Clark Kent's Lunchbox

My Stepdad's Not Mean, He's Just Adjusting

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 11:30:00 +0000

My wife and I were bored the other night and decided to pull out an old DVD (I suppose in a broader sense, DVD's in general are old these days). After 20 minutes of deliberation, we finally settled on Death to Smoochy staring Edward Norton, Robin Williams, Catherine Keneer, Jon Stewart and Danny DeVito (who also directed it). If you've never seen Smoochy, it's a dark, farcical comedy about the kids entertainment industry (but it's NOT a kids movie).

In one of these scenes Norton sings the song, "My Stepdad's Not Mean, He's Just Adjusting," which I totally forgot about. Ash and I rolled on the floor for another 20 minutes, laughing till our guts ached. What made it so funny, aside from the subject of the lyrics, was how the message directly related to me.

I wish I could say that I was immune to the frustration in adjusting to my role of stepdad (which ironically coincided with me also losing my job), but I wasn't. There were a lot of moments when the girls thought, "This guy's a nut-case." Thankfully, I made it to the other side, and being a SAHD turned out to be the situation that helped us all through that transition--that and a sense of humor, which when Sugar Milk hits stores (it's about to go into production, so not much longer now), you'll see a lot of examples of this.

Kind of like the song.

There's quite a lot I've learned about being a step-dad, enough to start sharing more of it with others. The article link below is something I've written on how to deal with the other dads in your kids' life. If you like it, I'd ask that you please forward it around to others who you may feel it would benefit. Thanks.

Dad in the Middle: A Stepfather's Strategy for Co-Parenting with the Biological Father

This Fatherhood Friday post brought to you courtesy of the great bunch at Dad-Blogs. If you haven't joined Dad-Blogs, head on over and join the community.

Halloween Geek Out

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 15:03:00 +0000

Here are a few pics of the girls from Halloween. In the morning we hit the comic book store a did a little Christmas shopping since wearing a costume got you a 25-30% discount. (kids make great coupons.) Yes, I know; the Clark outfit is a rerun, but the girls were begging me to wear it, so I obliged.

And in the late afternoon we hit a Halloween festival put on by the local church. Loads of fun. However, I have to say, for as cool as the girls looked, their candy collecting efforts can only be described as "deplorable."

Pride Comes After A Fall

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 12:30:00 +0000

Last week Ashley and I attended a fundraising event put on by the Young Professionals of Houston in support of city mayor, Bill White’s bid for the U.S. Senate. Our presence wasn’t due to our rampant political activism per se (I was surprised to learn that Mayor White was a Democrat, this after he’d already completed two terms as mayor.), but because of Ashley’s work in designing the invitations. In recent month’s Ashley has been doing more and more freelance work, growing a client base that now spans across the country. The increased demand, by her admission, is baffling, but not to me. What separates Ashley from the myriad of others able to navigate the incalculable nuances of graphic design software is a little something known as flair, an assertion I am fully qualified to make as a former marketing professional completely free of the biases from being her husband. And despite Ashley’s tendency to downplay this, many, from customers to casual observers, feel the same as I.

The greater significance in this goes beyond the cursoriness of simple success warranting the typical congratulatory remarks, but in knowing the fuller circumstances of Ashley’s story: A substance-abusing father who died of a drug overdose in her teen years; the cheating husband who abandoned her, the struggles as a single mother with two small daughters; the blatant job discrimination and string of lay-offs as a result, the strength she provided to her sister after their mother barely survived an aneurysm amid the afore mentioned hardships; the constant threats of creditors and landlords bereft of compassion in demanding payments, the tormenting forces of anxiety, depression and loneliness. Anyone of these events would be enough to push the sanest of people to the brink of their emotional faculties—me included.

It was befitting then to hear Ashley’s name being applauded in recognition for her creative contributions the very moment after the lady holding the clipboard like St. Peter at the pearly gates asked if she were on “The List.”

“That would be me,” Ashley replied with a blush as the clapping faded.

“Oh, you’re actually a co-host too,” the gate keeper said, a hint of surprise spiked the pitch in her voice as if a member of the royal family had just revealed themselves to her. “And you?” she asked turning to me.

“I would be the ‘Plus One.’” Referring to myself by numerically rather than by my birth name should’ve seemed odd, especially when I’ve had the more experience introducing Plus Ones than in being one myself. Usually I’m also the one playing locomotive to Ashley’s caboose in navigating our way through crowded rooms, but Ashley needed no one to lead her anywhere that night and doing so would’ve proved futile since every time I looked over my shoulder, Ashley was engaged in conversation with someone or another. My function for the evening was relegated to ordering drinks, protecting orphaned purses and learning how to operate the photo function on an innumerable cell phones—duties I performed without complaint.

Returning with another round of vodka-laced beverages wedged precariously between my overextended fingers, I was stopped by the sight of Ashley conversing with Mayor White. There was no anxiety in her face or nervous signs of fidgeting, only poise, and a resplendent comfort in her surroundings and with her current company. Rather than insert myself into the scene, I stood back, content in acknowledging the senselessness of stealing a second of Ashley’s celebrity even in handing her a drink without a word.

Since the day when our bread-winning roles were reversed, Ashley has made a name for herself at work receiving a personalized mention in her company’s annual letter to its stockholders; making her own network of friends (Hi Beth, Liz and Lauren); and as a result gaining a confidence that continues to carry her towards new opportunities. When I congratulate her on these successes Ashley counters with reminders that her achievements were in some way predicated on my presence. I disagree, and furthermore, for me to think so would only be foolish and arrogant on my part. At best, my role is auxiliary to Ashley’s work, having nothing to do with the talent, creativity and know-how that has earned her the credit she has, for years before me, been due. The fact that the Mayor personally asked Ashley in their conversation to do more design work for him in his senate campaign further proves my point.

Towards the end of the night, I joined my wife and her friends outside for a cigarette. (Yes, I know, but we belong to that nefarious group of commitment-challenged individuals responsible for the creation of that category known as “social smoker.”) As people sauntered up to our little huddle social smokers, Ashley and I were limited to only visual contact. From my vantage point on the other side of the awning where we were all gathered, I could see Ashley chatting away with those that surrounded her, and mentally I rehearsed the dexterous mannerisms of Don Draper wielding a Lucky Strike. As I continued to entertain myself, a young blond asked me for a light to which I obliged with all the coolness of a true gentleman from the late 1950’s. This in turn lead to a conversation over the course of which, I noticed my wife flash her eyes at me in an amused expression as if to ask, “Who’s the bimbo?”

The smile on my face must have tipped off my present company, and she turned to look over her shoulder. “That’s my wife,” I explained holding up my ring finger.

“Yeah? And how did you meet?” the Blond asked blowing smoke from the long unconcerned drag she just took.

“Online.”

“So that really works, huh?” There was a skepticism in her voice, the source of which I had difficulty attributing to either her own unproductive experiences with e-dating or her questioning the validity of the strength of my marriage.

“Heck yeah!” I responded. What followed was a fifteen-minute oral history of my relationship with Ashley finishing with the purpose behind our presence this evening. I’m not sure if it was the part about me staying home, the five kids, the minivan, or my claim to being a writer (an admission that by itself indicates the number of Absolut and soda’s with lime I had downed), but somewhere along the way, the Blond’s interest seemed to wane. Or maybe she realized her function equated to that of an out-of-date magazine lounging in a dentist office, a mere time-filler for a man in love with his wife and proud of her for getting up after every fall.

Think You Know Incriminating? Yeah, I Wore These Costumes

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Fri, 30 Oct 2009 12:30:00 +0000

I don't know why I'm doing this to myself, but hey, I ran these pics last Halloween so it's like I should still feel embarrassed right? Never mind. In the spirit of the season, and because I'm buried with several other writing projects at the moment, I'll cheat and run these again. Try not to laugh too hard.

Yes, that's me at age 5 (maybe 4?), anyway, my mom was a heck of a seamstress and she took one of my dad's old uniforms (that's his beret) and hacked it down to my size. To add to the realism, she then smeared coffee grounds on my face giving me that rugged manly look (I was the first kid in my kidergarden class to learn how to shave). Don't even ask where that red hair came from, all I know is I don't have it now, thank goodness.

We didn't do much trick-or-treating a few years after this was taken. It's was a religious thing. Honestly, I had no regrets, but I'm pretty sure all those years of repression led to the rest of these other photos...

Halloween 2005: The Amish Pimp. The sign reads, "fine hoes (get it), fair price." What did you expect from a native of Pennsylvania? I was runner up at some big bash people my age shouldn't be anywhere near. When the band saw me, they quit playing they were laughing so hard - I was slightly embarrassed to say the least.

