Bandit Kerry and Blanco

 

 

One of the things we love about Sayulita is the preponderance of friendly stray dogs roaming the streets. They are all fat and happy, filled with dropped tacos and spilled margaritas. 

 

One such gang of dogs lived right down the street from our rental house. Luca and I would pass by them on our way to hit parked cars in the golf cart or pick up winded Europeans on their way up the hill.

 

We called them Bandit, Kerry and Blanco. Kerry being the only official name, as found on his collar. They would chase us in the cart or bark friendly warning and occasionally cause us to swerve because they were sunbathing in the middle of the street. 

 

One day we missed them on our way down the hill to see my other favorite attraction: Miracle, the Buzzing Horse.

 

Miracle was a horse who lived near the Playa Los Muertos with his brother, old No Name. What made Miracle live up to his name was his hilarious ability to entertain himself by buzzing his giant horse tongue.

 

All day long Miracle blows raspberries at passersby. Buzz buzz buzz. This particular afternoon, Miracle and I spent a good ten minutes buzzing at each other, much to Luca’s embarrassment and my delight.  

 

We made our way back to the rental house and I waded back into my John Irving book in bed. Suddenly, I was surrounded by animals. Namely, Bandit, Kerry and Blanco. They had made their way into the house and determined our bed was much more comfortable than the hard street.

 

Although they were all adorable, I decided it wasn’t a great idea to have three strays lay their genitals on Diana’s pillow. So I carried they out one by one. 

 

However, it takes a lot of brains to survive on the mean streets of Sayulita. They figured out how to push open our front door and I spent the next half hour juggling three hilarious but naughty mutts.

 

I came very close to moving the family out and letting the dogs take over, but I worried we’d lose our deposit.

 

The dogs eventually tired of the game and moved on. I like to think they went to see Miracle to discuss what a great guy I am. 

New Years Eve 2023

 Another glorious Sayulita New Year in the books. 

 

I know I have been simply awful at keeping HamannEggs updated. I promise to be slightly better next year. I’ll run through my iphone photos to give you a quick 2023 highlight:

 

Diana went to Phish in Mexico, and was the only in attendance not on drugs.

 

We went to Spain and Portugal and I stopped being a vegetarian immediately after trying a piece of Spanish ham.

 

Eli ruled his E-sports league. We spent all his college money in anticipation that he’ll get a full ride in Fortnight.

 

Luca dominated soccer, baseball, badminton, jai-alai, ostrich racing and toe wrestling.

 

Jerry humped 400 people, just short of his 2023 goals.

 

And now, it’s time for my yearly weepy messages.

 

Diana,

 

I love you, you amazing, wonderful, hilarious hot mom. You’ve managed to get cuter, funnier and more successful this year. You are an inspiration and I so proud of you. I can’t wait to chase you around the earth and give you kisses before you go to bed by 8:30pm.

 

Elijah,

 

I love you, you hilarious, shaving, deep voiced man. You seem to have life figured out before the age of 17. I relish every chance to watch movies after midnight and sneak away for an occasional father son French dinner. I can’t wait to see all the marvelous dings you’ll put in my car in 2024.

 

Luca,

 

I love you, my kindred spirit. You have such a love of life and its many competitions. You are so silly and hilarious and despite your efforts to conceal it, you are the kindest person on the planet. I can’t wait to watch football with you and forcibly hug you against your will.

 

Jerry,

 

I love you but please give the humping a rest.

Sayulita Roads

  

We made it through the mad dash of Wine Goddess crowds, seas of Amazon boxes and a particularly drunken Santa visit on Christmas Eve and made it to our yearly trip to Mexico.

 

After over a decade of trips, we acutely feel the old, beautiful town fight against the march of progress. 

 

Every year we stay at a different place, each more charming than the last. It takes me a few days to adjust to screenless windows and the remote chance a lizard will crawl into my shoe, but in no time, I become a native. Well, as much of a native as a blindingly white man in Birkenstock sandals can be.

 

One of the great delights I have is renting and piloting a golf cart around town. It’s the only way to descend the rutted and washed out dirt roads that lead to most rental houses. These decrepit and squeaky machines hold barely enough charge to accelerate to 5mph, which I think it by design. It keeps the streets safe from the army of Dads four tequila shots in.

