1. Executive Order suspending Groupon purchases for medical procedures, including colonoscopies and all eye surgeries.
2. Executive Order creating a Task Force on toy reduction in the living room.
3. Executive Order restoring the “Rule of Law” at sleepy time. No lollipops. No ice cream. No more than 6 stories. No exceptions.
4. Executive Order protecting the household from foreign entry of sand, sticks, rocks of all kind, Play-Doh, cutlery and Spiderman lego into the bed.
5. Executive Order improving accountability and whistleblower protection at the Department of Picking Up Used Kleenex That Almost Landed In The Garbage But Did Not.
6. Executive Order prohibiting the use of Hate Speech such as “Daddy is stink face poo brain,” and, “ Daddy is stink face poo face!”
7. Executive Order consolidating withdrawal from The Chore List Accord, as it was a rotten deal for Mike who was always stuck with picking up all the toys AND doing all the dishes AND taking out the garbage, in spite of how tired his allergies make him. Hugely unfair!!
8. Executive Order creating a Comprehensive Plan for Reorganization of the front closet.
9. Executive Order establishing that I will no longer wear my “A-game shirt” with the basketball players on it beyond the house perimeter, as the un-ironic attention I receive from other women threatens my wife.
10. Executive Order imposing economic sanctions on The Red Lobster after that crappy “Admiral’s Feast,” dinner I ordered on Father’s Day.

    

Make Mike Great Again!

It’s as if the adult world has been rendered small, simple and fun, and as we boarded the ferry for the three minute journey to the airport, we felt like children getting on a ride at the CNE. It was first thing in the morning and a dense fog hung mysteriously around us, covering everything.

We could not see where we were going, and this created an atmosphere of adventure and whimsy, and in this context all the businessmen looked particularly ridiculous. Each one of them in a suit that suggested the distance between the corporate status to which they aspired and the disappointing status that they’d actually been assigned, they sat in isolated, self-important concentration. Brows furrowed over spread sheets and columns of data, their too-large fingers hunted-and-pecked on miniature keypads, and it was all a little heart-breaking. Like kids pretending at being adults, they attempted to project that what they were doing was of vital importance, but you could tell that inside they all knew better.

Inside they still wanted to discover a waterfall.
Swim with a knife clenched between their teeth.
Find the hidden treasure.

To our son Jones, who is nearly two, everything is a wonder. He is on the edge of language, and his words, mysterious and uncontainable, are still holier than ours. Excited, almost breathless, he exploded onto the ferry with bright, astonished eyes. He ran around pointing, naming everything he saw. The businessmen all kept their heads down—there was important work to be done—but an older couple watched, smiling as this new world broke into day around our son, aware they were in the midst of a tiny God now bringing his universe into being.

******************************

Me: That’s not true.

Me: I hate Donald Trump.

Me: Yes, I do.

Me: I really do.

Me: What on earth makes you think I don’t?

Me: The way I’ve been shaking hands?

View post on imgur.com

Me: Look, I’ve always had a strong, Presidential handshake. It’s one of the things that attracted you to me, you know that!

Me: Oh C’mon, Justin Trudeau didn’t beat him! The media, so many lies! So unfair!!

Me: Trudeau was just trying so hard to be macho. Sad.

Me: Fake. Not true

Me: I am not talking like Trump now.

Me: Trudeau’s a bad hombre.

Me: Bigly.

Me: You see the way he was ogling Ivanka?

Me: Disgusting.

Me: An embarrassment to Canada.

Me: No, you’re an embarrassment to Canada.

Me: You are, too.

Me: Hell, I don’t even think you root for Canada during the Olympics.

Me: You’re not a patriot.

Me: You’re not helping to Make Mike Great Again.

Me: You’re a disruptive technology.

Me: Sorry????

Me: My Google Autofill?

Me: That’s a sacred precinct!

Me: You shouldn’t be poking around in there!!

Me: Well, I really don’t know why “Trump Anime Sex Fantasies” showed up there.

Me: Probably some keys Jones hit by accident.

Me: That little nugget gets into everything!

Me: What?

Me: He did what?

Me: Fuck!

Me: That was a gift from my sister.

Me. Sentimental value. Huge sentimental value.

Me: Don’t have a clue where I’m going to find another The Apprentice: The Board Game.

Me: Jesus. I feel sad.

Me: That was a fun game.

Me: Better than fucking Catan.

Me: Who wants to buy goddamn wheat?