Halloween 2006: Clark Kent. No surprises here, except this is at one of those clubs in Vegas where the celebrities all hang out. We got to feel like rock stars because our friend was a manager and got us VIP seating... never would've imagined that at some point in my life Jenny McCarthy would come over and ask if she knew us from Hollywood (I finally fessed up by admitting I was a screenwriter. Yeah right.). Of course my friends and I had no idea our CEO had flown in from HQ in Miami and would be there too (of all the gin joints, right?). Hilarity ensues. I'd tell the rest, but that can be another post, another day.

And the one I'll never live down... ever.

Halloween 2007: Fire and Ice from the movie, Blades of Glory. We actually had an entire routine and everything. By the way, do you have any idea how hard it is to find a men's large size uni-tard in all of Houston? Neither did I.

Okay, fine. Here's one more...

Last year I didn't get to dress up due to a last minute event, and this year... well, we'll have see about that?

Happy Halloween!

The Chronicles of Nun-Ya

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 13:48:00 +0000

Are there times when it feels like your kids are being a bit too nosy? My stepdaughters seem to have a penchant for this, and it annoys me to no end. Mind you, we're not talking about their innocent and sincere curiosity to interpret the bigger world through inquiries as to the intent behind my actions. I'm perfectly willing to explain things such as how I managed to fix their broken Barbie party helicopter, or why I flipped the guy off at Wal Mart who failed to heed the stop sign as we attempted to negotiate the rigors of the crosswalk.

No. Instead it's the questions loaded with the insinuation of, you have something better/more fun/tastier than I, and I should have it too. Add to this the manner in which the girls will question me, and the needle on my agitation gauge is bouncing frantically beyond the red letters marked "Danger." They know full well those are cookies I'm holding, but they still ask what's in my hand, feigning ignorance in a tone that already has indicted me of a crime before I ever reply. It's much like appearing before a Senate hearing and being unfairly painted into a corner by the leading nature of the questioning. "Oh, so those are cookies in your possession, Stepfather. And what, you thought you'd just keep them for yourself without informing members of Congress?"

These inquisitions are so regular that I've formulated a standard response in the same stonewalling vein of pleading the Fifth.

Allie: Hey, whatcha eating?
Me (jamming another spoonful of ice cream into my face): Nun-Ya.
Allie: Nun-Ya?!
Me: Yeah, nun-ya. As in nun-ya business.

Avery: So whadda doing?
Me (clicking away at the game controller in my hand): Nun-Ya.
Avery: Nun-Ya?!
Me: Yup. Nun-ya business.

Allie: Where ya going?
Me: To get a extra large box of Nun-ya. We're just ran out.

Avery: What are you drinking?
Me: An ice-cold glass of Diet Nun-Ya.

Allie: Whatcha watching?
Me: The Chronicles of Nun-Ya.

My sarcasm hasn't cut down on the frequency of their self-serving questioning; however, watching them roll their eyes as they leave me to my few moments of indulgent solitude causes that agitation needle float back to "Safe."

***

So, the other day while watching the girls get off the bus, I noticed Avery bent awkwardly forward as she walked--gimped actually--towards me. It was obvious that her bulging backpack was forcing her to compensate for its weighty contents giving her the appearance of a pint-sized Hunchback of Notre Dame. Certain that Avery hadn't been afflicted by the same encumbered gait when she left for school, I couldn't help but wonder what she had since stuffed into the backpack. A discarded set of Encyclopedia Britannicas? Fifty pounds of quality Columbian flake? An illegal alien maybe (after all this is Houston people)?

Squinting my eyes, I asked, "Whadda you hauling in that big ol' backpack, girl?"

Turning her head but only slightly enough so as to not throw off her balance, Avery looked up at me and grinned. "Nun-ya."

...smart ass kids.

Happy Birthday To...

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 20:31:00 +0000

...my wife. Thirty-X years ago today the world was made a little more beautiful.

Being the rebel that she is, my wife takes an anti-cake stance for her birthday. Instead she prefers pie - blueberry lemon to be exact. Last year I found an easy recipe for her request and amazingly I managed not to mess it up. Today I'm going for two in a row. I'm no PJ Mullen or The Good Cook, but thought some of you may enjoy the recipe yourselves.

And if you'd like to read the story of how Ashley and I met, you can read about it at this site.

Lemon Blueberry Pie

Pie Filling:
1 1/4 cup sugar
1/3 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
2 tablespoons lemon juice
2 teaspoons grated lemon zest
5 cups fresh or frozen thawed blueberries, rinsed well

Pastry:
2 cups sifted all-purpose flour
1 teaspoon salt
1/2 teaspoon grated lemon peel 2/3 cup shortening, cold 4 + tablespoons ice cold water 1 tablespoon cold lemon juice

Preparation:

In a large bowl combine sugar, flour, salt, cinnamon, lemon juice and grated peel, and blueberries. Roll out half of the pastry (recipe follows) - line a 9-inch pie pan and trim edges. Pour blueberry mixture into pie crust. Roll out remaining pastry to about 1/8 inch thick. Cover pie; trim, turn edge under and crimp. Cut a few vents in top of crust to allow steam to escape. Bake at 425° for 40 minutes, or until crust is nicely browned.

Pie Pastry:

Sift together flour and salt; blend in lemon peel. With a pastry blender, cut in shortening until pieces are the size of small peas. Mix together 4 tablespoons of the water and the lemon juice. Sprinkle 4 tablespoons of lemon water over the dry ingredients; mix lightly, adding just enough additional cold water to hold dough together. Divide dough into 2 portions and shape each portion into a ball. Flatten pastry balls 1 at a time, on lightly floured surface. Roll out to form a circle, rolling from center edge until dough is 1/8-inch.

Some Naughtiness In The 'Burbs

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 11:00:00 +0000

Hey desperate housewives. I've got someone you need to meet. Her name is Petra (Bio) of The Wise Young Mommy. Petra is one of my best blogger friends in whole world, and if you follow her you will quickly see that, in addition to being vibrant, intelligent and funny, she's also an amazing wife and mother. Those qualities alone have earned her many friends and tons of fans. But add to the mix, the spicy subject matter of her other site, Sex and The Suburbs, and you have one hot tamale.

Petra is one of handful that can cover the topic of sex and not make me blush. Her insights are both witty and informative. And now she's writing a book based on Sex and The Suburbs, and she's looking for input from mommies everywhere as part of the research for this project. Knowing Petra both as a person and a writer, I'm sure this is going to be a great book, so I recommend you go to Sex and The Suburbs and join in.

Don Draper's Daddy Issues

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 11:00:00 +0000

Although I watch a fair amount of television, there are few shows that keep me coming back purely because they are “riveting.” Some I stick with for the drama (House, The Unit); some I stay up with out of loyalty (Smallville, Heroes); and some are just plain funny (The Simpsons, 30 Rock). But to earn my highest TV rating, a program has to put my mind in a knot that requires several days for me to untangle. By this standard, Lost stood alone, but now I’ve added another to this short list: Mad Men. Ironically, six weeks ago I could’ve cared less about the tawdry dramas of an ad agency set in the early 1960’s. Frankly it sounded boring to me. That was until one night, out of boredom, my wife and I caught the first episode, which resulted in a frantic ten-day marathon to catch up with the current season. Now I’m riding the Mad Men bandwagon on my way to a full-fledged obsession with the entire cast of baggage-toting characters lead by the debonair yet self-destructive Donald Draper.

This is post is pending publication and can be read in its entirety upon publication.

You're A Girly Man & Other Motivational Workout Slogans: Meet The Fit Dad.

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 06:00:00 +0000

Today I'd like to introduce Ed, a.k.a. "The Fit Dad." Over the last year, Ed and I have gotten to know one another while doing some collaborative work together, and as you've probably already guessed, he's one of those guys that stands around at the gym yelling motivational slogans while you blast your quads--well, maybe not quite like that. Actually, Ed's a great guy, a fellow Superman enthusiast, and above all, an awesome family man with a wife and daughter.

Living healthy obviously is important. At one point in my life I was 30 pounds overweight and suffering through a major bout of depression. A key element in overcoming these obstacles was forcing myself to hit the gym, and the program that worked proved to be simple, doable and overall effective. According to Ed, what I did was very similar to his regiment, which he has designed specifically for busy moms and dads (go here for a free no strings gift). Given the impact getting healthy had on my life, I've kept a link to Ed's site on the Lunchbox (see below). Is this some sort of Chuck Norris-Boflex infomercial? Nope. But I view Ed's knowledge as a resource that can benefit others in the same way it did me. With that, I turn it over to "The Fit Dad."

***

Let’s play “The Suppose” game.

Let’s suppose you decide to lose weight.

Let’s now suppose that in order to lose that weight you’re going to exercise.

Let’s also suppose you’re going to “watch what you eat” in order to lose that extra flubber.

Can we also suppose you’ll go to the gym, hire a trainer or buy a diet book? Will you join a boot camp?

