Monday, January 31, 2011

In Which It's Getting Closer

Dear Daughter-To-Be (a.k.a. Baby Badass),

I know this is said all the time, but I cannot believe how quickly time is passing by. In just eleven weeks, if all goes according to schedule, you'll be making your way into this world, kicking and screaming. I won't lie and tell you I'm not scared, because I am. I'm more scared than I thought I'd ever be. Don't take it the wrong way, though. Every guy who is about to become a father gets scared, I'm sure of that. Let me tell you why.

We get scared because we think we're not going to be a good father. We get scared because we're afraid we're not going to be able to support you and give you all that you need. We get scared because your mother will appear to know everything about you, and maybe our paternal instincts just aren't what we thought they were. We get scared because up until this point, generally speaking, we've  known what to do, and no matter how many books we read or classes we attend or advice we listen to, nothing can truly and adequately prepare us for parenthood.

All these things ring true for me. All of these and more. Yet in these moments where I wonder how I'm going to manage all of this and make it all work, I realize that patience and love make a good father. Perseverance and hard work may not give us all we want, but it will give us all we need. And about those shy paternal instincts... I'm pretty sure that when I hold you in my arms just moments after you've made your journey to meet your mother and I, those fatherly instincts will kick into overdrive, and all previous conceptions about preparedness will go out the window. Who cares what books I will have read or classes I will have been to? In the end, I think that will matter only slightly, because I'm going to do whatever it takes to make the best life for you that I can.

Out of all the uncertainties that may be floating about in my mind, I do know one thing for sure: Your wardrobe is going to be many times the size of mine. Your mother has been picking up things for you here and there since even before we knew you were coming, and she's got some pretty awesome stuff for you. I don't get too excited about clothing as a general rule, but the Patriots cheerleader outfit is pretty awesome. With all the baby showers to attend in the coming weeks, I'm sure you'll be the best dressed baby this town has ever seen. 

I say it again in amazement: eleven weeks, and getting closer every day. Stay healthy in there, and be patient. These eleven weeks will go by quicker than either you or I can believe. 


Dad / Badass

P.S. I almost forgot. Your mother asked me to pass on a request: any chance you could stop pretending her stomach is a bongo drum when she eats? From what I hear from your mother, it's not a good feeling.


Happy Monday, folks.

Friday, January 28, 2011

In Which It Has A New Meaning

Ever wonder where words came from, or why we call certain things by certain names? I'm fairly certain that just about everyone has thought about this at least once before. I'll admit that I'm probably more of a logophile than the next person, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. I digress.

I ask because I stumbled across an advertisement online the other day that brought an entirely new meaning to a fairly common word, and it made me wonder what the people who were in charge of naming this particular subject were truly thinking about. I'll let you decide:

I know that, anatomically speaking, the knee doesn't fall under this category, but doesn't that image bring a different interpretation to the word "ball joint"?

Have a good weekend, everyone.

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

In Which I Just Can't Win

It's almost 2:00 AM and I'm asleep. Deeply asleep, like better-hope-the-fire-alarm-doesn't-go-off-because-you're-dead-to-the-world-and-your-wife-is-wearing-earplugs kind of sleep. I'm probably dreaming about something awesome like kissing Scarlett Johansson in the rain. Up to this point, my cellphone has passed the night quietly on resting on its charger. And then, as the last few seconds of the one o'clock hour click by, an alarm on my cellphone goes off.


Blissfully unaware in my sleep-coma, I'm none the wiser. However, after a few moments the blaring noise finally seeps through The Boss' earplugs and wakes her up. She moans and rolls over onto her back.

"Mike," she says. 

There's no response, unless you count a bellowing snore as a response.

"Mike," she says again, louder this time, and gives me a shove in the back for good measure. 

I begin to stir, only partially awake, and assuming she wants me to either give her back the blankets or stop hogging the bed I pull back some of the blankets and scoot over as much as I can. The blaring sound of my alarm clock going off a mere 10 inches away from my head goes wholly unnoticed. I snuggle back down into my pillow, and fall back asleep. 

