Milk bottle? Check. Pink helmet? Check. One boot. Check. Let's go....
9 years ago
EGB News
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Don't Be Scared!
Milk bottle? Check. Pink helmet? Check. One boot. Check. Let's go....
Friday, March 18, 2011
So Much for That New Year's Resolution of Blogging More
We're living more if that makes you feel any better. Hair is still wild but got a haircut to share. Hit the slopes. Hiking. Buying candy. Doing rap videos on camels. Living less was so 2010. Now we're shattering earth....It's all coming your way shortly. Put on your helmets.
By the way, before I forget, and I've been known to do such a thing on a very rare occasion, I read this article the other day:
Harness the Power of the Mom Blogger in NYT
Oooooh. Mom Blogger power. "Brand ambassadors" blogging religiously about prenatal yoga. I'm soooo engaged. Gimme a break. I'm shaking in my high-top Ponys.
What I'm about to say will get no sympathy from the women out there. Which is basically 99% of you since 2 people read this blog. And I think you're both women. I'm leaving the statistical variable of 1% in case a random dude accidentally lands on this blog and stays for 3 seconds. What I was saying is that, on behalf of guys out there--I'm feeling left out on this one. Guys get no love. Power, Mom, Blogger? I'm like a 1/3rd of that equation--a Blogger. Shouldn't that count for something? Ok, maybe I'm sort of "powerful" in a guy-who-can-crush-a-lot-of-pizza kind of way, but that's not getting any real attention around here. I started this blog for one reason and one reason only--to satisfy my lust for power. That's it. I mean EGB is cool and all, but it's about me. NYT hear me loud, "I'm POWERFUL now! Harness this and create energy! Bottle it up. Send it to the Middle East. Drop it and watch it grow love so thick you'll need chainsaw to spread it on your toast. Drink it!!!!!!!!"
Ok. I just read that last paragraph back. It's Charlie Sheen-ish. I guess this makes me crazy. And I get why Dad Bloggers get no love. Why you ask? Because Mom Bloggers are a roving gang of thugs who hog all the products, limelight, and time in the bathroom. I want in on the action.
I just Googled "dad bloggers" and found out they've been calling for the "Year of the Dad Blogger" every year for the past few years. It ain't happened. We're still standing here in the rain with our cookies getting wet. We're a loose knit of gypsies doing the work of the working man. Hustling baby stories. While Mom Bloggers are sitting on white sand beaches in super thick terry cloth robes being fed chocolate and grapes by corporate America. Dads if you are out there--we need to organize, collectively bargain (even though that's not really popular these days), and try to get some free stuff. We're not being heard and that's shocking since what we say is sometimes interesting. I'm hurting inside.
Well, I guess I get some respect out there--
"Oh you remember your kid's name? And write about her? Wow," said some random woman over my shoulder as she just showed up in my basement one morning when I was blogging.
"You're a good dad," said some random mom to me at the playground when I was reading Chinese literature and playing a cello with EGB while her kid was setting fire to a pavilion and peeing in the water fountain.
I will say this though, the bar for being a "good" dad is quite low. Which is really a larger critique of the societal overlap of the role expectations from the past eras into the modern times. (Disclaimer--I understand it's a million times worse for women who are now working in the workforce more than ever, but are still expected to hold on to that housewife role at the same time. The bar is unfairly high for you all. But work with me--I'm ranting here. Logic is off the table. Thanks in advance for understanding ladies and sorry on behalf of all fellas that leave dirty underwear on the kitchen floor.) We're collectively still in transition. I guess I'm an involved dad as mine was and would think of doing nothing less--it's fun most of the time. Plus I have a kick ass wife that works her tail off as a mom, employee, and wife. And she'd kick my ass if I didn't help out. So I basically do this out of fear of a whippin'. (Wife--in case you read this, I'm thoroughly kidding about the whip stuff. I love doing what I do with you. We make a good team.) So if the bar is that low, hopefully this blog gives me some extra "good dad credit" that I can cash in somewhere for a nice cold beer, some HD TV, in a dark man cave somewhere with utter darkness 24 hours a day and an unlimited supply of pizza. As I said, sometimes I'm just doing things for me.