Okay, now that we’ve “supposed” all those things, let me twist things around and make you think.

What is your first priority in this journey?

Is your first priority doing things the quickest way just to reach your goal?

Maybe your first priority is fitting into your clothes from high school and everything else be damned.

Is that right? Are those good priorities?

Nope.

Sure they might get you to your goal and you might get there quickly, but you won’t stay there long.

You’ll revert back to your old self in no time and you’ll hate yourself in the process.

Now that I’ve painted that gloomy picture, I suppose I should tell you what your first priority should be.

Your first priority, whether you want to lose weight, get stronger, get rid of your gut, be “healthier”, or whatever else, should be your body.

Sounds simple, right?

But do you know what that actually means?

It doesn’t mean you should become a narcissist.

It also doesn’t mean you can flex your muscles in front of every mirror, ask random people to feel your “guns” or fix your hair and make-up every time you see your reflection.

Don’t get me wrong; wanting to look better is a great goal. It’s always near the top of my list, but you need more than that.

Making your body your first priority means listening to and understanding what your body NEEDS and WANTS.

You have to understand that in order to successfully achieve and maintain your weight loss goals, your body needs more than to just “look good.”

Your body has certain nutrition and dietary needs that you should listen to.

Your body NEEDS a lot of fruits and vegetables, and other real foods like seeds and nuts in order to perform at its peak while also cutting out the processed junk that leaves you with inflamed joints, a whacked out digestive system, poor skin and hair health and a flabby gut.

Your body also NEEDS to move. You have muscles for a reason – movement – and you don’t do near enough moving as you should.

Sitting for prolonged periods is the worst thing you can do for your body. It hates sitting that long and it tries to tell you by giving you back problems, hip problems and a weak stomach.

Listen to your body and fix those problems.

You need to make your body your first priority. If you do that, everything else will fall into place, including the “look better” goals, and you’ll be a much happier and healthier person.

***

Thanks, Ed! Reading this post sort of makes me feel a little guilty that my body's starting to look like a handful of walnuts shoved into a condom. (That's a picture of Ed doing push-ups while his daughter shouts motivational slogans in his ear. "Push your body to the max, Daddy! Don't cheat yourself! You owe me a new doll! One more set!")

After working it with Ed, The Fit Dad has agreed to offer this FREE GIFT for loyal Lunchbox readers!!!

Come back tomorrow for Fatherhood Friday and my post, "Don Draper's Daddy Issues." And next week I'll have humorous story about my kids' embarrassing Dr. Jekyll / Mr. Hyde tendencies.

As a final note, thanks to all of you who commented and helped spread the info on the homeless American Girl Doll. According to my stat counter, Mattel spent some time checking out the post, so the message was at least received.

There's This Contest. I'm A Judge. It's Really Scary

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Tue, 13 Oct 2009 14:39:00 +0000

Apparently I am highly qualified to serve as a judge for a contest to identify the scariest products around. Despite some of the crazy (and terrifying) stuff brought to my attention already, this is going to be a lot of fun. So what exactly is this contest? Well allow me to turn it over to Tracy, one crazy blogger and the creator of I Hate My Message Board. Take it away, Tracy.

The Contest

It is with great pride that I announce the first annual IHMMB Scary Product Contest. I’d be nothing without scary products like canned pupa and chicken in a can and I’m overjoyed – overwhelmed even – to be able to give back to the blogging community by hosting this award.

Find and photograph a product that is scary in a weird, unusual, wacky sort of way. This post or my Museum of Snack Foods are examples of the kind of scary we mean. Post the photos and any descriptions on your blog with a link back to this post and leave the URL of your entry in comments. If you don’t have a blog, you can post on Flickr and leave the photo URL in comments.

Judging will be based not only on the inherent creepiness of the product but creativity in presentation and description. Go wild! Make a diorama! Stop motion video! Write a play! Make a collage!

The Judges

Aside from myself, the judges panel consists of...

David of Blogger Dad (the brain-child of this contest and the logo designer)

Tracy of I Hate My Message Board (that's me)

Sean of Writer Dad

Margaret of Nanny Goats in Panties

J.D. of I Do Things

Ron of Clark Kent's Lunchbox

(you may have hear of him?)

We’ll be visiting all the entries and might just Stumble, Tweet or link your post on Facebook or our own blogs if it’s particularly good. We don’t want this just to be a contest, we want this to be a community building exercise. What does that mean? Danged if we know, but we highly encourage participants and spectators to go around to all the other entries – leave a comment, talk some smack, kiss some butt, whatever seems to be the thing to do at the time.

Because the surest way to form a bond with somebody is to ask them “What the heck is THAT?!?”

The Prizes

First Prize will receive a I Hate My Message Board t-shirt as discussed in this post and only now going into production. It won’t look exactly like my crude rendering, but the same idea. And also a genuine...

Cheeseburger in a Can mounted in a Lucite box with an engraved faux-brass name plate declaring the owner the winner of the First Annual I Hate My Message Board Scary Product Contest.

And of course bragging rights.

3 Runners Up will receive a random food item of my choice. Could be limited edition Pocky, could be those fish n’ cheese sausages I’ve been putting off forever. The real prize is the anticipation.

Official Rules

Contest open to anyone, anywhere but if I can’t send you the prize because of customs regulations or other shipping problems, we’ll work out an alternate prize.
All entries must be 100% your own photos and text. You can not use other people’s photos or text.
All entries must have at least one photo and text to describe the item. You can do more than this, of course. We encourage you to go crazy!
Absolutely nothing that involves cruelty to actual animals or people. We reserve the right to toss out any entries we find offensive or degrading.
Link back to this post in your entry, either with a text link or logo button (provided below).
Post the photo and description on your blog or your own flickr account and post the url in the comments of this post.
We can’t accept entries by any other method than comments on this post.
You may enter as often as you wish but each entry must be a separate blog entry/flickr photo and make one comment for each entry.
Contest closes 11.59 PM CST October 29, 2009
Winner will be announced by 11.59 PM CST October 31, 2009
Winners will be notified by email, please comment using a valid email address that you check regularly. If we can’t reach you by 11.59 PM CST November 7th, we’ll give your prize to somebody else.

Suggestions

Creativity counts for a lot
So does enthusiasm – if it’s a tie-breaker, we’ll go for the person who helped us spread the word.
Judges aren’t supposed to be bribed but you know I bet they’d be tickled pink if you offered.
The more people participate the more everyone benefits. Who knows how many cool blogs and/or photographers this contest will introduce us to?
Visit the other entries! Have fun!
You can share your photos in our IHMMB Scary Product Flickr group (but still make sure you leave your url to your entry in comments)
Join us on Facebook or Twitter - we’ll be sharing the judge’s current favorites and our own scary finds.
If you like this contest, share it with friends. Any tweets, stumbles, sharing on Facebook or other social media is very much welcomed and appreciated.

Feel free to use the large graphic at the top of this post to share word about this contest, or you can use this button sized one:

Thanks Tracy! Well, everyone, let's see those entries. Have fun, y'all!

Why I "Hate" Mattel Toys' CEO, Robert Eckert

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Fri, 09 Oct 2009 15:06:00 +0000

Some of you may be aware of the American Girl Doll and it's latest addition to their line (yes, it's been out for 10 months). I'm not going to expound upon all the details except to share that the doll's name is "Gwen," a homeless child who sleeps in cars with her mother after after being evicted from their apartment because her dead-beat dad left them.

In an absurd twist, "Gwen" also retails for $95 clams, is nicely groomed, and dressed better than most kids. You can read the rest of the details HERE, but there are several issues that I took offense to with poor Gwen.

What follows is the letter I sent to Mattel's CEO, Robert Eckert, outlining those issues.

Mr. Robert A. Eckert
Chairman of the Board and Chief Executive Officer
Mattel, Inc.
333 Continental Boulevard
El Segundo, CA 90245-5012

Dear Mr. Eckert,

I am writing to express my extreme disappointment over your homeless American Girl Doll, “Gwen.” Although I can appreciate your company’s intent to raise awareness for homelessness, as a businessman with an executive level background in sales and marketing, I question your logic, first in determining a target market for which a product of this nature is appropriate, and secondly, in overlooking the obvious paradox in charging nearly one-hundred dollars for a toy representing extreme poverty. Mr. Eckart, this represents poor leadership on your part.

Mattel was once nationally recognized for its philanthropic contributions, but that reputation appears to have receded (again reflecting your deficient leadership during your five-year tenure). In this vein, I find it enigmatic that you failed to take a more proactive approach in the fight against homelessness. Why not create a doll called “Angel,” for example, who helps her father as a volunteer at a soup kitchen or who starts a clothing drive amongst her friends? How is it that you also didn’t think to donate a portion of the doll’s purchase price to a charity dedicated to helping the homeless?

