Big Daddy Paul

Every so often, I will open our refrigerator and the smell from the decaying food inside will slap me in the face like an old French prostitute. Stunned, I sit there in front of the open fridge, wasting energy and contemplating my next move. In this situation, I can choose either of two options: a) I can suck it up and clean out the items that have been waiting patiently for the past few months to meet their maker or B) simply close the door and pretend the whole thing never happened. I usually just close the door, and, while it is not at all nice to be confronted with a slapping French prostitute every time you need to grab something out of the fridge, it sure beats dealing with rotting food up close and personal. Yesterday, I took the bull by the horns and actually cleaned out our fridge, and although I cannot adequately describe just how bad everything smelled, I can at least detail what I removed from our fridge.

It's bad if your kid says something is stinky

The first group of items were contained in the fridge for quite some time, but had no chance of ever being used. Think feta cheese (the basest of all cheeses in my opinion.) Think jar of egg whites from Christmas. Think buttermilk. Sure, in theory these items had a chance to make it into a dish, but I was fooling myself to put them in the fridge in the first place. I have as much chance of eating an egg white omelette with feta as I do eating a unicorn. I know I shouldn’t be such an optimist when putting things in the fridge, but that optimism is why you like me, isn’t it?

A second group of items involved leftovers that probably should have been eaten, but just weren’t sexy enough to make it back into the rotation. Gnocchi sounds pretty good, but leftover gnocchi somehow reminds me of rocky mountain oysters. A tub of extra couscous looks more like a snow globe than dinner. Black beans are good, but they have about as much versatility as an Elvis wig. Most people would just toss everything that isn’t consumed after a week or so, but that would mean we are robbed of the experience of seeing a moldy couscous snow globe or smelling rancid black beans (which, oddly, smell like formaldehyde.) I wouldn’t dream of living in world like that.

The vegetable drawer. I don’t really like vegetables. I am getting a bit older, which is sad, and I recognize the need to eat a somewhat balanced diet. I also recognize that it is important to teach Malcolm some good lessons about food. In consideration of these factors, we signed up for an organic produce box to be delivered each week. With so many unique veggies being delivered every seven days, we often can’t catch up, and what we don’t eat tends to reside at the bottom of the vegetable drawer. After a month or so, the bottom of that sucker looks and smells like a compost heap. After a few more months, the veggie stew liquifies, making it not only unbearable to look at or smell, but also impossible to clean. The bottom of the vegetable drawer has to be the scariest thing in my life, easily more terrifying than Tantrum Malcolm holding a hammer or drunk Amy holding an Elvis wig.

As nasty as these elements were individually, the symphony of sights and smells when combined in the sink was enough to make we want to tear off my nose and throw it in the toilet forever. Luckily, I didn’t and some air freshener and kitchen cleaner restored order both inside and out of the fridge. Of course, this meant that the old French prostitute was going to go away, but I think we both know that she’ll be back one day. C’est la vie.

That’s right, I have hit it big! Well, bigger than I have been. I am guest posting this week on a blog called Daddy’s Home. And, if you read my blog between the hours of 7 and 10 pm, then I have indeed, hit prime time. Daddy’s Home is a cool place where stay at home dads tell the world how cool we are and what kind of beer we like to drink. I am lucky to be part of such a awesome group of guys. Click here and check it out!

This is pretty much the grossest picture I could find of myself

Oh wait, I forgot

About this one. (That's a Hooter's chicken wing, by the way...)

Wow, a whole month of answering readers juiciest dilemmas. I would like to start this post by announcing a few things. First, we got 100 fans! That is so totally cool. Someday, when this blog has 10,000 fans, you can say you were fan #43. Second, the wicked cool folks at Wayfire Media have recently added a “like” button to each post, so, if you like what you see, hit the “like” button. Lucky for me, Facebook doesn’t have an “don’t like” button. Whew. On to the questions!

Diane from Tinseltown has a problem: Her friend has two kids, but no partner. When at social gatherings, the friend asks Diane to look after the kids so that the friend can socialize and drink. Diane is targeted for this duty more often because she is one of the few childless people at the parties. She wants to know whether she should say something.

