Smoking Blueberries

Last night I dreamt I was in a cigar shop. Like a real cigar shop, I remembered feeling overwhelmed with the amount of choices and my lack of knowledge. I told the shop keeper that I was a novice when it came to cigars and asked for his assistance. He brought me to the back of the shop and opened a small box. He then pulled out a danish with blueberries on top of it. "Smoke this" he said "and your whole house will smell like blueberries". I smiled politely and asked if he had anything else. Then he brings out this danish covered with cherries. He must've seen my confusion, because he proceeds to light the tip and smoke the danish.

At work today, I had a lengthy argument over whether a pastry can actually be lit on fire. I believe they can not.

Joe and Sam's Wedding

A few weeks ago, my best friend got married to a beautiful girl in a beautiful ceremony held at Alhambra Hall. Bekki and I were lucky enough to attend (with Lukas in tow, of course). It was Lukas' first visit to the Holy City. Unfortunately, there wasn't enough time to give him his first glimpse of the ocean. Perhaps next time. The pictures just got uploaded to the World Wide Web and I had to share a few. The complete album can be found here, for anyone who's interested.

And, yes, the groomsmen all wore Chuck Taylors. It's a Charleston thing. You wouldn't understand.

One Purple Toe and Two Goofy Smiles

The other day I stubbed my toe while carrying Lukas around the house. I was too concerned with making googlie eyes at my boy that my left foot ran aground on the beaches of my Total Gym 1500. It wasn't my big toe and it wasn't my pinky toe. It was one of those toes in the middle that you don't really need and seldom pay any attention to.

Other things have gone out of focus since Lukas' birth. This blog has been one of those. I'm sure, though, that the three people out there who actually read this will excuse my absence due to these unforeseen circumstances. I wasn't even aware that Bekki was pregnant. I just assumed she had some large tumor.

We've spent these past two weeks entertaining family (who we are forever indebted to) and watching cheesy comedies through Netflix. We watched the Hangover. It was decent. We watched Stepbrothers. It was horrible. Completely horrible. I also picked up a copy of Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk. Bekki bought it for me in 2005. It's been five years, but I finally got around to reading it and it's a pretty damn good book. It's also an easy read which is good for me because I'm not too bright. I sure hope Lukas gets his mothers brains. And her looks. If he gets my sense of fashion, I'll be happy. Bekki has a lot of things going for her, but she just can't rock a sweater vest the way I can.

Last night, we stuck a thermometer up Lukas' butt. I felt so bad for the little guy. Unless, of course, he turns out to be a homosexual. In that case, you're welcome, little guy. Unfortunately, he shat all over the thermometer and all over Bekki's hand. Lukas didn't seem to mind. I'm just glad I wasn't the one holding it. He may not have given me the stinkhand last night, but he has given me two things that I just can't seem to get rid of- a purple toe and a smile that won't fade.

A Hillbilly Update

When Bekki told me her water broke, I honestly didn't believe her. It took the doctor on the labor and delivery floor saying, "Alright, let's get this baby out of you", for me to fully buy in to what was happening. It's not because I think my wife's a liar, which she is, but more about it being a month too early for her to give birth. Let's be truthful, I was desperately craving a month more of crazy pregnancy hormones. It's amazing how I can be a sweet husband and a prick at the same time.

Six and half hours later, our first child was born. Lukas came out with my hair and her eyes and the biggest baby feet that anyone had ever seen. He cooed repeatedly for the entire first day, but by day two had definitely discovered his lungs. Breast feeding was slow in the beginning, which I can't understand because her boobs look awesome. I hope Lukas isn't a homosexual. He does tend to act like a diva when he doesn't get what he wants.

Except for the first doctor who tried to give Bekki Pitocin in order to rush labor, everyone at the hospital was great. It's not his fault, though, I'm sure he desperately wanted to see his son in the dress rehearsal of A Streetcar Named Desire (he played Stella). Labor was six and a half hours, I'm not sure how much faster it could've gone, especially for Bekki's first delivery. The second doctor had splendid bedside manner and the tag team nurse duo was phenomenal. We still need to send them thank you cards.