However, Mr. Eckert, aside from the obscene irony in this product, what I take an even greater offense to is the negative representation of fatherhood included in “Gwen’s” back-story. As a stay-at-home dad with five children (three boys and two stepdaughters), I’m wondering why you felt the need to incorporate a dead-beat dad into the equation? How does this help the problem of homelessness? In no way am I defending irresponsible men, but they compose a small minority of fathers by comparison, so what reason justifies placing this cynical image into the arms of an eight year-old girl? On behalf of the millions of fathers who defy the societal stereotyping you are perpetuating, I would like to express what a great insult your “toy” represents.

Furthermore, the problems boys and young men are struggling with today are well publicized, and thus it is less than helpful to market a product that highlights men’s failures. This sends a discouraging message contrary to the original intent of the American Girl line. Instead of fostering positive self-esteem and empowerment, you are telling girls that they will be abandoned by men while at the same time saying to boys this is as high a mark as you will achieve.

Mr. Eckart, I realize that you may never read this letter, that you are probably sitting around some decadent conference table like the farcical executives of Mooby Cow in the movie Dogma, scrutinizing the latest rounds of earnings, while some assistant scans my words. However, I want you to be aware that I am publicizing this message on my blog Clark Kent’s Lunchbox. It has a modest following, with limited reach, but I’m hoping the viral power of social media to influence major corporations’ decisions will cause you to reconsider your poor judgment in merchandising the Gwen doll, as well as with similar products in the future. I’m also hoping that the $7 million in compensation that Forbes reported Mattel paid you in 2008 (along with the additional $6.2 million from your position at McDonalds) hasn’t insulated you from moral reason.

Am I on a high horse? Yes. But sometimes you have to ride one for worthwhile causes like the welfare of our children.

Sincerely,

Ron Mattocks
Writer / Concerned Father

I've been to the American Girl headquarters in Chicago (nearly losing my life--another funny story), and would have loved to see some real homeless child wander in carrying a Gwen doll for a tea party and hair appointment.

Normally, I don't ask for much of readers (I'm just thankful you stop by), but if you feel as strongly as I do, please forward this message through your Twitter, Facebook and other social networking channels. There's just too many idiotic things out there influencing our children to have one more, especially from a product line that once was a vaunted for reinforcing positive self-esteem.

UPDATE: TIME Magazine just named Gwen #1 on their Top 10 List of Dubious Toys

This post brought to you by the great dads (and moms) at Dad-Blogs and Fatherhood Friday.

And also by Kat's Friday series, Dear So & So

I'm An Errant Parent

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Wed, 07 Oct 2009 13:30:00 +0000

Today I am an errant parent... then again, when am I not? Anyway, I'd like to direct your attention to an essay of mine that was published by Errant Parent. If you've never read Errant Parent, it's an online magazine, "devoted exclusively to parenting-related humor with an irreverent, literary bent," and it showcases a number of different writers and contributors. It also has a Facebook Page you can join.

The magazine was created by the talented Whitney Collins who has been published a number of times to include The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature and McSweeney's (I'm jealous). Given Whitney's background and the caliber of writers she's collected for Errant Parent, I'm very honored to have a submission of mine featured in this magazine. I'm also very thankful for Whitney's support of Sugar Milk.

My essay, "Portion Control," involves parental trust issues and lots of vomiting. If you like it, please pass it along. If you hate it, then I hope you enjoy the rest of Errant Parent's content.

Define Irony: My Wife Got Rear-Ended By A Stripper

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Mon, 05 Oct 2009 17:30:00 +0000

Define Irony Part 1

Man writes post about practicality, minivan and a judgemental soccer mom.

Minivan gets wrecked in highway accident a week later.

Last week my wife was involved in a traffic wreck on the freeway as she came home from work. Thankfully, my precious wife was spared any injuries--not even any lingering soreness that we both anticipated the next morning. We are both grateful to say the least.

In a scene typical for rush-hour, Ashley approached the tail-end of the vehicular clog and slowed to a stop. Apparently, the girl behind her was apparently unfamiliar with this phenomena, however. She slammed her Mitsubishi Eclipse into the back of the minivan with enough force to shove it into the Chevy Tahoe ahead of Ashley. Again, thankfully there were no (real) injuries to anyone.

Define Irony Part 2

Woman has diagnosed anxiety issues. Woman gets in car wreck and takes charge in stressful moment.

The girl that rammed the minivan was a hysterical mess, and despite Ashley's anxiety she jumped in like a trooper and got this girl calmed down. Ash drew the line at accompanying her across 3 lanes of moving traffic to retrieve some unknown item that the girl was adamant about retrieving before the cops showed up. We're not sure what this item was, but pretty sure it was illegal... like maybe those turtles from South America (yeah, right).

Define Irony Part 3

Husband's phone get's destroyed and orders new one; in the meantime he uses wife's phone until arrives. Wife gets in accident and has no way to contact husband.

I have a habit of dropping calls--I mean my phone--which resulted in the need for a new cell. To ensure someone was around to sign for it, the phone company would only deliver to a business; hence, it arrives at my wife's office. She was bringing it home the night of the wreck. When anyone would ask if she had a phone, she'd hold up the package. "Yeah, it's right here. Can I borrow yours?" This only happens during those rare moments when you really need to have a cell phone on you.

Define Irony Part 4

Girl claims near crippling injuries to paramedics and is treated accordingly. Girl makes miraculous recovery once cops determine she is the cause of the wreck and is uninsured.

Apparently, this girl thought she was going to get a little bodily injury money out of the deal. When the police figured out what had happened, the girl got out of the ambulance and approached my wife and the driver of the Tahoe. "Didn't you guys already run into one another before I hit you?" My wife and the other lady just looked at her. Through the wonders of MySpace and Facebook, Ashley learned that the girl worked as an exotic dancer... and not a very attractive one at that (not that that would've made a difference). I saw the pictures: she could scare buzzards off a meat wagon setting in the desert sun.

Define Irony Part 5

Stepdaughter gets invitation to birthday party for Dear Soccer Mom's kid.

Man shows up to party in rental car and Dear Soccer Mom fails to recognize said man.

As we wait for the minivan to be fixed, the insurance company's covering a rental for us. The car is nothing special--a grey Pontiac sedan that I have no opinion about one way or the other. In fact the thing is so nondescript, I have trouble finding it in the parking lot. Twice, senior citizen groups on outings to the mall have assisted me in locating it. In both cases it was on the other side of the mall complex. The girls were excited about riding a new vehicle, but when I told them it was a Pontiac, Avery was confused. "I thought NPR said they weren't making these things anymore?" (I'm not kidding.)

When I showed up to the party, Dear Soccer wasn't sure if we had met before. She was also pretty quick to mention that I didn't need to stay. (I hadn't planned on it.) It didn't bother me, but I really hoped to explain to her how my wife got rear-ended by a stripper.

***

PS. If I haven't been to your blogs, returned your comments, or answered emails, forgive me. I'll get caught up this week. Between the wreck and then our Internet connection being on again / off again for a better part of the week, there's not been much time to get things done.

I'm very excited to share an article of mine about barf and trust issues that's being published Wednesday at the humorous parenting site Errant Parent.

Thanks for your comments and support of the cure for JM.

Making The World Better: Help Cure JM

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Fri, 02 Oct 2009 04:01:00 +0000

The beauty of the blogosphere is the ability to help make the world a better place by reaching out to people you otherwise might have never known. Today is on of those opportunities.

Kevin of Always Home and Uncool has asked me to post this as part of his effort to raise awareness in the blogosphere of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with on this day seven years ago. The day also happens to be his wife's birthday.

***

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.

The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions -- none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner -- then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source -- obvious and otherwise -- that we could.

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

This was her gift -- a diagnosis for her little girl.

That was seven years ago -- Oct. 2, 2002 -- the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

That, too, is my purpose today.

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit:

Cure JM Foundation at www.curejm.org.

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to:

www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeever or

www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm

Brought to you by Dad Blogs and their Fatherhood Fridays

Old Timey Movie Extravaganza

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Wed, 30 Sep 2009 11:00:00 +0000

Well, my last several posts have been a bit... um... heavy (and probably too long). My wife is blaming it on me falling off the wagon with my Midol addiction. It's likely I'll be back in Betty Ford by the end of the week.

In the meantime, how about I just show a couple old movies from the golden age of film. Did you know Indiana Jones, Forrest Gump and Ghost Busters were all remakes of originals from the 40's and 50's? No, it's true. Here, watch.

Indiana Jones

Forrest Gump

Ghost Busters

Okay so they're not really remakes, but I thought them very clever. Gotta run. I'll write you all from the clinic.

"Hello, Liza and Lindsay! How long has it been?"

