I awoke with a start and wiped a drop of drool from the corner of my mouth, looking around frantically, my heart racing. After a few seconds of vertigo I regained my equilibrium enough to realize that I had fallen asleep on the living room couch; Aline had gone out for a walk with Dominick and the sizzling of pancetta in a skillet along with the brightly colored wristband Guy Fieri was wearing as he explained how to make rocked-out, steamed sea urchin with a flaming watermelon fireball spritzer had lulled me into a deep slumber.

I could set you free, rather hear the sound
Of your body breaking as I take you down

What the hell was that? The nasal, melodic voice echoed through the house and chilled my spine me as I forced air through the blurred, hazy corners of my mind. I rose, and walked groggily down the hall, the sound becoming louder as I approached the rear of the house.

Let the sun never blind your eyes
Let me sleep so my teeth don’t grind

Frowning, I opened the door to the guest bedroom, which was dark except for a thin sliver of yellow light that I traced along the floor from my toes to a walk-in closet in the back corner of the room. Although I had installed a child proof device on the handle of the door, it stood open a bit, light streaming out.

It was a closet I called my “studio”. It contained all of my guitars, recording equipment, CD collection, DVDs, records, album covers; typical man faire. I considered it my hideaway. A place where I could be alone and play music, record and basically wind down without interruption. It was my sanctuary, and it had been breeched.

I pushed the door open and my breath hissed through my teeth when I took in the scene.

My first instict was to assume that it had been ransacked, and I instictively grabbed a microphone stand and whirled around, my new weapon cocked like a baseball bat, ready to inflict a minor cut on whomever had dared enter my home.

In the darkest hole, you’d be well advised
Not to plan my funeral before the body dies

It came again, and I relaxed my stance a little. Why would burglars be playing music? It didn’t make sense. With the microphone stand still in my possession, I ventured out and down the hall to my daughter’s room, which had clearly become the source of the lyrics. They became almost deafening as I reached the door. I pushed it and it swung open with a creak, barely audible over the noise.

Much like my studio, her room was in complete disarray. I glanced about frantically, attempting to piece together what was taking place. Then, as if guided by some mysterious force, my eyes came to rest on this.

then this,

and this,

then finally on my daughter, who was not only dancing about to Alice In Chains like a manic lunatic, but was performing some type of ritual that resembled what I could only assume was a four-year-old version of moshing. While I slept, she had broken into my hallowed chambers, stolen my most sacred music, put it on her CD player and completely trashed her room in dance. She had gone crazy.

As our eyes met she froze in place, arms raised, with one foot off the ground, waiting in anticpation for what she must have thought would be the coming of the Apocalypse. Slowly, the tension in her body faded as a huge grin crept over my face before it finally gave way to gales of uncontrollable laughter. I ran to her, sweeping her up into my arms and embraced her as tears of joy streamed down my face.

My daughter was a metal head.

The Lord had blessed me, for I was home.

-Matt
Hey. There are new Misha Lulu spring fashions for girls at RedSparks. Perfect for headbanging and thrashing. Check it.

“4:30,” she replied frantically, not raising her head from the bowl of cookie dough she was stirring while setting the oven timer with her other hand, “And I still have to get dressed and do my hair. You better get going, there’s no way we are going to make it.”

I cursed and looked at my watch. 3:25. How the day had slipped away from us I had no idea, but this was a pattern we seemed doomed to repeat every year on Christmas Eve, and I was not sure if we bit off more than we could chew or were simply bad planners. It didn’t matter. We were hosting eight guests, many of them already in their cars and heading merrily towards our house, fully expecting to walk in and smell the aromas of mulling spices, a crackling fire and a full Christmas dinner. The only aroma we had managed to stir up at that moment was a quick whiff of gas as the stove lit to begin preparation on the first course. I cursed again as I pulled on my coat and stepped out into the cold to begin a journey that had become, over the years, the most dreaded task I had ever been forced to carry out; an angry, deflating and demoralizing trip to a place that I very much imagine to closely resemble the End Of Days.

I was going to Honeybaked Ham.

