When is being a Work-a-holic not really all that bad??

boy.imp: daddy smile!
(of course boy.imp was holding girl.imp's brand new, digital camera and daddy was sitting on the toilet...daddy did not smile. Daddy decided to go to work.)

After my shower I was in my skivvies and work shirt, getting ready to step into my jeans when girl.imp walked into the bedroom (at this point I was still not enthusiastic about leaving).

girl.imp: hahahahahahahahah (pointing at my lower body. First things first, I checked to make certain I was actually wearing my skivvies. Yes, I had to check. Yes, I truly believe I could actually forget. I have been known to tear about the house/apt. looking for glasses that I was wearing or keys that I was holding between my teeth. So a quick peek did not seem to be out of the question.)

So much for doubt and second-guessing. My plans for work definitely included a full 8 hours.

So, after getting on the road, I flipped on NPR and 'Wait Wait Don't Tell Me' and Paula Poundstone actually scored enough points to win!

For those of you who do not listen to this show, I will not bother to go in-depth. Let's just say the panel members compete with each other at the end of the show by trying to answer the most number of questions correctly. On this show, Ms. Poundstone wins almost as often as the odd ice age sweeps down from Canada across the great American Mid-West.

Why is this important? Because Paula lost again, prompting me to call home to rap with the wife. Because after 12+ years of marriage, instead of hours and hours of conversations laced with sexy innuendo or just plain, nasty phone sex, we get off on conversations about NPR and its programs.

g.imp: hello daddy (we have caller id now)
me: hello. what are you doing.
g.imp: ohhhhh, I'm drawing.
me: uhhuh...where's your mother
g.imp: she's in the shower. Ummm, daddy? Boy.imp's in my bedroom...
me: ok. Tell him I said hi.
g.imp: ok. Daddy? He shut the door and locked himself inside....(calling to boy.imp) daddy's on the phone and he told me to tell you 'hi.' can you hear me?
me: he's what? Open the door and let him out!
g.imp: I can't! He locked the door from the inside!
me: Well go get mommy out of the shower and tell her to unlock the door and let b.imp out! Oh and tell her that I'll be home late tonight!

So I was in the Shower and

I was totally enjoying the solitude and hot rinse when I heard boy.imp calling.

However I ignored his first few attempts. What could be so important that he needed to drag me out of the shower.

b.imp: Dad? Dad? Can I throw up?
me: (well if you have to ask, how bad can it be?) Sure! Go ahead!

I found out that he was serious and I spent most of this a.m. cleaning while dressed only in my skivvies and a t-shirt. I am very glad that my neighbors (mostly) work during the day!

I was going to write about the wife.imp, sex and other things but

boy.imp is home 'sick' today. How do we know he is sick?

Because when he wakes up before us, b.imp is the most annoying creature on the face of the earth.

'Daddy! Daddy, get up! Wake up! Daddy! I want breakfast! I'm hungry! Daddy!...'
(picture said dialogue while b.imp pries at my eyelids, pokes my face, pulls at my hair/lips)

Today he rolled into our bedroom and curled up between me and wife.imp giving us some lambing-lambing (hugs). He also felt like an oven on wheels. HOT! (and not in the good way referred to by Paris Hilton. Not that Paris Hilton's pronunciations are all that good. Don't you just want to soak yourself in a tub of antisceptic after seeing her image on the television?)

So how do we know b.imp is feeling better?

The t.v. commercial was of a Jeep Grand Cherokee. The SUV was sitting on a flat, straight stretch of desert highway revving it motor...again and again and again.

b.imp: can I have one? can I have one?
me: wha? Oh...not right now. Wait until your older.
b.imp: but I'm older now! I'm a big boy! (however by the tone of his voice one can tell he is slightly impatient and what he was really saying was, 'geez, a@@ho#&%! Just by me the damn truck already!!'!)

My secret weapon is #2

Girl.imp went for her first martial arts (Modern Arnis) lesson and really seemed to enjoy it. But if she were to quit now, I would not have any fear of her future safety.

g.imp: Daddy? That smell--I tootied!!
me: (gagging) do you have to use the bathroom?
g.imp: nope! I just tootied!
g.imp: (evil grin) I just tootied again!
me: (looking around at the near empty room - where are the crowds of parents when you neeeeeeed them?) Just go to the bathroom!
g.imp: Ok!

Later during g.imp's class:

me: boy.imp! Did you just...? Do you need your diaper changed?
b.imp: (grabbing is diaper and backing away) No! I'm a big boy now!
me: Right. (again, why is the room nearly empty when you really really want to blame the smell on somebody else's imp?) It smells like a rotting, skunk carcass crawled out of your...Let's go change your diaper...

That's right folks! There is no fear from the baddies in the big cities. Muggers, thieves, killers--Come get yourself some of this! IF you think you can handle the smell!!

Monday: We witnessed Floriday play a high school team. 'Nuff said.

Tuesday: Cannot remember Tuesday. Lots of driving tho'

Wednesday: We went to girl.imp's school for a field trip. We saw 'A Year with Frog and Toad'. It must be a very old play, because the male leads (Frog and Toad) were very, very chummy. What our grandparents' parents would have called good pals...Today we would refer to a closet...

Thursday: wife.imp told me that boy.imp is beginning to mature. He has recently been proclaiming '...I am not a little boy! I am a big boy!' But now he has taken it a step further. When we ask him if he needs his diaper changed he runs away screaming that he did not soil his diaper. So then if we ask him if he wants to stop using diapers and start wearing underwear...

boy.imp: You can stop asking questions. Stop asking questions now!

...Girl.Imp is in 1st Grade and already has issues with school...

Snip! Snip! Snip!

As a young imp that sound scared me to death. It meant dad was ready to cut my hair (and not too infrequently the back of my neck or my ears).

As time went by the snipping sound of the scissors faded into history. They now now cut hair with clippers. 'Come in! Come in, little sheep. Drop your ducats here and lose your hair in 5 minutes or less!'

Now the snipping sound of the scissors is starting to slip back into my reality. No, I am not speaking of the shears used by the old crone of The Fates.

I am speaking of the ultimate threat to man's pride. Wife.imp had a bad day (month) at the office (along with a mishap or two over the Christmas holiday) and has broached a topic I had thought long dead.

Yes, she wants to unman me. Have the '"little" guy' nipped and tucked! I am not so upset about being reduced to a life of shooting blanks. I am near the age where more newborns are supposed to happen to someone else. However, I am not anxious to be placed in the position where a slight deviation could result in irreparable nerve damage.

This bothers me because I am not a fan of having to use self-service to 'get my groove on' (at least not on an permanent basis).

So now the question to be answered: "...to vasectomy or not to vasectomy..."