The Hypocrite

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Mon, 28 Sep 2009 10:00:00 +0000

When I wrote the Dear Soccer Mom post, I had no idea it would illicit such a response which is ironic seeing as how I almost didn’t publish it. Reading the comments, emails and tweets, I wondered why it had resonated so strongly with everyone, and what I concluded was that so many of us live our lives without pretention. We buy in bulk to save money, we drive cars that meet our needs, and we extend courtesy to those around us, all the while teaching our children to abide by the same general principles. So, when someone like Dear Soccer Mom looks down their nose at us, it flies in the face of not just our lifestyle but also of who we are. No one wants to be judged for wearing clothes from a discount store or for the dents in their minivan and there’s an indignity that swells within us—an indignity we have all experienced at some point. It was vindicating to see how many people felt the same as I did, and yet, this vindication was damped by an unexpected feeling of hypocrisy within me.

There is a portion of my life that I rarely, if ever, write about covering the years immediately divorce my divorce. There are several reasons for this, one of which being that I think a majority of people as parents would find it hard to relate to the carefree life I lead as a bachelor. And now with Jon Gosselin running around like the biggest tool in Lowes’ hardware section, I doubt many would sympathize with me either. I wasn’t quite as dumb as him, but there were moments. Partying with The Pussy Cat Dolls and Jenny McCarthy, dating gorgeous women, and generally living like a rock star isn’t going to win me any Father of the Year awards. However, what separated me from Jon was a my self-imposed rule never to engage in anything with consequences that would hurt my parenting responsibilities. Thus, no doing lines of blow off hookers’ asses. Even still, I also bought into this image—the hot car, the pricey lofts, the expensive clothes—and although I may not have been as snotty as Dear Soccer Mom, I based my identity on this extravagant lifestyle in the same manner portrayed in my letter. Of course, in the end we know how that turned out for me.

In a three-month span I met my wife, lost my job, and was forced to become a stay-at-home dad. All the major components of my identity were gone and everything I thought I knew had to be reevaluated. The change turned me into an asshole. I punched the console of the minivan out of the anger of having to trade in my car; I lashed out at my wife for having to move to our apartment in the “projects;” and I blamed everyone else for the fact I was apart from my sons. Time has changed my attitude now, but a part of me wondered if my contempt for Dear Soccer Mom stemmed from a jealousy of her owning the comforts that once made my life easier. But I don’t believe that’s the case.

With me staying home, my wife Ashley’s career has flourished, particularly her freelance work with many of her clients being some of Houston’s most prominent, hip socialites. The night after posting Dear Soccer Mom, we attended a party thrown by this hip group of cliental. Ashley was supposed to be a co-host and I thought it ironic that I now played the part of arm candy when a few years earlier it would have been the other way around. Needless to say, there were few parents at the bash aside from a great single father who is also a child therapist. Other than him, Ashley and I had difficulty connecting with the crowd beyond a superficial level.

We chatted with this young district attorney who thought he was impressing us with the details of a serious child abuse case. “Yeah, someone dropped these kids off in my office first thing in the morning and I had to baby sit them all day. They had had the shit beat out of them.” Of course this was horrifying and more so when he told us about having to drop them off back home with the very people he was prosecuting. “Well, not my problem.” He laughed.

Hey Chucklehead, you and your perfect hair wouldn't feel that way if you were parent.

An abrupt awkwardness set in prompting him to ask for direction to the bathroom. As he walked off, I scanned the room. I used to be a regular part of this kind of scene and now it felt like wearing an old pair of jeans from college that no longer fit. This wasn’t me.

The thought resurfaced in my groggy brain the next morning while making a donut run for the girls. A Coldplay song started to drown out mysterious rattle in the minivan’s engine. “The Hardest Part” off their X&Y album. I play this tune at least once a day much to the chagrin of my musically enlightened wife. I’ve heard it hundreds of time before, without ever hearing its message until this past year. It’s about dealing with change, the kind we have no choice other than to accept it which I find apt with respect to the recent events of my own life. I’m stunned into silence every time it crescendos into the end.

Everything I know is wrong

Everything I do it just comes undone

And everything is torn apart

Oh that’s the hardest part

That’s the hardest part

Yeah, that's the hardest part

That's the hardest part

The words are reminder of how little I knew about myself before becoming a stay-at-home dad, how, no matter what I did to get back to that former identity built on the same things as Dear Soccer Mom, my efforts would just come undone.

With the music playing, I thought of reading the blogs of Matt Haverkamp, Eric Skates, PJ Mullen, Justin Howefitz and other great dads with new children, and they amaze me. When my kids were this age I wasn’t half as attentive as these guys. Even back then my struggle to build a false identity overshadowed the joy I should’ve been taking in my children. It took a divorce to finally make me tune into my boys’ needs, then it took me losing my job to understand who I really was—a father. Pulling away from the Starbucks drive-through, another realization occurred to me, one that brought with it an intense sadness: I hadn’t chose to be a father like some of these other dads; instead, I had to have fatherhood thrust upon me through circumstances that stripped away all those unimportant things I had been trying to hold on to.

After brining home the donuts, I went in the bedroom and cried for twenty minutes—partly out of shame for being so selfish and partly out of gratitude for what I know now.

P.S. Found out Friday that Dear Soccer Mom's daughter is having a birthday party next week to which we are invited. As a present we're getting her kid monogrammed bath towels... just like she did for our stepdaughter's birthday.

Dear Soccer Mom

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Fri, 25 Sep 2009 10:00:00 +0000

Disclaimer: Just like stay-at-home dads who don't like the "Mr. Mom" title, I know there are mothers who feel the same about the term "Soccer Mom." If you are one of those (or any) mothers who loathes being categorized as such, please forgive me. In fact, this post is NOT even directed to the "Soccer Mom” demographic but rather, a particular person I had dealings with this summer who I'm referring to as such since she personified this stereotype.

Dear Soccer Mom,

I just wanted to take an opportunity to tell you thanks for having my stepdaughter over for a play date with your daughter. From what I heard afterward, it sounds like they had a wonderful time. My stepdaughter couldn’t wait till school started again so they could see each other every day.

I also wanted to express my thanks for being the first person to make me feel inferior about my life as a stay-at-home dad. It’s entirely possible that I am being overly sensitive here; there is an awkwardness that comes over me when explaining what I do to other men, but this never happens when I’m around mothers. However, from the moment when you came to pick up my stepdaughter and crawled down out of that ten-foot high SUV, you immediately put me on edge without a word. There is certainly nothing wrong with owning a nice vehicle that can also crush cars, nor is there a problem with wearing a skimpy white tennis outfit that failed horribly in hiding your spray-tanned skin, the consistency of which reminded me of a worn out catcher’s mitt. Had this been our first meeting, I wouldn’t have judged you on such a superficial basis, but you brought this upon yourself.

I understand how you could find this claim incredulous given the way you were intently gawking at the buildings in the apartment complex where my family lives. Again, I would’ve thought nothing of it until you hesitated after saying “this place is….” It seemed like you were searching that perfect word to complete your statement, but that pause changed the implied meaning in your use of “nice.” Yes, this place is nothing spectacular. It’s just that, we needed something in a hurry inside this school district, and being in a lease also helps make it easier for a future move to Chicago. I would’ve explained this to you, had you not been busy telling your daughter not to mess up the car’s interior loud enough for my stepdaughter to hear you.

Thanks too for informing me to be early in picking my stepdaughter up since you now needed to run a previously unplanned errand in the afternoon. As you may recall, I made good on your request, but then again, how could you forget, what with the dented minivan I pulled up in. By your facial expression, I thought maybe by parking it in front of your place your property value had dropped by 50%. Forgive me; I’m jesting of course. If the neighbors in your exquisitely manicured cul-de-sac inquire as to the van’s presence, feel free to explain that it was a pizza delivery or that the cleaners had come a day earlier than usual.

Again, maybe I was reading too much into our encounter, but I think not, not when you burst out with, “how did that happen!” after I admitted to being a stay-at-home dad. Maybe there hasn’t been much talk about it the country club, but the economy’s not doing well, so being unemployed is not all that uncommon right now. It was kind of funny the way you chuckled under your breath when you mentioned how your husband couldn’t lose his job because he’s too valuable to his company. I thought that once myself which is why I laughed too.

I hope you believed me when I answered yes to all those questions pertaining to my proficiency at cooking meals, clean our apartment in the projects, getting the girls ready in the morning, picking up groceries and performing all those other duties you pay others to do. And yes, I’m a writer, and I’m happy about it. You’re right, it doesn’t make much money, and sometimes I wonder the same thing you did aloud about not being able to see how anyone could make it financially in such a profession. That’s why I felt compelled to add on that part about my consulting work with financial firms; it’s irregular, but sounds good at least. Besides suddenly not feeling good enough as a person, I didn’t want you calling CPS because you thought the children were living in squalor.