I can’t speak for the rest of the country, but there are a lot of people here. All on the same schedules, all with the same needs. And on this particular day, Christmas Eve, all of them wanting, no needing, their beautiful, crusty, brown-sugary and savory Honeybaked Ham. I had been each year before this one, and the experience was always the same. As I would round the corner my heart would sink as my eyes were met with the sight of an almost-infinate, winding serpent of people stretching for blocks, all waiting in frustration to get their hands on that perfect piece of gold-foil-wrapped pork. It was ludicrous, and the experience always put me and my wife into a bad mood. Me for having to endure the indefinite wait for meat, my wife for having to greet all of our guests with her hair not done because I was not yet home to relieve her. There had to be a better way.

As my car sped down the freeway on my way to Burbank, I decided to call ahead and ask for an approximate wait time. Perhaps knowing what I was in for before I saw the line would lessen the blow when I actually saw it. As I fished my phone out of my pocket my wallet fell out onto the floor. I glanced down to pick it up, noticed the corner of a twenty-dollar-bill sticking out and stopped.

I had an idea.

With the Jack Daniels still warming my blood I dialed the number, held the phone to my ear and waitied.

“Honeybaked Ham, this is Trudy,” said a raspy female voice on the other end, one that I could only assume belonged to a sixty something, three-pack-a-day smoker who’s face had seen too many years of hard living. I paused for a mintue, faltering as a result of the unexpected harshness of the individual who had answered, then pressed on.

“How long is the wait?” I murmered in a low voice, applying a faint British accent to my tone. I am still not sure why I felt the need to wear a vocal disguise, it just happened.

“I don’t know,” Trudy snapped. “Just as long as it is every year. I don’t have time to go count 500 people. Anything else?”

“Wait!” I said, still British. I took a deep breath. “Want to make twenty dollars?”

I held my breath as I drove in silence for what seemed like ages.

“I’m listening,” came the eventual reply, this time a bit softer and lower.

“I’m really late, and my wife will kill me if I wait in that line and show up for dinner during the third course with the third course. I just can’t wait. I’ll pay for my ham, but the twenty dollars is yours, Trudy. All yours.”

Silence. More silence. Then finally:

“Come straight to the little room at the back behind the drink machines. Talk to anyone and the deal is off.”

Click.

My adrenaline pumped as I pulled into the parking lot where there were actually employees directing traffic. I got out, pulled my hat down low over my eyes, thrust my fists deep into the pockets of my overcoat and began walking briskly towards the front door past the line of impatient and fidgety people, my head down. I grabbed the door handle and bumped into a portly, red-faced man as I squeezed through.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He bellowed. “The line is back there!”

“Just have to take care of a thing real quick,” I said quickly. British again.

I saw the door immedately over the sea of Honeybaked patrons exactly where she said it would be. It was cracked slightly, and I could see that it was dark inside with the exception of a single bare bulb, haloed by a cloud of cigarette smoke. I made my way to the door, the eyes of countless ham-buyers burning into the back of my neck as I clutched a tightly rolled wad of bills in my pocket. They gave me comfort.

I opened the door with a sqeuak and closed it behind me. The silence, immediately following the din of the wating room, was deafening. I waited for a moment, not able to make anything out in the darkness, before I saw the faint orange glow of a cigarette in the corner, followed by a scratchy exhale and a fresh cloud of smoke.

“Put it on the table.” The voice was Trudy’s.

I took a few tentative steps towards the voice and opened my trembling hand, dropping the wad of cash onto the tiny card table. After a few seconds I heard a shuffling sound, followed by a large foil-wrapped object sliding towards me. The ham came to rest a few inches from the edge. I stared at it, then back at the blackness where the cigarette had been.

“Thank you, Trudy. Trudy?”

There was no reply. Trudy was gone.

With that I snatched up my ham, tucked it under my arm and bolted for the door. I heard customers began to shout and clamor as they realized I had a ham under my arm, but kept running as fast as I could.

“Stop that guy!” someone shouted, and a few people stuck out their arms from the line as I whizzed by them, however they were too afraid of losing their place to stray too far from where they stood, and I avoided them. I dove into my car, their protests fading behind me, turned the key in the ignition and stood on the gas pedal, tires squealing as I rocketed out of the parking lot and onto the dark city streets. With my heart pounding in my chest, I looked at my watch and smiled. I was going to make it home in plenty of time, and I had my ham.