 

My favorite part is giving Luca his yearly hand at the wheel. This morning, our neighbor Chris (the Murphy-Greens are now part of the tradition) and I took Luca out to the outskirts of town and I slid over. 

 

Luca approaches golf cart driving with equal parts exhilaration and terror. He shrieks when he hits the gas. He shrieks when he gets too close to an oncoming car. He shrieks when street dogs approach. I can’t tell if he loves it or hates it. I assume both.

 

Chris and I act like drunken teenagers in a stolen Mustang. “Faster! Faster! 20 points for hitting a cat!” We cackle and slap Luca on the back when he makes a mistake. 

 

Eventually, the stress gets to be too much and Luca will hand the reins back over to me. And I’ll set my sights on my second favorite part of the golf cart: Picking up European hitchhikers.

A Very Seinfeld Bears Game

 

Luca timed it perfectly. Right after our second (third) glass of wine.

 

“We should go to a Bears game.”

 

Before Diana and I could slur a “yes” the tickets were purchased. An epic showdown between The Monsters of the Midway and, well, I forgot.

 

Seemed simple enough. Meet at game. Enjoy game. Go home. And thus began a cavalcade of Seinfeld-esc proportions.

 

First up? We could not find each other. With the full might of Apple and Verizon at our disposal, we circled Soldier Field like prize fighters. “I’m under a sign that says ‘Bears!’”

 

Eventually, we made it to security. Sorry ma’am, your purse is too big to enter the stadium. Purse too big? That’s a new one. Diana handled it pretty well, with just a eensy bit of Karen-nig as we were directed across the museum campus to The Field Museum, who were much better equipped to handle the juggernaut handbag Diana was smuggling Toyotas in.

 

At this point, I went into full Rick-Mode. “Guys. This is PART OF THE EXPERIIENCE. This is fun. We’re EXPERIENCING the game. All these hiccups? It’s the EXPERIENCE.” No one wanted to walk by me.

 

Whoop! We made it into the stadium. Luca, who is a Hamann through and through, bought the cheapest tickets in the building. Which meant walking up. Up. Up. Up. Twisting and turning past the rich people and the slightly less rich people. 

 

At one point we ran into a wall. The sections went 305, 307, 309…and then, bam. A wall. We asked an usher how to get to our seats and they explained the easiest way was to hire a helicopter to transport us to the other side of the stadium. 

 

We finally made it to our seats just in time to watch The Veteran’s Day performance of “Proud Mary.” It was…patriotic? Question Mark?

 

The good news? The Bears won! We had some delicious hot dogs and pretzels and I had a Blue Moon beer to remind me I don’t like Blue Moon beer. 

 

In fact, we had such a great time we decided it was so much fun that we never had to go back to a Bears game ever again.

 

p.s. I don’t have any pictures from the night, so here is Jerry looking like an idiot.

THE HAIR

 The threats had been coming for months. 

 

“I’m going to cut my hair.”

 

Haha right. Elijah Steven Hamann would never cut his hair. It’s his identity. It’s his superpower. The most repeated comment I get on Eli-related Instagram posts is “Hair Goals.”

 

Whenever Eli had trouble in school, or struck out at baseball or had a cold, we’d smile and say, “At least he still has his hair.”

 

But the threats continued. Maybe it was puberty or a need to have an identity not attached to his mane. Or maybe he has a significant other? I don’t know your guess is as good as mine. The kid spends all his time locked in his room, which is exactly what a 16 year old should be doing.

 

Then, one fateful night, the door swung open and in walked a short hair-ed Eli. He did it. 

 

Diana threw herself on the ground like a grieving 80 year old Italian woman. Why? Why?????? Why you take my baby’s hair? My poor baby’s hair. It’s a-gone.

 

The only problem? It kind of looks great. You know that show “The Bear?” About the Chicago beef stand? The show that prompted women all over the world to say “yes chef” in bed? Yeah, he looks like that.

 

He has impenetrable handsomeness.

 

Our plan now is to tell him how good he looks with short hair in the hopes our old friend Reverse Psychology will kick in. 

 

And also turn our attention to getting Luca to cut his fingernails. 