Diane, you have a couple of options. First, you could pop out a couple a kids yourself! I am sure that your friend was in the same shoes as you and was being asked to look after other kids all the time. What better excuse is there to not look after other kids than have a stable of your own! Knowing you, I am thinking 8 sounds about right. Another option would be to do something drastically idiotic, ensuring that no one will ever ask you to look after their kids again. (This is my favorite!) One easy way to accomplish this would be to start nursing a preschooler. If your friend sees you bringing a protesting four-year-old to your boob, odds are, that’s the last the four-year-old will ever see of you. Shouting loud profanities at the kids will also do the trick (“PUT THAT FUCKING TRUCK DOWN, YOU LITTLE PIECE OF SHIT!” would suffice.) You could talk things through and tell her how it makes you feel, but I am not sure you could have that conversation without sounding like a complete A-hole. I think your strategy is the right one. Agree to look after the little ones, but after you’ve served your time, tell the mom she is back on duty and then hit the bottle. Hard.

Old Man Conrad from (as Malcolm calls it) Missesota asks: “Why does your copyright notice say you wrote this stuff in 2009?  Are you selling us recycled posts?!”

Conrad is avid reader of the blog, and he just turned 40, so Happy Birthday Conrad!!! I bought 500 blog posts in 2009 from a stay at home dad in India. It only cost me $100, so I think it’s been a pretty good deal. After another 280 or so posts, I will be ready to come up with some new material.

Tracy temporarily from Oklahoma asks: “At what age is it first appropriate to let your child carry a concealed weapon?”

If this kid ever gets a gun, I'm dead!

Good question. Wait, what? That’s a horrible question. Who would ask such a thing?! Oh, the Oklahoma Legislature is currently debating this. Mmmkay. I guess if I had to answer, though, I would say that the best time for gun violence to start would be thirteen. I am totally mortified of the teenage years anyways (rampant, sex drugs and rock and roll,) so you might as well throw guns into the mix. That way, I would never, ever be free of worrying. Now that I think of it, Diane this could be another way of solving your problem. Start arming the kids, and you’ll be free and clear!

Great Q’s this week people! If you haven’t submitted a question, yet, do so now. I am keeping score, and you don’t want to lose.

I don’t know what happened to me, but I became very concerned about myself when I saw this picture:

I feel as though I have let myself go a bit. I know that most of you think that I am a drop dead hunk, but I think I may have officially given up on life. Think I am lying? Here are the signs:

Crocs. I bought myself some. Even worse, they are the kind that have the fake lamb hair on the inside. (I would call it faux fur, but it’s color and consistency are more deserving of the monicker, “faux panther pubes.”) Double whammy. I have a few friends who wear Crocs regularly, and I have always taken great pleasure in thinking to myself, “At least I’m not THAT bad off.” Actually, I’m worse. I bought a discount brand at CVS and they are called “Doggers.” I think the brand name may even have an exclamation point in it, as if to stress that you should be shouting every time you mention the name. “What kind of shoes are these? Doggers!” They cost $4. Sure they are comfortable, but there really is no louder way to tell the world that I have seceded from the fashion union than plastic shoes (with faux panther pubes inside.) I have promised myself that I would never leave the house in them, but it’s really only a matter of time before they see the light of day and my transformation will be complete.

Stains. I used to have a rule: when a article of clothing got a noticeable stain on the front, it got thrown away. It was a pretty hard and fast rule, resulting in the loss of many of my favorite things to wear. I’m not sure how I got here, but I am now allowed to wear clothes permanently scarred by fatty oils and unwashable paint. In fact, I take pride in my stained clothing, as if giving some sort of hommage to the bacon which coated my greasy little fingers or the dollop of sour cream that escaped ingestion by jumping of the nacho at the last second. I guess my thinking is, “I don’t have to look at the sweatshirt and it’s comfy, so I might as well wear it.” Sad words indeed.

My stomach. I am not hopelessly out of shape. You’ve seen my legs, they’re quite nice. Yet, for all my efforts at exercise (playing basketball with a couple of friends every other week, and regularly pounding down cookies and popcorn with wine late at night) my stomach is growing faster than the ash cloud over Iceland. I have never had a flat stomach, but I at least I have been able to see my feet with regularity. Like that same ash cloud, my toe spying days are slowly dissipating. At the park last week, a very awkward silence ensued when a fellow stay at home parent asked me when we were expecting. Yikes! In my younger days, I would have gotten myself to the gym and trimmed myself into a body shape that didn’t require a waistband. Now and I am cheap, and lame, and wonder weather having a toned stomach would even matter. I mean, I wear Doggers! and and stained sweatshirt for crying out loud. Who cares if I am chubby too!