Sighing in frustration now, The Boss reaches over a heavy hand and punches me in the shoulder. "Mike!" she says loudly, and punches me again. "Your phone is going off!"

That finally does it. I'm awake, and confused both by the sudden violence and the harsh noise assaulting my ears. I prop myself up on one elbow and extend an arm out into the darkness to try to silence my phone. I almost knock over my lamp, and the small fan that serves as my "white noise" machine. My phone, not small by any means, has disappeared from the surface of my nightstand. Just when I'm about to get serious and sit up, my hand lands on my phone. 

Being a touchscreen phone, the "snooze" function of the alarm is achieved by touching the screen. In this particular case, though, touching the screen doesn't silence the bedlam. The noise seems to be getting louder now, and the pressure is on to turn the alarm off before it wakes the sleeping 18-month-old upstairs. I grapple for a button, any button, to silence it, and still it blares on.

"Turn it off!" The Boss cries. "You'll wake Clara!"

"I'm trying to!" I manage to say though I'm still sleep-addled. I may have mumbled a few obscenities. 

I finally manage to unplug it from the charger, and once I have the phone in my hand I manage to shut off the alarm. Silence falls heavy and quick, and The Boss and I hold our breath and wait to see if we can hear any noise from upstairs that would indicate our niece having been woken up. Satisfied after hearing nothing but the furnace ticking down the hall, The Boss relaxes.

"What the fuck?" The Boss asks me. 

"I have no idea," I admit to her, and really I don't. I must have changed the alarm in my sleep somehow. "I've shut it off now, though. Sorry."

The Boss doesn't reply, but instead lays back down on her side and is quiet. I follow suit, but it seems like my head has barely hit my pillow before The Boss is shaking my shoulder, pulling me back out of sleep.

"What? What is it?" I ask.

"We overslept! Your alarm never went off!" she says in a huff, already casting off the blankets and kicking her feet out of bed. I can see daylight streaming in through the crack in the curtains. "I thought you were going to set an alarm!"

"I did!" I protested, sitting up. "I..." My voice trailed off as I remember the events that had passed earlier in the morning. "I must have shut them all off when my alarm went off earlier this morning."

Shit. There are sometimes where you just can't win.

Tuesday, January 25, 2011

In Which I Wish I Could Go: The Winners

Just a quick post to announce the four randomly selected winners from yesterday's post about the upcoming comedy show at the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino. As promised, I used and came up with the following winners:

Commenter #3: Ed

Commenter #9: Ray J

Commenter #11: Didactic Pirate

Commenter #12: WebSavvyMom

Congratulations to the lucky four, and big thanks for the rest of you who participated! I'm sure Ben (and Mr Levy, if he were to discover this humble blog) are greatly appreciative. To those who did not win, don't feel left out. I'll be hosting another giveaway in the not-too-distant future.

Ed and Ray J, you are the lucky winners of the red aluminum water bottle. Didactic Pirate and WebSavvyMom, you both get one of the water bottle/survival kits. To claim your prize, shoot me an e-mail with your address, and I'll have Ben ship your loot directly to you as soon as possible. Congrats again!

Monday, January 24, 2011

In Which I Wish I Could Go

I received an e-mail last week from a long-time reader (and lurker, I assume) named Ben. After making me feel unworthy with all the nice things he said about this ol' blog here, he asked if I wouldn't mind helping him out.

As it turns out, Ben is working with the Seminole Hard Rock Hotel & Casino in Tampa to help promote an upcoming comedy show featuring comedian Dan Levy (@danlevy or in February. If you've never heard of this guy, check out some of his clips on YouTube or on Chelsea Lately. He's a funny guy, and if I lived in the Tampa area instead of up in Maine where right now it's so cold your nose-hairs freeze the second you walk out the front door, I'd be going to this show. Check out the playbill:

Right away I was interested in blogging about the show. It's not every day I get approached via e-mail to do something like this, especially not for such a well-known venue. I was thinking to myself, "This is one of the coolest things I've been a part of with this blog by far," and then I read on a bit further to where Ben offers to sweeten the pot a little, presenting two different items to giveaway.


