The Rake Magazine

My son's birthday party began with me looking like a giant dumbass. Big shocker there. We were in the jubilant 11:15 a.m. Backyardigans parade at the newly remodeled Nick Jr. amusement park in the center of the Mall of America. I was holding the foamy oversized hand of a teenage actor who was dressed as a cuddly moose named Tyrone from the hit kid's cartoon. When the cheery music piped in I couldn't stop myself and decided to do a little jig. As my wife gave me the "you're sleeping on the couch" stare I spastically danced like I'd been hit with defibulator paddles. The teenage actor quickly snatched his big cartoon hand from mine and pranced away. We were there because the blitzkrieg marketing campaign from the good folks at Nickelodeon bombarded my toddler son's brain to the point that even though he had no idea who half the characters were he just had to go. So sue me if I felt like doing a little "Mr. Roboto" with a stuffed moose.

After the parade, my motormouth son told me it would be a good idea if I bought a bunch of tickets for the rides, which I promptly did seeing as it was his birthday. Immediately after I inserted my money and the tickets spit out of the vending machine, he refused to go on any rides. He vehemently denied ever saying that he ever wanted to go on any rides, even though he just finished telling me he did. I felt like I was talking to a midget Bill Clinton. As the neon glare beat down on me and the demonic bubblegum melody to some cartoon song bore into my skull, I felt like telling my beloved son to "grow a pair of testicles and get in the giant inflatable pineapple and bounce around until you barf." But I didn't because, well, I'm not that big of an a-hole.

Truth be told, the food court was far scarier than any ride there. Wild children loaded with sugar and suburban angst burst through the eating area like a toddler insurgency. As I navigated the lanes with my tray of crappy food, kids popped out from behind trash cans and tables, setting off squirts of ketchup and lemonade. Packs of horny teenagers pawed at each other as they loitered around the tables. From every corner I was besieged with tickle fights and grab-ass. My cheeseburger tasted like an old Birkenstock sandle and worst of all, the cheese was wet and cold. How hard is it to melt cheese on a hot burger? In the middle of the nation's biggest indoor shopping mall, it totally felt like a shitty picnic.

After trips to four gift stores (strategically located at every corner of the park) and the Disney store, we walked past the "Hawaii Hermit Crab" kiosk. It took about three seconds before my son decided he really really wanted one. But you can't get just one. Apparently, hermit crabs are social animals and need a companion to share their stupid fake log and plastic coconut shell with. It was chump city from there on out. I bought two crabs, tank, two extra shells, food, extra wood, and bottled water. The genius marketing minds also painted the shells of the hermit crabs to reflect the most popular kid's programs. My son picked the "Batman" and "Lighting McQueen" crabs. Somehow I don't think that when Jacque Cousteau was laying the foundation for the preservation of aquatic life it meant tearing crabs away from their natural seaside environment, shipping them to a shopping mall in Minnesota, and airbrushed to death.

I finally got my kid into the car. There was some gooey resin in his hair from Lord knows what and his eyes were ringed with exhaustion. He was pale and twitchy and after being exposed to the Petri dish that is any kids indoor play area, I assumed he had contacted the bird flu, mad cow disease, and rickets. As I pulled out of the parking lot, he let out a giant yawn and said, "I thought we were going to go on some rides?"

"Next time," I muttered.

When I'm not at home taking care of my son, I work as a laborer at a Twin Cities garden center. Compared to a professional/corporate office job, things work a little differently in the manual labor world: at any given moment during my shift, I can announce to the entire crew that I have an impending bowel movement on deck and they will soundly applaud. Down in the blue collar trenches—where the necks are thick and teeth are optional—the workers can be an unsavory bunch. And sorry to say, but I'm like the king of the "yardies". So let me tell you about the idiots at my work.

The other day I was teaching a nice 16-year-old high school kid named Daniel how to properly load a cart. It was Daniel's first day, and he was twitchy with awkwardness. I was doing my best to make him feel comfortable, when up walked my dumbass co-worker Bucko. With his wild thicket of hair, sleeveless t-shirt showcasing his hairy shoulders, and mouth-gaping stoned expression, Bucko has the general appearance and demeanor of a retarded Grizzly Bear. After a decade long binge of narcotics and beef jerky, he has fried the link between his brain and mouth and says whatever is on his mind. Bucko looked at pipsqueak Daniel and said to him, "I love boning Asian chicks."

Daniel was so mortified that he practically broke out in a full body rash. I sent him to get some water and, hopefully, avoid a lawsuit. Then I gave Bucko a fiery reprimanded, telling him his comment was highly inappropriate. Bucko just gave me blank stare. He scratched at his nuts and asked, "Why do you hate freedom?"

I walked away befuddled. When I got to the employee lounge, I came across a squirrely looking dude named Rafalski hunched over in the refrigerator tearing through people's lunches. He methodically dismantled every lunch bag, Tupperware, and take-out box. But shockingly, he just ate the meat in the lunches. Rafalski peeled back the bread of a sandwich, slid the deli meat in his mouth, and then put the bread, lettuce, and tomato back. He unfolded a tortilla shell, picked through the beans and veggies, and slurped up the chopped pork. When I loudly cleared my throat, he abruptly stood up. Rafalski looked at me with weird googley eyes and wiped his mouth.

