Diaper Changes

For 34 years, I have prided myself on the fact that I’ve never changed a diaper. The closest I’ve come to changing a diaper is wiping my own ass. Now, I’m responsible for making sure somebody else’s butt crack’s clean? I mean, you have to get way up in there and keep going at it until it’s spotless. It sounds like a nightmare for you and the other party involved, but it turns out that it’s not. Sure, the first 100 times are going to be a struggle, but you’ll get used to it. You’ll become more efficient and your baby might even start to enjoy it. 10 weeks in, diaper changes have become a way to bond with my kid. She starts wining because she’s sitting in a pile of her own shit, so I take her to the table and she immediately calms down. She even gives you a little smile, because she knows what’s about to go down. Not only are you providing a sense of relief to the discomfort she was feeling, you get to pretend like you’re Picasso with one of those butt brushes. Of course, your baby will fuck with you. She’ll wait until you’re just about to wrap up and then release whatever was in her bladder. Always be ready for it. Always.

Man vs Diaper: Round 1

Shit is the most disgusting substance on this planet. It comes from you body, smells terrible and smears all over everything. Nobody enjoys any aspect of poo, except if it’s contained in a well placed joke. Actually, it’s pretty funny to watch somebody smash a flaming brown bag of feces with their foot. I guess I should be more clear. Nobody likes cleaning poo. It smells the way it looks and there’s a high probability that it’s going to make contact with your skin. I can’t even wash my own butt crack without wincing at the fact that I could be touching my own shit with the very hand I’m using to clean myself. It’s a never ending cycle and here I am, six hours into fatherhood and I’m cleaning shit off my kid.

My first experience changing a diaper and it was disastrous. Not only was it all tarry, but she showed her displeasure with my performance by throwing a few more obstacles my way. As if a diaper full of baby poo wasn’t enough, she put her shitting skills on display. Of course, she would wait until I made her butt cheeks spotless before she put on the show. Yes, it was a show. I had always thought that babies were weak, but she put that myth to bed. They might be doughy, but whatever muscles that power their intestines is rivals that of any Space X rocket. I didn’t know poo could fly that far. I must admit, I was impressed. It was hard to be mad at her. The first thought that ran through my head was, “That’s my girl!” Of course, that quickly faded as I realized my hand turned black. If you’ve never changed a diaper, I suggest you throw on some gloves. It’ll save you a hand wash or two.

FOMO

Dying is one of a person’s biggest fears, but why? It’s not like you’re going to be conscious once it’s done. The organ responsible for processing thoughts no longer functions. You’ll know it’s coming, but you wouldn’t be aware that it’s been done. So why is it that people fear death? It’s FOMO, also known as the fear of missing out.

I Will Always Accept a Thank You

This morning started off like any other day. I spent the morning at my desk, on my computer, working has hard as my will let me. It had turned to a little after noon and I decided to head to the bathroom. As I exited the secured area of my office into the hallway, a co-worker, whom I had never seen before, was walking in the opposite direction. We were both headed to our respective restrooms when we exchanged “Hello’s”. As the distance between us shrank, she then offered thanks for letting her in this morning, at least, that was my assumption. As our paths overlapped and we each opened our opposing doors, one of us knew that the gratitude she had showed me was unfounded. It was not me who “let her in,” but instead another Asian male, at least I hope it was a male, who had shown her kindness. This is not the first and, most likely, not going to be the last time that racism rears its ugly head.┬áThe plight of the Asian American continues.

Nashville, the Home of Country Music

Legend says that a little known town called Nashville created a chicken dish, full of flavor and heat that generations upon generations of food enthusiasts visit said town in search for that magical first bite into a battered piece of spicy chicken that’s been covered in the perfect mixture of spices and lard, gently laid into an ocean of piping hot oil and then served to you on a cheap plastic basket covered with wax paper. Yard house has jumped onto the bandwagon, hoping to give its customers that experience at each of its locations across the good ole U.S. of A. Unfortunately, they have failed. Not only have they failed, but they have done the unthinkable…they have created the complete opposite experience. The fried chicken is bland, they only serve white meat, they serve it with sweet potato pancakes AND their hot chicken sauce is some hipster concoction made of honey and sriracha. First of all, not everything needs to include sriracha. Secondly, that’s not hot chicken. Do not call it hot chicken, you are giving hot chicken a bad name. It’s not hot chicken. Call it what you want but THIS IS NOT NASHVILLE HOT CHICKEN! May I offer a suggestion? Whoever created your insult to hot chicken, hop on that private jet of yours and have a gander at what hot chicken is supposed to look and taste like. My meal had so much promise. I felt that big things were on the horizon when I placed my order, only to have you rip it all away with that dry piece of chicken breast you tried to pawn off as hot chicken. That is not hot chicken! I was going to give you two stars, because I like your beer selection, but the pain that the mere memory of that meal caused me has forced me to give you no more than one star. You can crush my dreams, but you cannot call that chicken jerky hot chicken. It’s not right to delicious hot chicken, it’s not right to Nashville and it most certainly is not right to country music. Apologize to country music!!!

Lake Tekapo, NZ