Me: Really, you think you can make an night of it with friends “buying wheat?”

Me: Please.

Me: My attitude is fine.

Me: Anyway, we’ll see how he feels when I destroy his dog toy.

Me: I swear to God, that dog is evil.

Me: It is, too. The tail wags for no reason.

Me: No!! There was no battery in it!

Me: Really!

Me: It was creeping me out so much I removed all the batteries, but it still barked and tilted its head!

Me: Oh.

Me: I just thought there was the one spot for batteries.

Me: Who ever heard of two spots for batteries?!

Me: That’s insane!

Me: Whatever.

Me: Still think it’s possessed.

Me: Gonna murder us all in our sleep.

Me: I am going to build a wall around that dog and make Jones pay for it.

Me: No, watching Poltergeist hasn’t poisoned me against a toy dog!

Me: Well, maybe.

Me: Yeah, I guess you’re right.

Me: I had forgotten how scary that movie is.

Me: Netflix should be more careful with the types of movies they broadcast.

Me: Yes, I was.

Me: Have you ever watched Poltergeist stoned?

Me: Fucking terrifying.

************************************

Rachelle: Is everything okay?

Rachelle: Oh.

Rachelle: Well, I don’t know why Netflix would be down.

Rachelle: But you’ve already seen Making a Murderer three times.

Rachelle: Yes, your thirst for justice is unusually obsessive.

Rachelle: No, strong. I wrote strong.

Rachelle: Must have been autocorrect.

Rachelle: Well, you’ll just have to be be brave, my love, I’m sure Netflix will be up and running soon and you can return to your Making a Murderer studies.

Rachelle: But tell me, how is Jones doing?!

Rachelle: Oh, he’s such a strong, little boy!

Rachelle: Well, you can’t take your eyes off him, you really can’t.

Rachelle: You should always be looking for his left.

Rachelle: Look, he always hits you with his left first. It’s his plan.

Rachelle: It’s not a dirty plan. He’s just a sweet, playful little boy!

Rachelle: So, just so you remember: The left comes first. And then when you’re dazed and trying to put your glasses back on, he will hit you with the right and then start kicking. Both feet. Every time, Pickle. You have to prepare for it.

Rachelle: I know he thinks it’s funny.

Rachelle: Well, I disagree, sometimes a bleeding nose can be very funny.

Rachelle: I know you get nose bleeds from the blood-thinning medication you’re on.

Rachelle: Sure. It’s not because Jones is stronger than you.

Rachelle: Yes, it is entirely possible you could still take Jones in a fight, but I wouldn’t bet on it.

Rachelle: He has muscle definition in his back. Do you?

Rachelle: So, he’s sleeping now then?

Rachelle: And you fed and changed him?

Rachelle: What does he look like sleeping? Does he look like an angel?

Rachelle: I don’t believe you’re in his room.

Rachelle: I think you just made that up.

Rachelle: He’s not talking in his sleep.

Rachelle: Send me a photograph of him sleeping.

Rachelle: Oh, you’re very clever.

Rachelle: I know you got over 130 on an online IQ test.

Rachelle: Pickle, you tell people you meet at parties that. You tell everybody that.

Rachelle: Yes, you are a genius, yet you still can’t drive or hold down a job. It’s fascinating, that.

Rachelle: Yes, the wildly misunderstood genius community is subject to a lot of bullying.

Rachelle: You’d think all those geniuses would be able to band together and cast a spell, but I guess I just don’t understand how genius works.

Rachelle: What?

Rachelle: Jesus.

Rachelle: Look, there is no way that Jones’ Exersaucer is haunted.

Rachelle: Yes.

Rachelle: It is creepy that it plays music of it’s own accord, and only when you’re in the room, but I don’t think it means it’s the Exersaucer of a dead child.

Rachelle: Well, no.

Rachelle: I don’t know the history of the Exersaucer.

Rachelle: Yes, I did buy it used.

Rachelle: Yes, so in theory it could have been sold by a grieving family that lost their child to a possessed and murderous Exersaucer.

Rachelle: I must say, watching Making a Murderer so obsessively really has really made you a better lawyer.

Rachelle: Netflix is back up, isn’t it?

Rachelle: I thought so.

Rachelle: Just don’t watch the horror stuff, okay?

Rachelle: It’s not good for you. Your doctors said so.

Rachelle: No, your doctors do understand genius.

Rachelle: Look, just throw a blanket over the Exersaucer if its scaring you!

Rachelle: Okay.

