"Thanks for the heroin, sorry for spitting on you."

Grandpa (M's dad) came for a visit. Little z was a lot more relaxed and "normal" with him. You see, z has what I call "Manxiety", which means, if you aren't putting out an estrogen vibe, and aren't their wussy dad, she freaks out, especially if you try to pick her up. I actually attribute a lot of this to just the way some people approach her. z is a very exotic looking toddler while m looks more like Gerber baby (we call her Baby Classic). So, annoying strangers seem immediately drawn to her. m has a little Bohemian mind (for now) and is a lot more open to strangers or new experiences. She will let anyone pick her up. But z is a little scientist (for now). She likes to see what's going on, first. She asks “Who are all of these fucking people?” Then, maybe by the end of the day, she comes around.

Where I come from, little girls were either called “fast” or “shy”. Shy is an obvious description for any child that doesn’t want a perfect stranger to pick them up and swing them around the room yelling: “Hi! I’m yer uncle Gus! I use to change your diapers and I just got out of jail!” Of course a kid is going to slink away from that. “Fast” kids were those take charge, back-talking smart-asses. Instead of assailed as brats, they were admired for having independent minds and rapier wit. Most likely, when no one was around, these kids would be back handed by their parents for such insolence but in front of company, when they say: “Talk to the hand!” It’s considered cute.

Teaching manners to the Bart Simpson generation is going to be tough. I'm constantly in the Mission District neighborhood in San Francisco. Parts of the Mission have some of the most disgusting sites I have ever seen in my life. Once, I saw a woman, who I thought was putting on makeup. Turns out she was shooting up heroin into her eyebrows! I’ve seen daily human turds on the sidewalk, crack smokers, hobos, tramps, gypsies and thieves. Worst of all, there’s this fruit stand right on the corner of 16th and Mission where all of these people hang out. When it rains. The sidewalk smells like the floor of a YMCA men’s room. As cars drive by, on rainy days, they do their little puddle splash thing and I cant help but wonder; “Why don’t they take that fruit inside and away from the constant spray of piss, shit and used needles flying into the apples like pin cushions? One time, I was walking past that stand, and this dealer/addict turns his head right when I’m passing him and accidently hawks a luggie right onto the side of my head! Instead of looking for a flame thrower to kill him and then burn my face off, I remained calm until I could find one of those showers like they have in nuclear plants that blast your skin off. The addict guy says: “Sorry” and moves on to his life of depravity. Years Later, after many STD test, I was in the same neighborhood. These kids inside a fenced in playground call out to me. I listen and they say: “The ball!” After checking my pants to make sure my testicles hadn’t slipped out, I notice their red ball was lodged under a car. I picked it up and threw it over the fence to them. And what happened? Nothing! No thank you! I could have pulled an Eddie Haskell* and took it with me but nooo, I have to be Mr. nice adult! But those little brats can’t say thanks? On numerous occasions kids ask me for directions, and when I help them they never say thank you. What the fuck? Like I don’t have better things to do. At least the Drug addict said sorry! C’mon, what are parents teaching these kids? (He said feeling old and shaking his fist at those darn kids today).
Dear kids: The world doesn’t work for you. Two simple words: THANK YOU. How hard is that?

Perhaps I ask too much. I mean, after our girls cause all of my grey hairs to fall out, some kind of hernia/ulcer operation and 5 years spent in prison after a boyfriend tries to get to first base with them. Do I really expect them to go: “Oh Papa. Thank you for your hard work and selling your kidneys so that I could go to Stanford and become a Nuclear Robot Technician.”? They aren’t going to say that. Not even if it was: “Hey! Asshole! I won Porn Star of the year award. Thank God for all of that coke I bought with your kidney money.”

I guess that is sort of a thank you for my future hard work. I’ll take what I can get.

That’s it,
EM

* From Leave it to Beaver.

"You are in our thoughts, flaming Klansman."

So, apparently my name is “Dee-Daa.” This is the closest we can figure what the girls are actually calling me. I guess a variation on “Da-da”. As far as I'm concerned, the girls could be talking about the cat or my glasses but M swears that this is what they say when I just show up or they're wondering where “Boob-less Thing is?” Their name for the cat is “Ka!” The dog next door is “Aie-ya!” All other children are “Adieu!” Said just like French for good-bye. Cheese is “cshhh.” Fish is “fss”. Tree is “uhhh!” Clock is the sound FX: “Toc-toc-toc.” and Grandma is represented by a loud happy squeal. The only person who does not have a name is…Mom. It’s confusing. If you were to ask them: "Where's Daddy?" They'll not only look at me, they'll look back at who asked it as if to say: “Are you on crack? He's right there!" My theory is, its not that they don't have a name for mom or not know who she is, its more like she's such a part of them, that its hard to differentiate her into a separate entity, its like asking a kid, where's your mind, as opposed to where's your brain? Mom is not satisfied with this theory and still insist that the kids call her a name while pointing at her and holding up one of those name signs you see limo drivers holding at the airport.

