My Toddler is a Klingon

My 18-month old is speaking. Her mother & father are so proud of her! She makes complete sentences with proper grammer and punctuation and everything. But I swear she’s speaking in Klingon, ‘cause it ain’t the language spoken in our house. I surmise that she’s a reincarnation of a Klingon warrior because she is stout and brave and fears nothing. She proves her bravery on a daily basis by swan diving off the sofa or running head-long into solid wooden pews. She proudly displays her new black eye as a badge of honor. Yesterday she waddled up to my while I sat at the computer, batted her big long eyelashes and said, “ 'ej pa'wIj lojmIt DamuptaHvIS tam Hoch, Dada” Which I’d like to think meant “I like your singing very much, Father.” Or maybe she said, “I smell stinky from my bottom region…time to change my diaper, mein Vater.” But as far as I know little Bobo was reciting Edgar Allen Poe. Sometimes I know she’s swearing. She and Deedle Dumpling have a Big Lego piece set. Bobo was attempting to assemble what appeared to be a Borg ship scale replica (my Bobo is indeed a Trekkie at a young age) and the last piece just didn’t want to cooperate and connect. “baQa' guy'cha Dor-sho-gha!” wailed my chubby little Bobo. She’s so cute with her face all scrunched like that. However, it’s not so cute when she turns her Klingon wrath on the adults in the home. Driving home from the state fair the other day she was becoming restless in her car seat. Klingons evidently don’t like to be constrained. She whined and pulled futilely at the shoulder straps. I broke my concentration on the road and turned to her and lied, “it’s ok, Bobo, we’re almost home,” knowing full well we still had an hour on the road. She threw a glare at me that burned my eyeballs and let out, “mu'qaD qoH QI'yaH plaQta', yIntagh!!!!!” Had she a qutluch handy I’m sure it would have been a good day to die for me.

My Little (Big) Girl

I was thinking yesterday about how my oldest has grown and matured over the last 12 months. One year ago my little Deedle Dumpling was a shy 3 yr old who was too big for her age, didn't have any friends her age, and knew a Universe about as big as our old condo & my in-laws house, 'cause that's where she spent all her time. Last year I unloaded my family from our little condo which my wife & I bought together the year we were married. It was a great metro lifestyle. Close to downtown Portland, near amenities in a cute little neighborhood of Multnomah Village, and was in a relatively safe part of town with good housing appreciation. Little Deedle Dumpling came along in 2001 and made our little abode a comfy cozy place, but we started realizing that the trudge from our front door down two flights of stairs through to the end of the parking lot became a chore when carrying a child. I liked how it was building up my biceps but I knew we had to get a house with a garage some day. When our little Bubalah came along last year to join Deedle Dumpling our cozy lifestyle quickly got cramped. I swear the walls closed in and our little condo felt like a shanty with two tiny children. One year ago today our little tribe moved out of the metro and to the burbs in a nice home with 2 full baths. And believe me, I'm glad to have that second full bath with 3 women living under one roof. Deedle Dumpling started preschool after we moved and I remember feeling the parental angst at leaving our shy firstborn who was a full head taller than all the other new preschoolers. She often got mistaken for a 5 yr old (now she's as tall as a 1st grader at age 4) and looked a little out of place with the rest of the rugrats playing in the sand. It wasn't long before she had made friends. And when she started telling me about how much she enjoyed chasing"Ben" around the playground I thought to myself, "that right darlin', just keep 'em running away from you." Well, here it is one year later. My little girl is almost 5, takes dance class, and has a weekly playdate with one of her preschool friends during the summer. She loves dance and wishes she could go everyday, and looks forward to seeing her old friends and making new ones when preschool starts again in a week. Once an insecure, shy wallflower, she now goes up to kids her age and starts talking to them. She used to tell Momma & Daddy to be quiet when we were practicing our music, now she makes up her own songs, and creates imaginative scenarios with her 1001 little ponies. She's been to Disneyland and loves Princesses. She especially loves when Daddy plays her little princess game where the goal is to acquire jewelry. When Daddy wins I have no less than a tiara, bejeweled necklace, earrings, bracelets, and a fine 100 carat diamond ring. Oooooo...I feel so pretty! Yup, I love my girl. I can't wait 'til she's a teenager and has her boyfriends come see her father in drag in a stage show. Hey, don't underestimate a man in a dress...sagging tights can really piss a guy off!

