Never Wake Up Before God...

I don't like getting up early.

At all.

Never.

Not for anything.

If Carrie Underwood herself came to my room, at 4am, wearing an "Emily Babydoll," from Frederick's of Hollywood (sheer mesh, with petite black bow at the pleated bust. Underwire cups feature foam padding for lift and shape. Matching panty. Nylon/spandex. Imported!!), and begged me to have my way with her, I would probably ask her to come back in a few hours.

You probably think that I'm crazy. But, if Carrie Underwood were willing to leave her current tour, put on an "Emily Babydoll" (It's real. Swear to God), and come to MY house at 4am, I bet she would be willing to wait a couple more hours. Clearly she thinks I'm worth it. I mean, I'M NOT. But, she doesn't know that, yet. She just got here.

Anyway, my son does NOT take after me. I know this because HE got up at 4am, Sunday, and thought nothing of it. He was wide awake, and full of energy. Hell, HE probably would have let Carrie Underwood stay. It wouldn't have been the same, though. He just would have wanted to play "Pat-A-Cake" with her. Dumb kid. He's got Carrie Underwood, right there, in lingerie and all he wants to do is play "Pat-A-Cake." I'm gonna have to have a talk with that boy.

So, he wakes up at 4am, and it was MY turn to get up with him. I know this because my wife kept kicking me in the back, and telling me that it was my turn. I thought about arguing. But, she'd already been kicking me in the back. I was afraid of what might happen if I started talking back. So, I got up.

At 4am God isn't even awake. The sun is not out. Plus, and probably worst, there is NOTHING on TV. It wouldn't have mattered if there was. My son, Max, was AWAKE. When Max is awake, things are okay. When Max is AWAKE nothing, not even the nuclear codes, are safe.

Being a responsible parent, I determined that my 12 month old son doesn't watch nearly enough TV. I also thought it would be cute to Tivo several episodes of a show called "Max and Ruby."

Max!! Get it!?!!

Cute, huh?

Yeah, no one else thought so, either. But, I tried.

Anyway, "Max and Ruby" is a story about brother and sister rabbits named.....Ready?......Max and Ruby. Genius!!! Max is a little boy rabbit, who doesn't speak much. Every so often he will shout out an random word. Usually it's an object that he sees. I imagine that this is not unlike what someone with a traumatic brain injury does. But, Max is just a baby bunny. So, I think he's okay. His sister, Ruby, takes care of him, and treats him more like a doll. I'm not 100% sure, but I believe that Max and Ruby have been abandoned by their parents, because you never see them. We have not, as of yet, reached the point where the house runs out of food, and Max and Ruby have to eat their own flesh in order to survive. I'm sure it's coming. But, we're not there, yet. So, everything is still happy.

I just decided that NOW, at 4am, was the time to get my son interested in TV. So, I plopped him down in the family room, and turned on what was to become a 2-hour, "Max and Ruby" marathon.

YAY, FOR ME!!!!

Max was not interested. But, at 4am, I was enthralled.

The first episode was about how Ruby wanted to have a tea party. However, in a clever plot twist, TV-Max wanted to play ball. You could cut the tension with a knife!!!

Ruby: We're going to have a tea party, Max.

Me: Look, Max!!! They're gonna have a tea party.

TV-Max: Ball.

Me: Uh-oh. It looks like Max, the bunny, wants to play ball. Could get a little dicey.

Real Max: Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!

Real Max, my son, was attempting the leave the family room, and get into the laundry room. He yells when he does this. Sort of a "Braveheart," yell-for-freedom, kind of thing. So, I had to get up, close the laundry room door, and put up the gate that keeps Real Max from going down the hall. When I came back, TV-Max was very happily playing ball.

Me: Aw!!! What happened?

I could have just rewound it. But, I believe in forward momentum, you see. Plus, I was REALLY tired, and my brain wasn't working right.

In our next episode, TV-Max wanted to swing. But, Ruby was afraid that he was swinging too high (still no parents.) So, she decided that TV-Max should play ball instead. This was wise on her part since, as we had established in a previous episode, TV-Max LIKES to play ball.

TV-Max: Swing.

Ruby: No, Max. You swing too high. Why don't you play ball, instead?

TV-Max: SWING!!!

Me: Uh-oh. It's gonna get ugly, in a minute. You better pay attention, Maxie.

Ruby: No swinging, Max. Here, you take this ball and play. I'll be inside.

TV-Max (kicks the ball away): Swing.

Me (laughing): This IS NOT gonna end well.

Real Max: Ahhhhhhhhh......