Bekki's gotten alot more sleep since leaving the hospital. The baby was fine. It was those damn nurses with their incessant blood pressure readings and questions that kept her up all night. Who comes into a darkened room at 2:30 in the morning to ask about hospital paperwork? It all seemed a bit overwhelming, but the end result is that we have a healthy, happy, beautiful baby boy. I couldn't ask for anything more.

Lukas Anthony DeAntonio

Born 4/18/2010 at 1:23 PM
6.1 pounds
18 inches
1 month early, but happy and healthy!

The Guy With the Tattoo On His Face

The other day, Bekki and I went to the first of three scheduled classes offered by our local hospital. The first class is about pregnancy. The second class is about childcare. And the third class is about breast feeding. I'm planning on attending the third in the hopes that I get to see some awesome pregnancy boob.

Breasts aside, the classes also offer a great opportunity to network with other first time parents. There was one couple in particular that really made an impression on me. The girl was somewhat average looking. She wasn't really someone that stuck out in a crowd. The man with her, however, was just the opposite. Apart from the generic Ed Hardy shirt and NY baseball cap turned sideways, this fella had one fashion accessory that did stand out- a tattoo on his face.

I'm not sure what exactly drives a person to get a tattoo on their face. The only people I've seen with tattoos on their faces were either in some sort of gang or they were Mike Tyson. So I'll assume that the prerequisite for getting a tattoo on your face is being crazy. I'll also venture as far to say that the desired outcome is to be forever unemployable.

And for the brief moment that I was wrapped in the warm embrace of stereotyping, I thought to myself that at least I now knew that I'd be a better father than two people in this world- Scott Stapp from Creed and the guy with the tattoo on his face. But as I thought about it more, perhaps he was the most conservative and family oriented man there. Tattoos are, however, a tradition that stretches back hundreds of years. So I suppose my hat's off to you, tattooed face guy, for having the courage to wear a tattoo on your face. Oh, and for the courage to wear an Ed Hardy shirt in public.

A Day in Pictures

The tree in my front yard is apparently having it's period.

My wife is definitely NOT having her period.*

Lilly and Clementine admiring Red as she plays in the backyard. None of them will ever have their period again.

*This picture is actually from a few weeks back. Since then, Lukas has added an addition or two to his living space.

A Pit Bull Attacks My Son (While Still In Utero!)

They warned me. They warned me. They warned me. Friends. Family. Complete strangers. They all warned me of the dangers of allowing a pit bull around a child, and I refused to listen. You've heard of the bad reputation held by pit bull type dogs, they're vicious, unpredictable and prone to attack without warning. Sadly, those rumors were proven right this past week. Our 1 year old pit bull mix, Red, made her first attack against our son, Lukas.

My wife, Bekki, decided one night to drive up to the local Arby's for a roast beef sandwich. Instead of putting Red in her kennel, she put a leash around her neck and invited her to hop in the car. Bekki's prego stomach is now beautifully bulbous, but somewhat restricting when it comes to movement. This weakness was not overlooked by Red. As soon as they got on the street, Red distracted Bekki by squirming in her seat. Bekki went to move some papers from under Red's bottom. When she looked up, she saw she had run into a telephone pole. When she tried to back up, she realized that their was a fire hydrant stuck under the car.

I've underestimated Red's cunning. I was expecting an attack of a more physical nature, but I have to tip my hat to her inventiveness. A pregnant woman gets into a car crash, demolishes city property and causes over $2,000 worth of auto damage, and who's the last one that anyone suspects? The dog.

The Battle of the Bulge

The last thing I want is for my son, Lukas, to grow up to objectify women in the same sense that his father does. You objectify women, Michael? Sadly, I think I do. As pointed out by my loving wife, the last three posts on this blog have contained pictures of overly suggestive cleavage. I understand that women are more than sugary eye-candy, that’s why they have vaginas. Form meets function.

So to balance the massive amounts of mammaries promoted on this website, I present to you the male bulge. What better way to counteract your own sexist tendencies than to objectify yourself. And by ‘objectify myself’, I mean objectifying someone who has a much larger penis than me. And if Real Woman Have Curves, do real men have small penises? I don’t know, just ask Prince Gomolvilas.