Coffee Boy

 I was 14 when I got my first job. There was some loop hole in the Child Labor Laws that allowed me and my brother to get dumped into a 100 degree corn field for 8 hours a day. It was miserable, filled with scary corn spiders and even scarier day laborers.

 

Steve and I hated it so much we would concoct plans to injure ourselves, all of which would require us to have major surgery if they succeeded. My brother stabbed me in the back by acquiring a massive pollen allergy.

 

But I did get comic book spending money.

 

Cut to 75 years later. Elijah decided he wanted to get a summer job. After not being called back for several (Seriously, Trader Joe?) his pal Henry got him a gig at a local coffee shop.

 

Possibly the greatest job a sixteen year old could have. A bunch of high school and college aged kids floating in hormones and caffeine. There’s a mean, creepy boss. A dumb beautiful girl, countless customers just begging to get their vanilla latte spit into.

 

The only thing that could ruin it is your idiot father coming in.

 

Which is my great pleasure. I like to swoop in like Donald Trump at a Mar-a-lago wedding reception. All finger guns and smiles. Sometimes I’ll tap the shoulder of the person ahead of me and loudly proclaim, “That’s MY SON taking your order. Isn’t he handsome?”

 

I then turn my attention to the staff. “Hey. Eli’s dad here. I’m Eli’s dad. I believe there will be a family discount coming my way.” I’ll throw in a fist bump or two.

 

Eli’s friend Henry dives right in, because he knows it makes Eli crazy. “Mr. Rick! Eli’s being real grouchy today.”

 

And suddenly, he is very grouchy indeed. Oh the pleasure of seeing your son shoot you daggers with his eyes. His seething hatred feeds me.

Sometimes he’ll run around the counter and shove my coffee into my hands to get me out of there. Big mistake. This only allows me to grab him in a great big hug and proclaim, “I LOVE MY COFFEE BOY!”

 

I do love my coffee boy.

Conservative Meal

 I looked at all the Mid-Life Crisis choices and decided on cycling. I’m not financially secure enough to buy a sports car. An affair feels like a lot of work. Plus I love Diana. I have too much access to wine to start getting into bourbon.

 

So, I decided to become one of those paunchy guys in Lycra you see on the ride of the road. I bought a semi expensive thing with two wheels and am already scouting out my N+1 bike.

 

My hobby requires me to spend hours crisscrossing the suburban trails to justify my purchases. Sometimes with other Mid-Life Crisis sufferers.

 

A few weeks ago I was on one such ride with a pal. We were maintaining a lovely glacial pace when I looked down and realized my phone was missing. It had obviously been thrown while I was getting rad on a small rise in the dirt.

 

After a halfhearted search, I decided it was gone forever and rode to the nearest Verizon. The very nice lady told me I would have to not only pay off my lost phone, but the new phone would also cost four billion dollars. I paused on the transaction and rode home to gameplan how to ride the purchase from the family. I’d gotten pretty good at hiding Lycra purchases, but this one would require a little more effort.

 

I was met at the door by Luca, who said, “Dad I found your phone and contacted the lady who has it and all we have to do is go to Des Plaines.” I stared at him like a Neanderthal who saw his first Bic lighter. 

 

Luca came with me because the lady who found it was a little nervous about being murdered by strangers. I figured an unwashed, disheveled teen would alleviate any fear.

 

The handoff went without a hitch. We didn’t murder her. She had found my phone while on horseback, so we got to meet her nice horse who did that thing where it kind of bit me put in a nice way.

 

On the way home, I told Luca he could have anything he wanted for dinner. Whatever gross fried thing he wanted was his reward.

 

He got a little look on his face and said, “What if we got Chik-Fil-A?”

 

Ooh. Tough one. As liberal cry babies, we are required to hate Chik-Fil-A. Because of the…things they do. You know. Their stuff that goes against our…um…beliefs? I don’t know. All I know is Diana won’t let us go there. Luca and Elijah have never set foot in a Chik. 

 

“Hmm. Ok. Let’s keep this between us, shall we?” Luca nodded in solemn agreement. This would be a secret we would take to the grave, or publish in a blog no one reads. 

