampire. What I’m saying is that if it was the real word and the three of them were tossing back Cuervo and Budwieser in some dive bar, I think we can all agree that the morning-after Walk of Shame would originate from the doghouse and not the crypt. But we’re talking about werewolves and vampires in love with a high school chick here, so I guess the real world need not apply.

Long story short, apparently I’m not just a nerd, but have become a teenage girl nerd. Damn you Syfy, I totally blame you for this!

Pud’n

I wrote something along the lines of 1100 words last night, so I am feeling uber short on both words and themes tonight. I therefore implore you to take this advice to heart — you get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.

Those words of insight were brought to us by The Daughter’s former preschool teacher. Preschool teachers are patient, wise, and have all the best sayings.

I find myself wondering how many total words I’ve written for Puddintopia since declaring my intention to get some writerly exercise*. I think I might even have to look into doing a count. If I reach 120k early, I might call the Puddintopia Writing Challenge complete.

Speaking of the PWC, the ever popular Puddinette (all my friends and coworkers like her better than they like me, I’m not even kidding) pointed out last week that when I slapped up the new website façade back in January, I egregiously misspelled the word “challenge”. For more than three months I was proudly counting down the number days remaining in the “Puddintopia Writing Challange”. Writing challenge, indeed; more like spelling-challenged.

Anyway, where was I? Right, hitting the 120k goal early. Fret not, friends; even if I do manage to cross the finish line ahead of the clock, I won’t stop there, I promise. I might take more nights to work on the budding novel, but I shall not abandon you again, dear internets.

Speaking of our Man Alone, I’m nearly finished with what I will be posting here online. Last night’s entry brought chapter four to a resolution I was quite pleased with, and the next part will be all of chapter five. Originally that was all going to be chapter four, but when I finished last night two things occurred to me:

1. Where I paused the story last night was a nearly perfect natural separation point
2. There will easily be enough content in the next part for a whole chapter, not just a 400-600 word “part”

I love it when stuff works out better than you’d planned.

Something that isn’t working out for me, though, is the title. I need to come up with something better than “A Man Alone”. I spit that out the first night our thirsty friend sprang from my imagination, long before I had any actual plans for him. Anyone like to make a suggestion? You’re certainly welcome to do so. Whoever wins the Puddintopia.com Name the Unfinished Novel contest will receive one free year’s subscription to puddintopia.com.

Don’t everyone ooo and ahhh at once. Odds are I’m going to win it anyway.

Yes, I can win my own contest; this isn’t radio station. Puddintopia.com employees (we have 0), volunteers (1, me), wives (1), and children(4) are all fully eligible for online contests. At least until such a time as this site registers more than 14 average visits a day and offers giveaways where there’s actually something to give away.

Random fact for May 28th: the dangerously unstable Puddintopia.com web server has been running consecutively now for 1 day, 3 hours, and 52 minutes. Perhaps there’s a little life yet in the ole’ girl.

I made mass backups last night, anyway, just in case.

That’s it for tonight; I’m going to watch a DVD. I’ll do better tomorrow.

Pud’n

*Yes, Sweetheart, I know it’s not a real word. Sometimes I like to use made up or nonsensical words on purpose because I think it makes me seem cute. At least now you know where the kids get it, pancake.

Lots of people have jobs that I wouldn’t want to do on a daily basis myself. I wouldn’t be the best server at TGI Appleton’s, and I’d be able to keep an occupation where actual labor was involved for about an hour and 17 minutes. I tend toward the sarcastic, have a vivid imagination, and own the softest little girl hands found outside of banking. At least bankers’ hands get dirty handling wads of dirty cash.

That theme in mind, I decided a few nights ago there is one job I definitely would not be any good at whatsoever: I would make a terrible Tooth Fairy.

I can only surmise that being the Tooth Fairy must be incredibly difficult. For one thing, it’s all night shift work. Nobody does it first shift. Doesn’t matter how many centuries you’ve been at it, you’re working 9 PM to 6 AM, at best. The Tooth Fairy envies the doughnut guy his hours.