We had yet another greetings card being passed around at work. You sign it and then try to hunt down the nearest victim in order to get it off of your desk and away from you as fast as possible. Otherwise you're “It” until you get rid of it. This card was for some woman, whose mother-in-law had passed. I don't really like her (the woman) because she's part of this elite group of older workers who have been there for years and run only on a reputation that they're hard workers when in fact they make the lives of people under them a living hell because they promise the customers miracle deadlines. Sure the customers love them but THEY don't do the actual work so me and the slaves bust our asses getting these promised jobs out ASAP and when we do, the customers send them bottles of wine and Krispy Kreme doughnuts (mmmm Krispy Kreme doughnuts) and the only reward we get is 30 punches in the stomach instead of the usual 40. So this card is in front of me and I have to write something because accompanying it is a checklist with your name on it, If you don’t write something and check your name off, they'll know you're a heartless bastard and didn't sign it. But what to write? What nice thing do you say to someone you don't like in order to show the least amount of caring as possible while appearing nice? The Bush Administration has mastered “You are in our thoughts and prayers”. Every time something happens in a country we don't like; an earthquake in a Muslim country. The first thing out of their mouths is “You are in our thoughts and prayers”. Now "Thoughts" was a possibility. That's vague enough. If a Klansman's car flipped over into a flaming pit of gasoline, when he looked out the window at me and screamed for help with what's left of his mouth. I could honestly yell in all sincerity: “You are in my thoughts!” and then walk away. But prayers? Ha ha ha! The only thing I ever pray for is a mutual sustainable world peace, happy healthy children, justice for all and Fox not to cancel yet another show that I like. So I decided just to write: “You are in my thoughts.” because I'm not really sorry and I try not to ever lie (which gets me into a fuck load of trouble, let me tell you). But get this! Two other people wrote the same thing! I guess I'm not the only one who dislikes her.
I carefully checked to make sure I was assigning the right message to the right card. This is important because we had so many birthday cards floating around in one month that I just got into the habit of signing the usual generic birthday messages. One time, this card came around for yet another person I don't like. I was about to sign with something witty until I read everyone else's notes and realized it was actually a sympathy card for her dead father!!!!! Whew! Dodged a bullet on that one. Can you imagine when she reads:” “Hey! Time to Party!” “Have fun tonight!” or “One step closer to death!” Even “Happy Birthday!” would have got me fired.

I definitely would have been in her thoughts after that.

That's it,
EM

The Birds! The Birds!

Raising twins is easier than you might think and harder than you can ever imagine. Although it's a lot easier and more fun with them, now. I remember during the first 3 weeks when we had to feed them every 3 hours, day or night no matter what. m and z were both under 6 pounds at birth. Apparently when a baby is born, there's like this short starvation period because the baby doesn't know how to latch onto a boob. So it doesn't really eat at first and looses a little weight. Because our kids were in a dangerous weight area, there was a risk of them losing any weight. So, we had to force feed them using a syringe-like device with a long tube connected to your finger. We would fill the syringe with formula or breast milk and then, using your finger as a pretend nipple, let the baby suck on it. Did I mention We had to do this every 3 hours day and night! This meant we were sleeping in these 3 hour blocks, if they slept together. BUT being twins they could split-shift you which means you could literally be up every 1 or 2 hours. One solution was, one of us would just take them for a 6 hour block while the other one slept. I can't tell you how surreal it was seeing the blue light of morning, every day and hear the sound of those fucking birds chipping away. In college, M (Kid's mom) said that she and her friend K would study all night and dreaded the sound of "The birds! The birds!!!" Because it meant that your study time was up. The worst thing was, even if you slept, you would have these horrible anxiety related nightmares. If you got out of the house, everything felt so bright and strange. people looked like insignificant robots and Safeway was an overly-lit, David Lynch movie with ironic Muzak soundtrack scoring your demise. In a few word, I felt like I was going insane.