I have seen, or rather not seen, Trudy every year since then. Same place, same transaction. Each Christmas Eve when I call I experience a brief feeling of anxiety, bracing myself for the news that she has moved on to other things. But she is always there, in that dark room, with my ham. Waiting.

There are some Christmas traditions that must never be forgotten.

-Matt

Another Christmas Tradition should be buying something at our online store, RedSparks. Don’t you agree?

It’s no secret that things have been a little tough aound the old homestead lately. My oldest daughter, now four, has taken to raking my wife and I over the coals every chance she gets, presumably due to a perceived lack of attention as a result of having a four-month-old in the house. The four-month-old has been waking up, literally, every two hours for the last four months. All of this has placed my wife and me on a very high cliff, the edge of which seems to be inching closer and closer by the second. Yesterday we decided to do something about it.

The pediatrician suggested that, if Aline were able to provide it, that I take extra breast milk and feed the baby at our bedtime feeding, thus allowing her to sleep though one completely, giving her at least four hours sleep in a row which, at this point, I imagine is like something of a vacation. I rushed home from work, had my daughter bathed, fed and in bed by 7:45 (a personal best), and we had a nice evening enjoying a few hours of silence while watching a movie. As we got up to go to bed, my wife reviewed the feeding process with me. I was to take the breast milk, supplement it with a little formula, put it in the special bottle that is made to feel exactly like a woman’s breast (Where were these when I was in junior high?), warm it and feed my boy, all without making a peep. Seemed simple enough. I bottle fed my daughter for just under a year, I could certainly handle this.

When it was time to turn in, my son was still sleeping. I told my wife that there was no reason to wake him and that, when he did finally wake up hungry, I would get up and take care of business. In doing so, we could maximize the amount of shuteye she would be able to get, and everyone would be happy. It seemed logical, so we both fell asleep.

I’m not sure what time it was when Dominick finally started stirring. Anxious to get the bottle ready before his fussing turned to a full-blown scream and woke my wife, I quietly tiptoed out to the dark kitchen and took the bottle I had prepared out of the fridge, placing it on the counter. I didn’t turn any lights on. The bedroom where I would be feeding him was dark and, should I flip the light switch I would surely blind myself and either stub my toe or kick something on my way in, waking Aline for sure. I took out a pan, filled it with water and put it on the burner of the stove, wanting the water to warm a little before I put the milk in. Hands rubbing my sleepy eyes I gazed absentmindedly out the kitchen window for a minute, taking in the darkened neighborhood, before finally turning back to the stove and reaching for the bottle. I stopped. Dead in my tracks.

There was something on the bottle that had not been there before. A tiny black blob on rubber nipple. In my hazy state of mind, I grabbed it and held it close to my face to get a better look, raising it up until it was an inch or two before my eyes and caught the light of the streetlamps outside.

There, resting contently on the nipple of the bottle, was a cockroach.

“GGGGGAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!” I shouted at the top of my lungs, stumbling backward and skyrocketing the bottle out of my hand toward the ceiling. The bottle flew about 12 inches straight up before ramming at full velocity into the overhead kitchen lamp fixture with an ear piercing “CLANG”, then glanced off my shoulder and into the drying rack full of dishes on the counter, knocking several of my daughter’s plastic plates onto the floor with a loud crash. I clapped my hand over my mouth in terror and waited, listening for the shriek of a startled baby or, worse, the shriek of an angry wife. Much to my disbelief there was none, so I turned my attention back to the bottle, now spinning lazily on its side on the counter.

There are three reasons why, after I hit “publish” on this post, I will be single again. The first is that my wife reads this blog. The second is that, even though I have referenced the fact here many times that my wife is so obsessively-compulsive regarding cleanliness and is such a neat freak around the house that she buys household cleaners with which to clean the other bottles of househould cleaners, she will not enjoy my sharing with the world that a cockroach somehow made its way into our home at all, let alone onto the nipple of my son’s bottle. The third reason is that, even though I washed the bottle in soap and scalding hot water for a few minutes, then proceeded to boil the nipple in the pan of water for another five, she most certainly would have thrown it away, and the fact that I put that bottle into my babies mouth at all will undoubtedly cost me 50% of my belongings. In hindsight, I probably should have just tossed it. But I didn’t and, thus, my marriage will shortly be over.