In total, there are four prizes to be won. Ben has made available two of the red aluminum Hard Rock water bottles, and two of the water bottle/survival kit combo sets. I'm going to make it easy for you to win, too. To have your chance at getting one of four possible prizes, all you have to do is leave a comment on this entry. No special requirements, no mandatory Twitter follows or re-tweets. Just a comment. I'll pick four lucky winners using and announce them on Tuesday night. 

For those of you who are interested and live in the Tampa area, click on the playbill to be directed to the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino website for more information. For the rest of you, get to commenting!

Happy Monday, folks.

Friday, January 21, 2011

In Which I'd Have Picked A Better Name

Shaving cream, moisturizers,
bikini wax, ionizers,
mouthwashes, French tips,
do-it-yourself root kits.

Eyelash curlers, blow dryers,
liquid foundation, flat irons,
cuticle trimmer, body lotion,
expensive wrinkle-reducing potion.

Mascara, eyeliner,
nail polish paint and primer,
exfoliating facial scrub,
fragrance beads for the bathtub.

With so many products on the shelves,
it's no wonder we think poorly of ourselves.
At some point, though, the madness must stop,
for how can one achieve beauty from a lollipop?

What an odd name for a bunch of lollipops. I'm sure there is a reason behind it, but I still think a better name could have been made up for these, which I found sitting on a table in the break room at work. My mind wanders.

Have a good weekend, everyone.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

In Which I Sell Out (A Little)

The Boss has been begging me to do this for a while, mostly so she can get her hands on one of her own, but I've put together a few Badass Geek items over on Zazzle. There are only mugs available right now, but I still think they're pretty awesome:

Over at my Zazzle store, you'll find an assortment of mugs emblazoned with the images found in some of most favorite posts. Once I tweak a few more images, I'll add some more swag to the collection. 

I don't know about you, but one of those V&G/VAG Construction mugs would look mighty fine on my desk at work. Right next to my framed picture of Captain Kirk.

Monday, January 17, 2011

In Which I Write It Out

After watching the Patriots lose pathetically to the Jets yesterday, I wasn't exactly in the best of moods to write a blog post. Everything I started to write was angry, and I didn't want to start off the week on a rant. So I took a step back, took some deep breaths, and gave it some thought. And while I wasn't intending on churning one of these out so quickly, inspiration struck and from there I had almost no choice.

Here's the story that was inspired by Nyx's winning suggestion announced Friday for my Simple Something post from last week. Again, here's what I had to go by:

Title: Lampshade Silhouettes
Name: Agnes Pennyworth
Location: Home
Emotion: Terror
Object: Teacup



Agnes never used to mind living alone, but that all changed when she started to see things out of the corner of her eyes that weren't there. She had lived alone in her home for the past seventeen years, the lonely widow of the late Mr Pennyworth, and the strangely foreign way a house becomes when it's suddenly only you living within it's four walls was so much water under the bridge. At first she felt silly, if not a bit ridiculous when she began seeing the fleeting silhouettes hiding behind the lampshades in her living room. At eighty-three years old she was no spring chicken, and she could deal without the excitement, thank you very much. Still, the sliding darkness she could see on the edges of her vision was unsettling, and whenever it showed up, she always found something to do in another room. She had an entire house to herself, after all, and there was no shortage of work to be done.

It wasn't just the movement on the edge of her vision that bothered her. Ever since the silhouettes started showing up, there were times when she'd find herself standing in the middle of her living room, staring at the wall above the sofa where a large oil painting of a fox hunt hung, rubbing furiously at the small gold cross she wore around her neck. She would have no recollection of how she got there, or how long she had been standing. After a few “episodes” (as she came to call them), her chest became too scratched from the edges of her necklace to continue wearing it. It was all she could do to work the clasp to remove it, her fingertips and thumbs swollen with mysterious blisters. It was the first time in almost sixty years that it had not hung around her neck, having never parted with it even when her and her late husband tried for children. She felt strangely naked without it, but her fingers remained too tender with those oddly persistent blisters to put it back on once the scratches on her chest had healed.