 

Luckily, Des Plaines is overrun with fast food joints and we found a Chik almost immediately. Luca got the basics: a sandwich, a fry and a shake. I got nothing because of my Lutheran guilt. Plus, I look really paunchy in Lycra. 

 

I let my distaste of their politics be known through my courteous and polite attitude. Take that, Chik.

 

Luca devoured his meal and did not burst into flames or get pulled over by Nancy Pelosi. 

 

When we got home, we buried the wrappers in the bottom of our garbage bin. Diana was none the wiser.

 

Hi Diana!

THE BEATING

 

I took a little break from writing the blog. Partly because there seemed to be a lack of poop and pee stories with Luca and Elijah. Plus the subject of teenage bathroom activity is…dis…gust…ing. 

More importantly, the boys have a social life. They’ve taken a little heat from their pals about the blog archive and I feel like there are enough things to be embarrassed by as a 13-year-old without your dad adding to the pain.

But then, in an amazing turn of events, but boys came to me asking to re-boot. They missed reading about themselves. 

So we're back, baby!

When I was a kid, my dad used to whump us in ping pong, Or “Table Tennis” if you are a rich kid. I would occasionally burst into tears at a loss. Dad would sigh and say, “You don’t want me to lose on purpose, do you?” I genuinely did. But he never threw a game. 

Beating your small children in sports is the only way to feel like a real man.

Last Saturday,Diana was in Michigan to soak up the lingering rays of sun. That left Eli, Luca and I to hide in our corners of the house and peer into the flickering light of our personal devices. 

Whataminute. I only have two years left with both boys together. What if we actually hung out? Actually did something together?

I suggested we have a Nintendo sports tournament. Surprisingly they agreed. It may have been the sad puppy dog look on my face. Plus bribes.

After a dinner of beer and burgers we grabbed our little controller things and engaged in a battle of digital tennis and bowling and badminton.

I have no idea what happened since the last time I played Nintnedo, but I got SMOKED. Like, not even funny. Simply destroyed. There was a time when I could hang with them, even beat them. In fact, I boasted to Grandma Connie earlier in the day that I would be the victor. 

At times, I felt like I was trying to punch a giant, arms swinging wildly while they gently held me at arm’s length. I think they were suppressing yawns.

I ended up sitting on the couch, pouting and drinking an expensive bottle of wine Diana was saving for a special occasion. 

But then I realized the boys were laughing and cheering and having a blast. It was a special occasion deserving of an expensive bottle. It was one of our last, wonderful, hilarious times we’d have before everyone leaves for college.

Worthy of a reboot of the blog.

NYE 2022

I’m sitting in yet another unbelievably beautiful Mexico house in New Year’s Eve. The weather is perfect. My mental state is the best it’s been in years and I owe it all to the screaming children and wife who are just downstairs. 

There hasn’t been a lot of HamannEggs posts this year. Partly because, as Diana puts it, “The kids don’t poop on things as much.” Partly because I’m lazy. Partly because I’m trying to respect teenager privacy. Rest assured a lot of hilarious things happened and things still got pooped on. By me.

We lost our beloved Tutu this year, which broke our hearts harder than we would’ve imagined. We joined football teams and video game teams and cooked and watched R-Rated movies and loved each other like people who barely made it out of a global pandemic.

As is tradition, I like to write a little note to each of the HamannEggs fam. So here goes.

Elijah, you beautiful almost-man. Every year I get older I realize just how lucky I am that Diana and my DNA mixed in such a way to make the kindest, funniest, smartest kid ever. You are crushing it in high school. Your friends love you. Your teachers love you. Every person you meet loves you. I know we only have a couple years left with you under our roof and I will cherish every second. I love you buddy.

Luca, you crazy, goofy sweetheart. Watching you with your posse makes my heart sing. I love how you value friendship more than anything, I love your passion and zeal for anything involving a ball. I love your clicks and singing and independence. I love how you refuse to wear shoes in the dead of winter. I love how you try so hard at everything. I love how every mom tells us you are their favorite. I love you buddy.

Diana, you unbelievable beauty. You are the most amazing person on this earth. Your store is an Evanston icon. The town practically revolves around your sense of humor, your sense of style, your sense of right and wrong. You make me feel safe. You talk me off every ledge. You put the world in perspective, even when it’s careening out of control. You are the love of my life. I love you, honey.