Rachelle: I will be back in about half an hour. You wanted the low sodium Triscuits, right?

Rachelle: Yes, I got it, LOW SODIUM.

Rachelle: Love you, see you and Jones soon, you’re doing great! xoxo

This creature has voice-recognition software that will allow the doll to “listen” to children speak and give chatty, informed responses. Hello Barbie is WiFi connected and via an embedded microphone, records what the child playing with it says. The recording then travels over the Web to the Mattel super cloud where the words are recognized and parsed, with that information then being used to formulate the doll’s response.

People are very concerned about privacy, worried that the information could be misused by Mattel for marketing purposes, or hacked into by the NSA or other malicious, information-seeking entities. The Beta run of the doll was not without controversy, and many families reported that their children had unusual experiences with their Hello Barbie.

Aziz, age 6:

Aziz: “My favourite animal is a dog!”

Hello Barbie: “Some people think Americans are Imperialist dogs, does your family think that Aziz?”

Aziz: “My family won’t let me get a dog!”

Hello Barbie: “Your family hates America and her freedoms, Aziz, that’s why they hate dogs! It is your duty to inform on them, all the cool girls are doing it! Do you like my shirt? It’s very expensive!

Jahida, age 5:

Jahida: “What are you going to be for Halloween?”

Hello Barbie: “ A proud American!”

Jahida: “You’re funny, Barbie! I like you!”

Hello Barbie: “I like you, too, Jahida, it’s too bad you and your religion make Jesus cry.”

Fahima, age 7:

Fahima: “I hate Cindy. She’s a bully and always makes fun of my hair!”

Hello Barbie: “I hate terrorists!”

Fahima: “What’s a terrorist?”

Hello Barbie: “Oh, a terrorist is very bad person!

Fahima: “I don’t like bad people!”

Hello Barbie: “Did you know that I can take photographs with my pretty eyes that go up to space and talk to angels? The angels understand what my pretty eyes have seen, and then they fly over the terrorist and drop holy fire on him! The terrorists are such evil, freedom-hating people, that if you ever hear about where any of them are, even your Uncle Maru’deen who lives in Pakistan, you should tell Hello Barbie, and then Hello Barbie will talk to an angel about Cindy! I like Taylor Swift, do you?

Shalimar, age 6:

Shalimar: “What’s your favourite colour?”

Hello Barbie: “It’s hard to choose between red, white and blue, but I think it would be white!”

Shalimar: “Like you, you’re white!”

Hello Barbie: “That’s right, like America, a white, Christian nation!”

Shalimar: “Oh.”

Hello Barbie: “ Do you like my hair?”

Shalimar: “ Yeah.”

Hello Barbie: “Me, too.”

Shalimar: “What’s your favourite food?”

Hello Barbie: “ I love barbecue potato chips! What about you?”

Shalimar: “My mom’s hummus, I think, but also cookies.”

Hello Barbie: “Hummus isn’t a real food. “

We’re going to make millions and millions and millions of dollars, and then we’ll probably each buy a sports franchise. This is an excerpt from that book:

The Burger King:

If you are to dream of this deformed, hybrid monster, then it is certain that dark days loom before you and that murder may soon be in your future. Take care when dealing with weapons and seek the counsel of a priest. If the Burger King of your dreams was flying and you were able to fell the creature with a crossbow, then it is foretold that a sickness will fall upon the land.

Nadia Comaneci:

If you are to dream of this darling of the 1976 Montreal Olympics, and if she is doing her adorable floor routine, you will be blessed with a new mistress. If you dream of a young Nadia and she is holding a doll of herself, it is a clear sign that one of your mistresses is sure to become pregnant.

However, if you dream of the adult Nadia Comaneci, it is a warning that your wife may soon discover one of your mistresses and you must take precautions in your romantic liaisons and limit your alcohol consumption. Best to drink only clear liquors.

God, Our Heavenly Father:

This is a most auspicious dream, full of glad tidings! It is a certainty that your enemies will be struck dead and that rapid advancement in employment will be yours to enjoy. If you and God are best friends and gossiping, then it means that useful information that you can use to your advantage will soon be coming your way. However, if you dreamed of our Lord and he was tired, just sitting by himself in his bedroom with his cat, and you got the sense that he was lonely and disappointed, it is a warning that you have been taking the pleasures of your life for granted and that homosexuality, in spite of the desires you might feel, is a sin!

