Happy Holidays, y’all! (Yes, I just said “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas.” This does not mean I am waging a war against your religion. Stop being an idiot.)

By Daddy Scratches | Published: December 23, 2011

Caught cackling like a loon because the photographer shook the little jingle toy that he uses for capturing the attention of babies and toddlers ...
and slow-witted, 41-year-old bloggers.

The annual Scratches Family Christmas* card. Brought to you by … Photoshop.
Thank you, Photoshop, for your heavenly glow, which allows me to spare the world from the increasingly severe and frightful lines in my face.

I figure I’m about a year or two away from this:

Barely noticeable touch-up.

Have I told you the story behind our Santa-photo tradition? [I just went back and checked, and it turns out that, yes, I have told you the story behind our Santa-photo tradition. Lucky you! You get to hear it again!] Well, you see, when Zan was six months old, he sat on Santa’s lap without hesitation. But when Zan was one-and-a-half years old, he said “Fuck that noise.” Which, really, I can’t blame him. In fact, I’m kind of glad his instincts told him not to sit on some strange old man’s lap.

He was, however, willing to sit with Santa if Mommy and Daddy joined him … so we took a family photo with Santa … and thus was born the annual Scratches Family Christmas*-card photo. (I have informed the children that they will be required to do this every year until they move out on their own. It’s a major pain in the ass to get our photo taken with the mall Santa each holiday* season, and it’s kind of odd that there’s a stranger in our Christmas*-card photo every year, but now that we’ve done it so many times, my obsessive-compulsive nature compels me to not break with tradition.)

At any rate … I hope you all have a wonderful whatever-it-is you do or don’t celebrate. Thanks for all the love this year. You rock. Really. I mean it.

Love,
Me

*See? One minute, I’m all “Happy Holidays!” and the next, I’m all “Merry Christmas!” You know why? Because I DON’T CARE. Also? Sometimes, it occurs to me that I don’t necessarily know the religion of the person to whom I’m wishing good tidings … in which case, I may think to myself, “Well, I can’t go wrong with a kindly ‘Happy Holidays,’ now, can I?” But apparently I can go wrong with a kindly “Happy Holidays” … as evidenced by those occasions when, after saying just that, the person to whom I’ve said it responds with a highly aggressive “Merry Christmas!” And I don’t mean, like, a mirth-filled, joyful, celebrate-the-birth-of-baby-Jesus “Merry Christmas!” No, more like a defiant, Fox News-fueled, I-fucking-dare-you-to-try-and-subjugate-my-belief-in-the-One-True-God “Merry Christmas!” … which, if you ask me, really kind of kills the Christmas spirit … or holiday spirit … or whatever. Anyway … Happy Festivus, y’all!)

Posted in Family | 16 Comments

A note to my children from The Elf on the Shelf

By Daddy Scratches | Published: December 20, 2011

Don't judge me, you bastards. I defy ANY of you to do this job and NOT drink.

Dear Zan & Jayna,

I’ve tried to be nice, children. For days now, I’ve sat quietly on the shelf, or hung from the Christmas tree, or peered down upon you from atop the mantle or the cabinets or the china cupboard or whatever other wacky locale your father I could find. And I’ve tried.

I’ve tried, by virtue of my silent presence, to gently coax you into compliance with your parents’ wishes. And they I had hoped that my mere presence alone would be enough to keep you in line … but after the display the two of you put on this morning, it has become clear to me that my pixie-ish grin and my kind, blue eyes aren’t getting the message across … so here’s how it’s gonna be:

You two are going to get with the program right now, because if you don’t, there’s going to be nothing but a fuckload of coal up in this bitch next Sunday, you dig? And, no, this isn’t the booze talking. Don’t let the red pajamas and goofy look plastered on my face fool you, OK? Because I will cut a bitch.

Boy Child: Enough! Enough with the whining and the crying and the moody outbursts and the falling apart about every little thing your sister does. Stop being such a pussy. You think you’ve got it bad? How do you think I feel, huh? I’ve gotta live with you lunatics, sit stock still all day long, then spend every night flying back and forth to the North Pole so I can report your behavior to Santa! I mean, SERIOUSLY? All the technology that fat fuck delivers every Christmas, and he can’t figure out how to text? I’ve gotta fly the message to him? Asshole.

Girl Child: Same goes for you! STOP. IT. You’re cute, but you also are a spectacular ball-buster. Stop provoking your brother, because if you don’t, and he decides to smack you down, I will turn a blind eye. The jolly fat man won’t hear a word of it from me. What he will hear about, however, is your constant “No!”-ing and back-talking and grunting and screaming and crying every time your parents ask you to do something. That shit’s over.

Repeat after me, children: “OK, Mommy. OK, Daddy.”

Good. Now stick to that script and you might actually have a shot at seeing the crap-ton of ridiculously expensive shit your parents put themselves in hock for gifts Santa is planning to give you this year.

Love,

Dusty

Posted in Jayna, Parenthood, Zan | 22 Comments

When you buy a $300,000 car, do you take out an auto loan … or a mortgage? (Actually, I’m guessing you pay for it with a bag of unmarked bills.)

By Daddy Scratches | Published: December 14, 2011
When you buy a $300,000 car, do you take out an auto loan ... or a mortgage? (Actually, I'm guessing you pay for it with a bag of unmarked bills.)
Click the image above to view full-size photo.