In all reality I'm not sure why I really do anything in this world. I'm just blindly following myself. It's conflicting if you're trying to give directions, but it's reassuring if you just sit back and enjoy the ride. I'm not always supposed to know where I'm going. That's a hard thing for us guys. We take pride in directions. Side note--I could even see a game show where dudes compete on direction giving. So Dads, for real, if you are out there and have some real idea about how to access some this Mom Blog juice, let's get it, get us our well-deserved smoking jackets and cigars and ride this puppy into the sunset.
Who's with me! Let's do dis!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Hello?
Hello?.....No one? Alright then Lionel I guess it's just you and me and that creepy clay statue of your head in that video.
Got that off my chest. Enough of that. Now, the matter at hand. EGB. We started dance class. This is hands down the most incredible thing I've seen her do. She's the youngest in the class, which is always bragging rights when she outdances all the other clumsy bow-legged gnomes. Our little dancing phenomenon. She's like a short Fred Astaire, but she's 2 and pees in her tights (true story--she was having so much fun that she peed and kept dancing. Now that's a commitment to art. Take that Simon.) She's a officially a legend at the rec center. They may even retire her number or shoe or whatever.
She's at the age where watching the other kids is way more interesting than following the teacher's instruction. This is actually problematic when one of the bad kids decides to run to the middle of the dance floor and do imaginary snow angels. EGB thinks that's funny as hell and goes to join her. Then I have to go out on the floor which makes me feel funny because I don't do ballet and threaten to take away the golden lollipop that's given out at the end of the class. It's quite a production but I'm glad we're doing it. Other than the fact she asks every day to go to dance class and I have to explain that it's only one day a week. That whole time, day of the week thing, isn't translating very well to EGB. It's primal--I like it and I want more now. We'll work it out.
Speaking of working it out. Let's see some of this dancing action.
Warming up in my room before class. I come hot. 6:30 sharp, ready to twist and flip right outta the gate.
By the way, before I forget, and I've been known to do such a thing on a very rare occasion, I read this article the other day:
Harness the Power of the Mom Blogger in NYT
Oooooh. Mom Blogger power. "Brand ambassadors" blogging religiously about prenatal yoga. I'm soooo engaged. Gimme a break. I'm shaking in my high-top Ponys.
What I'm about to say will get no sympathy from the women out there. Which is basically 99% of you since 2 people read this blog. And I think you're both women. I'm leaving the statistical variable of 1% in case a random dude accidentally lands on this blog and stays for 3 seconds. What I was saying is that, on behalf of guys out there--I'm feeling left out on this one. Guys get no love. Power, Mom, Blogger? I'm like a 1/3rd of that equation--a Blogger. Shouldn't that count for something? Ok, maybe I'm sort of "powerful" in a guy-who-can-crush-a-lot-of-pizza kind of way, but that's not getting any real attention around here. I started this blog for one reason and one reason only--to satisfy my lust for power. That's it. I mean EGB is cool and all, but it's about me. NYT hear me loud, "I'm POWERFUL now! Harness this and create energy! Bottle it up. Send it to the Middle East. Drop it and watch it grow love so thick you'll need chainsaw to spread it on your toast. Drink it!!!!!!!!"
Ok. I just read that last paragraph back. It's Charlie Sheen-ish. I guess this makes me crazy. And I get why Dad Bloggers get no love. Why you ask? Because Mom Bloggers are a roving gang of thugs who hog all the products, limelight, and time in the bathroom. I want in on the action.
I just Googled "dad bloggers" and found out they've been calling for the "Year of the Dad Blogger" every year for the past few years. It ain't happened. We're still standing here in the rain with our cookies getting wet. We're a loose knit of gypsies doing the work of the working man. Hustling baby stories. While Mom Bloggers are sitting on white sand beaches in super thick terry cloth robes being fed chocolate and grapes by corporate America. Dads if you are out there--we need to organize, collectively bargain (even though that's not really popular these days), and try to get some free stuff. We're not being heard and that's shocking since what we say is sometimes interesting. I'm hurting inside.
Well, I guess I get some respect out there--
"Oh you remember your kid's name? And write about her? Wow," said some random woman over my shoulder as she just showed up in my basement one morning when I was blogging.
"You're a good dad," said some random mom to me at the playground when I was reading Chinese literature and playing a cello with EGB while her kid was setting fire to a pavilion and peeing in the water fountain.