The thing with the teacups bothered her, too. She had never been one to be careless with her possessions, least of all her fine china, but lately she had come across her best china teacups in the strangest of places. She had found one resting on a radiator in her late husband's study, another sitting on the roof of her car in the garage, and another on the floor in front of the trashcan in the kitchen. She was willing to admit that perhaps with the stress of the odd things she had been seeing that perhaps she was sleepwalking, to boot. That may have been all the explanation needed, save for the fact that each teacup contained freshly steeped tea, and the teacups were still warm, almost too hot to touch. This was the oddest part of all, for Agnes didn't drink tea. She had been drinking black coffee ever since she first started getting what her mother had called her “monthlies.”

One afternoon, three weeks after they first began, Agnes happened to catch in her field of vision one of the lampshade silhouettes. She was sitting in her chair by the window next to her knitting basket, where she always sat when she saw them, and when she saw the first hint of movement, she snapped her head to her right. The darkness, instead of disappearing like breath into cold air, continued to creep up the lampshade like pooling malice. The image of a hideous creature appeared, heavy with sharp-looking fangs and a pair of long, curved horns. As if it could sense her looking at it, the creature's shadow began to turn towards her. Agnes screamed, her voice cracking. She blinked, and it was gone.

Agnes practically flew out of the living room, cold fear coursing through her. She burst outside through a door that let onto the backyard, crunching the late autumn leaves under her feet. Get a hold of yourself, she said silently, her heart trip hammering in her chest. She pulled in a few deep breaths, and tried her best to exhale the fear she felt but could not stop asking the questions to which she had no answers for. What did I see? What is happening to me?

Am I going crazy?

There were no movements until almost a week later. By then, Agnes had begun to dismiss the matter, especially since the blisters on her fingers were finally healing. She had all but forgotten it altogether when she came down the stairs on the morning of the sixth day, holding her cross necklace in one hand and the railing in the other. She knew something was wrong the moment she put her foot on the last stair from the bottom. The room felt suddenly cooler, yet oddly like a fever. She looked up from her feet to the wall where the oil painting hung, and there it was. The same horrid creature's shadow, creeping along the mounted huntsman and their dogs. The stairs creaked beneath her feet, and the creature jumped at the noise and faced her.

What was first just a shadow turned into something three-dimensional, it's fangs dripping saliva that burned like acid into the plastic covers on the sofa cushions. It looked at Agnes hungrily, and screeched as it began to crawl out of the painting. The sound was ear-splitting, and made her vision shake. She felt something warm trickle from her nose, and absently reached a hand up to her face. There was blood on it when she pulled it away. Seeing the deep red on her index finger spurred her into action, and she flung her cross necklace at the shadow-creature.

Her necklace would have hit the shadow-creature squarely in the chest had it not recoiled while it traveled across the living room. It screeched again in anger and what sounded to Agnes like pain, and then it was gone. Her necklace hit the painting and bounced off, falling behind the sofa. Later, when she felt some semblance of strength in her bones she tried to move the sofa to retrieve it, but it was far too heavy.

The creature didn't return at all that day, but it was not gone for good. Agnes would see this shadow-creature almost daily over the next few weeks, not only in the lampshades that caught the afternoon sun and the oil painting over the sofa, but seemingly everywhere. She became afraid to sleep when she saw it one day in her bedroom, lurking in the picture frame she kept on her nightstand that contained her wedding picture. During all of this she continued to find the teacups of fresh, hot tea around her house.

On the day that Agnes Pennyworth died, she had come back aware after having one of her episodes to find a shadow-creature staring at her from within the oil painting. It's awful hands rested on the frame of the painting, the wood smoking as if the creature was giving off heat. She felt something in her hands, and looked down to see that she was holding her cross necklace.