Worse than the hours, though, is the uncertainty of the scheduling. Ever driven a delivery truck or worked for FedEX or UPS? Those guys, well, realistically, the logistics people supporting them, usually have a few days, at least, to arrange and prep schedules, If not, the recipient is paying through the nose for overnight delivery. The Tooth Fairy has no such luxury; often a kid will remove a tooth while lying in bed, trying determinedly not to go to sleep. Suddenly, as The Tooth
Fairy, you’ve got another customer that has to be serviced in that one night. And in case you didn’t notice, every night has a limited number of hours.

Now, I’ll readily admit that as a member of the faerie class, I’m sure the little pixie has some magical dust or something that serves to speed the job along. Still, pagan woodland magic can only stretch so far as a tool in the exchange of cash for a child’s teeth beyond the OEM warranty. I’ve no doubt that it would be helpful to know that you can blow a handful of glitter at a sleeping six year-old and have some degree of certainty that he or she won’t wake up while you’re digging under that pillow for a folded tissue containing a recently removed bicuspid. That assumes, of course, that the darling child in question has only the one tissue beneath that pillow. Often times, I bet there are more, full of something that’s decided not a recently removed tooth.

So, in my opinion, it would be really difficult — and sometimes kinda gross — to be the Tooth Fairy. Luckily, I write software for a living and don’t have to shoulder the burden of remembering to trade teeth for a George Washington or two while half asleep in the middle of the night without waking anyone up. Yep, knowing me, I’d fall asleep in my comfy recliner, stumble to bed in the wee hours, and forget to do my Fairy duties altogether. Indeed, that would be catastrophic; a Tooth Fairy that forgets to make a stop one night, no matter the short notice, is the kind of thing that starts a kid on the path to being the drummer in a high-profile rock band, and we all know what happens to them.

Pud’n

There’s never a dull moment in these here parts, and that seems to be doubly true as we stagger through the final paces of the school year marathon towards that magical last day of bus rides. For the kids, of course. I don’t go to school anymore. I have to work. All summer. No popsicles for me.

Sorry. Anyway, tonight’s exciting adventure from the standard routine revolved around the end-of-year Cub Scout awards picnic. All the kids from the local Pack — which is made up of the Cub “Dens” in the area, one for each grade — got together for hot dogs and brats, pasta salad, baked beans, brownies, and badges. The Puddinpop officially earned his Tiger Cub badge tonight. His enthusiasm barely eclipsed my own.

The picnic was supposed to be held last week, but was postponed due to rain. To be completely honest, I am terrible person and had every intention of skipping last week in favor of finding some other way to spend quality time together with the family. Regardless, I got lucky and found out that there would badges awarded in time to commit us to attending the ceremony. I would not have selfishly deprived the Puddinpop of a badge ceremony even if it meant teaching a full night of knot-tying.

Here’s the thing: I’m not Cub Scout material; I’ve never been Cub Scout material. I endured the Den this year because the Puddinpop seemed genuinely interested in September. Of course, that was 9 months ago. He’s seven years-old and has to commit a lot of time to thinking about deer and learning how to moonwalk properly. His interest in all things Cub-related unsurprisingly waned rather quickly. What we were left with, then, was a regular Tuesday event in which neither of us really wanted to participate. However, because I’m apparently both part sadist and part masochist, there’d be no calling it quits.

No, sir, when you sign up for something, you’re committed, by golly, and you see it through…no matter how badly it makes you want to burn your eyeballs out of their sockets with a plastic soup soon and a Zippo lighter.

For the record, lest anyone think that I’m passing judgment on the quality of the Cubbery around here, shame on you. The Den and Pack leaders we had the opportunity to share time with this year are a very dedicated bunch of volunteers, committed to helping the kids have a great time while learning some valuable lessons. The fault here is NOT to be found with the Dan Beard Council.

The thing I’ve come to realize is that I’m just not the “crafty, always-be-prepared, leave-no-trace” type. I’m fond of air conditioning, keyboards, and solving logic-based problem. Not surprisingly, I myself was never a member of any troop, pack, or heathen horde as a kid. I used to think it was because my parents didn’t like me, were punishing me for…um…being born second, and generally just wanted me to be an outcast. Of course, I was seven at the time, so I hope I can be forgiven reaching those
rather spurious conclusions. It turns out that they didn’t hate me so much as they really just knew me better than I did. As a child, I would have made it exactly 1.3 Den meetings before being officially over it, at which point the lobbying to retire my briefly worn neckerchief would have began. As the weekly whining became incessant, my mother would have had to remind me – likely more firmly and at a higher volume than I found comfortable — that I had begged to sign up for it, and I was going to stick with it because once you commit to something, that’s what you do.