Jerry, I love you. You big dummy.

Happy New Year, folks!

THIRTEEN

Luca turned thirteen last month (I know I know, get in line if you want to complain about lack of postings). It was his first disappointing birthday. You know, you get everything you asked for and think, “Is this it?” Not in a spoiled brat way, but I think in a “I can see the next 60 or 70 of these stretching out before me” way. 

It was slightly depressing. 

Luckily, we called in the giant blob of arms and legs and B.O. that make up Luca’s friends.  The birthday activity included bowling and a sleep over. I’m still not sure how many showed up. Ten? Fifty?

 

Bowling was appropriately hilarious. Some bros were mad at other bros and one bro ate off a private party’s table and another bro (possibly the same one) was suspiciously polite, and one bro bowled a miraculous strike despite a shoulder injury.

Diana and Elijah attempted to escape the sleep over portion, feigning nervousness over Jerry and the boys. But when it was revealed they weren’t actually taking Jerry anywhere, and were just planning a stay at a luxury hotel, I put my foot down. 

A huge pile of pizza arrived and we hit a manageable level of pandemonium. Most of the bros screamed at the X-box in the basement, while a few meandered around peeking into our jewelry boxes. 

Diana and I opted to order something less unhealthy than pizza for dinner. I think we chose burgers. While we waited I thought, “No one would notice if I took one small corner of a pizza.” 

I grabbed a steak knife and sliced of a little bite. As I was concealing my crime, Luca’s friend rounded the corner at top speed and into the knife. I watched it enter his hand at the knuckle. 

We locked eyes. 

We had a silent, mental conversation.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“So, I just stabbed you.”

“Yes, I am aware of it. You see, blood is now coming out of my hand.”

“Do you think this is a hospital type situation? Stitches and such?”

“I don’t think so. But I will make you pay dearly for this over the next three to four years.”

“Like how?”

“Minimum? I get to spend the night every time I want.”

“Understood.”

“And I will take four donuts tomorrow at breakfast.”

“Deal. One more thing. Can you keep this between you and I?”

“Okay.”

The friend (after I put on a bandage) returned to the basement. I was glad his dad was the doctor dad and not the injury lawyer dad. 

I poured myself the biggest glass of wine in the world and heard Luca bellow from the basement,”"DAD???? DID YOU STAB MY FRIEND???”

Yes. Yes I did.

Baby’s First Motor Vehicle Accident

Elijah and I went into the belly of the DMV beast a few weeks ago to get his learner’s permit. It was almost as fun as that time Diana made us go to Ellis Island in New York. With slightly less standing in line.

We are now responsible for 50 hours of driving together. Or is it 90 hours? Regardless, we are holding steady at .25 hours.

We’re not racking up the hours because our first supervised drive…did not go well.

But let’s rewind. We picked a giant parking lot in Michigan for our inaugural drive. It has everything. Wide open pavement. A little spot to practice parking. Best of all? No one around to ask us what we were doing there.

Luca joined to add a little spice and irritation. I even gave Luca a turn at the wheel. He executed a 360 spin into jumping over 7 school busses flawlessly.

After 20 minutes or so, Eli asked, “What’s next?”

I suggested we drive down one of Michigan’s sleepiest roads. Eli handled himself flawlessly, although I did mention driving 5MPH in a 30MPH zone was technically illegal. 

I noticed our sleepy road butted up against a real road with real cars filled with Michigan Militiamen. I suggested we pull into a driveway and turn around. Eli turned into nice little house and backed out.

Thud.

THUD! We hit something. Luca and I handled it like total pros. Meaning we screamed into Eli’s face and I jumped out of the car before he braked.

Pleasedon’tbeadogpleasedon’tbeadog.

Turned out that Eli drilled a mailbox. It sent across the poor owner’s lawn. 

Huh. What to do what to do? I will admit a big part of my brain was shouting, “LEAVE. RUN AWAY. GOOOOO.”

Was that the lesson I wanted to teach? If you get into a fender bender with postal gear, run away? Maybe. It technically falls into the “Do as I say, not as I do” category. Which is still a lesson.

