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little (particles of) shit

Last night, around 3 a.m., I woke up to little furry tickles on my face. Now that Franny sleeps in the bed (it was only a matter of time), I cracked one eye, expecting to see our dog's cute little mug snuggled up next to mine.

Instead, I opened my eyes to find a furry little pink butthole, millimeters from my nostrils.

When I recoiled and tried to shove the little starfish out of the way, she responded the only way she knew how without having to wake up.

By releasing a fresh wave of broccoli breeze, right in my face.

Arrrgh

I know I know. We’re the worst bloggers ever. We agree. Let’s just move past it, ok?

We passed a big milestone since the last time we posted. One full year in NYC, as of September 20th. We made it alive.

We decided to celebrate the one-year anniversary by dressing like pirates and cruising around the southern tip of Manhattan on a modified pirate ship. You know, for International Talk like a Pirate Day.

What? You’ve never heard of ITLAPD? The day that pirates gained their independence? The day that the pirate prophet was born? The holiday that all Somali pirates consider amateur night at the pirate bars?

Truth is, ITLAPD is a joke holiday started by two Oregonians in the mid 90’s, and was promoted by humor columnist Dave Barry (thank you Wikipedia). It was also roundly promoted by our friend Danny Thomases, who so enjoyed bar hopping around Greenwich Village in a pirate costume that he turned to his fellow pirates and growled, “Arrggh ye milksops, cock yer hat athwart my hawse and have a care of the lee-latch.”

Which is pirate for, “Let’s rent a pirate boat, invite all our friends, make everyone dress like pirates, and get loaded.” And so it was.

We weren’t totally sold at first, but when our friends with two kids told us they were going, we had no excuse. Plus, as it turns out, trannies and crazy people had it right all along: shopping for costumes when it’s not Halloween is completely awesome. Empty stores, abundant selections, attentive employees. I think I’m gonna start doing all my Halloween costume shopping in mid-September.

We didn’t go too crazy, since pirate costumes aren’t exactly appreciating investments. But I think we did well enough. Let me just add that Crissy’s do-rag is absolutely authentic, and was not purchased in the costume section. The picture of the super pissed off black dude on the packaging is targeting a very specific demographic that, thankfully, my wife does not fall under.

We ended up having a really incredible time. The weather was gorgeous, the number of people on the boat was perfect, and there were just the right amount of sloppy drunks to provide entertainment: 3 by my count, including one girl who fell flat on her face 30 seconds after complaining about the lack of tequila variety.

The party was so fun, in fact, that I have little recollection of how we got home. Crissy’s memory of the end of the night is equally hazy, though she remembers enough detail to know that we didn’t get mugged on the way home, which meant that my pounding skull was completely self-induced.

don't make me do it

One of my greatest fears is having people ask me for directions while I’m out walking Franny. Not because I could easily be confused for a homeless person or a terrorist in my dog walking garb. Because I suck with directions. People see the dog and they think dog=local resident=human map.

Well, yes and no. My iPhone knows its way around really well, which is great for me, but awkward and slow with strangers. “Uh, hang on, let’s look it up here. Let’s see, maps…ok, what’s the street? These little buttons are really sensitive, oops…oops. Ok, it’s just loading, just a sec. Are…are you on vacation sir?…it’s still loading, give me a second.”

But when people ask directions, they expect an answer. And you can’t guess. Or you shouldn’t, anyway. Because that’s really the worst thing you can do. The hottest sections of hell are reserved for people who guess while giving directions.

So usually I’ll just say, “I’m sorry I really don’t know, I’m walking a friend’s dog.”

People do not like this.

Typically I get a look that that says, I know you know, so why aren’t you telling me…asshole? Or sometimes I get a look that says, How could you possibly live here and not know your way around….asshole? Sometimes people just stand and stare, like the answer is coming, it just hasn’t hit me yet. So we stand there in silence.

Well, not perfect silence. I can hear Spit it out, asshole loud and clear.

Then it hits me.
“Oh, well now that I think about it, I think it’s, uhhhh, that way.”

toast points

Crissy and I did many enjoyable New Yorky things this weekend…Empire State Building, Statue of Liberty, Coney Island. But I’m not interested in reporting on those things. Instead, I’d like to report on a true milestone for us.