You see, my wife was raised amidst civil war, has witnessed bombings and gunfire and so many countless horrors but, for whatever reason, remains deathly terrified of cockroaches. Even though the one that took perch on my son’s bottle was no bigger than the size of a sunflower seed, and actually didn’t really touch the very tip of the nipple, more of the side, she will forever in her mind see this:

And not even four straight hours of sleep can make that image fly. What can I say? What’s done is done. I’ve been married for over eleven years now and, all-in-all, it was a pretty good run.

-Matt
We don’t have household cleaners, but we do have some cool baby bath and body stuff at our online boutique, RedSparks. At least it will SMELL good! ☺

Author’s Note: If ANY of you who told me that it was OK to wash off poopy underwear in the toilet give me a hard time about this? We ‘re through.

Last night was a bit different. You see, our daughter has figured out how to manipulate me. I’m easy. Doing so typically involves no more than a sad little face and a statement such as “But nobody will play with me, daddy.” Of course, whatever she is asking for at the moment inevitably has nothing to do with her sudden lack of friends, but she knows that she can probably get a Porsche out of me if she sells that one just right.

Mommy isn’t as easy. Mommy knows what she’s doing. Mommy is tough. Frankie hasn’t been able to crack my wife at all, at least not while they are in the same room together. Sure, Aline is consumed by heartache once Frankie has left the room in a fit of crocodile tears over not getting a Jolly Rancher, but she never lets her see it, and is a master of tough love. It’s a gift.

Last night, Frankie was trying to con her way into one more episode of SpongeBob before bedtime. She knew that Aline and I were both tired, and she knew she had a shot, as neither one of us had much energy left. From where I stood in the kitchen, I could hear her going into her pitch and stopped what I was doing, cocking my head to one side to listen.

“C’mon, Mommy. Pleeeeease just one more?”

“No. Sweetie. That’s enough. It’s time for bed.”

“Pleeease, Mommy? I won’t ever ask for one again. I promise.”

“You will ask again. Probably right after this one. TV time is over, it’s bedtime.”

“I won’t eat candy.”

“No.”

“I won’t cry and get out of bed.”

“No.”

“But Daddy said it was…”

“NO!.”

My wife turned off the television and several minutes of crying and whining followed until my wife, beginning to lose her patience, interrupted.

“Frankie! I’m very tired, and I want you to do as I say. Now, it’s very late, and you are going to be sleepy all day at school tomorrow. The TV stays off, we’re going to bed, and that’s final!”

Upon hearing that last line, I nodded my head in satisfaction, impressed that Aline was able to hold her ground so well on so little sleep. I started to walk happily down the hallway toward the TV room to put her to bed when I heard Frankie once more, this time in a strange, low-pitched, breathy voice.

“Your hair is sexy, Mommy.”

I froze mid-stride.

“Your mouth is sexy, Mommy.”

The color ran out of my face.

“Your whole body is sexy, Mommy.”

With that I felt a shudder run through my body and regurgitated slightly. Where the hell had she learned that? She’s four! And what is up with that voice?!” Was this some new thing that was going around at school? Had…oh god…had she heard me say it? I did have some tequila a few nights ago and, well yeah, I guess I…NO! It doesn’t matter! Something had to be done. She had to know that type of language wasn’t ok. Well, it is ok, but not for her. And she had to know how completely inappropriate it is to say something like that to your mother! This would end now and we would have no more of it starting immediately!

It was at that very moment, as I was about to round the corner, enter the TV room and rain fire on this den of debauchery and sin that I heard a very faint, yet familiar, “click”.

Mommy turned that TV right back on.

-Matt
RedSparks. We own it. We love it. Now you can too.

