Aw Sh!t

Less cute while pooping

So, I took the dog for a walk the other day. I had to go pick up dinner, and it was a little far for Lucy to walk, so I brought a kid-carrier on my chest. With kid comes diaper bag—I sport a subtle and understated red little number which works well with many of my outfits. I was feeling very multi-tasky. Gettin’ stuff done while the wifey did her sit-up thing at a pilates class.

Things were going smoothly, until they weren’t. I was returning home, and when I got to the middle of the busiest intersection in town I suddenly felt a tug on the leash. My dog, Alvin, is a real sniffer, so I figured he was just checking out the scene. Wrong. I turned back to find bent, quivering legs—poop position.

Me: Whoawhoawhoa—buddy—hang on. Not here.

Alvin: Here.

He could have gone 10 paces earlier in the plot of grass. He could have pinched it 10 paces further when I would have been out of the street—but no. He was ready to do the doo-doo right there. Lucy’s laughing. So is the minivan filled with kids waiting for me to cross. The driver actually took the time to reach over her kid and roll down the manuel window to let me know that she and her kid thought this was a very funny moment in my day, and not to worry because she’d wait.

I thanked her for noticing without a bit of sarcasm.

Upon bending over to pick up said dookie, dinner falls out of my diaper bag. Lucy laughs more. I do not. But then things did get funny. After recollecting my now street-flavored dinner, I bent over once again to pick up the dookie. Lucy shoots me a worried look from the chest harness, grabs the straps and says, “Don’t drop me in the poop daddy.” Her concern was warranted. I had just dropped the dinner remarkably close to the doodie, and now her face was maybe eight inches from the dog logs. Then Lucy came within whiff distance. Her eyes closed tightly, her mouth opened and for a second—I thought she might barf. Instead, she did a little gag barf—and because I’m a dickhead I laughed

Lucy: That’s stinky daddy.

Me: I know. Poopy is stinky. Just like yours.

Lucy (pause): “You got some poop on your hand.”

Ever poop paranoid, I went in for a closer inspection of my hand. Much like the guy that pours his drink out when asked what time it is, I brought a stank ass bag of shit within a few centimeters of my face … gagged.

Lucy (laughing): That’s stinky daddy.

I’m not saying she’s an evil Jedi genius—but on this occasion, I have to give her props.

Good one Lucy—you got me.

– The Big Avocado.

Mother’s Day Tribute

Me and my mom

I’m a mama’s boy. I’m good with admitting that. Years of conditioning have made me the man I am today. She molded me into the work of art you all know as The Big Avocado.

Her words of wisdom have stuck with me for life. Be nice to people. Always be respectful. Don’t play with your penis in public – people will think you’re a pervert. These are more or less the words I live by.

I got my good looks from her. I got my humor from her. I got the hands of a 5’1” woman from her as well. I’m excellent with knots and reaching between the seats of cars.

Most of the random intelligence about life can be credited to her:

Mom: Stephen, you have lots of dandruff. You should wrap your head in an olive oil drenched towel.

Me: Hmmm. I’m not sure – but I think you’re messing with me.

Mom: Is that a stye? Oh my – that looks bad. Rub some gold on it.

Me: Should I grab a brick from the reserve, or do you mind if I borrow some from the treasure pool?

Mom: You have a really big zit on your nose.

Me: Do I? I hadn’t noticed. I actually thought I was growing a second nose – thank you for explaining that to me.

Mom: Put some Neosporin on it and cover it with a bandaid.

Me: That’s a grrreat idea – the kids at school will never even notice!

Mom: You have dog breath. Did you brush your teeth?

Me: I did, right before breakfast.

Mom: You should do it again with toothpaste.

Me: Right – toothpaste. I knew I was forgetting something.

Mom: Your pants are falling down. You look like a plumber from jail.

Me: Like a plumber that went to jail – or a plumber fixing the bathrooms in jail? Because the latter is cool, but I’d be soooo embarrassed if I was mistaken for a felon plumber.