Speaking of Insane: I always thought that my neighborhood in the East Bay was inhabited by nothing but roust-abouts and n’er do wells. So it was a big surprise when M took the kids and me to an open studio a couple of blocks away. Not only did I figure that there were no more artists in the neighborhood but especially not a professional one. I figure that the neighbors idea of art was cars-on-blocks lawn sculptures or dandelion Ichibana *. It was also good when the artist held a meeting with other citizens in the hood to discuss the pit bull problem that keeps happening. Apparently this same dumb motherfucker keeps breeding the little head chompers and they keep getting loose and killing dogs or cats. In spite of being dragged to court and fined numerous times, this Neanderthal Einstein (great band name) keeps breeding them and letting them loose. Another problem I’d like to see the citizen posse come together on, is the speeding. For about 3 blocks on my street there are no stop signs or speed bumps. This lets the usually young teenager boys show off just how stupid they can be with a simple formula: IQ=Speed minus actual speed limit for the street. Although there is a school zone at one end and a park at the other. these Fast and Furious Fat heads (F.F.F) race up and down the block, disregarding any chance of children or animals running in front of them. My fantasy is for one day; Mr. Pit bull is walking around with one of his dogs, off leash. A FFF races down the street and hits the dog. The dog crashes trough the windshield, death locks the driver on the balls and causes him to plow into Mr. Pit Bull. As a bonus, the resulting crash could be into the house across the street from me, which is occupied by 4 teenage boys who are annoying enough for another column. I guess this scenario is a little gruesome. Maybe I’ll just hope the police department does their fucking job for once and stop hiding in parking lots taking breaks. That’s right! I see you bastards! Whenever you see two cop cars parked next to each other in an abandoned parking lot, do you really think they’re saying:
“Gee Fred, what are we going to do with those darn kids and their piece of shit cars, racing up and down the block?”
“I don’t know Bill. Perhaps find a way to get them to plow into Mr. Pit bull?”
More likely it’s…
“Man I'm tired.”
“Me too. Good night.ZZZZzzzzz…”

That’s it,
EM

* Ichibana: The Japanese art of flower arrangement.

Look at me! Look at me! I'm a Gangsta!

I believe we all have two duties as parents: 1) Keep your kid from killing other kids and 2) Keep their kids from killing your kid.
My nightmare is for a then, 12-13 year "gangsta" versions of m or z to end up on a daytime talk show, wearing see-thru clothes, and talking about the 500 men they slept with/I want a baby, now!/My daughters needs a makeover.
Right now, the girls rebel by trying to climb on the couch from Ikea in their room, which is fine, but they still think about: "What would happen if I went off head first?" So far m has fell twice and z was saved by a last minute leg grab. Literally, in 3 seconds, the time it took for me to walk to their closet, m had ran over to the couch climbed on it and then went off head first like a stage diver at a a 1980's, punk rock concert.
Why the hell is that couch in there?

Speaking of bad girls: So I'm riding BART the Bay Area Rapid Transportation or Bastards Always Raising Tickets or Butt Fucking Asshole! Ride This! This girl gets on. She's like 16-17, Some sort of Hispanic, Black-White mutt mix. Listening to rap on head phones and smoking a cigarette. Of course she sits near me because I have this cosmic magnetic attraction to beings of negative energy also know as a bitch magnet.

Now, everybody in the Bay Area know what the smoking laws are. You can't smoke anywhere in California except in the middle of the desert while standing on a blue tarp and 4 fans blowing toward you. This girl is obviously rebelling against every thing and everyone around her. Now, I support rebellion when it's focused and used to improve the world: The American Revolution, Civil Rights, refusing to watch Everybody Loves Raymond, but this girl is obviously doing this just to piss everybody off. She sits there, bobbing her head, taking drag after drag and waving her hands around like a "gangsta beeyatch" instead of what I guess, the middle class princess from Berkeley who's parents ignore her. I decide I have 4 choices: 1) Confront her and get a fuck you! 2) Get up and move 3) Turn her in to the pigs and thrown in jail plus a $500 fine. 4) Ignore her because she's almost finished with her cigarette and she's screaming for attention. I opt for # 4. Two other passengers opt for #1. This blonde woman taps her on the shoulder and points to a sign over her head that said no smoking. The girls gives her a look which I hadn't seen since I flew to Paris. When we were departing, this old French lady, lights up a cigarette in the customs line. This stooopid American guy tells her (in English, mind you) that there's no smoking and she gives him a look that translated into: Go away! You insignificant cockroach! That was the look the girl gave, except without the class. The blonde woman switches cars. This bald guy tries for option # 1. She tells him: "Fuck You!" and gives him the middle finger which I found kind of her to consider that he might be deaf. He gets up and switches cars. As I predicted. The girl finished her cigarette, so I sat still and continued to write in my Palm Pilot.