She was still looking down at her hands when she saw that ever familiar movement in the corner of her eye. She turned to her right and saw a second shadow-creature pulling itself out of her knitting basket, the yarn smoldering into a multicolored mass. To her left she turned now, just in time to see a third shadow-creature take it's first steps towards her from behind her late husband's prized Crosley tube radio, the cloth covering the speakers melting and shriveling.

They advanced on her, chattering and chittering in an awful language that made her teeth hurt. She barely felt the pain, nor the blood that trickled from her eyes and nostrils. They screeched in unison, the sound bursting her eardrums and shattering her prized collection of china teacups. She had barely any time to make a noise in her throat before all three were upon her, and then there was nothing but sweet, blessed darkness.

Agnes Pennyworth, with no children to come calling due to her barren womb, was found by a concerned neighbor two weeks later. All of the doors were locked, yet the key that Agnes had given to her neighbor for “just in case” purposes seemed not to work. She peered into the kitchen window, and saw Agnes sitting at her kitchen table, slumped slightly over. She called out loudly to her, and when there was no response, the neighbor promptly called the police.

The door was broken down, and after the house was cleared and one of the cops had checked her cold body for a pulse, the coroner was called in. Pictures were taken and statements were made, but none of those who were in charge of clearing the scene noticed that the teacup that rested on the table next to Agnes' folded hands was still warm.

Almost too hot to touch.


Happy Monday, folks.

Friday, January 14, 2011

In Which I've Got My Work Cut Out For Me

Well. What a pleasant surprise!

I didn't expect nearly as many entries as I received on the post I had up on Wednesday. I thought I might get a handful, probably six or seven, but not 43. Forty-three! It was great seeing the comments tumble in throughout the day, and seeing how widely the suggestions differed. It was awesome to see so much participation in this, too. 

After collecting and organizing all the entries I received by comments (and two via Twitter), I gave each entry a number. Using as promised, the first entry I'll be writing about is lucky number twenty-nine:

The brilliant mind behind entry number 29 is none other than Nyx! Congrats! Here is her entry:

Title: Lampshade Silhouettes
Name: Agnes Pennyworth
Location: Home
Emotion: Terror
Object: Teacup

I'm looking forward to putting this story together. The wheels are already turning in my mind. There are so many other great entries, so for the rest of you who weren't picked, don't feel left out. I do plan on writing a short story for each of your submissions, and I'll let you know about the ones I complete as I manage them. 

Thanks again, everyone, for your participation in this project. I can see this turning into something pretty big, but one thing is for sure... I have my work cut out for me.

Have a good weekend, everyone.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

In Which I Give It A Shot

I've been turning this idea over in my mind for a little while, and I think it's time to share it. The thing is that for it to work, I need something from each of you. It's not much, but if enough of you contribute, I'm thinking this could turn into something quite interesting. 

What I need from you is twofold. First, I need a title. Secondly, give me four words: a name, a location, an emotion, and an object.

Armed with these words, your words, I will attempt write a short story. I'm not holding myself to any length requirements, but rather will just see how it plays itself out. Once written, I'll post the resulting story here. In a way, the story will be just as much yours as it is mine. I've been looking for a way to help stimulate my creativity and get me past this damn writer's block, and I think this will help get the ol' juices flowing. 

Here's how the first round of this will work. Leave a comment with your title and four-word suggestion. If you have more than one suggestion, leave a separate comment for it to count. The cutoff point will be tomorrow night, January 13th, at 8:00pm EST, at which point each comment with a complete suggestion will be assigned a number, and I'll use to pick the one I'll use first. 

So, what do you think? Are you game?

Monday, January 10, 2011

In Which I Need Improvement

I've been a little bit hard up for decent posting material lately. I hope I'm not running out of steam, but I think that would be understandable after having published over 530 posts. Nothing truly interesting has happened around here lately, so you have my sincere apologies if anything I've put up recently has come across as forced.