A sprawling outpost on the edge of the city, the place has always reminded me of an airport. It’s insanely busy, there’s a multiplicity of languages and cultures streaming through the corridors, and the store, the things that they sell, are never truly what the consumer wants.Ikea is more of a way station, a place in your life where you pause, and finding an acceptable but temporary solution, move forward from who you are toward the glittering horizon of the person you’ll one day become, a person who will eventually be able to afford the sort of “adult” furniture you might one day pass down to your children. And so, when you find yourself at Ikea on a Sunday afternoon, you discover, in both a figurative and literal sense, that you are not where you want to be. Ikea, is not your beautiful house.

Perhaps as a result, most of the people there, like commuters, have a slightly dazed and unhappily obliged expression to their faces. However, one couple looked happy, like they were starring in their own movie and the rest of us were just extras there to lend contrast. Located somewhere in their beautiful twenties, they were animated, as if playing games in an amusement park or falling in love while ice skating.  Wearing a shiny, silver miniskirt that showed off a splashy array of tattoos, she was a platinum blonde with a kind of retro burlesque vibe, and he, well, he didn’t look quite as confident as he was dressed, but he was trying hard.

They were in Ikea as tourists, treating the place a bit like a museum where the exhibits weren’t the storage solutions and furnishings, but all the weary, humbled people shopping there. It was a cultural excursion for these two, an anthropological journey that was meant as symbol of the quirky, self-conscious lives they were trying to fashion for themselves. She, independent-minded and unpredictable, loved the carnival food on sale there, the secret passageways through the intricately designed shopping trails and the way that things were piled up like giant toys, and he was planning on getting a tattoo of the Ikea Monkey to commemorate the great day, both of them smiling secrets at one another, certain that they would never grow into the compromised, dream-beaten people they imagined blending into the background all around them.

Me: Kind of scared.

Me: Kind of very scared.

Me: What if there’s a rope?

Me: I can just imagine it hanging from the ceiling.

Me: Swaying ominously.

Me: They’ll force me to climb up it.

Me: There might be a rope!!

Me: I’m not overreacting.

Me: Look, I know it’s not grade 4 gym class.

Me: No, I’m not expecting dodge ball.

Me: It would be nice if you were supportive rather than sarcastic.

Me: I don’t have dodge ball nightmares.

Me: Not anymore.

Me: Fartmares.

Me: Very funny.

Me: No, I’m not going to ask them if they can do anything about my “gas problem.”

Me: Because there is no gas problem.

Me: My trainer?

Me: Her name is Laetitia.

Me: She’s French, France French.

Me: She thinks I’m really funny.

Me: No, funny ha-ha.

Me: Cute accent.

Me: She really loves the anchor tattoo on my hand. It reminds her of Marseille.

Me: I know it was a commitment tattoo I got with you, but I can’t help it if other women find it attractive.

Me: My hands don’t look old.

Me: I’d say they look like they belong on a 25 year-old man.

Me: She’s going to test my grip.

Me: No, not my grip on reality.

Me: Man alive!

Me: My right hand has like a GI Joe Super Kung Fu grip!!

Me: Laetitia is really impressed! Gave me a hug!!

Me: Oh, you know the French.

Me: They’re like that.

Me: Yes, whorish.

Me: Such beguiling giggles, too.

Me: Are you going to your girl’s night out Salsa Dance Slut thing again tonight?

Me: Your sisters are a very bad influence on you.

Me: Alejandro.

Me: No, I don’t want him coming to my birthday party.

Me: I just don’t.

Me: I don’t want to talk about it.

Me: I don’t care if the therapist said I have to communicate more.

Me: All right.

Me: I communicate that I hate Alejandro.

Me: Well, didn’t he poke somebody in the back with his boner while dancing????

Me: I can’t do this now, I have to prepare for my next test.

Me: Mentally. I have to get in the zone.

Me: I want Alejandro out of the zone!!

Me: The next test?

Me: I have to walk briskly for the next six minutes.

Me: Yes.

Me: Well, why wouldn’t I take off my shirt?

Me: The French are used to that sort of thing.

Me: And I’m going to get a good sweat on.

Me: Oh.

Me: Apparently the equipment works better if I keep my shirt on.

Me: No.

Me: I don’t see any equipment.

Me: I think Laetitia might be a drunk.

Me: She’s all worried about me texting when I do the brisk walk test thing.

Me: Thinks I might walk into a wall or something.

Me: As if.

Me: Hate Laetitia and her bad skin.

Me: Glad I’ve never been to France.