The day we officially became yuppies.

It went a little something like this. The missus and I woke up on Saturday, slipped our sleeping masks off with a stretch and a yawn, and patted our dog/child’s furry head. After a quick stroll and several remarks about the lovely weather, we decided to get a bite to eat.

I dressed myself in a newly purchased outfit, which Crissy told me looked truly adorable. I checked myself in the mirror just to make sure I looked appropriately DeGeneres for a jaunt about the city, and we were off.

We decided to lunch at Le Pain Quotidien. Yes, it’s a chain, but since they include the caloric intake of each item on the menu, we decided it would suffice. “This will be splendid,” I remarked. “Quite,” Crissy responded.

After perusing the menu with our shared monocle, I decided to go with the organic steel cut oatmeal topped with fresh fruit, and a soft-boiled egg. Crissy selected a roast beouf tartine, with caper mayonnaise, diced tomatoes, and scallions, served on toast points. It was to die for.

In fact, our lunch was so divine that we both chewed in silence, eyes closed, air-conducting to Mozart’s Serenade No. 13 in G Major, which was softly playing over the tinkling of fine crystal and seafood forks.

It was at that very moment we decided to have 1.5 children, name it Madison Wentworth Porsche Mulroy, and do a Craigslist search for nannies named Isabella.

P.S. Every single detail in this post is true except for the monocle part. We never share.

A New Friend?

The other day I noticed a familiar face at the dog run. It was so familiar that I made Kev bust out his iphone so I could google the guy's dog and famous wife. Right there in front of us was Leeann Rimes' soon-to-be-ex-husband, Dean. We've seen him there twice now with his big poufy Papillion. He just sits there, alone, texting on his phone.

It's so weird to me that I even know who this "normal" guy is, and how I know such intimate details of his life -like how his wife started banging her cheesy co-star during the filming of a Lifetime movie of the week, and that she just filed for divorce and ran off to Mexico for a lover's getaway. Or that he and Leeann's new guy's ex-wife are bonding over both of them being dumped, and that there are rumors swirling that Dean is gay. So it makes me sad that he's here, figuring out his new life, taking care of the dog and he's all alone all the time.

Tonight we saw him eating dinner on the patio of a nearby restaurant, alone again. I wanted to walk up to him and say "Hi Dean, my name is Crissy and this is my husband, Kevin. We've seen you at the dog park recently and I know you're new to the city, wow, what a big change this must be for you coming from LA, so if you ever need some friends to walk your dog with, give us a call. We are nice trustworthy, midwestern people and we know you're going through a tough time right now and you can't spend all of your time alone. You need people around. Seriously. Okay?!"

Then I imagine myself giving him a hug. He looks like he might need one.

oo-ooh, that smell

Well, the old lady’s out of town for the week, shooting chickens. No, I don’t mean she’s blasting ‘em with buckshot. But I bet she wishes she was armed right now. She’s off shooting more Perdue commercials.

Anyway, that means Fran and I have Dude’s Week around the homestead.

That’s actually not true. Franny’s not a dude. She’s an animal. And if anything, we’re living more like animals than humans this week. So, I stand corrected. We’ve been living like filthy animals since Monday morning.

Things have been good. Really good. Well, ok, they’ve been boring. But that means I’ve had nothing but time to work on the screenplays and sitcom pilots and stand up comedy routines I’ve been meaning to get to. And I’m totally gonna get to that stuff. As soon as I’m done not getting to it.

What I have been doing is watching movies. An embarrassing number of movies, actually. In the three days that Crissy’s been gone, I’ve plowed through the following:

1. The Taking of Pelham One, Two, Three (no, not the remake with Travolta. But thanks.)
2. The Hurt Locker
3. What Just Happened?
4. Role Models
5. Humbolt County
6. Frost/Nixon
7. Frost Nixon: The Original Watergate Interviews

And on the scale of Do I or Don’t I wish I wrote that movie, the scores were the following:

1. Yes
2. Yes
3. Yes
4. Yes
5. Meh
6. Yes
7. It’s a documentary. But yes

Above is a picture of the coffee table last night after movie #6. This is the first of a series I like to call The Lonely Shower.