And if real women have gestational diabetes, then I suppose I’m married to a dude. Thankfully my wife, Bekki, received a positive result from her glucose tolerance test. Now we can have our cake and eat it, too. She was still referred to a dietitian, but told to ‘take it easy’ until the appointment. Luckily, my wife responds to ‘take it easy’ the same way as I respond to ‘no, Michael, my feet hurt’- ‘thank God it’s just your feet because I really want your vagina’.

Breastfeeding at the Mall

Recently I read a story about Salma Hayek breastfeeding some African baby whose mother couldn't produce any milk. How disgusting. An American mother would never shed her modesty, even to help a hungry child. Modesty is a hallmark of American ideology. Just ask anyone at Fox News. All I had to do was ask a group of teenage girls hanging around Hollister. Who I only talked to, by the way, because I thought they were prostitutes.

With a wife that's seven months pregnant, I get alot of people asking me if we're going to breast feed. It's a serious question meant for a mature audience. I know this, because every time someone asks me I giggle. First off, I won't be breastfeeding the child. I've tried and I've failed. If my breasts could provide some sort of sustenance, trust me, I would. But even if I could, I wouldn't breastfeed in public. Pooping is natural, but you don't see me doing that in the middle of the food court. Right?

The point is, if you want to breastfeed in public, go to Europe. Or Sierre Leone. Or wherever it is people like Salma Hayek go to feed their children. But in America, we keep our shame and our breasts closely guarded. So will my wife breast feed? That's almost as intrusive as asking if we have sex. Which, of course, we don't. We're modest people.

Snookie from Jersey Shore and the Epic Gynecologist Appointment

The wife and I spent over three hours at the doctor’s office this morning. She went in for her second round of testing for gestational diabetes. I’m so excited. A highly restricted diet and health concerns are a huge negative, sure, but imagine how fun introductions would become. “Hi, I’m Michael and this is my wife, Bekki. She has diabetes”. I would pronounce diabetes with a soft e at the end, strictly as an homage to actor Wilford Brimley.

The long wait as the wife got blood drawn four different times did allow me to catch up on pop culture. Luckily there was an issue of People Magazine lying around and I was able to read all about television’s latest craze, Jersey Shore. What better way to eradicate racial stereotypes than by casting people who fit them to a t and then giving them their own show. That’s exactly the same strategy that BET has been using for years. You’re welcome, black community.

After reading the article, the wife and I spent the next two hours and fifty five minutes judging the receptionists lack of courtesy and professionalism and wondering how our experience would have been different if Snookie was in charge. Towards the end of the ordeal, I noticed that the light bulb directly over me was burnt out. I said to Bekki that if Snookie worked here, this never would have happened. I don’t know what’s worse; giving Snookie fictional reign over the doctor’s office or taking three hours to notice I was sitting in a darkened corner.

An Open Letter to My Son

Dear Lukas,

I know it may be awhile before you can read, and if you attend the schools around here that day may never come, but I wanted to take a minute to let you know that I love you. I don't love you the way I love breasts, but deeper and less superficial. I still worry sometimes if I'm the best role model for a child to have. I would hate to pass the family nose or the family temper on to you. No one needs that kind of baggage. At least I know I'll be a better dad than Scott Stapp. He sings for the band Creed. Yeah, I know.

I promise to make the best effort, though. I'll read to you every night. I'll play catch with you. I'll do all those things that a good dad is supposed to do. I promise. And I'll never engage in group sex with Kid Rock and a couple strippers in the back of a tour bus. Yeah, Scott Stapp did that. While he was married and fronting the pseudo-religious rock band Creed. What a jerk.

It's hard for me to imagine anything more beautiful than that big bulbous belly that your momma has right now. I place my hands on it and feel you kick and it brings tears to my eyes. But I know that it will pale in comparison to the first time I see your face and hear you cry. I can't wait to meet you. If I never do anything monumental in life, at least I can say that I created a wonderful child with a wonderful woman. I don't care if I'm never an astronaut. Or a NBA star. Or the singer for a pseudo-religious rock band that plays songs about fatherhood, but then attempts suicide. Yeah, with a wife and two kids, Scott Stapp tried to kill himself.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I want to give you everything and I want to be everything for you, but if I fall short just know that I tried and I love you. And at least your dad isn't Scott Stapp, because that guy really sucks.

