What about floss?

There are a few things my wife is not allowed to buy. Number one on the list is toothpaste. (Computer software and kites are in the top five.) Our household's "tube per capita" is now four. I don't know how this happened.

I'm starting to think that the kids just don't like to brush their teeth and it has nothing to do with the brand or flavor of the toothpaste. Every problem has a solution -- and like a good all-American mother, my wife knows that the solution is in a store somewhere. Yes, you may be tempted to think that my family has the cleanest teeth in town. Don't. If the solution really is in a store, it's in some other store that my wife never goes to.

With so many different choices there must be one that the kids like. I think there's a couple that they can tolerate. "Blueberry bubblegum blast" was not one of them. So, following the precedent set by so many vegetables in this house, it falls to me to dispose of the blue stuff. It grows on you. The real satisfaction comes from stopping my money from going straight to the trash can. The pictures on the tube are OK, too.

Some days I take a break and use an adult toothpaste. I mean, I've got a giant toothpaste buffet in my bathroom! Would be a waste to not try some different stuff.

Like any all-American dad, I'm cheap. Sorry. It's one of my major life goals to get my money's worth and finish all of this toothpaste. But, I use such small toothpaste blobs. It takes me a long time to finish a tube! And, it's not like the kids are any help. ... With so many tubes, though, how can I ever be sure that she didn't slip a new one in there some where?

 

Not so merry ...

Was this really necessary?

Ah, it's that time of year. Snowy mornings, hot cider, candy canes, Christmas carols. And, small, terrified children. All year long we want them to stay away from strangers. Then all of the sudden we throw them into a stranger's lap and try to take pictures.

I have three children and at least a dozen "with Santa" pictures of them. Every single one of them contains at least one small child of mine who is usually screaming, but at the very least horrified. ... Mortified even. I'm thinking particularly of one year when my daughter (eldest child, and only at that time) went to see Santa. She didn't cry, but she was so obviously, incredibly uncomfortable. Like she wasn't sure yet if we were leaving her with the obese, red-suited freak or not.

But, there's a happy ending. They all got over it.

What is "burbatory"?

You've probably heard of suburban hell. Well, I'm convinced that, unlike hell, it doesn't last forever. It's not hell, it's suburban purgatory, which I have named "burbatory." If you live in burbatory like me, the most important thing to remember is this: you deserve everything you're getting.

But, there's a silver lining. To people outside of burbatory, our pathetic lives are hilarious. That's the purpose of this page: to document my misery for the entertainment of others.