Thursday, November 29, 2007

Triple Crown

So Bones writes to me, "I feel like I know WAY too much about what's going on inside your bathroom these days." Hey man - life gives you lemons, you make lemonade... Which is why today's post completes the triple crown: it's about Oscar's pee.

We went to our Thursday night agility training class, which is held in a building that has a pet boutique in the ground floor. Oscar, in his excitement browsing the store, decided to tag a deluxe carrying bag - lifting his leg and unleashing a torrent of fury on it. As we asked the store clerks for some cleaner and paper towels, I cringed at the $140 price tag. The clerks didn't realize that Oscar had hit the bag, and told us "Guys - relax - that's clean enough," as we furiously scrubbed at the bag with the stain cleaner and paper towels.

When we explained that Oscar had hit the bag too, he told us not to worry. Mrs. Dynamite razzed me all through class, "That's one less puppy that they'll be able to get adopted because they are a non-profit and cannot sell that bag now." She insisted that we check with the guy on the way out. We practically begged him to make us buy the bag, but he insisted it wasn't an issue, and Oscar was off the hook.

Here's a video from a more successful trip to a store with Oscar - on his 2nd birthday last month when I let him pick out his own treat:

and here's a picture of him in his pirate halloween costume:

until next time,


Sunday, November 25, 2007


Saturday night recap:
7:30: dinner @ Sullivan Diner with Mrs. Dynamite and Scott. A burger for Scott, grilled cheese & bacon for Mrs. Dynamite, and grilled chicken club with guacamole for Kid Dynamite. 1 bottle of pinot noir.
8:30: Off the Wagon on MacDougal Street. I elected not to ask the bouncer if I got a prize if I was the oldest person in the bar as he checked my ID. We basked in the glory of old school college bars, watching NYU juniors play beer pong with pitchers of Bud Light, and trying to no avail to get Scott to hit on the sloppy young co-eds. After finishing my pint of Sam's Winter Ale, we moved on.
9:30: Down the Hatch on W. 4th St: the sister bar of Off the Wagon, and equally collegiate in atmosphere. We were impressed when the couple next to us wasted no time in starting their night: 6 tequila shots lined up and slammed in 3 minutes. Mrs. Dynamite and I repeatedly urged Scott not to be too picky with the ladies "look bro, at this hour you have to take WHATEVER you can get." But Scott was unfazed, glaring at me: "It's not even 10 o'clock," although in Kid Dynamite time that's basically 1am.
11:30: Home in bed with Mrs. Dynamite and Oscar. Yep - this is my life - who could ask for more?
but then it gets interesting:
3am: Mrs. Dynamite gets up to go to the bathroom. After several minutes, and the sounds of repeated toilet flushing, I come to the conclusion that something is awry. I hear Mrs. Dynamite repeatedly opening and closing the bathroom door, going into the kitchen and back, and I decide to go check on her - hoping I won't find her in tears with her head in the toilet. She only had 2 beers and is no lightweight, so I'm not sure what's up.
As I approach the bathroom door, open a sliver, I catch the surprising site of her in her bathrobe - why the bathrobe? What happened to her clothes? "You ok?" "Yeah - GREAT," she replies sarcastically, in good spirits, laughing at her predicament.
"WHAT happened?" I'm not sure I want to know, as the bathmats are in the washing machine, along with the shower curtain and all Mrs. Dynamite's clothes, and the unmistakable smell of chunder hangs in the air.
"You don't want to know," she assures me. "You KNOW I do," and I do!
"I was feeling fine - I got up to get a drink of water, and as soon as I put the glass to my lips, I projectile vomited. EVERYWHERE," she calmly laughed.
"Drunk?" I didn't quite get it.
"No, just full stomach syndrome I think," the two tall Bud Light draughts had taken their toll in volume, not alcohol.
I gestured at a spot on the bathroom door frame where some residual high velocity spatter was still lingering.
"You don't understand," she gave me the details, "it was EVERYWHERE. I had to get into the shower with my clothes on to wash the chunks off!" I began laughing hysterically as she recounted the gory details.
"I tried to put my fingers over my mouth, but it shot out the sides- I looked like I'd just won a pie eating contest!" mmmmm... Grilled cheese & bacon colored with pinot noir, and Bud Light for volume. Sounds delish. "I can't get the smell of puke out of my nostrils. Does my hair smell like puke?" She was concerned.
"You're all good baby," and she was - which is the only reason I'm able to re-tell the story here - Mrs. Dynamite was fine, able to laugh her way through the whole situation, concerned only with how she was going to clean up the destruction without waking up my cousin who was visiting for the night, and sleeping on the Aerobed downstairs. So Mrs. Dynamite selflessly tiptoed around the crime scene, dabbing, scrubbing, and wiping down the chunder chunks, without even making enough noise to attract Oscar to check out what was happening.
That's my girl.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

Turkey Day

My dad taught third grade for about 30 years, and every year he'd hit me with the same two poems he'd tell his third graders, in exactly the same slow and deliberate cadence he delivers it to his eager third grade pupils. This year was no different:
"When the turkey gobble-gobbles it is plump and proud and perky. When the family gobble-gobbles, it is gobbling up the turkey."
"If turkeys thought, they'd run away a week before Thanksgiving Day. But turkeys can't anticipate, and so there's turkey on our plate."
Both poems courtesy of Jack Prelutsky.
Happy Thanksgiving.

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Top Notch

One of the best pages I've seen in a while. If you're not an aficionado of rap lyrics, this will make no sense to you. On the other hand, if you are, you will appreciate true genius.

Thursday, November 08, 2007

Stool Softener and Ass Bubbles

I woke up yesterday with a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. By noon I felt like I was even money to either crap my pants or puke before I made it home on the subway. I had a nausea and stomach pain that quickly evolved into a fever - basically like food poisoning symptoms but without the volcanic eruptions spewing from both ends of my body - thankfully.
When I told my wife the symptoms, she quickly responded "Oh, you should take a stool softener."
"What? I don't think that's the problem," I was more than skeptical.
"Yeah - you're probably backed up - that's why you feel nauseous."
At this point I was willing to try anything to make the pain stop, so I popped one of the stool softeners (dosage guidelines: take 1-3: I'll play it safe) she had on hand for symptoms related to the effects of Vicodin post-surgery.
And this is how I came to be sitting on the toilet blowing ass-bubbles today. I couldn't help but laugh at the fact that I actually listened to her "stool softener" advice - I'd never taken a stool softener before in my life, and probably won't take one again anytime soon, but it's become an instant inside joke in the Dynamite household.... Can't sleep? Try a stool softener. Headache? Stool softener will fix that. Indigestion? You know it - stool softener.
Now I'm taking pepto-bismal to counteract the effects of the stool softener, even as Mrs. Dynamite strenuously insists that the stool softener does not cause laxative effects; despite empirical evidence to the contrary. Ok - I realise that this post is probably a case of Too Much Information, but if the thought of me sitting on the toilet blowing bubbles out my ass while my wife laughs at me doesn't put a smile on your face, well, then, you'll have to find a new 'blog to read.

Sunday, November 04, 2007

NYC Poker Tragedy

On Friday evening, a new NYC poker club was robbed at gunpoint by several men - one of whom discharged his weapon (a sawed off shotgun) accidentally during the heist, hitting and killing one of the players - Frank Desena.
Needless to say, this is horrible - and that is a tremendous understatement.