As 2:15 clicked by on the oven clock I began to worry slightly, although not too much. Our flight was at 4:45 PM and Flyaway buses left every fifteen minutes. There should be no reason for alarm. When a nonchalant call to my brother-in-law yielded only a voicemail, I chuckled, rolled my eyes good-naturedly at Aline and turned back to looking out the front door. His car rolled up about 20 minutes later. “OK, babe, lets move it a little bit,” I said to my wife and we loaded the luggage and the kid into the car and headed for the shuttle. At 2:50 we were sitting in the Flyaway bus station, eagerly awaiting the 3:00 bus. My calculations put us there by 3:45. A bit tighter than I would have liked, traveling with a young child, but still manageable. I glanced at my watch a few times with a bit more anticipation than I had at the house, and looked for the bus. 3:05. I’m probably a little fast. No worries. 3:10. Hmmm. That’s strange; Flyaway is NEVER late. 3:20. I was now starting to panic a bit. I’ve never been one to thrive in situations over which I have absolutely no control, and this was certainly one of them. My brother-in-law had an appointment downtown, and was long gone. If we missed this flight, I might find myself stranded at LAX with 45 suitcases and a 2-year-old. Not a great combo.

It was 3:25 when the bus rolled in. The smile had faded from my face and I glanced at my daughter, happily drawing in her coloring book, then at Aline. I caught her eyes for a brief moment and saw a glimpse of worry in them. She knew as well as I that we might be up a certain creek without a certain paddle. They loaded us onto the bus, which had apparently been held due to a terrorist scare, and we were on our way.

Most people have heard about traffic in Los Angeles. Those of us who live here know that, 9 times out of 10, everything is fine. The tenth time, however, you might as well pull over and check into a hotel for the night or get out and walk. This was the tenth time.

When we finally reached the airport it was 4:30. During the ride I had become more and more frantic about the time, and my demeanor had followed suit. We had roughly 15 minutes to check baggage, get through security and to the gate before we missed the flight. Sweat beaded on my now-furrowed brow as the bus door opened.

“GO. GO. GO!” I shouted at Aline as I snatched up our suitcases and bolted for the ticketing counter. We were in trouble and my heart had begun to pound in my chest. My only hope was that they would cut us some slack due to the delay and hold the plane. Deep down, I knew that what we still had to do and the amount of time we had in which to do it were not lining up. The math had become flawed, and I felt ill.

I sprinted to the ticketing counter and crashed into it with my trembling hand, clutching our wrinkled boarding passes, outstretched toward the agent. “HereyougowearesolateI’msorrytheFlyawaywaslateandterroristsandbaby!” I shouted at her. As she slowly cocked a sinister eyebrow at me in annoyance I knew I had selected the wrong agent. Most people grind coffee in the morning. This one had an axe.

“I’m sorry sir,” she said, looking at me flatly, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, “ airline policy is that no one is allowed to go to the gate in less than 45 minutes of their flight’s scheduled departure.” I stared. She waited, eyebrows raised.

I took a deep breath as my wife and daughter caught up and stood behind me. I couldn’t be charming while sweaty, angry and heaving, so I calmed myself, took another breath, and grinned at her.

“I understand completely. Policies are definitely important. I imagine people like me make it really hard for you to do your job and I’m really sorry. It’s just that this wasn’t really my fault and I have a two-year-old here and I think that, if we really, really run right now we might be able to make it before the flight leaves. See, we’re going home to see my family and Grandma and Granddad are getting kind of old and haven’t really seen my daughter so it’s kind of important that I make this. Would you mind making an exception for us this one time? I’m actually a pretty nice guy, and I just want to see my family. Please?”

The woman typed a couple of angry keystrokes on her computer, which looked dishearteningly like a logout, and turned her back on me. With her back still turned, so I could barely hear, she said “That’s policy. Next time I’d suggest being a little more organized and getting here early.”

I lost it. Charming Matt flew right out through the Jetway and up into the wild blue yonder.

“HEY!” I shouted at her as she was walking away. She turned around looked at me, a mocking, amused expression glued to her unpleasant face.

“Do you know how hard it is to get a two-year-old packed and to the airport? Do you know how much harder it is when the bus service you utilized, a bus service endorsed by your airline shows up half an hour late? Do you even have children?! My guess is no because no man would come within fifty feet of such a disgusting woman, and it wouldn’t matter how drunk he was!”