I remember the time my mom busted me with some friends drinking at the house in high-school. A buddy of mine passed out in the living room, so 4 of us each grabbed an arm and a leg to carry him upstairs for the night. She came out of her bedroom and caught us during the body transport. The look of horror on her face was alarming.

Mom: Oh my god. Stephen! That’s no way to carry a body. His heads going to hit the stairs.

She really is a caring individual. I like to make fun of her; her antics at Christmas, her lack of technological intelligence – but at the end of the day, all I really want to say is this:

Mom – you’re the best. I love you so much and I am grateful for everything you have ever done for me. I’m contractually obligated to say that my wife (the mother of my child) is the greatest mother of all time – but you are the best mother I’ve ever had.

Happy Mother’s Day – And Happy Mother’s Day to mom’s across the globe. I’m sure your mom is great, but mine is just a little better.

–The Mama’s Avocado

Midwife Crises.

I recently informed the world via blog that my wife and I were expecting another child. I like to save my family’s most intimate moments for the internet so that all might share in the experience: friends, family, friends of friends, enemies of friends, childhood acquaintances of friend’s friends—you know, everyone.

So anyway, our midwife came to the house for our first checkup.

*Audience whispers: Did he just say midwife? I think he did.*

Oh yeah, did I forget to mention that we keep it au naturel up in these parts? Now, save your judgment for someone who cares. It’s not like I’m some kind of hippie or anything. So what if I like recycling, organic eating, farmers markets, occasional bathing … (vision begins to blur, getting lightheaded) … voting liberal, driving a hybrid, donating to NPR, drinking IPAs … (loosens collar, wipe sweat from brow) … canvas grocery bags, alternative medicine, weed and weed products, (loss of consciousness setting in) dogs, hugging, Frisbees …

Oh.
Jesus.
I am a total hippie.

When did this happen? Could this be true? I hate hippies. I mean I love hippies. I love to make fun of hippies. I am so confused. What’s happening?

(Breaking down into puddle of tears. Dropping to knees. Raising fists to sky. Why God? Why me?)

And then I remember—I have gold teeth. I’m the most cold-blooded dancer in Oakland. I hate chicks with hairy armpits and legs. Pachouli registers a zero on the boner meter. I’m not a hippie. Phew! (Wiping sweat from brow.)

But as I said previously, we’re having a home birth. Our midwife came for her first appointment today. Up until this point, Lucy had no idea about Marie’s pregnancy, and we weren’t totally sure how we were going to explain things to her. Well, our midwife certainly stepped up to bat.

Midwife (pulling out a baby doll): Lucy, can I show you something? This is a tiny little baby. You used to be that small!

Lucy: ?

Midwife (pulling out a sock): And do you know what this is? This is a uterus.

Lucy: That’s a sock.

Midwife (putting tiny baby in uterus sock): And this is where babies grow, inside of Mama’s belly. You want to know something? Your mommy has a baby in her belly too.

Lucy to Marie: Let me see.

Awkward pause, slight panic … but the midwife just blows right past it.

Midwife: And when the baby gets big enough, I’m going to come over to help get it out!

Oh God—please don’t let her ask from where. PLEASE DON’T LET HER ASK FROM WHERE.

Lucy: From where?

Me (loudly): STORY TIME! Let’s go read a story. Or maybe even eat some chocolate. You want CHOCOLATE Lucy? Huh? Chocolate?

Lucy: Yeah!

Me (bordering on hysterical): And do you know where chocolate comes from? The snack drawer! <Singing and marching away> Let’s go out to the kitchen. Let’s go out to the kitchen. Let’s go out to the kitchen, and have ourselves a snack!

1st attempt at photo shop. Not sure where I'm going with the cannibal avocado.

So now Lucy think that babies grow in socks inside Mama’s belly. Weird? Maybe. But frankly, I think it’s going to make my life a lot easier. So much easier, in fact, that I put together a short list of other lies I intend to use to my benefit.

1. When boys play with their penises, puppies die. Don’t encourage them.

Like I said, short list.