After so many probing questions, I trust you were still able to make it to that unexpected errand in time. You probably could’ve saved yourself twenty minutes by asking the one question that all the others appeared to have some basis in: What tax bracket did I file my 2008 Federal Return under? When you approached us at the school musical, I’m betting that they way my wife and I dressed caused you to believe we all were in the same bracket didn’t it? That’s probably silly of me to think, but I’m only saying this since that’s how you’ve been judging me all day. My wife says all the time that money can’t buy class, and I just got what this meant. Ha!

Well, here’s to surviving the new school year. It’s too bad that the girls don’t seem to be hanging so much now after being practically sisters before the summer break. I’m sorry the several invites for your daughter to have a sleepover don’t seem to fit with your schedule. Honestly, it’s for the best; I don’t want my stepdaughter using the words “Botox” and “augmentation” in her vocabulary until she’s old enough to vote. Despite everything, I do hope your daughter liked the bracelet my stepdaughter made for her to wear on the first day of school. That reminds me; I’ll have to send you an autographed copy of my book when it comes out. See you at the next school function?

Toddles.

- Ron

PS. I noticed you’re 3,500 square-foot home was for sale and I wanted to mention a few things: There are several shingles on the garage roof that need to be replaced; that green stuff at the gutter spouts should be power-sprayed as should the mildew on your siding, and adding a little color to your flower beds might give some curb-appeal. Also, I checked and your home’s been listed for almost six months, it’s priced well above the market and competing with four other newer homes less than a mile away. I guess I forgot to mention that my last job was as a VP of sales for the largest homebuilder in town. Had you not looked down your nose at me so much, I would’ve offered to contact three of the top realtors in the area and they could’ve had it sold before I ever made it back to the projects with my busted up minivan. Now I hope you loose a butt-load on it.

This Fatherhood Friday post brought to you courtesy of the good people at Dad-Blogs. Go there to read other great posts, by great parents. While you’re there, look around and join the Dad-Blogs community.

Additional fun provided courtesy of Kat's "Dear So & So." Join the fun.

Romeo, Romeo, Where Art Thou Ankle Tracking Device?

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Wed, 23 Sep 2009 10:00:00 +0000

My middle son, Harrison is a lady's man with an ability to draw the opposite sex to him in almost any setting. When we lived in Chicago, I took the boys to see a movie. As we were walking into the theater, a little girl and her mother were walking out. Harrison hardly made eye contact with her; still, she got right up in front of him and introduced herself. Being single at the time, I was impressed (and even a little jealous). "Heeeey, Big Guy. She was cute." Without looking up, Harrison shot back, "Dad, don't even ask." His voice sounded almost exasperated, as if this sort of thing happened all the time... and it was getting really old. But this charming smile and feigned shyness of his that's melted more hearts than John Mayer and Nicolas Sparks combined, has created a few issues too.

Over the Christmas holiday, his step-sisters got into a fight after comparing notes and realizing Harrison had kissed them both. And his older brother Noah (who takes after his father's awkward tendencies in this area) often complains about how the girls in his own class flock to Harrison even though there's a three-year age spread. For his part, Harrison has indicated how much he prefers these more mature "cougar cubs." I guess it's because 5th grade girls know what they want out of life or something.

Whatever the case, his mother and I agree-half jokingly, half seriously-that we will be having "the talk" with Harrison well before his siblings. And even though we both are of the mindset to discourage the whole boyfriend/girlfriend thing for all the kids until they reach an age where they are old enough to actually date, this still fails to curb Harrison's undying affections.

This should provide some context for a conversation Harrison and I had a couple nights ago.

Me: Hey, Bud. How are you?

Harrison: Dad, I can't talk long. This has gotta be quick.

Me: Why? What's the deal?

Harrison: I gotta call my girlfriend.

It's something like 8:30PM where he's at, so I'm wondering what's going on.

Me: Your girlfriend? Which one?

Harrison: DAD! You know!

Oh yes. This would be Jill (not actual name), the one where I was instructed to go into a closet where no one could hear Harrison tell me over the phone that he loved her.

Me: Right. Jill. I was just messin' with ya.

Harrison: Her dad's mad at me.

Me: What? Why?

Harrison: Because he told me not to call her anymore.

I'm quite aware of the phone rules where he lives and picking up a phone and calling girls at a whim, especially at his age, is sanctioned at a frequency equal to James Bond saying no to a beautiful woman. Thus, I am even more curious.

Me: Does Mom know you're doing this?

Harrison: She told me I could do it!

Me: Are you sure? How many times have you called her?

Harrison: [Inaudible number]

I started putting two and two together and deducted that my mini Don Draper had been allowed to call his dear, sweet Jill once. However, sometime after that call, he used the "recently dialed" feature on his Mom's cell without her knowledge.

Me: Harrison, you need to listen to Jill's dad and stop calling. Do you understand?

Harrison: I don't see what his problem is?

Me: That's not the point, son. You're being rude, and besides, daddy's are supposed to protect their daughters from boys like you.

Harrison: I don't care if I get in trouble. I love her!

This explains why he's been hounding me for a cell phone of late. It's also why I'm fitting him with ankle tracking device before he finishes the 1st grade.

You see? This is exactly what I'm talking about.

How To Write An Honest Thank You Note: Clark Kent's Icebox

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Mon, 21 Sep 2009 14:04:00 +0000

The girls' dad has a girlfriend who the girls have nicknamed "Poofa." Poofa is very nice, and the girls like her quite a bit. When Poofa and the girls' dad attended the recent Curriculum Night, she brought them a couple things.

This week the girls sat down to write her a thank you note, and they held nothing back. The note was so... expressive, I thought I'd post it on Clark Kent's Icebox.

Like I said, the girls were very honest, almost a little sardonic even.

In case your can't read it...

... they really loved the socks though.

(In truth the girls were sincerely grateful for Poofa's gifts to them. It was just a tough day at school.)

Hot For Teacher

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Fri, 18 Sep 2009 15:47:00 +0000

When Avery gets off the bus in the afternoon, she invariably greets me with an announcement that she has important news. It’s never “Hi, Ron,” or “Salutations, Exalted Benefactor,”—just, “I’ve got important news.” The real letdown, however, comes in the delivery of said “important” news which amounts to such earth-shattering occurrences as some kid dropping their lunch tray or how good glue tastes. Once, Avery told me that her “parts” were hurting, but I shut that story down before she could finish and handed her off to her mother before being subjected to any further unpleasantness.

I’ll admit Avery’s afternoon headlines might warrant air time as human interest stories on FOX News or CNN, but are they worthy of shouting, “Stop the presses?” No, and frankly, I’m tired of having my expectations set so high only to have them go unfulfilled upon learning that today’s big bulletin involved her ground-breaking discovery of bellybutton lint while sitting in math class. Of course, right when I start to remind myself not to get swept up in all her hoopla, that’s when Avery comes up with something legitimate.

“Guess what? I’ve got important news!” Avery said not five steps out the bus door.

“Oh really?” Then I caught myself. Don’t be a fool, Ron. Be strong. “Oh... really,” I repeated but this time with more apathy in my voice, not that Avery cared either way.

“Yeah, they gave us a special note that you and Mommy are supposed to read.”

A special note, huh? Okay, I’m listening… but only because you said it was “special.”

Turns out the news really was special (and good thing too since I planned on giving myself a paper cut with it as punishment for being duped again). Avery was being moved to a new class. Apparently the school’s administration determined three weeks into the academic calendar that the number of 1st grade students exceeded projections, and therefore required another classroom. How it took this long for a bunch of academics with advanced degrees to arrive at such a conclusion baffled me, but I suspected a tie in to the President’s controversial broadcast on education. Bus-stop pundits alleged that the school’s decision to ignore it resulted in classroom behavior deteriorating into scenes reminiscent of town-hall meetings. Furthermore, it didn’t surprise in me in the least to hear that a few kids were spotted with automatic Nerf rifles slung over their shoulders as they heckled some flustered social studies teacher. This is Texas, so what do you expect?

In any case, as far as Avery was concerned, the last several weeks didn’t mean squat: name tags, seating arrangements, birthday charts—all gone, condemned forever to some great art box in the sky. This suited her just fine. As the international poster child for ADHD, Avery thrives on such abrupt changes almost as much as she does overdosing on Red Dye #5. For parents, however, the switch meant going through the whole rigmarole of signing stacks of paperwork, relearning schedules, and getting acquainted with the new teacher all over again which usually requires a Meet-the-Teacher appointment. As a stepfather, I loath these meetings. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if my basic function didn’t consist of me standing around like I’m waiting to catch the 9:15 as the teacher actively engages my wife Ashley and her ex all the while eyeing my name tag suspiciously and playing surname Sudoku.