That last remark caused a few things to happen simultaneously. The first was that I felt my wife’s grip tighten on my arm and looked down at her to find her looking up at me, wide-eyed, as if to say “Dude. Not good.” The second was the shrew-agent whirled around and began rushing toward me at full speed, fire spewing from her nostrils. The third was her manager, now very much aware of the situation, was also rushing toward me, determined to intercept her before she hurled herself over the counter and landed us all in prison. She succeeded.

After several apologies, explanations and driving home my point that several minutes of precious time had been wasted by this altercation, the manager, much softer and warmer than her predecessor, took pity on us. We had four minutes to make it to the gate.

“You’re going to have to run. All of you,” she said hastily, waving my baggage claim checks at me. “I’ll call ahead to the gate and see if I can get them to hold the plane. You’re at #43. GO NOW!”

I turned on my heel and yelled the first thing, which also turned out to be the most unintelligent thing, I could think of in the general direction of my wife and kid.

“Let’s ROCK!”

With that I bolted down the corridor toward the gate, determined to make it there on time and stop the plane, even if my family took a few minutes to catch up. Breathing heavily and pumping my arms with the precision of a well-trained Olympic runner I flew across the airport. The wind was whistling in my ears as I leaped onto the escalator, the bionic man sound playing in my head. It was when my foot hit the fourth step I became aware of someone shouting at me, and realized that I had been hearing that sound since I dashed from the counter but had been subconsciously ignoring it.

“MAAAAAAATT!” I looked back over my shoulder down across the sea of people on the floor and spied my wife and daughter, now two tiny specks some 400 yards away, waving frantically at me and jumping up and down. Immediately behind them was the nice manager lady, also waving and holding up the rope to let them through security.

“WHAT!” I belted. “Let’s ROCK!” I have no idea why I said it again. The first time was embarrassing enough. It just came out.

“YOU’RE GOING THE WRONG FLIPPING WAY!”

Do you know what a car seat carrier is? It is a gigantic backpack into which one’s car seat and base can be stuffed. It is monolithic, and more than once I have compared the sensation of carrying it to wrapping Danny DeVito in a large hefty bag and lugging him around for a piggy back ride all day. Distraught and horrified that I had not only bolted full speed a half-mile across the airport in the wrong direction and yelled “lets rock” across a crowd of people twice, I forgot about the car seat carrier on my back. I spun on the escalator, which had almost reached the top, and DeVito jammed himself between me and the metal hand rail, preventing me from completing my turn. The lower half of my body, however, was gyrating at such a speed that it continued, causing my downhill leg to buckle sideways underneath me. As I began to fall, DeVito caught himself on the railing and the shoulder straps of the carrier forced my arms to skyrocket above my head, my biceps pressing firmly into my cheeks causing a loud “BBBBPPPPPPPHHFFFF” sound to escape my mouth. I choked a little as DeVito let go and tumbled down a few stairs before finally righting myself, the carrier now dragging behind me by one shoulder. I raced down the escalator, shins throbbing, and ran through the sea of people, sure that I was trailing blood.

After what seemed like an eternity, I reached them, and the nice manager shoved us under the rope and screamed at the security agent to put us through first. My daughter, unable to grasp the urgency of the situation, was laughing hysterically and attempting to explain who Hello Kitty was on the side of her suitcase to the security guard.

“JUST. NO. TIME!” I shouted as I snatched her up under one arm, DeVito still dragging behind me, pushed my way through security and resumed my sprint toward Gate 43. The terminal narrowed as I ran, and people were frantically trying to move out of my way as I raced down the hallway. My daughter had stopped laughing the second I had picked up her and her Hello Kitty suitcase and was shrieking uncontrollably as I ran with her under my arm, her miniature body bouncing up and down violently. I briefly imagined the experience as similar to what firefighters must feel on their way to a four-alarm blaze, parting traffic, sirens wailing. I caught my second wind with sweat burning my eyes, lowered my head and ran as hard as I could.