Love,

Daddy

9 Chubby Nerds and a Black Guy

Urinating is a very important ritual for me. Where I go, how I go and with whom I go matter greatly. For instance, if I'm going to go in public, I wash my hands prior. It's not that I'm afraid of the outside world; it's that I realize my penis is cleaner than most people's hands. Do you really think your coworker washes his paws after every bowel movement? Hardly. When I'm at home, however, it brings me great joy to pee in the backyard with the dogs. Allowing them to pick up on my scent helps to unify the pack.

It's also important that my pee not touch someone elses pee. A small part of me insists that this is nothing more than my racist subconscious. I am, after all, from the South. And what is more discerning than having my healthy fluid mix with inferior urine? I thought that the online dating service I signed up for would help to ease my troubled subconscious. That's why when the questionnaire prompted me to select the nationalities I was most interested in dating, I proudly clicked 'African American'. Sadly, all I got were 9 white chicks and an Asian.

Luckily, my wife also signed up and took the aforementioned questionnaire. Who was she paired with? Nine chubby nerds and a black guy. I didn't even know she was into black guys. That tells you how much I pay attention. Hell, I didn't even know that I liked Asians. In fact, I was so sure that I didn't like Asians that I left the 'Asian' tab unclicked. I was so positively and undoubtedly sure that Asian women were so far removed from my preference that I would never in a thousand years have romantic feelings for one. Fortunately for me, I took the Chemistry.com questionnaire and now know otherwise. Apparently, I'm quite fond of them.

On a side note, this post is a few days late due to a few more battles with the now slain computer virus.

You and Me and Baby Makes Three

I love you, Bekki!

Oh, and you too, Lukas!

Hunting for Strange Ass at the Grocery Store

Flowers. Hallmark cards. Heart-shaped candy and boxes of assorted chocolates. Is there anything that sums up February more than Valentine's Day? Well, besides black history? I doubt it. The fact is, February is for lovers. And why should I be denied love just because I'm married? That's why I've decided to throw my hat into a couple of the better known dating sites; Match.com, eHarmony.com, ect. I'm hoping to find someone who looks like the Sun Maid Raisins lady. And if that doesn't pan out, I wouldn't mind having lunch with the girl from the Santitas bag.

The wife is strangely unopposed to this idea. Perhaps she's too distracted by the ungodly creature that's tap dancing on her bladder. Whatever the case, I'm overjoyed by the opportunity to bring disappointment and regret to a new generation of women. I say women, because I was under the impression that these dating sites are strictly heterosexual. I'm just waiting for a few queens out there to prove me wrong and point me in a more flamboyant direction. I wonder if the Brawny guy is available.

Oddly enough, my son is also for sale. The wife and I have been pimping out his baby registry info to anyone and everyone who will listen. Well, are you listening? #43691882 at babiesRus . And if unrewarded generosity is as unappealing to you as it is to me, I'm offering the consolation prize of naming my son. The first person to buy something from our registry will get the honor of naming our son. I'm not just talking abut the first name, either. I'm talking about the whole shabang. How does Louise Larsen, Jr. sound? Or Prince Gomolvilas, Jr.? And, Prince, if the Brawny guy is available, I'll take the one from the 1980's. I can't resist a guy with a moustache.

Vagina Envy (The Vagina Trilogy: Part III)

With this being the third post in the past week and a half relating to the female reproductive organ, one might say that I am a leading authority on the subject. Sadly, I'm no more a spokesman for vagina as Steve-O is a spokesman for universal health care. Sure he's been to the hospital more times than Michele Duggar, but I heard he got his doctorate from a clown college.

No, I'm what you would call an amateur enthusiast. My heart's in the right place, but I lack the knowledge and field work to be a true professional. I honestly don't even know what a vagina looks like in the wild. What are its migration patterns? What is its life span? What is its natural habitat? -Possibly a bottle of Tylenol, because every time I go looking for it my wife gets a headache.