"What?" he shrugged, the carnivorous pile spilling from his cheek. Then he gave me the finger and walked off the job in the middle of his shift.

Exactly.

Inside our marriage, my wife has arranged a division of labor. She’s a (marital) union teamster when it comes to tasks that I can and cannot do. Specifically, there are jobs around the house that are “Daddy Jobs” and others that are “Mommy Jobs.” As the man of the Smith Family House, these are the roles I perform:

Pooper Scooper: Responsible for removing and cleaning anything in the house (including the yard, garage, and highly treacherous city alley) that is nasty, yucky, funky, stanky, or just plain gross. This often includes kid and animal poop, projectile vomit, dead rodents, and urine splashed across the bathroom like a Jackson Pollack painting.

Evel Knievel: Participating in daredevil stunts (in the name of the family) that can cause both physical and mental pain. Activities include going to IKEA on a Saturday, hosting a birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese’s, shopping at Ridgedale mall two days before Christmas, and riding a bike harnessed with a child carrier around Lake Harriet on the first day of Spring.

The Fetcher: Must run out of the house or work to retrieve anything the wife needs. This includes retrieving food cravings (Punch Pizza, Steak salad from The Edina Grill, etc.), DVDs (the episode where Felicity cut off her hair, the original version of Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth — NOT the other one — or the entire fifth season of The Wire, etc.), groceries, Holy Water, school supplies for the children, feminine hygiene products, sea salt, a plunger, pharmaceuticals, and Burt B’s blemish sticks.

Field Trip Coordinator: Includes taking the kid(s) out of the house for a substantial amount of time so that Mommy can get some peace and quiet. According to my wife, the instructions are simple: “I don’t care where you go or what you do. But do not come back home for two hours, or I will cut your balls off.” The Field Trip Coordinator is highly active immediately upon coming home from work and on weekends. Popular trips include the local park (where the Field Tripper conjugates with other Fathers, like buffalo at a watering hole), Target (it’s an oasis of distraction), the grocery store, the zoo, museums, and theme park restaurants where they serve food in fun shapes and fish swim in the walls. In doing his duties, The Field Trip Coordinator earns the dubious credit of being “the fun parent.”

The Bouncer: Must eject anything or anyone that annoys Mom. This includes tossing out bratty playmates, long haired beatniks going door-to-door for the Sierra Club, Grandpa who squeaks out rancid silent farts in the living room, the pesky rabbit who eats all the plants, and telemarketers. Duty also intales talking to asshole neighbors, such as the alcoholic around the corner who watches porno on a 75-inch projection TV with the blinds open.

The Reflector: Say these following statements to the wife and the house will run like a well-oiled machine: You have nice coloring. That outfit is very flattering. Your friends are really nice, but you definitely are the hottest. And... would a backrub help?

During a recent trip to Costco, a customer walked past me with 25 cases of Diet Coke in their wagon. Even by Costco standards that seemed a wee bit gluttonous. But who was I to judge? I was there to buy a pork loin the size of an anaconda. At the end of my shopping spree, my three year old son was cranky and hungry, and if I didn’t stop at the Costco food court to feed him I would’ve driven home down highway 100 with a god damn badger in the back seat.

So I ordered up a jumbo hot dog, a jug of frozen yogurt, and something called a chicken bake. The calzone crust of the chicken bake had cheese melted on the outside and then was stuffed full of chicken, cheese, and bacon. It was like the seven deadly sin rolled up into one delectable crime and made edible. I gorged on the baked delight so fast I almost puked on my son. Sitting there at the metal picnic table, wrapped inside that steel cage décor, I’ve never in my life felt sicker or happier.

How lame is my middle aged life when the highlight of my week is a baked chicken dish?

When it come to computers, I'm a full blown idiot. As a stay-at-home dad, my day usually involves hooting like an orangutan and tending to my son's poopy pants—not exactly a George Clooney lifestyle. But when my ancient candy colored iMac recently barked and hissed at me when I tried to open a simple email, I realized the gigabytes had passed me by. It was finally time for me to leave the woods of domesticity and upgrade.

I strolled into the Apple store with my motormouth son on my heals. The in-store rave music was so loud and irritating I felt like punching someone, particularly the young male employee with the sour puss expression who sneered at me when I walked in. I approached the pasty employee and he froze manikin stiff, seriously trying to hide behind his perfectly placed bangs.

"What kind of iMac do you have?" He asked me as he nonchalantly checked two seperate palm pilots.

"The blue one," I said. He let out a huge sigh of exhaustion.

"How much memory does your iMac have?" He asked.

"Um...lots?" I replied. My son then pulled out a booger and gave it a quizzical look. Then he ate it.

Next, I talked to a young female worker who had dreadlocks and looked like she sparked revolutions in her spare time. As my spastic three year old lifted up the front of my shirt, showing the entire store my grizzled stomach, she hated him with all of her might.

"Is it true that Macs are for artists and PCs are for perverts?" I jokingly asked her.

"You said it not me," She sneered.

Needless to say, I didn't buy anything.