“It says here that there’s going to be an impromptu Meet-the-Teacher on Wednesday morning,” Ashley said holding the “special” note up to her face. I groaned as an expression my unbridled enthusiasm, but she didn’t hear me. Her eyes were too busy darting back and forth as she skimmed through the rest of the letter. “Mm-kay… alright… ‘kay… and your teacher’s going to be Miss D, Avery.”

“We already met her, Mommy.”

“Oh yeah? I don’t think I know her.” Ashley squinted at the ceiling. “What’s she like, sweetie?”

Avery’s smile opened as if about to giggle. “She’s hot.”

“What time did you say that Meet-and-Greet was?” I asked turning around in my chair. I may not like going to these things, but I still owe it to the children as a good stepfather.

Ashley pressed her lips together communicating to me that the circumstances of my renewed interest in parent-teacher relations had not gone unnoticed. Even so, an investigation into the supporting facts behind Avery’s cursory assessment of Miss D took precedent in my wife’s hierarchy of self-assurance.

“Is Miss D hotter than your mommy?”

“Oh no, Mommy.” But something in how Avery responded failed to convince Ashley. Maybe it was too quick, or too canned to sound sincere; whatever the reason, my wife felt compelled to press the issue like an eager cub reporter smelling a big story hidden in an unspoken truth.

“Are you sure, Avery?” Ashley slid an arm around her unsuspecting daughter. “It’s okay, you can be honest. Is she hotter than me?”

Avery shifted in her seat and glanced around the room. “Well… yeah--but you’re still the hottest mommy.”

Oh look. My schedule for Wednesday is clear all day.

The day we were to meet Avery’s teacher, Ashley got up at 3 AM to start getting ready, and as always, she looked amazing by the time we walked out the door. Still, this didn’t keep her from checking her makeup in the visor mirror every few minutes. On one hand, I understood Ashley’s need to pummel Miss D in a beauty-queen beat down, yet on the other, I wondered how women gauge such a thing objectively. With men, at least there’s a definitive standard based on comparisons against the scientifically proven six inch average of a distinct part anatomy . Women are left with what—the subjective opinions of such “experts” as Prez Hilton and Chris Matthews? Pffft! Please. What’s fair about that?

Ironically, like Avery’s important news con, the hype over her new teacher outweighed the reality. Miss D was blonde, petite, and adorable, but in terms of overall hotness, my wife trounced her in a contest more lopsided than an Andy Kaufman wrestling match.

“She’s very nice,” I said on the way to the minivan.

“Yeah,” my wife agreed “But I wouldn’t call her hot.” Her tone in saying this made me think she might be having a talk with Avery about the elusive criterion for deeming someone a hottie.

“See, I told you. You’re hands-down gorgeous—a smokin’ hot babe. Schwing!” I did an exaggerated hip-thrust to punctuate my assurances which induced a satisfied grin from Ashley.

I thought this was the end of the story. However, during the ride home, Ashley sat quietly. She kept rubbing her hands across the top of her legs, starting mid-thigh and pushing the open palms to her knees, over and over. “Do you think I sounded stupid when I was talking to her?”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh brother, honey. She's a first year teacher; she was way more nervous and probably too self-conscious to even hear anything you said. Stop being so insecure.”

Ashley nodded before resuming her attempts at inflicting a friction burn on her upper legs in silence.

On an unrelated note, I asked Ashley to help me trim the hair on the back of my neck later that night. I now have one of those bowl cuts popular that you see on skater kids… then again, maybe this wasn’t so unrelated after all?

I'm a very lucky man to have such a hot wife.

"SHOTGUN!"

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 18:45:00 +0000

When my sisters and I were kids, there was no more heated battle than who got to ride in the front seat on the way to school. Being the oldest, I felt this provided me an unspoken entitlement to the position. Nope. Our dad let left it to whoever called it first. To some extent this method lacked in fairness to the youngest siblings; they never had a chance, always too slow or forgetful to pose much of a threat to the all-out war raging between me and their older sister for front-seat supremacy. To the victor went the spoils along with twenty minutes of having their ears flicked by the loser sitting right behind them. After getting my driver’s license, the front seat issue no longer applied, and I suppose it would’ve been a nice thing to implement my “oldest-up-front” policy, but it was too much fun watching the two older sisters duke it out. With my kids, it’s a different story.

As the saying goes, “rank has its privileges,” and being the oldest equates to rank in the sibling Army means front-seat privileges. (This also eliminates any needless bickering during the drive.) Of course, of my five kids, only my oldest son meets the requirements for legally riding in the front, but on short runs (less than a couple miles), I’ll let my oldest stepdaughter, Allie sit up with me even though she’s a few pounds short of the weight limit. At seven, Allie is almost as tall as ten-year old Noah, and I already cringe at the thought of how much attention she’s going to attract from slimy upperclassmen in high school. Still, the “who-rides-in-the-front” argument isn’t much of a problem since my boys live away from me, leaving Allie to win by default. Yet it’s a perk that meant more to her than I realized.

This summer on our family vacation to Pennsylvania, all five kids were together, and following my seating rule, I let Noah sit up with me on trips without my wife. No one made much of deal out of it, being content to carry on in the back of the minivan, behavior that remained unchanged on an excursion to the movies: Noah talked my leg off, the rest bounced off the windows. After the show, however, as the others filed out of the theatre, Allie lagged behind like she wanted to say something to me. “Can I ride in the front seat on the way back?” she asked with a mixture of hope and worry in her expression. Her request caught me off guard. I wasn’t prepared for a situation where my affections for my children might be perceived as greater than for my stepchildren. Yes, I knew this was a common issue in blended families, but I didn’t expect it come up in something this small.

To replace Noah with Allie would’ve signaled that he had been replaced, an idea he’s already sensitive over. And to leave him up front could reinforce the concern on Allie’s face, that I didn’t love her as much when my boys were around. An obvious solution might have been to let neither up front, but to me it felt like I would’ve been skirting things, leaving the real questions unanswered for both children.

Getting down on a knee, I took Allie by the shoulders and reminded her of all those days where just the two of us got ice cream, or went to the comic book store or the toy store. “Those are our special times,” I said. “If the boys lived with us then we would still do that—just you and me.” I watched her eyes become less anxious. “The boys and I only get a couple of weeks a year to see each other. That’s a short time for me do special things with them, but just because it seems like I’m paying more attention to them doesn’t mean I don’t love you less when they are around, sweetie.”

She smiled and nodded her head. Then I gave her a big hug and told her we’d do all kinds of stuff when we got back where she could ride in the front seat by herself. My reassurance was sincere, but there was a sick pit that grew in my stomach as I herded my crew out to the van where they climbed into their normal spots and picked up right where they left off. Even Noah continued finished the sentenced he had abruptly cut off earlier as if he had disappeared and then reappeared a few hours later without realizing it. As he went on, I winked at Allie in the rearview mirror. She smiled back.

This weekend I needed to make run to the grocery store, and when Allie found out that I was leaving she popped up from the couch where she had been watching TV. “Can I go?” she wanted to know. I wasn’t in the greatest of moods, not to mention being wore out from my recent bout of insomnia. I wasn’t keen on the idea, but gave into her big expectant eyes anyway.

“Can I sit up front too?”

“Sure. Fine. Whatever floats your boat, kid.”

During the whole ride, Allies yacked on and on, transitioning from subject to subject without the slightest hint of a period, and turning on the radio proved futile in slowing her down. For a run-of-the mill errand she acted as if it were the time of her life. Seeing her so excited reminded me of the moment on the theater steps.

“You talk too much,” I said interrupting her description of her teacher’s Miniature Yorkie.

“Yeah, I know,” she replied as if to say, what did you expect.

“I love you.”

“Yeah, I know. I love you too.” She wore a fat grin. “Can I get ice cream?”

“Not today.”

“A donut?”

“No.”

“A Hannah Montana magazine?”

“No.” But once we were in store, I let her push the cart and pick out her favorite pizza for dinner.

By the way, I hope none of your rides are like this one:

Superman Doesn't Like Cleaning Up Your Messes

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Fri, 11 Sep 2009 10:00:00 +0000

No matter how many times I repeat myself, scream, threaten--whatever, the girls (to include my wife) can't seem to grasp the concept of picking up after themselves. They will pull down a game; play half way through it; leave it on the floor (they also have follow-through issues); and then pull some other dumb thing out to mess with. Twenty minutes later, their bedroom looks like a helicopter tried to land in it... upside down. I could provide examples of my wife's proficiency in this matter, but I've long since given up that fight in the name of love (and my sanity).

But of all the things these people "forget" to clean up, I think throwing away the empty toilet paper rolls grates on my nerves more than anything else. For the heck of it, I've refused to clean them up on my own just so I can see how many will pile up before someone else takes action. The worst part of it is, the trash can is RIGHT NEXT to the TP holder! Yesterday, though, had a breakthrough... or at least I thought we did.