-The Big Avocado

Be My Guest

Welcome to the very first installment of “Be My Guest.” My first guest writer is a young lady named Smash. She’s significantly meaner than she looks. The following piece reflects her opinions, not mine. Enjoy!

The Big Avocado and Smash.

Look! That’s me with Steve!

I don’t like kids, for pretty all the same reasons people cite when they say they don’t like kids—noisy, needy, ruined my favorite White Stripes t-shirt with their disgusting baby barf … I mean, I can’t replace that shirt!

I don’t have to spend a lot of time around kids (which, trust me, is an arrangement from which EVERYBODY benefits), so you’d think I’d mostly be safe. But there’s another reason I don’t like kids. There’s a much more pervasive, insidious evil that infiltrates my everyday life: Kids have the ability to make otherwise normal adults go completely insane.

See, what happens is that once a person makes a baby, the baby becomes the most important part of the parents’ lives. That part is understandable. The part where it starts to fall apart is where the parents become so obsessed with the kid that they think everyone else cares about the kid too. That’s why you can take a well adjusted, socially acceptable person, throw in a baby, and suddenly all the things they would NEVER talk about in public become fair game for casual conversation. If you’re lucky, the conversation is just boring (“My nephew was so excited to put on his new jam jams! He was like ‘jam jams! Jam jams!’ ”). If you’re unlucky, well …

EXHIBIT A:

My art director missed work one day to stay home with his sick kid. The next day …

Me: Hey, is your kid feeling better?

AD: Yeah, he was acting all fussy two days ago …

Me: <bored noise>

AD: But then yesterday we realized it’s because he hadn’t pooped!

Me: <snapping to attention> Oh god!

AD: Yeah, that’s why he was fussy! He wasn’t pooping!

Me: Dude, what the fuck, man?

AD: So we needed to get him to poop!

Me: Please … don’t …

AD: Oh, sorry.

Me: It’s okay, but … wow.

AD: Is BM better? I can just say BM.

Me: No, oh god NO, that’s not the point!

AD: Anyway, he hadn’t BMed in like, a day …

Me: <whimper>

AD: So we gave him prune juice! And guess what?

Me: <plugging ears and singing> LA LA LA LA LA LAAAAAAA!

EXHIBIT B:

Walking through the cafeteria one morning at work, I greeted a coworker, a woman whom I worked with regularly but always on a very professional basis. She had recently announced her pregnancy.

Me: Hey, how are ya?

Her: I’m okay.

Me: That’s good. Well, seeya!

Her: I’ve been in a lot of pain lately though.

Me: Ohhhhhh … ?

Her: See, the baby is really pressing on my cervix.

Me: <horrified face>

Her: And it’s just that, well … you see, my cervix is so short.

Me: <horrified face>

Her: Yeah, I know! It’s only like, five or six centimeters.

Me: <horrified face>

Her: And that’s a REALLY short cervix.

Me: <horrified face>

Her: Maaaaaan! What a short cervix I have! Cervix cervix cervix! Well, cervix ya later, cervix!

Thinking back on it, I wish the conversations had gone like this:

AD: My kid hasn’t pooped.

Me: That sucks, man. I had a great big long snakey one this morning. It felt sooooooo gooooooood! But dude was it toxic! I swear even my cats were gagging!

Or maybe something like:

Her: Cervix!

Me: Big fat anal fissure, complete with leakage!

But no. THAT would have been inappropriate.

Practice? We Talkin Bout Practice?

Am I good at my job?

My brother’s in med-school, which is great, because everyone likes having a doctor in the family. I’m a fundraiser. Not as popular. He gives free medical advice; I give guilt trips. He brings a level of prestige to our family; I bring sob stories and open hands.

But at least people know what they’re getting from me. Doctors are totally unpredictable. I mean, there’s a reason they call it “practicing” medicine—although I think most doctors need a little (and by a little I mean a lot) more practice.