I will say this though, the bar for being a "good" dad is quite low. Which is really a larger critique of the societal overlap of the role expectations from the past eras into the modern times. (Disclaimer--I understand it's a million times worse for women who are now working in the workforce more than ever, but are still expected to hold on to that housewife role at the same time. The bar is unfairly high for you all. But work with me--I'm ranting here. Logic is off the table. Thanks in advance for understanding ladies and sorry on behalf of all fellas that leave dirty underwear on the kitchen floor.) We're collectively still in transition. I guess I'm an involved dad as mine was and would think of doing nothing less--it's fun most of the time. Plus I have a kick ass wife that works her tail off as a mom, employee, and wife. And she'd kick my ass if I didn't help out. So I basically do this out of fear of a whippin'. (Wife--in case you read this, I'm thoroughly kidding about the whip stuff. I love doing what I do with you. We make a good team.) So if the bar is that low, hopefully this blog gives me some extra "good dad credit" that I can cash in somewhere for a nice cold beer, some HD TV, in a dark man cave somewhere with utter darkness 24 hours a day and an unlimited supply of pizza. As I said, sometimes I'm just doing things for me.
In all reality I'm not sure why I really do anything in this world. I'm just blindly following myself. It's conflicting if you're trying to give directions, but it's reassuring if you just sit back and enjoy the ride. I'm not always supposed to know where I'm going. That's a hard thing for us guys. We take pride in directions. Side note--I could even see a game show where dudes compete on direction giving. So Dads, for real, if you are out there and have some real idea about how to access some this Mom Blog juice, let's get it, get us our well-deserved smoking jackets and cigars and ride this puppy into the sunset.
Who's with me! Let's do dis!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Hello?
Hello?.....No one? Alright then Lionel I guess it's just you and me and that creepy clay statue of your head in that video.
Got that off my chest. Enough of that. Now, the matter at hand. EGB. We started dance class. This is hands down the most incredible thing I've seen her do. She's the youngest in the class, which is always bragging rights when she outdances all the other clumsy bow-legged gnomes. Our little dancing phenomenon. She's like a short Fred Astaire, but she's 2 and pees in her tights (true story--she was having so much fun that she peed and kept dancing. Now that's a commitment to art. Take that Simon.) She's a officially a legend at the rec center. They may even retire her number or shoe or whatever.
She's at the age where watching the other kids is way more interesting than following the teacher's instruction. This is actually problematic when one of the bad kids decides to run to the middle of the dance floor and do imaginary snow angels. EGB thinks that's funny as hell and goes to join her. Then I have to go out on the floor which makes me feel funny because I don't do ballet and threaten to take away the golden lollipop that's given out at the end of the class. It's quite a production but I'm glad we're doing it. Other than the fact she asks every day to go to dance class and I have to explain that it's only one day a week. That whole time, day of the week thing, isn't translating very well to EGB. It's primal--I like it and I want more now. We'll work it out.
Speaking of working it out. Let's see some of this dancing action.
Warming up in my room before class. I come hot. 6:30 sharp, ready to twist and flip right outta the gate.
Got to keep the feet warm. I kick fire at the teacher.
Dancing With The Star. No "s". There is only one. Mostly because she's all by herself. As you can see in this video she may be the last one.....but she's the entertaining one doing it sideways. That's how we do it around here. Sideways.
Sometimes me and the old man practice at home. The kids are going to be so jealous of my new moves.
Interpretive dance video anyone. I'm feeling it. I gotta pee.
Heyyy. I'm keeping the calves supple with these warmers. See ya on Broadway.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Whoah! Where Have We Been?!?!
Don't fret. I was abducted by an EGB-ian. It's a rare form of alien that lives on an aquatic planet. The good news is that I'm safe and have lots of adventures to share. I missed you.
If you see the EGB-ian, she looks like this, has tattoos, drinks milk like a dog, and is very dangerous. Follow her orders or she'll slap you with a flipper.
Hang tight all....I've got some bombs to drop on ya.
Take me to your leader. My hair is kinky and my eyes are sweaty. I've got lots to offer to your people.
If you see the EGB-ian, she looks like this, has tattoos, drinks milk like a dog, and is very dangerous. Follow her orders or she'll slap you with a flipper.
Hang tight all....I've got some bombs to drop on ya.
Take me to your leader. My hair is kinky and my eyes are sweaty. I've got lots to offer to your people.