About ten gates away I managed to glance at my watch. 4:45. If the ticketing lady hadn’t called ahead, we were going to miss it. My daughter had gone limp in my arm and I wondered if she was still breathing; or if I had perhaps jolted her to the point of unconsciousness. My arm burned from the weight and I was about to drop her when, once again, I heard my name.

I turned and continued to run backwards and looked back in horror at what was taking place. My wife was running behind me, tears streaming down her face, an overstuffed suitcase trailing in each hand. Because the suitcases were different sizes, she must have been having equilibrium problems. One of them had tipped over and opened up, and was now spewing my unmentionables all the way down the hallway.

“Your boxers, babe. Your BOXERS.” She yelled, still running and sobbing in a terrible combination of exasperation and exhaustion. “For a split second I thought about going back to help her but instead turned back around and yelled “WE’LL BUY MORE! THERE’S A TARGET,” over my shoulder. I had one gate to go and god help me, we were going to make that flight, underwear or not.

I burst into a large open area which contained the ticketing counters and doors to multiple gates. Still in full sprint, my eyes swept the room erratically and finally landed on their mark. A large sign reading “Gate 43”. My face fell in terror as I lowered my gaze to the doorway leading to our plane. It was closing. I had made it just in time to see the leg and foot of the final passenger disappearing down the Jetway and heard the door slam shut, locking loudly. I screamed, muscles aching as I made my final burst toward it. The weight had simply become too much to bear, and I discarded my daughter as I ran. She kept up with me for a few short strides, arms windmilling like crazy as she attempted to match my pace, but her little legs finally gave way and I saw her tumbling away and to the right out of the corner of my eye. In letting her go I also inadvertently let the car carrier slip off my arm and I heard the seat cracking and splintering in the bag behind me as it bounced along the floor before finally slamming into a group of trash cans on the far wall. I reached the door and hurled my body into it, banging my fists on its cold blue surface as hard as I could while yelling “PLEEEEEEAAASSE, DON’T LEAVE! NOOOOO! PLEASE, DEAR GOD DON’T LEAVE!” I waited for a moment. Then two. My sweat-soaked shirt was clinging to my back and my entire body ached as I fought the burning in my lungs. There was no answer. Only silence. We had missed our plane.

I let out a moan and began sobbing uncontrollably as I turned, my back now resting on the door and sank down to a sitting position, holding my head in my hands. The tears just flowed and I didn’t want to stop them. It was over. I had failed and we were doomed to spend the rest of our lives in a dark, smelly terminal of Los Angeles International Airport.

As I sniffled and raised my head I peered out through the cloud of dust that was silently settling around me and paused. Something was not right. I glanced across the room at my wife, who was crouching down and cradling my daughter’s tiny battered body in her arms, then back around the room. The terminal was full of people. A lot of people. They were calmly reading papers, drinking coffee, surfing the internet on their laptops but, unanimously, they were all looking right at me. Some were smirking, some bore expressions of disbelief and bewilderment and some were whispering to each other but one thing was consistent. They were all looking at me.

As I attempted to process what was going on I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I looked up from the floor to see a kind-faced airline ticketing agent looking at me, almost as if in pity. I wiped tears from my eyes, blinked and stared at her.

“Sir. I’m sorry. I have to ask you to take a seat with the rest of the passengers and not block the door. The rest of the cleaning crew needs to get through so we can get your flight boarded and on it’s way. I’m very sorry for the delay. Please, sir.”

“But. We’re too late. The Flyaway. We ran. I don’t….I…”

“The plane just arrived at the gate, sir. It was delayed in Dallas. I’m surprised they didn’t tell you that at check-in. Now If I could please ask you to move once again we can start boarding the passengers and we’ll be underway.”

My jaw dropped as the room erupted into laughter. I rose slowly to my feet, and dusted myself off as the other passengers wailed hysterically, slapping each other on the back and pointing as I limped slowly, head hung low, back to where my family sat on the floor. When I reached them I took them both in my arms and embraced them before collapsing in an exhausted heap onto the floor, my head resting on my wife’s empty suitcase.

We made that flight. And we did it my way.

-Matt


We’ve got some awesome new Tea Collection merchandise coming up at RedSparks, our online baby boutique. Bookmark the link and check back in a few!

