Gangsta Lean

"Fletcher, look at you! All cool, down low in your high chair, with your gangsta slip."

[Here, I furrow my brow, trying to figure out if Jen was being funny, or serious. Having made my decision, I reply...]

"Uh, Jen? You mean gangsta lean."

And here I was, about to provide a blog entry about the lack of Jenisms since I started documenting them for all the world to see. Pshaw. The Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle is sooo overstated. Word.

Ready to go see Daddy in the yard

Here's my little boogaloo, ready to come outside and see me have heat stroke working in the front garden. (Yes, gardening is MAN'S work.)

The Cold War

I imagine that most of the readers (all 5 of you) are old enough to remember the Cold War. "Cold War kids are hard to kill, under the desks in an air-raid drill. Haven't they heard we won the war? What do they keep on fighting for?" I think that Billy Joel, with those few lines, really captured the essence of what it was like to grow up knowing that you lived, ate breakfast, went to school, tennis practice, whatever, at the business end of a Soviet nuke. But we went on with our lives, restful in knowing that the Reds sat at the business end of our nukes, and after all, "It'd be such an ignorant thing to do, if the Russians loved their children too." (That's Sting, by the way, from Dream of the Blue Turtles.)

So, what's your point, The Rick? Glad you asked. Mutually assured destruction. It is what kept the balance during the Cold War. And, with mutually assured destruction in mind, I submit the following photo.

Here. Smell this.

Pssst, here's the plan.

Goober: Psst. Coop. No, don't look at me. Keep your eye on the humans. I heard them talking. They are gonna put the kid in a contraption called a Hiya Che-arye to feed him. If we play our cards right, and work together, we can clean UP on scraps. Whadayasay?

Cooper: Ya think? OK.

Now that I have this tiger by the tail...

Nuclear Meltdown

This past weekend, The Wife and I sojourned to H-town, for some q-time with the fam and friends. After spending Saturday with my dad, we took Fletch to spend the night with some friends. We left Dad's right around Fletcher's typical bath time. So, he was starting to get grumpy.

Rarely a fan of the carseat, especially when The Hunger stirs, Fletch began to get vocal on the way to our friends.

"How far is it?" Not far, dear. I have my trusty google map in hand. Huh. I can't find the street. Surely we missed it. Let's turn around and try again.

Meanwhile, The Boy is now at Defcon 2.

Nope, that street is definitely not there. "Rick, are you reading that map correctly?" "Yes, call them for clarification on the directions." No answer.

Fast forward 15 minutes. And raise the volume 70 decibels, or, for those not familiar with a dB scale -- about the noise a jet engine makes. Fletcher is now at Defcon 1.

And still no answer from our friends. Fletcher is now beginning to flood his carseat with his crocodile tears.

Still no answer. And the in-laws are out of town. And no answer from Jen's sister. By this time, the only one in the car NOT crying in yours truly. The prospect of stopping in unfamiliar territory is not attractive, as night has fallen. (Do you know Houston?)

I am happy to say that we did eventually get a callback; the directions were in fact in error (lucky us that this is the one error for Google Maps); and we made it to our friends house.

And the moment we stopped the car, so Fletcher shut off the waterworks.

Fletcher is the sadistic warden of a very elaborate prison.