Blogging In Plain Site

Potty Like A Rockstar

Shit!

Soho is crapping web blobs of poop everywhere in the house, and vomiting.

Liam is coming up on 3 and desperately needs to be potty trained so he can attend multiple day pre-schools like his peers.

"Soho, go POTTY!" I say, freezing in my boxers on the porch as she wakes me up 2:00 am on a Sunday morning to go out side....and do nothing.

"Do you have a sample of her poop?" the vet asks right before he charges me $340 for blood-work, x-rays, hydration procedures, etc.

I have poop on the mind. And, seemingly, it's everywhere.

We bought a  book on how to potty train a child in ONE WEEKEND. Man, I'm scared. Put rubber sheets down everywhere and don't leave the house...

Soho is on a rice blend diet with pills and careful monitoring so she doesn't ruin our carpets or hardwoods any further.

The shit has hit the fan in the Woodbery household and it doesn't look like it's going to clear for a while but we will come out potty trained (and re-potty trained) on the other side, it just may not be pretty in the mean time.

Turning 40

Wilner. Kleitsch. We had some folks come over Saturday night for a small, belated birthday celebration. Great night as I was able to get different sets of friends together for a catered event.

Larry. Piper. Sam. Sam brought the Canadian blend Whiskey and eggs to launch at our innocent neighbors' houses.

Ivy. Larry. Piper. Grabicki. Sam. McGarvey. As things rev'd up we found ourselves, again, outside throwing eggs. I was making small talk with someone who asked about our neighborhood: "I really don't think our neighbors like us and I can't understand why," I said as I cocked back another egg and launched it at the roof of the house below us.

Jana. The Most Humble and Talented Person in the World. Grabicki holding eachother upright with our heads.

Sometimes It Snows In April

Sunday, April 1st. 39F, Snowing. Goddamn I fuckin'  hate Seattle.

So What Do You Do?

Setting: my house, casual dinner party between my friend and ex co-worker (let's just call him "Chuckles"), his wife, me, Jen and her friend up from San Francisco (let's just call her "Sugar.")

Chuck is talking to Sug' and small talk leads him to the inevitable question: so what are you into? At this point, "Sugar" decides to catch us up on her hobby: Strip Dancing. Not for cash, but to get in touch with her inner femininity, sexuality, etc. Yes, a spiritual quest at the business end of a stripper's pole (which she was having installed in her house). Fascinated, "Chuckles" eggs her on.

She starts feigning the moves. Me and Chuck make eye contact. I slowly make my way over to our IPOD station and start flipping through music. I found the perfect song from the album The Teaches of Peaches, and the throbbing, pulsing, anthem "Fuck the Pain Away" made its way into pole (ah, I mean poll) position...

Keep in mind this is a song that starts with the words "Suckin' on my..." Now, I don't care where the song goes from there, ANY song that starts with those lyrics can only lead to goodness.

At this point, Jen is starting to catch on to what I'm up to and has that raised eyebrow look. I was taking a little bit of a risk here. Maybe I would hurt her feelings if I went there, embarrass her.

I pushed play.

BOMP BOMP...BUMP BUMP BUMP (TSSS TSSS TSSSS TSSSSS) "Suckin on my..."

Sugar stopped talking and started moving. Pulsing her hips, moving her hair in front of her face, spreading out her stance. Within 30 seconds she was doing a full on stage dance in our kitchen. And she was good. The music went louder, I was all in.

25 minutes later, Sugar was showing Chuckles' wife how to strip dance.  I was furiously wheeling through my IPOD playlists looking for strip music. The whiskey was pouring freely. What surprised me is how much strip music I actually had.

"Play Justin Timberlake!" she moaned in the middle of an inverted "V" move....

Okee-dokee, Smokey.

She was cookin' with gas. Dinner at the Woodberys' took on a whole new status. We bring the talent to dinner. I look over to see Sugar giving Chuckles a lap dance in our new Crate and Barrel leather chair - he was spilling his drink with a big dope ass smile on his face. We needed to cool off.

It was then when Chuckles asked me if I had any eggs. Six minutes later we're launching eggs off our back porch into the innocent houses below the ridge we live on. Then goats milk bottles. Then, I pulled a full wine bottle out of his hand "that's enough."

"These people don't speak English and hate us already, throwing dairy products on their houses will not make us friends, " I explained.

"Maybe you need to tell them about the American tradition of 'The Goat Milk fairy," he offered.

Sugar had spun off into a corner and collapsed in a Congress of the Something move. The dinner had fizzed out. Time to head on home.

Goodbye, Lorenzo Lamas

This weekend I was a pallbearer in the death ceremony of Mr Oneal's single life. That's right, Oneal is off the market and heading for marriage and fatherhood. When I think of the VAPOR TRAIL blazed by him since I knew and ran him in 1989 (we can technically say we were hitting it' in the 80's), it astounds me. So, in true Hoth tradition, we gave him a Belltown send off. It did not end well.

8:00 pm. Off to a good start. Oneal (pictured center) flanked by his ever faithful Hoth brethren

9:30 pm. Hothman Oneal takes the obligatory rubber woman for a walk down 1st Ave for a martini. I think this is the only girl he's ever taken out on a date - on the weekend.

11:30 pm: things getting a little iffy. Hothman Oneal begins to wonder if this evening isn't going horribly awry. Its right about here that we (I) hit him with a Prairie Fire. A low blow, I'll admit but at the time, it seemed like a good idea. Just as he downed the horrible broth, a girl on a (paid) dare gives him a huge lip lock. Unfortunately for her all she got was the 151 and Tabasco sauce from Oneal. The look on her face was priceless. But it was worse on his. From here on out, the evening started to get blacker and blacker.

1:15 am, Hothman Oneal, supported by Hothmen Reid and Woodbery, begin to make their way home down first avenue to Hothman Reinman's condo to deposit Hothman Oneal on a flat surface hopefully with a drain. Its right about here that I ask Stacy if he wants to go out the next night and REALLY get tore up...

1:45 am. Finally, the inevitable board room meeting with the porcelain god. Fare thee well, Oneal. You are a legend.

Memorial Day: The Good, The Bad, The Totally Embarassing

The Good:

Spending a lot of time with Liam.

Dinner at Andy's Boathouse Saturday. Meeting Jana and her very kool klan of parents with kids who like to drink cocktails. Cheers guys for a great time.

Running through the Fountain Court at Seattle Center with Liam during Folk(get a) life festival.

Two hour disco nap on Sunday.

The Bad:

Three high pressure meetings in Atlanta C level officers with dozens of Directors and VPs sprinkled in between on a break neck schedule - eating no food the entire day, pouring myself into the crown room, whacking back 8 crown and sevens and pouring myself into a middle seat on a west-bound wide body at 7:04 pm EST

Having to leave Andy's Boathouse at 8:00 because Liam wouldn't go down in strange territory.

The weather. All weekend.

Liam up at 5:50 am. All weekend.

Getting power douched, head-to-toe by random jet of water in the Seattle Center Fountain Court.

Soho comes up lame on one foot. Spend two hours waiting to be seen at the emergency clinic Monday afternoon on the only nice weather of the weekend.

The Totally Embarrassing:

Falling asleep in my pizza 10:00 Friday night.

Jen falling asleep on the couch 10:00 Saturday night watching 20/20

Having Jeff and Julie over for a raging Soprano's marathon Sunday night with "no school" the next day, stocking up on wine and bracing for a good time. Jen and I end up falling asleep at 10:30 on our couch in our media room with them looking at each other thinking: "Should we just creep out, wake them up and say goodnight, keep watching the last episode or take compromising photos of them??"