He was eating dry cat food, out of the cat dish.

It's funny. Just the other day I was thinking that his coat was looking EXTRA shiny.

So, I had to dig all the cat food out of his mouth, wipe off his hands, and put up the OTHER gate that keeps him from getting into the kitchen where we keep the cat food.

When I got back, TV-Max was happily swinging, and the ending music was starting to play.

I'm glad these things are Tivoed, so that I can watch them, later.

I also didn't get to see how TV-Max was able to get the wheel on his truck fixed. This was because Real-Max was ripping up my wife's favorite magazine, and eating it (I'm sure I'll get kicked for that, later.)

I didn't get to see whether or not TV-Max was able to figure out a way to open his birthday presents early, because Real-Max had pulled the phone out of the wall, and was attempting to smash it into submission.

And, I did not get to see whether or not TV-Max was able to plant HIS garden, the way HE wanted to, without the help of that bossy, dominating witch, Ruby, telling him how SHE thought he should do it. This bothered me. It was, after all HIS garden. What business was it of hers?

I'm glad I NEVER had a big sister.

On top of that, I was exhausted.

At around 7am, my wife came downstairs and saw cat food all over, the laundry room door shut, and her magazine, in shreds, on the floor.

My Wife: WHAT have you been doing all morning!?!!

Me (annoyed): Well, I haven't been having sex with Carrie Underwood, that's for damn sure!!

With that, I stumbled back upstairs, and went back to bed.

If Carrie swings by, in an "Emily Babydoll" (I'd prefer black. But, lavender would be good, too), I'm going to let her stay.

At the very least, I bet she wouldn't kick me. But, if she did, I bet I would kinda like it.

Casey

To Serve And Annoy....

There are 4 types of waiters/waitresses in the world. Actually, there may be more than 4. But, for purposes of this conversation, I have narrowed them down to 4. If you would like to expand the list, go get your own blog. This is my blog, so there are only 4. Deal with it.

They are:

The Good Waiter/Waitress

These are the ones who take your order, make sure your drink is filled, bring you your food as fast as they can, or at the very least let you know what the status is, and then bring you your check in a timely manner. They get a big tip. Sometimes, I may even hug them. Don't hold your breathe on that one, though. I hug VERY few people. But, there aren't that many good waiters/waitresses in the world. So, in a moment of weakness, I may press my body against them. Don't read anything into it.

The Bad Waiter/Waitress

These people just plain suck. They are rude. They hate their job. They hate you for making them do their job. They get the order wrong, but expect you to eat it anyway. Then, when you have the nerve to ask for a drink refill, they make it seem as though you have asked them for a vital organ. These people, much to the embarrassment of my wife, get NO TIP. Zero. Nothing. I don't care about how little money they make. If they want to make more money, they should do a better job. If they did, they would get bigger tips, and make more money. So, as far as I'm concerned, they can suck it.

Waitresses Who Make A Fuss Over Your Baby

Please note that I said WAITRESSES. Not WAITERS. Waiters who make a fuss over your baby come off as either creepy, or gay. Or, even worse, the dreaded gay/creepy combination. You can imagine them giving away balloons, at the park, just because. They don't have kids of their own. They just want to give balloons to all the kiddies. It creeps me out. But, when you have a waitress, they can tell you how cute your baby is, and talk to them, and smile at them. This works especially good on moms. Particularly NEW moms. They can even be a lousy waitress. Your kid could be ugly. They could bring a big, rare steak to a vegitarian. As long as they make goo-goo eyes at your baby, they will get a nice tip. Like I said, I think it's a chick thing.

The Waiter Who Will Try to Engage You About Sports To Try And Pad Their Tip
God forbid you wear ANY sports paraphenalia when you land this dork. He will chew your ear off, because he happens to be an expert on sports. Even though you are there to enjoy a meal with your family, the "Sports Guru" will make everyone else wait while he shares his encyclopedic knowledge about a local sports team with you. Hell, he will make your FOOD wait, while he tells you about a game he went to when he was 4. He a dork, and you just want him to go away. He will get the bare minimum tip.

It was the last guy that I ended up with, when I took my family out, the other night. In truth, it was my fault. I mean, what was I thinking when I put my Jets hat on? Clearly, I wanted to have a detailed conversation about EVERY JETS GAME THAT EVER TOOK PLACE, when I decided to wear my hat, and take my family out to get food. So, really, it was all my fault.

I could tell RIGHT when he started talking.

Waiter: Jets fan, huh?