See paragraph 3… the sadism and masochism come naturally.

So, anyway, now that I’ve made it through a full year of Cub Scouting, I can saw in all earnestness that I wouldn’t have traded the past nine months’ worth of Tuesdays for anything. Because, let’s be honest, the days in which I can expect my sons to need or want me to do hokey stuff with them are numbered. So I’ll take what I can get. Still, I think the Puddinpop and I are both glad the year is finally over.

And oh, yeah, Mom and Dad still know best.

Pud’n

We had quite an eventful weekend here at la casa de Puddin. I already mentioned taking the day off from work on Friday so The Daughter could attend a party while I finished revising a short story; incidentally, the Cyclones won the Kelly Cup. It was good day.

Saturday was, surprisingly, even more action packed. Well, ok, maybe not exactly action packed, but certainly chock full of infrequent excitements! Not only did the Puddinette and I have an opportunity to meet some old friends for dinner and a few drinks (thank you, kind in-laws, for the volunteered babysitting!), but the Puddinpop finally got another a chance to observe a family of deer up close and personal.

My eldest son has been obsessed with deer for just over a year now. Last year, on a pleasant Spring Break afternoon, the kids went out to play on the swing set in the backyard but came roaring back in the house moments later clamoring about a baby deer. A fawn was nestled up against in the back of house, trying to stay out of the way. The little thing stayed there all afternoon, and my kids stood on our postage stamp deck the entire time watching the baby deer nap. It took the call of dinner to force them to leave their observation post, and in the 10 minutes that they inhaled some mac and cheese, the doe returned to claim her offspring. There was no sign of either when the kids went back outside.

The Puddinpop is the eldest son of a pair of dorks (well, I’m a nerd, she’s a dork). When he takes a shine to a subject, then, he has to know everything there is to know about it. Thus, that afternoon visit kicked off a compulsion to learn every fact scientific research has ever produced regarding deer, and he’s spent the last year doing exactly that. While we were initially surprised to find a fawn alone in suburbs, we now know that it’s a very common occurrence. Fawns have no scent for a week or two after birth, meaning they have nothing to trigger the interest of predators. Momma deer does, though, so she’ll leave a young ‘un someplace seemingly safe while she hunts for food.

Personally, I’m honored that our backyard seems safe to the local cervidae. Ever since, I’ve been looking out the back window expecting to see Uncle Remus whistling Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah before a collected menagerie of woodland creatures.

At any rate, since the dawn of spring this year, the Puddinpop has been on Deer Patrol. I suggested that he’s not likely to just go out into the neighborhood and find them, especially since he’s got a pretty limited range of approved area in which to search. He is only 7; we’re not letting him wander the suburbs freely just yet. Saturday morning, though, he and his brother were invited to play in someone else’s backyard. While there, they came across a doe with two fawns, tiny little things huddled separately under a pair of bushes at the edge of a small wooded patch. He came tearing into the house moments later, bristling with barely controlled enthusiasm and calling for his Fisher-Price camera. For weeks, he’d been waiting in the front yard for a deer to wander by and occasionally leaving small piles of deer-type foods on our front porch, hoping to tempt a passing critter. All his work came to fruition Saturday, when, with steely nerves, he snapped these:

My dedicated Puddinpop spent almost all of his Saturday afternoon sitting completely still, watching a fawn from a few yards away. It is truly miraculous, the way the world works; your average seven year-old won’t stop moving long enough to eat breakfast in the morning, but a family of wild deer has the power to keep them mesmerized for hours on end. And it was very, very good.

Pud’n

I’m in a mood tonight and have no excuse for it. There’s absolutely no reason I ought to be grumpy. I took the day off from work to spend some time with the boys while the Puddinette and Lil’ Princess went to a birthday party a classmate. While they were gone, I took Sanford and The Attitude to Skyline for lunch to reward the former for a recent spate of excellent behavior. He got to pick the place for his Good Behavior lunch and to my good fortune, he likes chili as much as his father.

By the way, the Cyclones are, as I type, leading Game 6 of the Kelly Cup Finals with a score of 2-1. If they win tonight, they’ll be drinking from the Cup. It’s late in the third period; my fingers are crossed.

