Just before the baby was born we had a family friend take us out for a very nice dinner at Maison Robert, one of the most expensive restaurants in the city. Our host, a dear man who unfortunately is not always aware of his surroundings, ordered wine for everyone at the table. Jade, eight months pregnant at the time, was abstaining, but now she had a full glass of $80 wine in front of her, and the host was in such fine spirits that it seemed criminal to point out that Jade was on the wagon.
I decided I was going to have to secretly drink Jade's wine for her. Chivalry is difficult, but somebody's got to do it.
Now, the table was seated thus:
What I would do, I reasoned, is sip my own glass down to half-full. Then, when attention was focused elsewhere, I would quickly grab Jade's full glass, finish it off, then return back to mine. By the end of the night I would have saved our baby from Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, and I'd be twice as drunk as everyone else. It was a win/win scenario.
Conversation picked up. Hundred-dollar appetizers were brought to the table. I slowly paced myself, waiting for the right moment to make the switch. Midway through the wildly expensive salads, the party nearest to us ordered crepes, which the chef made at their table. As he ignited a shot of alcohol into the pan, I knew the time had come to make the switch.
Now: casually, stealthily, like a SPY I reached across the table and grabbed Jade's glass, as if I had studied that move for seven years at the Royal Academy of Glass-Snatching. I could have poisoned the president of Paraguay with that move. I was slick. I wish I would've had an X-10 X-Cam to secretly record the event, and then to later spy into a high school locker room.
I quickly gulped down most of the glass, just like a real wine connoisseur. Then I carried on conversation as normal, smiling and nodding, secretly proud of my stealth and cunning. I had done it so casually that even Jade hadn't noticed. Oh, I was good. I had pilfered that wine like wine was meant to be pilfered. I quickly, yet completely naturally, drained most of the glass, and then created a diversion ("Look! A giraffe!") while I placed the glass back in its original spot. I sat back and surveyed the scene, smug in my craftiness, flying toward a full-on robot buzz.
And then I saw it. If I had been a cartoon character, my eyes would have popped out like mighty accordians with a loud AAAHROOGAH as I realized that JADE'S GLASS WAS STILL COMPLETELY FULL.
Oh my Lord! Oh my holy Lord! How could I have done this? I thought, trying to dog-paddle my drowning brain to safety. My horror grew complete as I saw my host look down at his glass, which was now almost completely empty. He lifted an eyebrow quizically, then tossed the remaining drops down.
I screwed our host out of his vintage wine. I'm like Jesus in reverse.
Thursday, September 27, 2001
I knew that ZUG would eventually end up in a headline story on CNN. I just didn't expect it would be quite like this.
I just hope the Swiss police don't come knocking on my door. I've been known for some crazy publicity stunts, after all.
For the record: I'm a comedy writer, not a murderer.
Also, I was home with my wife when it happened. I have witnesses.
Wednesday, September 26, 2001
Everyone says taking care of a newborn baby is hard. But you know what? It's not that hard. What's hard about a creature that eats, sleeps, and craps? It is demanding, but c'mon, it's not like we have to decide when to talk to him about sex. (Although last night we had the talk anyway, just in case.)
Here's proof that it's not hard: that kid who was raised by wolves. I mean, how hard can it be if a wolf can do it? It's not like driving a car or making a pizza, tasks which wolves find very difficult. (I worked with a wolf at a Domino's in high school; he only lasted about six hours before they canned his ass. Also he was eating all the pepperoni.)
But then I was thinking, how the hell does a wolf raise a child? Where do the wolves find Huggies? How do they afford the copay for the pediatrician? How do they breastfeed?! Do wolves even have breasts? I don't think they have breasts. Is there wolf pornography, and if so, why don't I have a subscription to that website?
I'm thinking of starting a wolf pornography empire. Howler will be the name of my first magazine, followed by Moon (specializing in wolf butt shots). Sheep in Wolves' Clothing will be kind of a transvestite/fetish title. Eventually I will change my name to Hairy Flynt, fall in love with one of my beautiful wolf models, and convince my wife to have an open marriage. The three of us will nestle together, snug in our cave, and I will rest secure in the knowledge that my child is being (at least partially) raised by wolves.
Tuesday, September 25, 2001
They warned us it would happen, but how do you prepare yourself for something like this?
We had some friends over last night, a young married couple, checking out the new baby. The two gals went to change the baby while the guys sat in the living room and talked about how glad we were that men can't breastfeed.
Jade took off the baby's diaper, whereupon he let loose with a mighty stream of urine which shot wildly back and forth like a loose firehose, soaking the changing table, the floor, the ceiling, and my wife. She came into the living room, pee dripping from her face, her shirt cut all the way across with a dark band of wetness, and calmly announced, "I've been christened."
At least he didn't wee on our guest. In the midst of the whiz-storm, she remained completely untouched, like when the kid shot at Samuel Jackson and John Travolta in Pulp Fiction.
It's good to see the baby has manners.
Monday, September 24, 2001
There's that cliche, you know, of new parents cooing in delight over every pee and poo issued forth from their infant. "Did baby go poo-poo? Yes, he did! Budda budda poo-poo!
Wibdee boobda doo-doo!" But they encourage this at the hospital. You have to log (no pun intended) each bodily function from the time the baby is born, so you feel some celebration is in order. Then again, I still celebrate my
own poo, so that's nothing new to me. (Last night I baked myself a cake.)
One nurse was explaining to us what baby poo would look like. "First it will start out a dark black," she said, "with no smell whatsoever. Then it will look like creamed spinach, and it will start to stink. Then it will turn yellow and grainy, like dijon mustard."
"That must be how Grey Poo-pon got its name," I said.
The nurse stared at me.
"You know, could you pass the Grey Poop-on," I repeated. "Get it? Pass?"
Silence from both the nurse and my wife.
"Passing is a euphemism for having a bowel movement," I explained, losing steam. "We were talking about bowel movements ... and, uh, I thought it was a clever pun."
Now even the baby had grown silent.
"Poo is funny?" I weakly asked.
I guess it's not that funny at the hospital. Maybe I should've called it the hos-poo-tal.