Case Study #1

I used to have warts on my left wrist. They were hideous. They started as two separate lumps which eventually teamed up to become a super-power wart. I had them frozen off—they grew back with a vengeance. Ultimately we had to go to the scalpel to deal with the rogue growths. But before I had them sliced off, my doctor brought in the most smoking-hot nurse I’ve ever seen—she was going to take pictures of my aberration so I could be in a medical journal because my warts were “so weird!”

Thanks Doc. And thank you even more for sending in this dream nurse to photograph my deformity

<Enter nurse>

Me: Hey. What do ya think? Pretty cool, huh?

Sexy Nurse: Uh, yeah… I guess.

Me: I was just kidding – they’re pretty gross. That’s why we’re cutting them off.

<no reply>

Me: Good thing they aren’t on my penis, huh?

Sexy Nurse: (not even batting an eye): The doctor should be right in to see you.

Well, that was awkward.

<Silence>

<Waiting>

<Silence>

<Doctor FINALLY enters>

Me: Doc, I’ll be the first to admit—I’m a bit of a softie when it comes to things like needles and, you know, acute pain.

Dr.: Relax. This is just going to feel like stinging bees.

Me: Terrific. Wait, what?

<injection, searing pain, suppressed yelping>

Dr.: Stinging bees!!! Stinging bees!!!

Me: Oh, oh, stop. Please stop. Seriously stop.

Dr.: Take it easy Casanova. At least they aren’t on your penis, right?

So much for sexy nurse/ client confidentiality.

Case Study #2:

A few years later, I was instructed to see a doctor about my high cholesterol and acid reflux because, apparently, I’m built like an 80-year-old coal miner.

Doctor (perusing my chart): So, you’re here about your cholesterol and acid reflux? You seem a little young for these problems. What are you, 16?

Me: Man, you’d make a lousy carny!

<Confused silence>

Me: You know – the carnival guys that guess your age?

<Silence>

Me: I’m 25.

Doctor: I know – it says so on this chart.

Me: Sooo, what else does it say?

Doctor – It says you’re too young for a cholesterol problem. As for that acne on your forehead,  what are you doing about that?

Me: (wide eyed and speechless) Uh… Uh – nothing. Acne? I mean, really doc – it’s just a few zits. I was sick last week. Sometimes I get zits when I’m sick – I wouldn’t call it acne.

Doctor: Well I would. Here’s a prescription for your acne.

Case Study #3

Ever one for disgusting diseases usually relegated to the senior population, I came down with gout, which, if you’re unfamiliar, feels like having a truck driving over your toe again and again and again.

The foot specialist decided it was bone spurs, despite x-ray evidence to the contrary. This guy was more of a “hunch” doctor, than a scientific doctor. He figured a cortisone shot oughta do the trick.

Dr.: Sit back and relax

<prolonged injection, prolonged searing pain, suppressed yelping>

<5 seconds later>

Me: (through clenched jaw, delirium setting in) Jesus. Doctor – this (heave) really (ugh) hurts.

Doctor: I’m sure it does. Right in your toe too. Ouch!

Me: (to self) Focus Steve. Don’t pass out. Happy place – find a happy place.

Doctor: Just another 30 seconds or so. You OK?

Me: No. Think…I….might…be….passing….out….

Doctor: You sure are dramatic, HA! Just kidding – Aaaaannnnnnnd, 10 more seconds, aaaaand 5 and 4 and 3 and 3 and 3 and 3 and 3

Me: Stop – I feel better. Please stop.

Doctor: Done! Good work champ. Want a sticker? Just kidding. Call me in a week, we’ll see if this helped.

It didn’t. Why? Because I didn’t have bone spurs. I had gout. What DID help was finding a doctor with a better understanding of ailments and their appropriate treatments. And it only took two years to find that doctor!

There are some businesses where it’s okay if you’re not perfect all the time (like meteorology; or my job.) But doctors should be held to a higher standard – which they’re not. They’re all about “having opinions,” and “practicing,” and diagnosing you for the wrong problems. The least they could do is prescribe the good pills. They’ll still suck at their jobs, but I’m betting a good dose of Valium would make it easier to accept.

- The Big Avocado MD

Family Feud

My two-year-old daughter and I are feuding.