At one stop, this fat Black woman gets on wearing a hideous powder blue jumpsuit. the pants are so tight that they cause her stomach to escape like a muffin baked in a metal dixie cup. she sits across from us. The "Gangsta" girl lights up yet another cigarette proving that yes, she's trying to provoke anyone who for some reason, like oxygen. "Oh Boy! Here we go!" I think. Expecting a confrontation that will be worthy of Pay Per View or Jerry Springer. But Noooo the Black woman ignores her like I do. At this point, I'm running out of air and patients. I want to leave but I don't want to leave like the other too passengers and loose my "phat street cred." I decide to wait until a stop comes up, then I'll act like I'm departing and switch to another car from the outside. The intercom announces the next stop and I get up and walk to the door. As I'm walking by, the girl says "BYE!" dripping in sarcasm as if to say: "Thought you could take it, huh bitch!" I ignore her and wait by the door. But get this. The girl starts up a conversation with the Black woman as if suddenly they're friends!!! But, what about me??? I'm cool? I was willing to let you rebel in peace? As planned, at the next stop, I switch cars and sit down. It is then I notice I smell like a giant tobacco leaf. She ruined my clothes! Now, I'm pissed. "That's it!" I say. "You want to be tough? Let's see how tough you are…IN JAIL! I get on the intercom and call the train operator. I tell him that there's a girl smoking multiple cigarettes in the last car. I want to see the girl dragged away, kicking and screaming, while I look at her from the window, laughing with sharp teeth and yelling "BYE!" over and over. I feel like such an old man, shaking his fist at: "those darn kids! Always sneaking into my yard and stealing my apples!" The train operator starts asking me all of these time wasting questions: What's she wearing? What does she look like? Which seat is she in? What's the chemical makeup of titanium? Why do people hate me? By the time We're finished, it's my stop. I get off the train. I don't see the girl on the platform, nor do I see her inside the car as it leaves. : "Damn it!" I curse. But get this. When I was leaving the station, off to the side, out of view of the station agent, I see the girl, hop over a small wall and sneak out of the station, without paying!!!!'

Gangsta Beeyach to the end.

That's it, EM

"Which ones the evil twin?"

Aaahh. How I love getting up at 5AM to go to work.
The girls have been sleeping pretty well this week. It's odd because m and z sleep well during the week but got my ass up every hour on the hour on the weekend when I have the most time to sleep. MMmm sleep. Kiss that shit goodbye when you're the parent of twin girls I take the first shift 7PM-2:30AM and M (mom, note big M) take them from 2:30-whenever and then takes them to child care at 7:30. God forbid if they get her up at 3 or 4!

Top 10 guaranteed things to say to a parent of twins who hasn't had any sleep, to get your bloody arse kicked...

10) "Is that a boy or girl?" Said by old man in line at Safeway about m. We have two fraternal girls who look nothing alike. one has lots of hair.
9) "Ooh double trouble." Not very original! people!
8) "Which ones the bad one?" I am!
7) "Can I hold one?" Oh, for fuck's sake! As if!
6) "She must be the shy one." I'm sorry if my kid doesn't touch your Naaaaaaasty greasy unwashed from the rest room hand's, Mrs stranger.
5) "Ooh, that one lost out on the hair department." Heard recently. I wanted to retort: "Yes and you missed out on the looks department. You should sue God."
4) "High five!" (While holding up hand for kid to slap). Not only do Je déteste high fives, but why would I let my kid touch your Naaaaaaasty greasy unwashed from the rest room hand's Mr. Stranger?
3) "Are those twins?" I can let this one slip by itself. But It's usually followed by the other questions above.
2) "Ohh! I wouldn't wish that on anyone." Said by rude woman pushing a singleton (one kid) in a stroller and a 4-5 year old walking along the side. Wh-wha-what? You have two kids also, you fucking moron!

And the number one thing that makes me want to go Abu Girab on someone after no sleep...

1) "Looks like you have your hands full."

My fellow Americans, if you see someone struggling to get groceries in the car while trying not to have their kids skulls splatter onto the Safeway parking lot. OFFER TO HELP! KNUCKLE HEAD! More likely, they'll refuse but for the love of Jesus Chryster, don't say witty stupid-ass things to them.

That's it, EM