Last weekend, my mother-in-law treated me, my wife, our kids, our nephew and WW’s older brother to the Philly Pops’ annual holiday concert at The Kimmel Center for the Performing Arts — or, as I like to call it, The Anxiety-Provoking Center for the Provocation of Anxiety in the Overly Neurotic Parent Who Fears the Accidental Falling from Great Heights and Subsequent Premature Death of His Children and Nephew.
It’s a good thing I’m so naturally crafty and handy and oh wait no I’m not
It was supposed to be so simple: take the little block of wood, cut it into a car-like shape, slap some paint on it, attach the wheels, ta-dah, done, finished, no sweat.
Of course, when it comes to me, nothing is simple … particularly a pseudo-carpentry project.
If not for The Force, Darth Vader would have totally gotten his ass kicked, because that suit? Not very practical.
OK, so here’s the story with this nonsense:
A few weeks ago, my wife and I took the kids to the comic-book store. While there, my wife, who is on the school council at our son’s elementary school, asked the owner if he’d be willing to sponsor a school fundraiser by providing for the event one of the costumed characters that often appear at his store. The owner said he didn’t have anyone specific he could send, but he’d be willing to loan out the store’s $800 Darth Vader costume.
“Jon’s pretty tall,” Mr. Helpful Comic-Book Store Owner suggested. “He could wear it.”
Well, as we all know by now, no one loves to get himself into ridiculous situations more than me, so I, of course, said, “Yeah, I’ll do it.”
And now a few words from my children’s coats
Why, children? Why do you hate us so? What ever have we done to you except keep you warm and dry and protected from the elements?
The title of this post seemed a lot more clever when my blog was titled “Daddy Scratches.” Just thought you should know. -JZ
Hey, everybody! So, yesterday was the first tee-ball game of the season, and I gotta tell ya—
[Ring-ring … ring-ring … ring-ring]
Oh, excuse me for a moment; I have to take this call.
Hello? This is him. Who? Theo? Seriously? You what? Really? Well, um, yes, I’d love to! Thanks so much! OK, great! See you at Fenway next week!
Wow! That was Theo Epstein, General Manager of the Boston Red Sox. He wants me in the dugout for the team’s next home series. Seems the word is out about what a stellar coaching job I did with Game 1.
Hey, a man can dream.
That big circle I just leapt out of? Yeah, that was my comfort zone
There was a moment during my first few horrific days of Army basic training when it occurred to me that I, shithead extraordinaire, was the one who volunteered to be there, and that, therefore, the misery I was experiencing was, in the words of the great Robert Plant, “na-na-na-na-na-na-na-noooooobody’s fault but mine.”
I experienced a similar epiphany yesterday when I found myself standing in the middle of a baseball diamond coaching 11 youngsters during their first tee-ball practice.
Berated by Bono
Um, well, actually, Mr. Bono, now that you mention it …
(Sorry, kids. You’ll get the story, but not tonight. Aiming for tomorrow.)
(Also, FYI: This kind of unfortunate incident can be avoided in the future if one of you would like to make an enormous donation to the “Help Jon Zal Quit His Day Job” fund. I’m just sayin’ …)
Another mouth to feed
I can’t believe I forgot to introduce you all to the newest member of the family! Where are my manners?
This little bundle of joy is Baby Alive Tink & Poops. No, that’s not her real name, but that is what Jayna has been calling her since, like, a year ago when she first saw the commercial. As you can probably surmise, the “Tink & Poops” part means she not only urinates—which is just so yesteryear—but she also defecates. And if there is one thing we need around here, it is a fake baby who shits herself, amirite?