I Can’t Stand the Smell O’ Me

Ack! Someone remind me not to try a new untested cologne! Today I decided to be daring. Try something different. Instead of my usual French Eau de Nase (see below) I found a little trial bottle of Elizabeth Taylor’s Passion for Men. Hmmm, thought I. This has a pleasant aroma. I think I choose to exude a new redolance today. Emanate a scent of something spicy, yet mysterious. Ok, sure. Splish-splash. Two sprays and uuuuuugggghhhh! I feel like people can smell me from half a block away! I really find it offensive when I can smell perfume without the wearer even in sight. You ever walk into an empty room, but you think someone is there because ya smell ‘em? They leave their essence wherever they go. Now I’m one of ‘em. This stuff is too strong. For any gentleman thinking of wearing E.T.’s Passion for Men I don’t recommend it. Unless chicks dig it. Do they? Maybe I’m actually a chick magnet today & didn’t even know it. I prefer a more subtle scent. In my travels to Europe I found a delightful Parfumeur near Nice, France called Fragonard. In their testing room I sprayed a splash of a Men’s Cologne design called Concerto, an invigorating aromatic harmony of freshness, zesty mandarin and bergamot, mellowed with tea, amber and jasmine. The name was perfect for a musician so I bought it. Bought 64 ounces to be exact. Sound like a lot? Bought it in 1999 and I’m still using it. I use their little atomizer & splash myself 3 or 4 times every morning, and I have yet to run out. I like the scent and recommend this foreign parfumeur to anyone. That does it. No more American cologne for me. I trust the professional French "Noses" over Elizabeth Taylor's nose to create something worth inhaling into my own nostrils. I’m sticking with my French Toilette and keeping with my mysterious Provence lifestyle.

Iron Men?

Do real men iron? C'mon, tell me I'm not the only straight guy who iron's his clothes. For Pete's sake, and for your own, too, ya gotta have uncreased shirts to wear to work. I mean, ok...I'll drag myself around the house & yard with droopy basketball shorts and an old, rat-holed shirt. And yes, I do mean holes created by a rat. We used to have a pet rat who would sit on the couch with us and watch Survivor. I think the show made her nervous because she chewed a lot. I have a lot of shirts with little nibble holes, and a couch that looks like swiss cheese. But I digress... Men, do you want to impress your boss? Particularly if your boss is a woman, or gay! They notice nicely pressed, starched shirts. And if you happen to have a straight boss, just think, you'll be outdressing him. That is, unless your boss is the Sr. Vice President and makes truckloads of money, enough to send his secretary out to get his shirts laundered and pressed at the local downtown Fresh as China Cleaners. But let me ask you this...am I going too far when I iron my Hawaiian shirt for casual Friday's? No? Good. This evening as the sun was cooling off and we took our girls outside to relieve some of their cabin fever, we ended up speaking to our neighbors across the street. Well, my wife took the girls out and I joined them a short time later as I was putting the finishing starchy touches on my favorite Hawaiian shirt. "Where you been, watching SportsCenter?" asked my manly retired neighbor. "No, just ironing my shirts." I replied with a smile His wife spit her cigarette out of her mouth and said, "What do you make of that, Ben? A man who does his own ironing?" My wife pipes up in her sarcastic way, "Yeah, and he sings and acts and wears women's clothes onstage, too. I wonder if I should worry about all those other men and his backstage shenanigans." "Yeah, Babe, this is the same husband who made you squeal more than once last night." SLAP!!!!! "Ow! Wha...? Did I say that out loud?" Well, needless to say, no squealing or groaning or funny Goofy faces in the Evil Baritone house tonight. Prolly not for month. Hey, is that a wrinkle in my drawers? Where's my iron? Gotta go...

CENSORED

Where's the Evil Baritone been you might wonder? My internet has been censored at work! Arrgh! New restrictions now prevent us from logging on to Blogger or other blogging sites, including My Space, and even to Flickr.com. How am I supposed to pass the time if I can't post mundane material on this blog or read other's blog du jour? But yet, here I am, first thing in the morning blogging away. How did he blog on, you might ask? Got in the backdoor through a link from another website. Go figure. So bid me good luck and fair weather in breaking down the blogging barrier at work! Hey, does anyone remember my password...?