Later that evening while downloading the latest Java update, I inadvertently hacked into a video surveillance feed from a satellite owned by Halliburton and Kentucky Fried Chicken. They claim it's for conducting market research, but I'm a little suspicious as to how they managed to capture this footage in my bathroom. In any case, I now know exactly what happened to the TP roles. See for yourself.

When I watched this the first time, there were a couple frames that seemed a bit fuzzy so I had a buddy over in Homeland Security blow them up for me.

Yeah, that's what I thought....

...Superman doesn't like picking up after the girls any more than I do.

This post brought to you by the good folks at DadBlogs, sponsors of Fatherhood Fridays

Touché

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 14:05:00 +0000

Even though my three sons live several states away, we talk on the phone almost every night. Sometimes this yields some interesting dialogue as it did last evening with my oldest son Noah who's 10.

Me: Hey, Noah. How's it going.

Noah: Not too good. Harrison and I got into fight and mom just happened to pick that moment to show up. Here's the thing, I was trying to get him to calm down, but mom said she wasn't going to hear any of it.

Me: Why did Harrison need to be calmed down?

Noah: He was playing video games and Sawyer was on the same team and kept shooting his guy; so Harrison got ticked off and starting shooting Sawyer's guy over and over and over. When I tried get him to stop he started swinging. He hit me in the back of the head with a toy pizza and that sucker hurt. I was just defending myself.

Knowing how Noah thinks, I knew there was more to the story than his side of things, but then again, his tone was awfully casual. This was further supported by the sound of Noah chomping on something.

Me: Are you eating something?

Noah: Yeah, Chips. chomp, chomp.

When Noah settles into this nonchalant demeanor of his, he tends to mix in a large dose of scornful disgust and all the world is one big bull's eye. In the background I can hear Harrison sobbing his way through an explanation to his mother over what had transpired. Even though I can't understand what he's saying, it's clear he's upset.

Me: What's your brother saying? He sounds pretty upset.

Noah: Oh jeez I don't know. He's been going through one of those emotional phases of his.

I can see Noah rolling his eyes as he says this. A few seconds later his brother's crying fades into silence and Noah's voice bouncing off the walls of some enclosed space. He's still crunching on chips as he's talking to me, but as he goes on about something he found on the computer, his sentences are broken by a strained grunting.

Me: Noah, where are you?

Noah: In the bathroom.

Me: Wait. You're talking to me on the phone; you're eating chips; and you're going to the bathroom at the same time?

Noah: Chomp, chomp. Gulp. Grunnnnnnt. Hey, it's not like I sit in here all day like you.

Touché

On a totally unrelated note, I posted some relevant information over at Sugar Milk in case you're interested.

Mr. Sparkle

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Fri, 04 Sep 2009 16:57:00 +0000

Whoever it was that thought it would be a real hoot to make cosmetics for little girls, I hope they’re having a good laugh. It’s one thing for kids to play dress up with toy makeup, but to make eyeliner and lipstick that they can actually smear all over their face? And furthermore, was is so necessary for them to push the envelope just that much more by mixing glitter in with these products? This added touch, this cherry on top, this pièce de résistance that someone up in R and D deemed so crucial, I consider to be the equivalent of the Viet Cong dipping punji sticks in excrement in order to inflict more damage those unlucky enough to impale a foot on the razor-sharp tips of such a diabolical invention.

As you can guess, Allie and Avery already possess so much of this junk whoever purchased it must have received a bulk discount from Costco in the process. But even before owning this lifetime supply of cosmetic crap, they felt compelled to spruce up their appearances. I say this in reference to time I looked in rearview mirror during our drive to school only to notice Allie and Avery had used black and red Sharpie markers to highlight their *eyebrows and lips. Like any good stay-at-home stepdad, my response to this was to let them go to class just as they were. So what if they both looked like characters from A Scanner Darkly, I thought maybe everyone laughing at them might be a better deterrent than anything I could come up with. However, the effectiveness of such a tactic would’ve proved a moot point after they were given “real” makeup.

***

Fast forward a couple years to this week. It was typical day getting ready for school. Allie and Avery had finished their list of regular tasks—brush teeth, load backpacks, do chores—in which case I told them to play in their room until it was time to meet the bus. Fifteen or twenty minutes later we headed out the door, but as we stepped into the outdoor light, I noticed something… peculiar about their faces.

“What were you two doing in your room?” I asked.

The two them looked at me as if my question was the most ridiculous thing ever uttered. “We gave each other makeovers,” Allie said finally.

I closed my eyes and sighed. Their faces glistened like dew in the morning sun.

“But we’re all sparkly glow-ee!” Avery countered in response to my disapproving reaction.

Indeed.

I explained to them that glitter makeup was meant for play, not for going out into public, and like the Sharpie marker incident, I let them grace the school in all their sparkly glow-ee glory. What I didn’t mention was my plan once they were gone.

Walking back from the bus stop, I resolved to find the items used in this latest round of makeover mischief. My search, however, proved futile leading me to the logical conclusion that the girls hadn’t just done up their faces, but they had taken the makeup to school as well. This wasn’t much of surprise to me given that my unannounced backpack inspections have turned up a number of smuggled contraband items such as a baggie of Pixie Stick powder with a street-value of five dollars and a shiv cleverly fashioned from a Barbie doll leg. Sure enough, when the girls got home, I found the culprit—a bottle of pink glitter spray crouching in bottom of Avery’s backpack.

“Do you know what your girls did today?” I rhetorically asked Ashley later that evening. “They thought it would be a good idea to give each other makeovers before school.” I held up the bottle of glitter spray, pinching it by the neck as if it were a squirming rodent.

A sheepish grin melted across Ashley’s face. “Yeah, sorry,” she said. “I uh… I got that for them.”

In what’s become my signature expression of late, I closed my eyes and sighed wondering whose side my wife was on these days. Opening my eyes again, I saw that Ashley was all sparkly glow-ee too. It looked like fairies had crop-dusted the entire region right above her bosoms.

Glancing down, Ashley chuckled. “Must’ve been from when the girls hugged me when I got home from work.”

I closed my eyes and sighed again.

The reminder that glitter could be passed from one thing to another “thrilled” me just that much more. I envisioned Allie and Avery running around with their grubby hands touching everything and everyone like King Midas transforming the entire apartment to a state of sparkly glow-ee-ness. Understand, I am very particular about home décor (a fact you will learn about in the October issue of Errant Parent). It’s bad enough that the sparkles look is so 1960’s, but the real problem is that once it gets on something, glitter can never be completely gotten rid of making it the arts and crafts version of herpes. The thought of this caused my mind to race in search of a solution for preventing a wide-scale outbreak. Too late.

Walking into the living room, I could see the sofa had already been infected. And by the extent of the affected surface area it appeared as Allie and Avery had rolled around on the entire thing the same way cats do when using the floor to scratch their backs. Despite my best efforts, all the Valtrex in the world couldn’t clear up the glitter festering on the seat cushions. I sighed and closed my eyes, resigned to the shimmering permanence of the disease. It would never be the same again.

***

This morning after stepping out of the shower and combing my hair, I caught the glint of something in the mirror. No, it can’t be, I thought, leaning forward. Using my fingers, I separated the follicles of hair above my forehead. There, right below my crown, a field of glitter, winked at me, brought to life by the bathroom lights overhead.

How in the name of Orion’s leotard did this—and then the answer dawned on me. After a three-day stretch of insomnia, I had finally fallen asleep on the couch last night. I sighed and closed my eyes, adding a disheartened head shake to further express my sadness over this life-changing discovery. I mouthed a curse word at the face staring back at me.

No longer would I be known as Ron—husband, father, all-around good guy. Now, I would be forever referred to as Mr. Sparkle.

I apologize in advance to my Canadian readers if you are unable to see the videos. Is there a solution to this I am not aware or?

Mr. Sparkle

The Meaning of Sparkly Glow-ee

* Shameless self-promotion warning: The Sharpie marker story is a tale I go into more detail about in Sugar Milk

I Have To See This Movie... There Are Goats!

clarksdouble@gmail.com (CK Lunchbox) — Wed, 02 Sep 2009 10:59:00 +0000

I saw this trailer yesterday and the world stopped...

Reasons I have to see this movie:

1. George Clooney

2. Jeff Bridges + Big Lebowski + the Army = WIN!

3. The subject matter: I was an Infantry Captain and my dad was a Green Beret

4. It's basically a true story.

5. The First Earth Battalion? Priceless.

6. No Duggars were conceived during the filming of this movie--no wait, I'm wrong.

7. My schedule for 6 November is wide open.

8. I'll have saved enough money by then to afford it (thank you, paper route & lemonade stand).

9. To see that goat fall over again.

10. It's piss-your-pants funny.

I'm reserving a copy of the book at the library as we speak.