I received the Brookstone catalog in the mail.

I love the Brookstone catalog. I keep it by my bed and read through it over and over again until the next one comes. Some guys keep porn tucked away in their closets. I keep Brookstone catalogs. It’s chocked full of useful and innovative gadgets, contains brilliant photography and Photoshop image manipulation (I saw a white Pekingese pasted onto a plaid doggy bed next to a sliding glass door once that was so real you could swear you were right there in the shot!), and their prices are reasonable. From the moment I gazed in awe at the voice-activated television remote control, which I immediately realized would save me hours of time by allowing me to say “change channel up,” rather than having to go through the laborious chore of painstakingly raising my arm and pushing a button, I was hooked.

Brookstone rulez.

While practically every product Brookstone offers is a hands-down winner, I thought I’d take a moment and review four of what I call “Matt’s Platinum Brookstone Picks” from the Fall 2009 edition. These are products that are not only standouts, but that everyone can benefit from by having in their home. Click the thumbs for a larger image.

1. The Sona “Stop Snoring” Pillow.

Weighing it at a crisp $79.99, this pillow helps everyone stop snoring immediately by opening up your airway, allowing you to breathe easier. I myself have already ordered two, and expect to be sleeping deeply and quietly in no time. After studying the photograph, I realized there was an added benefit. Note that, in order for the Sona to function properly, you must sleep with your arm fully-extended over your head.

This means that, in addition to a good nights sleep, your feet will also hang almost a full yard off the bottom of the bed, allowing them to “breathe” in the chill night air and reducing offensive perspiration.

2. The Upright Bath Scale.

Another bargain at an affordable $249.95, this scale addresses a problem that each and every one of us faces every day. Let’s be honest, when you weigh yourself you don’t want your results to be subtle, displayed in discreet little numbers far away. You want the fact that you’re 75 lbs overweight to be right in your face. In the same manner a child might wave a new toy in front of a playmate, taunting him in a “nanny-nanny-boo-boo” manner, the Upright Bath Scale grabs you by the ears with its large 8-inch dial and screams “What do you have to say about THIS, Tubby!?” A must for masochists.

3. uGallop.

Probably the item I was most excited about on my list. Aline and I are always looking for ways to spice up our love life and, at first glance, the uGallop appeared to be the way to do it. Not only does it gyrate, pulsate and twist, but it comes equipped with 6-speeds, attached leather handle and stirrups. And, apparently, we would become more flexible while using it, improving our posture along the way. However, sadly, after receiving the uGallop in the mail and an entire evening of “No no no no….let me try to put my arm over…..wait….stop….stop, my back! Ok, listen, you lay over this way, then I’ll swing my leg this way and grab over…ow…OW…that’s my eye, that’s my eye, dammit!” I realized the uGallop wasn’t what I thought it was at all and sent it back. Turns out its like a piece of fitness equipment or something.

4. Manage Kids Screen Time.

An innovation so useful and so important to our society it doesn’t even need a name. “Device” costs $59.99 and virtually solves the only problem I have in my life: How do I keep from having to deal with the inconvenience and distraction of walking into the TV room and actually shutting the TV off after my kids have been parked in front of it for several hours? Face it, kids need their TV, and all my friends totally agree. But I don’t want to have to stop what I’m doing and give up 15 seconds of my valuable time when TV time is over. “Device” takes care of it for me, ensuring that I don’t have to interact with my children at all, freeing me up for important things like checking the mail for the next Brookstone catalog.

As you can see, we can all benefit from the Brookstone catalog in many ways. Much like philosophy or religion, Brookstone can open our eyes to new paths; new lives that we may have never before seen. It reveals doors to better places and provides us with support and relief from the monotony of the day to day.

Brookstone, you had me at hello.

-Matt

Whoa! I almost forgot! My contest! Eternal Lizdom busted out some serious culture and won herself our Sweetleaf Reed Diffuser, and Ye Olde Random Number Generator pulled up lucky numner “3”. Kori, you got yourself a rad $25.00 gift certificate to RedSparks, our online baby boutique! Well, played both of you!