Luca, sensing my evil thoughts, tried to stand the mailbox back up in its ruined hole. It fell over comically. 

I opted for honesty. Stupid honesty.

Eli was still vibrating in the front seat. I told him I would take the blame and wrote a note to the homeowner. “Hi. My name is Rick Hamann and I ran over your mailbox. Nothing would make me happier than jumping into a prolonged legal battle over your property. I look forward to learning that your mailbox cost $4,000.”

I stuck the note into the homeowner’s door and offered to drive the rest of the way home. Eli was still catatonic, so I just slid him over to the passenger seat.

A few days later I received this text:

“Hello Rick. My name is Darrel. You ran over my mailbox and left a note offering to pay for damages. I’m glad you left a contact number for me, that was very straight of you. And for that, don’t worry about the mailbox. I was going to move it anyway.”

Eli and I learned that honesty is the best policy. We also learned where the good driving schools are in Evanston. 

Twelve Hours of Videogames

 

At the beginning of the school year, we sat Elijah down and said, “You gotta do something. Gotta do something. A club. A sport. A play. Marching Band. Your father will give you a thousand dollars to do Marching Band, btw. But you can’t spend this entire semester playing videogames. Gotta do something.

Eli promptly went out and joined the high school videogame team. Checkmate. 

Before you ask, videogame teams are legit. There are real teams playing competitively across America. You can also get college scholarships. So, our mediocre parenting has paid off, baby! 

He had to try out and everything. The game he chose is “Overwatch.” One of those shoot ‘em ups, but with Robots and Genies and Gorillas. Less “Bang bang” and more “Pew pew.”

He made the J.V. team but quickly caught the eye of the team captains because he actually took an interest in participating. Eli held team meetings and had a team dinner and organized practices. 

But before the meetings and dinners and practices, Eli had to play twelve hours of Overwatch.

Due to some glitch, Eli didn’t qualify to play in high school tournaments. His…level…was…too…low…because…he…switched…yeah I’m bored too. Net net, he needed to sit at his computer until he reached some arbitrary number that allowed him to compete. 

Playing videogames competitively involves rabbit like reflexes and impossible hand eye coordination and screaming like a banshee. During the first 3 hours of his marathon, Eli would scream and pound his desk and shout, “Are you serious right now?” Which has become our family mantra. 

The rest of the family took this opportunity to visit the Greek restaurant where they light the cheese on fire and shout, “Opa!” I got a whole whitefish and gave Luca $5 to kiss the head on camera. 

We arrived home and Eli was still in his crucible. Or else we assumed he was with all the screaming from behind his bedroom door. I mean, he could have recorded himself screaming and pounding his desk and tricked us so he could sneak off to play videogames, but we knew this was important.

The next morning left for work (yeah, they make us work at office occasionally) and caught Eli in the hall.

“How bad?”

“Four a.m.”

But he made it. I’m proud of him. I’m glad he’s having fun and meeting new kids and competing and getting out of the house. Virtually, I guess. 

New York Pt1

Time is running out. 

We barely see either kid anymore. Eli is wither working or hanging in Chicago or trying to hack nuclear codes in our basement. Luca is constantly with his ball of arms and legs and baseball hats. The day that Diana and I officially become empty nesters is fast approaching. 

We’re on a constant hunt to find ways to force them to hang out with us. We can barely get them to sit with us long enough to shovel food down their throats before the night shift of friends begins.

So we decided to take a trip to New York. I have a soft spot for the city from my publishing days. Maybe I could get one of them to move to New York so I can come visit every weekend and continue my search for the most beautiful person and/or the craziest person on the planet.

By coincidence, it was the hottest week of the year. “It will just be like ‘Do The Right Thing!” I’d say, not remembering the second half of the movie. 

It stormed in Chicago the morning we left, and our flight was promptly cancelled. 

While people scrambled around O’Hare, Diana and I silently agreed not to freak out. If this was one of our last vacations together it was the kids who were going to ruin it, not us. Diana found us a flight on a competing airline and I asked not one, not two not three, but four different people if our luggage would arrive in New York.

“Oh yeah. Totally. We have our top people tracking down your luggage. Why I think I see your luggage right now. They’re black squares, right? Yeah. Those are going to meet you at the gate.”