I do know that it's where babies come from, and this fact is constantly held over me by the old ball and chain. "Until well after this child's born, it's 80/20. I'm invested 80%, you're invested 20%" And a small amount of vagina envy has definitly been brought to the surface. Peeing while standing up and having an external sack are dwarfed by the awe inspiring magnitude of child birth. Her breasts will become larger. Her stomach will expand. The bones in her hips will actually move. It's almost like I'm married to Optimus Prime. Sadly, their's only one thing on me that can double in size, and that's my waistline.

Guy on a Red Couch

Yes, the couch is red and the guy is me. Enjoy:

Christmas with the Family

Despite his best efforts, Ernie did not ruin Christmas after all. In fact, it was pretty enjoyable all around. The wife and I woke up about noon and exchanged presents. That was followed with roughly three hours of listening to the Chanukah Song by Adam Sandler. We're not Jewish, but when I listen to the song I wish I were. Sorta like when I watch the Color Purple, I wish I was black.

We had Christmas dinner with Bekki's parents. Three helpings of prime rib later, I felt as though I might explode. The twice-baked potato didn't help, either. Luckily, we had one more holiday tradition to look forward to- Scrooged, the 1988 comedy classic starring Bill Murray. It's a staple in our home. It's just not Christmas without watching it at least once.

We came to the conclusion that Murray's character would be viewed, from a medical standpoint, as going through a manic episode brought on by stress and fatigue. You know who else went insane? Musician Daniel Johnston. They did a great documentary about him called The Devil and Daniel Johnston. It isn't as funny as Scrooged, but it's worth watching. Overall, we had a great Christmas.

Fools in the Snow

A few days ago, the East Coast got pounded by a winter storm. Our little town rarely sees snow, and when it does, it's nowhere near this heavy or this quick falling. Bekki and I enjoyed it while it lasted. And, for posterity's sake, we recorded a quick romp in the snow. Watch:

Ernest Ruins Christmas

Did you ever watch those Ernest movies growing up? Ernest Saves Christmas was always my favorite. So much, in fact, that we named our first dog Ernest in honor of the film. And, yes, Ernie has saved Christmas on several occasions, but this year was not one of his better performances.

My mother and father trekked the icy roads to visit us this week. My mother was in the room during the ultrasound to play witness to the teary eyes and gasps of joy when the doctor announced that we would be having a bouncing baby boy. Few times in my life have I been happier than at that moment. I can't wait for all of the wonderful father/son bonding experiences. We can hike. We can fish. We can tell girls we love them just so they'll show us their boobs and then we'll never call them again. It will be truly magical.

After the ultrasound, we drove up to Asheville for some heavy duty baby shopping. My mom promised to buy us a crib, but went all out with a 4-in-1 convertible crib, bedding, a mattress and baby clothes. It was more than we were expecting, but we didn't protest too much. The bedding has a jungle theme which can only mean one thing: I have free reign to paint tigers on our walls.

On the drive home, we decided on an evening of pizza and television (none of us were capable of much else). But before I could even turn the lights on as I walked in the front door, I slipped on a huge puddle of brown grossness. Once I flipped the switch, we noticed four more piles of brown grossness. Then as we marched through the house, we were met with three more huge piles of grossness on our brand new couch. Then I found another pile on the old couch, and two more piles on our new area rugs. Just as we started to put the pieces together, Ernie comes walking into the room with a paper Christmas bag wrapped around his neck.

Ernie is fine. After Bekki going into hysterics and calling the emergency vet, Ernie is fine. Apparently, he got into some chocolate my mom had brought me. You see, Terry's Chocolate Orange is a Christmas staple for me. So my mom, being the superb gift-giver that she is, brought us up two. Ernie wasn't aware they were for us and decided to eat both of them and most of the tinfoil that they're wrapped in. The piles of brown grossness weren't poop after all, they were piles of orange flavored chocolate and orange flavored stomach bile. Thank you, Ernie, you saved Christmas.