Knock…knock…knock

Erik, are you there?

Saturday at 4:30 am

I sneak into CT and PJ’s room to steel one final kiss goodbye before we take off on our trip. THEY BOTH WAKE-UP. I don’t mean just a little, “oh…yeah”, stretch “love you too mom, bye” kind of wake-up. I mean full fledged crying, tears, clinging onto my body for dear life, “I DON’T WANT YOU TO LEEEAAAAAVE” wake-up.

What the fuck was I thinking?

Note to self…next trip, kiss the kids through the door.

E-Rok takes the wheel

Since I will be indisposed for several days, sunning myself, getting massages, and sipping margaritas pool-side, I have found a replacement to keep circuslunch.com running smoothly. Drum roll please…the circuslunch.com guest blogger is Erik! So, be kind to him. Comment often and by all means, don’t cut him any slack.

Starting tomorrow, the face of c-lunch will change, but only for a little while. Have fun and we’ll be checking in from places far, far away.

Art d’blue

KP’s first art project composed by smashing,
grinding and smushing blueberries all over his canvas.
Voila!

Just another little ditty

I have to admit, I am a song maker-upper. Even though I have not been blessed with a good singing voice, I do it anyway. I sing them quiet and I sing them loud. I sing about nothing at all, I sing to make the kids laugh and I sing to make me not go soooooo crazy.

The following is the last song I made up. It was sung to PJ. You may take the liberty of choosing any melody you like when you read/sing it:

We
We
We don’t stick our fingers
We
We
We don’t stick our fingers
We
We
We don’t stick our fingers in our vaaaaginaaaaas!

Repeat

Kurt Cobain’s love child

Shhhh, don’t tell anyone. OK?

10 months old

Oh my little man.
How I love thee, let me count the ways…
I love your nose that doesn’t at all resemble your other siblings
I love the seven big fat horse teeth that I know you inherited from me
I love how you crawl on the floor only using your arm as a lever and your left big toe to push you forward
I love how you respond to your big brother and sister
I love how you pick up every little bit of everything on my filthy kitchen floor, put it in your mouth and then look as though
you just ate a gourmet meal
I love how you try to chase the cats around the room
I love how you open your mouth as wide as you can when I try to take a picture of you
I love how you fall asleep with your binki over your face
I love how you look just like your dad
I love how you say, mmaa mmaa mmaa

Erik speaks out and gets out

Since Erik’s comments are always so rich and vivid, I decided to give him a promotion from Commenter to Contributing Writer. To get a glimpse inside his head, read on…

On the subject of underwear, I have a confession to make. I have come to a decision. I am giving up on the whole concept. In fact, I think the myth of underwear has no basis in reality. This sort of assertion is not something one comes to casually. As many of you, who read this blog, know, this decision goes against everything that a mother tries to impart on her children. It is sort of a universal maxim: Everyone should wear underwear. While I am not a mother nor have I talked to my own mother or anyone else’s, I have always assumed that underwear’s primary purpose is protect our outer wear from the not oft mentioned excretions of the body. However, adhering to such a dogmatic position does not explain the popularity of the thong. Seriously, by this definition, a thong is not underwear. While, it does cover some pretty interesting parts of the body, wedging an inch wide strip of material up your ass provides little protection from the body’s most unmentionable organ and its excretions. In its purely functional role–a thong’s effectiveness is, at best, described as adequate.

Now this is not to say that underwear’s only purpose is its utilitarian function. In fact, objectively speaking (which I know a man should never do or admit to), I prefer a woman in her skivvies than see her fully naked. I will even admit to having an odd attraction to the white cotton granny undies on rail-skinny women. But lest you infer something I am not intending, I do not have an underwear fetish nor am I a wearer of women’s underwear. If I were, then maybe I would come to a different conclusion. (I fear there is nothing sexy about me in or out of underwear). I am a boxers guy (except when I am running–during which I wear boxer-briefs to prevent chaffing. More on that and mother’s thigh some other time).

And so a number of weeks ago, I found myself fully dressed in green, wide rail-cords, a plaid button-down shirt, brown socks, a white t-shirt and white boxers with a dog print on them. My commute home had run longer than usual. My bladder was full and I felt the uncomfortable pressure of an urgent poo coming on. I parked the car in the garage, ran into the house–past the cats without even a hello. I ran into the bathroom. As I struggled with my belt, suddenly the urge to pee became overwhelming. It was as though entering the bathroom is an instinct akin to a bird’s urge to fly south at the first, imperceptible sign of fall. Before I could unbutton my pants and drop my bottom onto the toilet. I felt a small trickle of pee pop out of me. And then the strangest thing happened. The pee did not absorb into my underwear as I imagined or expected it would. It bounced off, then ricocheted off my thigh and dropped out the bottom of my pants, forming a small dark spot on the bathroom floor. In that exact moment I did not have the time to contemplate the series of events and there great meaning in the history of humankind, but a few seconds later I found myself relaxed again and starring at that small dark spot on the tile. And in this state, in which h I had cleared body and mind, the most radical and subversive thought crept into my head: The myth of underwear is a lie (made up by mothers to ease toddlers through the transition away from diapers).

At first I thought it was one of my many mischievous and fanciful thoughts (like shaking hands with George W only to have him discover that I left a bogger on his wrist) that I eventually realize are neither interesting nor fancy. Nonetheless, I went to bed that night considering that maybe tomorrow I would not wear underwear. When tomorrow came, I went to my closet to pick out my pants. With some trepidation, I avoided the underwear drawer. As I slide into my khaki’s and got past the anxiety of zipping up, I was met with sense of exhilaration and clarity. There I stood–an average upstanding man. Not a nudist, not a pervert, not a sex pot. Just an average man without underwear. And it felt good.

For more than a couple weeks now, I have gone without boxers or anything else (except when I wear my khakis with the button missing–too risky even for a thrill seeker like me). In that time I have discovered that the benefits of going boxerless go beyond breaking free of the bourgeois obsessions around sexual appropriateness and cleanliness. I actually feel thinner. I had no idea how much space underwear was taking up in my pants. I think I have taken back an entire inch from my waistline. In the end, I am quite simply happier, more confident and looking more fit. I say say no to underwear. And with that, I will be donating my boxers (a.k.a. cat toys) to Rueben the cat.

Oh how I wish I had my camera

Reuben got his head tangled up in my thong underwear. Yes, orange cat…black thong. The leg hole of my black, cotton thong, caught over his right ear, just hanging there, dirty thong underwear. His right eye was looking at me like, “what the F woman?” And, as much as he tried, he could not get away from it…until I got my camera.

Photo of the Day