We arrived in New York and spent a delightful hour trying to track down our luggage. The hilariously New York baggage dept laughed when we told them the tale of our helpful O’Hare crew. They waved their arms at the thousands of misplaced luggage littering the terminal.

Don’t freak out, we silently said to ourselves.

We promised everyone new wardrobes if the stuff didn’t arrive the next morning. We b-lined to our hotel (which was lovely) and decided to grab some provisions before dinner. I forced Eli to join me in visiting an authentic bodega.

“Look at this city, Eli! The energy. The people.  Ooh look. That person is beautiful. Ooh, a crazy person! Don’t you want to live here?”

“It smells.” 

I shoved him into the first shop I could find. Upon entry, I realized I should have done a little more research with my eyeballs. It was less “Bodega” and more “Place you go to take a B.M. after shooting up heroin.” The plywood shelves sagged with sadness. The patrons coughed on each other (and us). The owner was unrecognizable behind 14 inches of bullet proof glass.

I tried to make the best of it. “Huh. I bet you’ve never seen anyone that strung out before, huh Eli? No sir, I will not buy you a Coors.”

After buying the oldest toothpaste in the world we hightailed it out of there and met Luca and Diana for some real authentic touristy Italian food. The wine was delicious, the waiter was hilariously surly and the boys were in high spirits after we promised to buy their love with as many souvenirs as they could carry.

Our luggage arrived the next morning in perfect condition. Stay tuned for part 2.

Imposter Dog

 

We take Jerry to Doggie Daycare a couple times a week. It’s our way of avoiding taking him for walks. Plus, he turns into a real jerk if he doesn’t get 17 hours of exercise a day. The process is pretty easy. Drive to the place, call the number, worker person comes and gets Jerry, Jerry has fun. At the end of the day, the process goes in reverse.

Or it doesn’t.

Diana and Eli drove to daycare a few weeks ago and called the number. “We’re here for Jerry!”

A minute goes by. Another minute. Five minutes. Eventually, a worker person came out and popped their head through the window.

“It seems like we have a little problem.”

Go on…

“We think we gave Jerry to the wrong person.”

Interesting. It was difficult for Diana to calibrate her rage. The daycare dropped the ball on the most fundamental of jobs. MAKE SURE THE ANIMALS END UP WITH THE RIGHT PEOPLE. 

But Imposter Dog’s owner is not without sin. How do you drive away with the wrong dog? Yes, we live in an affluent north shore suburb. You are issued a Goldendoodle at the same time you are issued your hybrid car. They just let Jerry jump into their car and thought, “Close enough.”

Diana and Eli went home because where else where they going to go? To the Dog Detectives?

An hour or so later, the Vet called. Imposter Dog’s owner took Jerry to get vaccinated. The Vet had gone so far as to tell them, “Wow, Imposter Dog seems to have gained 20 pounds since your last visit.”  Imposter Dog’s owner just shrugged and said, “What a fatso.”

The Vet checked the little chip inside and discovered that this was not, in fact, Imposter Dog, but was Jerry Friggin Hamann. 

Diana rescued Jerry and Imposter Dog was reunited with his idiot owner. 

Then we went on a ride called The Apology Express. The daycare owner was so distraught in their mea culpa that they debated closing the business for good and moving to a deserted island with no dogs. Diana just said a million free days at daycare would suffice.

Imposter Dog’s owner also sent a lengthy apology via email. It turns out that Imposter Dog’s owner was an absentminded professor at the local college, which made perfect sense. 

In the days that followed, the daycare instituted a whole new set of rules regarding pick up and drop off. Two-step identifications. Little handwritten reminders of who was who. Not smoking weed every 15 minutes. We like to call them “Jerry’s rules.”

But within a week or so they stopped all the new protocols. Next time we pick up Jerry I hope we get a Dachshund.  

Bunnies!

Jerry absolutely loves the cabin. I feel like that's a given. It’s in a forest and he’s a dog. We often just let him run wild and go adventuring. He typically races off and returns a small while later covered in goop and smelling like dead things.

We worry a little bit about letting him loose, but we are pretty far from the road and at heart Jerry is a scaredy cat who really only adventures under our porch. Plus, he knows where the extremely expensive dog food is located.