Me: Huh? Oh, the hat. No, not a huge fan. Just wanted a hat, and this one fit.

Waiter: Cool. Who was thier coach when they won the Super Bowl?

Me: Uhhh....I dunno. Like I said, I'm just wearing the hat.

Waiter: Whaddya think of Sanchez?

Me: Uh, well, he's good. I'm a big USC fan. I'm from Southern California. So, I hope he does well.

Waiter: Yeah, could be the year, huh?

Me: I...Uh...I dunno.

Then, he went away, and I was happy. It had been a long week, and I wasn't going to see my daughter this weekend, because she's going camping with the girl scouts. So, I just wanted some family time, with my little girl. This was not going to happen, however, with Super Fan waiting my table.

He came back to get our drink order.

Waiter: Weeb Ewbank.

Me: What?

Waiter: Weeb Ewbank.

Me: Okay....

Waiter: He was the coach when they won the Super Bowl.

Me: Uh...Okay.

Waiter: Beat the Colts.

Me: Yeah....

Waiter: But, you already knew that, huh?

Me: Actually, I think I might have.....

Waiter: Namath made that prediction.

Me: Yeah....

Waiter: Broadway Joe.

Me: Uh, yeah.

Waiter: What can I get you to drink, Namath?

Me: I...Uh...Namath?

Waiter: Yeah, Broadway Joe.

Me: Uh....I'll just have a diet coke.

Waiter: Gotta maintain your playing weight, huh Namath?

Me: Sure.

Then, he went away. And, for the rest of my meal, I would be referred to as "Namath." You see, since I was wearing my Jets hat, I was CLEARLY a HUGE fan of the guy who won the Super Bowl, 9 months BEFORE I was born.

You got it.

There was more of the same when he brought the drinks. Instead of a lemon, my diet coke had a lime in it.

Waiter: You see that I put a lime in there, instead of a lemon?

Me: Yes, I did see that.

Waiter: Because it's green.

Me: I noticed.

Waiter: Like the Jets.

Me: Yes, just like the Jets.

Waiter: Not the same shade, but close.

Me: It is, at that.

Waiter: I got your back, Namath.

Me: Thank you. That's making me feel all warm inside.

Waiter: Ha-Ha!! I got a Jets fan, wise-ass, here. That's a good one, Namath.

Me: Thank you, so much.

And, that's the way it went. For the entire meal. Everytime he came back to our table, he would randomly spout some Jets fact, that I didn't know, or care about. It was almost as though he had "Jets-Tourette Syndrome," and it was just lucky that a guy in a Jets hat showed up, or he would have gone nuts and shot the place up.

He took our food order:

Waiter: 16-7

Me: Huh?

Waiter: 16-7. That was the score of the Super Bowl, when the Jets won.

Me: I'll be damned.

Waiter: Ha-Ha!! Yeah.....

Then, he brought us our food. Even though it was been well established that I DO NOT like vegatables, I was presented a small bowl of....Ready?.....GREEN BEANS!!!!!

Do you know WHY?

Well, because they are GREEN, of course.

And, WHO ELSE IS GREEN?

That would be the Jets.....

And, WHO is a HUGE Jets fan?

Not me. But, since I was stupid enough to wear my hat, I was being assaulted by my own waiter.

Waiter: 17 for 28, for 206 yards.

Me: Let me guess.....Uhhhh....Were those Namath's stats for the Super Bowl?

Waiter: Ha-Ha!! Yeah, of course YOU know that. What was I thinking, huh?

Me: Yeah, after all they were MY stats. You know, since I'm Namath, and all.

Waiter: THAT'S RIGHT!! HA-HA!!! I'll get your check.

Then, he brought the check, and the "Jets-Tourettes" kicked in, again.

Waiter: Jim Turner.

Me: Jim Turner?

Waiter: Kicked 3 field goals to help win the game.

Me: Ahhh...Got the internet back there, do ya'?

Waiter: Ha-Ha!! Well, we can't ALL know everything about the Jets, like you, Namath.

Me: Yeah, just like me.

Waiter: Hey, good luck this season. You folks have a good night. Don't stiff me, Namath. I hear Jets fans are bad tippers. HA-HA!!!

I tipped him 15%, because he annoyed me, and my wife glared at me for it. On the way out, my daughter told me that he thought the waiter was weird. My daughter and I are a lot alike.

When we got out the door, there was a trash can. For just a moment I thought about throwing my Jets hat into it. But, then nobody would call me Namath, anymore, and I don't know if I want to live like that.

I'm going to start wearing my Kermit hat, again.

Casey