So I didn’t go to work today and enjoyed a really nice lunch with two of the boys. After lunch, I did some final revising on a short story I think I’m ready to submit to a few places for potential publication. I have absolutely no idea if the thing is worthy of being rendered in print, either in a magazine or online, but I feel pretty good about it at this point. I do know for certain that I’m very glad I took up the Puddintopia Challenge a few months ago; the regular practice has definitely had a measurably positive effect on what I do every day.

So, still, no explanation to be in a mood.

We had a nice dinner of Red Baron pizza and a salad-bar salad that contained more accessories than greens. The thing was perfect: hard-boiled eggs, sesame crunch sticks, real bacon, tomatoes, thinly sliced onions, croutons, sunflower seeds, various additional tasty things, and, oh yeah, a few errant pieces of romaine. I think I might have enjoyed the “salad” more than the pizza. It was a nice Friday evening dinner, either way.

So here it is, Friday night, the kids are in bed, and I’m still in a mood for no apparent reason. Sure, there’s some weather out there, but I’ve always liked it a little rainy. Actually, I like it downright stormy too. So that’s no excuse either.

In the time it took me to write everything from Skyline to the weather, the Cyclones’ held out for a 2-1 victory, and are at this moment skating the Kelly Cup around US Bank Arena in front of a raucous crowd. It sure is good to know that we can eventually win some kind of sport around here!

So maybe I’m not so much in a mood any more.

I have to say, I really can’t stand it when I get irked for no good reason. I don’t feel like myself at all when I’m moping about. Also, a little random funk always makes me worry that I’m getting up towards menopause, and no one wants to see me taking hormone replacements.

Silliness aside, it’s a damn good thing to know you can always count on something to get you back on the right path. For me, tonight, it was a little writing while I listened to an online hockey feed. I do believe now that it’s time enjoy a celebratory beverage from Stone Brewing to commemorate the big win tonight. Congratulations to the 2010 ECHL Champion Cincinnati Cyclones, and thanks fellas for giving me a little de-funk catalyst.

Pud’n

Huzzah! I has returned from a professional hockey game. The local minor-league guys, our very own Cincinnati Cyclones, won Game Four of the Kelly Cup Finals tonight and currently lead the series three games to one. Tomorrow night they could totally win the Kelly Cup for the second time in three years. I would SO love to go to that game too, but I have the family responsibilities, and the wife was already WAY gracious in not throwing a fit when I deserted the homefront on a weeknight for hockey purposes. So I think I’ll not press my luck. Instead, I’ll listen to the game online during bath time tomorrow night. You know, unless someone wants to watch four kids for three hours so the wife and I can have us a Kelly Cup Finals Date? Feel free to volunteer.

Beyond the news of hockey victory, I am surprisingly lacking for entertaining things about which to ramble incoherently. You can probably go ahead and assume, then, that this post will be containing less awesome than usual.

Apologies aside, I did find out something new and interesting tonight. Apparently, I could still play college hockey, if I so chose. My alma mater, Northern Kentucky University, has a club team which I’m told takes anyone that shows up to play and is considered a full-time student. The rules say a graduate student is full-time as long as he/she carries at least 6 hours. So, if I was to decide to pursue a Master’s degree in, say, Literature, I could also play hockey….at 37 years old.

Surely this would make my wife, children, parents, and in-laws incredibly proud. I mean, there’s almost zero chance that the twenty-year olds I’d be playing with would skate circles around me while making derisive hand gestures as I searched for my Geritol right? Plus, I could get everyone an NKU Hockey t-shirt or jersey for Christmas!

Hmmmm, maybe I’ll stick to the full time job and the recreational beer league. Probably a better idea; I wouldn’t want to show the kids up with my mad skillz.

Quick random movie note: I watch Up in the Air last night. I found it quite entertaining, although I’m not completely sure I liked the ending. Still, it was absolutely a worth the not-quite two hour investment, and I’d officially recommend it. Also, I know that people are fairly evenly divided on the George Clooney issue, but I have to admit I tend to enjoy his movies. Dude seems cool, is from the K-Y, and digs beautiful little Italy towns. I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt.

I’m off work tomorrow and have plans to do some writing and editing. So, enough randomness for one night.

Pud’n

PS: Go Cyclones!