We were hanging around our little game table which has a lovely view of our back yard. We were playing “5 Crowns,” which has the dual honor of being Diana’s favorite game and the one she is the worst at.

Suddenly, Luca started screaming. This is nothing new. Luca’s two main modes are scream and loud scream. He and Elijah raced outside and Eli joined in on the screaming.

I looked through the part of my trifocals designed for mid distance and saw Jerry toss something into the air. It was a baby bunny.

No no no no no no. Please don’t be a bunny killer. Please don’t be a bunny killer.

Diana and I raced outside and wrestled Jerry, who had another baby bunny in his mouth. The baby was screaming like, well, a baby bunny in a dog’s mouth. 

We released the bunny and it did it’s best to hide in plain sight. Maybe if I curl into a ball on his sidewalk, the giant monster won’t get me.

Upon inspection, the bunnies seemed, okay-ish. Traumatized, yes. But they weren’t bleeding or in half. Which was weird, because one of Jerry’s teeth was the size of a baby bunny.

I think he was just playing with them. “I’ve always wanted a bunny rabbit. I will name him George and I will hug him and pet him and squeeze him…”

We gently placed the trembling bunnies back in their little nest. Their version of hiding was to stick their heads into the bushes and stick their white tailed butts into the air.

These rabbits weren’t winning any Darwin awards.

 But we decided to make sure at least our dog wasn’t the one to kill them. We locked Jerry in the house for the night. Jerry barked and cried and whined and threw himself at the door. “But I want to go out with my rabbit friends, George. I want to hug them and pet them and squeeze them…”

The next morning, I raced out into the yard to see what was left of the bunnies. They were gone. I am 100% sure they had moved to the city to make it in organic farming. 

Coach Hamann

 

Luca exists in a blob of 4-10 boys. It’s an unstoppable mass of arms and legs and b.o. that crashes into homes, consuming all snacks in its path. The good news is all the boys in this blob are kind and hilarious and tolerate my special brand of stupid dad.

A few months ago the blob decided to join a flag football league. They really wanted to play full contact football with pads and helmets, but…Evanston. The blob doesn’t care what kind of football because the blob just needs to keep playing. Blob is play. Play is blob. 

The flag football games took place at the big inflated indoor fieldhouse across town. On the outside, it looks like a giant, quivering marshmallow. On the inside, the stench of 1,000 tweens hits you in the face like a bucket of socks.

On the morning of the first game, Luca and I arrived the Hamann-required 20 minutes early to meet the coach. Instead of a coach, there was just a pile of uniforms. As gametime neared, the pile didn’t magically turn into a coach. The blob didn’t seem to mind, but we dads felt it was necessary to have a coach. 

Luckily, an Alpha Dad stepped up. He is an E.R. doctor, so, you know, qualified. He coached the blob to a huge, lobsided victory. His technique was to stand on the sideline and do and say very little. The blob was so in sync that the just rolled over the other team. Blob is play. Play is blob. 

This went on for the next couple weeks until Alpha Dad had to go out of town. This left the blob coachless. The blob nominated me to coach. Not because of my apparent skills, but the blob thought it would be funny to see the unathletic, glasses nerd stand on the sidelines.

In the days leading up to the game, I asked Luca what I needed to do.

“Just say, ‘Good job,’ and stay out of the way.” I could do that.

However, 24 hours to gametime, I started to get pretty nervous. What if they needed actual coaching? What if they played a team who could stand up to the blob? What if they lost under my non-coaching? I came very close to having an old school panic attack, but my brain miraculously turned off that spigot.

The morning of the game, I asked Luca if I would try or if I should act like a hilarious goofball. He thought for a moment and said, “Um. Maybe in between?”

My addition to the coaching regime was stretching before the game and doing that thing where you put your hands in and go, “One two three roar!” Which I would say only 50% of the blob understood for its delightful irony.

The blob crushed the other team. Blob is play. Play is blob. I mostly stayed out of the way and said, “Good job.” But after seeing the sad faces of the other team I suggested maybe we lighten up a little bit? The blob laughed. The blob destroyed. 

I barely got to congratulate Luca on his play before the blob moved on to someone’s house to eat all their chips.