So here’s that Lamborghini I was telling you about. It was parked outside the Rittenhouse Hotel in Philadelphia, widely considered the nicest hotel in the city. Wonder Woman and I… [read the rest]

Posted in Featured Photo | 12 Comments

Proof that Pixar should have hired me to draw Lightning McQueen

By Daddy Scratches | Published: December 12, 2011

This is me standing next to the Lamborghini that I happened upon while in Philadelphia this past weekend. As you can see, I had my camera with me … which was fortuitous, as it allowed me to capture a fabulous photograph of this kick-ass automobile. And I had fully intended to show you that photograph. However, despite going out of my way last night to make sure that I would be able to access from my work computer today the photograph in question, the Internet has chosen to instead flip me the digital bird.

(I’m flipping the Internet the digital bird right back.)

(The Internet doesn’t care.)

(I’m doing it anyway.)

Now, you might be saying to yourself, “Jon, why on earth would you take a picture of someone else’s car?” And I get that … because, normally, I wouldn’t do any such thing. Unless, of course, the car was a Lamborghini, an earlier version of which I fell in love with at the tender age of 11 (thank you, “Cannonball Run“), and every version of which I’ve coveted madly ever since. And given the automobile’s roughly $300,000 price tag, I can say with great certainty that I wish I had instead fallen deeply in love with something more in my price range … like, you know, a roller skate.

So, let’s review: Not only can I not get my hands on an actual Lamborghini of my own … I can’t even get my hands on the picture I took of someone else’s Lamborghini.

This about sums up how my Monday is going.

Sigh.

Posted in Life | 13 Comments

Note to self: Chill the fuck out.

By Daddy Scratches | Published: December 5, 2011

I know it will shock you to hear this, so brace yourself: The intensity of my neuroses and anxiety and heightened state of worryfulness (<-new word; you’re welcome, English) is greatly amplified when it comes to matters involving my children. If I could, I would dress them in elaborate suits made of cotton balls and pillows and bubble wrap and not allow them to interact with other human beings unless I’ve first conducted extensive background checks on said human beings, and even then only after I have received from said human beings binding legal documents requiring said human beings to discuss with my children only those subjects that I have deemed appropriate, and to express to my children about those subjects nothing other than opinions that mirror my own.

Am I being unreasonable?

My worryfulness (<-see how nicely it rolls off the tongue?) extends to certain aspects of my son’s behavior and personality … things like his inability at times to remain focused, or to stay on task, or to be aware of his surroundings, or to control his temper, or to remain even-keeled instead of suffering from sudden and wild mood swings.

In other words, I worry about the fact that he is a miniature version of me.

In my defense, my less-neurotic, less-anxious and less-worryful wife sometimes shares my concerns.

To wit:

The picture above was taken during a recent visit to our children’s school, during which we were able to join them for lunch in the cafeteria. Not shown is the trash barrel located directly to our left.

When Zan finished eating, he placed his trash on his tray, stood, turned to his right and began walking in the opposite direction.

“Zan,” I said, planning to point out the nearby trash barrel. He didn’t hear me.

“Zan,” his mother said. He didn’t hear her.

Instead, he walked to the far side of the cafeteria, where we momentarily lost sight of him amidst a crowd of children who also were disposing of their trash.

My wife and I looked at each other.

“I worry about that kid,” I said to her.

“I know,” she said. “Me too.”

A moment later he returned and sat back down.

“Zan, there’s a trash barrel right here,” I said.

“I know,” he answered.

“So why did you walk all the way over there, buddy?”

“Because I wanted to put my bottle in the recycling bin.”

Please allow me to refer you to the title of this post. Thank you. Good night.

Posted in Parenthood, Zan | 19 Comments

Zombie Dinner Party … with your chef, Dr. Hannibal Lector

By Daddy Scratches | Published: November 16, 2011

Before dinner

After dinner

“Ugh. Brains,” I whispered to Wonder Woman after the chef announced that the third course would include sweetbreads.

“What?”

“Sweetbreads,” I whispered, “are brains.”

“Oh,” she said, sounding rather amused, though far from relieved. “I thought they were balls.”

Hey, they might as well have been balls, because guess what brains and balls both have in common? Neither one goes in my fucking mouth.

Equally as appetizing as balls

Listen, when my mother-in-law sprung for us to attend an expensive benefit dinner at a luxury apartment in the ritziest section of Philadelphia for a meal prepared by the chef of a well-known Italian restaurant, I knew it was unlikely that he’d be serving something as lowbrow as my beloved chicken parmesan, OK? But brains?

And not just any brains, mind you: Veal brains. Yes, that’s right: Brains from cute little baby cows:

Cute little baby cows, whose brains the chef wanted us to eat

Oh, thank you, cute little baby cows, for reminding me about the cringe-worthy first course, featuring:

Tongue is not a food, motherfucker

Please note that there is only one person on this earth to whom I utter the phrase “Give me some tongue,” and that person has neither a penis nor a culinary degree. So if you’re gonna start my supposedly “Italian” dinner off with tongue, the least you could do is disguise it amidst a tangy red sauce and some delicious pasta, am I right? Of course I’m right … which is why I was disappointed when the tongue instead was topped with this:

Now THAT'S Italian!

Ah, yes, that beloved Italian classic: Fried eggs and tongue. (PS: Does anyone have a phone number for the closest pizza joint?)

Thankfully, the second course featured pasta. Ravioli, in fact. Hallelujah. At last, a dish I can really — hey, wait a minute … What the fuck is in my ravioli?

Seriously? What’s for dessert, asshole? Pan-seared unicorn with baby-harp-seal sauce?

Mercifully, dessert turned out to be a plain-old flourless chocolate cake. I think. Probably, he pureed his mother and folded her into the mix … but at least he had the common decency to not tell us about it.

If nothing else, the wine was good. And the company. And the luxury apartment. Next time, though? I’m bringing some chicken parm.

Posted in Life | 27 Comments