Rabbit ears superimposed over devil horns

Don’t let her age or stature fool you. She is a formidable opponent.

It started with boobs. Some people are boob guys, others are into butts. Personally—I’m into both, with an emphasis on boobs. Turns out, pregnant ladies get enormous bosoms, my wife included. Also of note, upon enlargement, my access became extremely limited—a look-but-don’t-touch policy, to be exact.

My wife: Stop touching my boobs.

Me: What?

Wife: They’re tender.

Me: And huge. I love them. I mean—I love you, and everything about you. I want to touch you, and them especially.

Wife: I’m also tired. Tender, and tired.

Me: I’m randy.

Wife: No.

Damn it—babies. Make my wife’s boobs huge and irresistible, and also unobtainable. So happy, and so frustrated. Dad mad.

And if I thought the ta-tas were off limits then—HA! My kid breast fed for a whole year—limiting my access to, hmmmm … calculating—zero minus the zero carry the zero, and, ah, yes—zero.

This is where it began—but hardly where it ended. I’d get into all the things my daughter does to torture me—but I don’t want to sound petty—so I’ll highlight some totally reasonable (TOTALLY REASONABLE) complaints.

1. She hates sleeping because she knows how much I like to. Always has. Parents don’t like to use the word “manipulation”—but let’s be real—my daughter is the most manipulative little thing of all time. I think she’s been playing me from week one. She’s not tired. She’s not hungry, or dirty, or scared. She’s just doing her daddy wrong because she can.

<Screeching from the other room>

Me: What’s the matter honey?

Lucy: waaaaaa

Me: Are you ok?

Lucy: Waaaaa (translation: “I’m not really tired. This is just the only sound I currently know how to make … and I’m f’ing with you.”)

Me: (in a singsong voice): Daddy’s going a little crazy hun. How’s about you stop making that noise?

Lucy: WAAAAAAA!!!! (translation: “Hows about no? I’m too busy f’ing with you right now.”)

Me (to myself): Must. Not. Shake. Baby.

Me (also to myself): Want. To. Shake. Baby.

Lucy: (Hysteria)

Me: Fine—cry all you want. I don’t even care.

<enter wife>

Lucy: (Giggle!)

Me: Holy f’ing shit—did she just laugh? She did. I knew she was f’ing with me.

Marie: SHE’S TWO WEEKS OLD.

2. She’s declared war on good music. Her most recent move is the double-knee flop followed by uncontrollable sobbing. I play some Bob Marley—she says, “I no want that one.”

Me: You haven’t even listened to the song.

Lucy: I NO WANT THAT ONE!!!

Me: AND I NO CARE!!

Wife: What is wrong with you?

Me: I’m being honest. I don’t care what she wants to hear. I’ve heard the “Hello Song” 25 times today.

My wife (to Lucy): Honey—I think we’ve heard your music enough today—we’re going to take turns and Daddy wants to listen to this music.

Lucy (flop—sob, tantrum): I no want to hear this one.

My wife: OK—one last time and then it’s Daddy’s turn.

Lucy: OK!

Me: WHAT?! Don’t you watch TV? No negotiating with terrorists.

My wife (dripping in sarcasm): I love your level of maturity—it’s why I married you.

Me: And I love your boobs.

Thing is, I love kids. Wait. Scratch that. I love my kid—I don’t really care for yours. Just like dogs. I really liked my old dog—but chances are, I don’t like yours. And puppies and babies are more alike than you might think—they only survive infancy because they’re cute. I made the following astute comparison in my last conversation with my wife about having more kids.

Me: I’d love to get another dog—I just don’t really want another puppy. You know what I mean?

Wife: … Are you comparing having kids to having dogs?!

Me: How awesome was that shock collar?

BTW. She’s pregnant. We’re having a puppy.

…

–The Big (expecting and completely mature) Avocado

F-Bombs Away!

This post is rated R and might not be acceptable for children under the age of 17

F-Yeah

Now that the Academy Awards have come and gone and been quickly forgotten—(unless terribly boring shit is memorable to you)—I thought I might share one of my personal favorite movie stories.

I was 23 when “Old School” came out. I went with a couple of friends (who were even older—like 26—real old at the time.) Upon entering the movie, the pimpled and overweight schlep with the flashlight says—to no one but me—”ticket stub.” Usually, I lose something like that—but for whatever reason, I had it, showed it to him, and went to my seat.

Immediately, I leave to take a piss. Upon my re-entry I’m greeted with the same kid’s request—”ticket stub.”

Me: No recollection? I’m wearing an orange sweater—you don’t remember me?

Him: Ticket Stub.

Miraculously, I still have it. I show it to him again, and go back to my seat again.

So I walk in, a little annoyed, but also a little excited—a movie with this much security is going to be a total boner-fest of boobs, butts, sexual insinuations and cursing. I mean, those are all my favorite things about movies!

The movie is halfway finished and the gratuitous boobie shots have already happened when a group of high-school kids sneak into the movie theater and proceed to obnoxiously draw attention to themselves as if I’m more interested in their commentary than Luke Wilson and Vince Vaughn’s humorous banter. The same security guard follows in closely behind them. Knowing that he’s a no-nonsense kind of movie guard, I chuckle to myself thinking, “Ohhhhh, these kids are gonna get it!” I love a little harmless controversy, so I was ready for exaggerated laughter upon their expulsion. You can only imagine my surprise when the security walked right up to me and hit me in the face with the flashlight beam and said, “I need to see your ticket.”

Me: You know this is the third time you’ve asked to see this shit, right? I can’t even believe I still have it—but here you go.

To which he responded, “I’m going to need to see some ID.”

Did I mention I was 23 watching the movie with my 26 year old buddies? Holy shit—you’d a thunk they were front row at a Richard Pryor show as their howls of laughter erupted.

Calmly (like the eye of a storm calm) I say—”And I’m going to need to see your manager. Lets go out into the hall.”

What happened next was the most ferocious (and therapeutic) F-Bomb Storm to ever take place:

Me: Are you F’ing serious?

Him: ID please

Me: Mother F-er, what? ID? Where’s your ID? Here—can you read? That shit says, 1979. I know you can’t do math, so let me help you. I’m 23. This is an R-rated movie. I would have to be 16 years old to be underage at this shit. Where the F-bomb is your boss? I drove 20 minutes to this dog shit movie theater to see some dog shit movie, and eat some crap popcorn, and hopefully some giant tits on a movie screen. Instead—I’m out here talking to you, because you think I’m 16 f’ing years old?!  Where the F is your boss?

(I’m pretty sure that conversation has been recollected verbatim. Impressive, I know.)

I saw his boss in the distance walking toward us. As soon as he got within earshot of the F-bomb Uzi I was blasting this guy with—he busted a quick u-turn and walked into another theater. Good decision.

After all that, I walked back into the movie. All my chucklehead buddies were beside themselves with laughter.

Friend: Uh, can I help you little boy? Did you lose your mommy?

Me: Ha—that’s funny. Professional comedian. You should do movies.

Friend: I’m afraid you might not be old enough to see them if I did.

(Teeheehee, haaaaa hahaha snort, chuckle (more laughing noises) etc.).

Ah yes, asshole friends. The entire lot of them. Except for Dave. He leans over and says—”Did you F-bomb that guy?”

Me: Shit—you have no idea. I used the F-word in every imaginable context.

Dave: That is so awesome. It’s not every day you get to justifiably F-bomb someone. I’m kind of jealous.

Me: Of my boyish looks?

Dave: Yeah—and the F-Bombing.

Me: I think you’re right. I actually feel pretty good about what just happened. I might get kicked out though. I pretty much ruined that guy’s world.

Seconds later the security kid returned. I got up to leave without a commotion, because clearly, I’m a gentleman. However, he just handed me some free passes and scurried off.

This, my friends, is what the movies are all about. Good memories, and F-bombs.

–The Big (effing) Avocado

Apologies for the F-word, S-word, and A-Hole-word.