I try to write notes to myself whenever I have an idea for a post. I've got stacks of Post-It notes at home as well as at my desk at work, ready and waiting for my next brainstorm, anecdote, or strange thought. I'm often scrambling for a pen so I can scribble something down before I forget exactly what I was thinking about. The problem with my note taking is that when I come back to it days later, it doesn't often make sense.

Take, for example, a note I wrote a few weeks back. In my haste to write it down my handwriting was almost illegible, but I managed to make out a few words: Llama, egg, and pink. Or at least that's what I think it said. Another note I wrote recently that was actually legible said "Windshield ice funny". I'm sure it was a great idea at the time, but I cannot for the life of me remember what I was thinking of to make ice on my windshield funny. If anything, an icy windshield is frustrating. 

I've probably thrown away dozens of notes like these, notes that make little to no sense at all. It saddens me to think of all the potential that is being tossed into the trashcan, but still I write sloppy notes. You'd think I'd learn the value of patience, but sometimes the more obvious solutions are overlooked. I mean, just look at the BP oil spill. I rest my case. 

Happy Monday, folks.

Friday, January 7, 2011

In Which I Channel My Inner Douchebag

I have recently been made aware that I, when sleeping, am a major douchebag.

I came back into the bedroom after showering one morning recently and woke up The Boss. Once she sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she glared at me with contempt. I'm not often in trouble with her, so I automatically got on the defensive and held my hands up in a cautionary manner.


"You kicked me last night when I was trying to get some of the blankets back," she said, her voice still thick from sleep but carrying an edge to it. 

"Well, I do have a muscle movement disorder, lest you forget," I said, defending myself. 

"No. It wasn't that," she snapped. "You were hogging all the blankets, so I woke up shivering. I tried to get some of the blankets back, but every time I pulled them over, you yanked them right back." She paused as she pulled the covers back to get up from the bed. "Finally I pulled really hard and managed to get just enough to cover myself."

"Okay," I said, motioning with my hands for her to go on. 

"I rolled over on my side to go back to sleep with the blankets tucked under me so you couldn't take them back, and you hauled off and kicked me in my calf."

I did my best to hold back the smirk on my face. I remembered none of this, but I didn't doubt it.

"I cried out in pain," The Boss went on to say, "and you sort of chuckled to yourself and said 'Good'. As if I deserved it."

There was no holding back the laughter at that, but I was quickly silenced from another frigid glare from The Boss. "Yeah," she said. "Not funny."

"Hey, I can't be held responsible for what I do in my sleep. You know that."

"I know," she relented. "It's just that sometimes you can be such a dick."

I nodded, not being able to disagree. In the past, I've done some strange things in my sleep, the least of which is hogging the blankets. The one that The Boss tends to bring up more often than not is the time that I woke her up because I was talking in my sleep. She thought I was awake and asked me to repeat myself. When I replied with more nonsensical words and gibberish, she did what anyone would do.

"What did you say?" she asked. 

At this, I allegedly sighed heavily with annoyance and said, "Never mind. Just... just completely disregard everything I've just said!" 

And then silence. 

I'm not sure why I'm such a jerk while I'm deep in REM cycle. Maybe I have some suppressed anger issues, or maybe I absorbed my evil twin while in utero. Either way, I think it's a gas.

Have a good weekend, everyone. 

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

In Which It Doesn't Get Much Easier

I've written a few different times about my gripes with the level of service I received at fast food establishments. Let me start off this post by saying that I never expect to be treated like I'm dining at a four-star restaurant, but instead I hope for common decency and politeness. In most cases my experiences are neutral, but as the posts I've linked to above will show, I've had my share of crappy ones, too. This post doesn't have so much to do with the service I've received lately as it does the manner in which my food was delivered to me.

I got out of work late one day last week, and instead of going home to cook dinner, The Boss and I opted to just swing by the local McDonald's and grab something through the drive-through. Everything went smoothly as far as the ordering (including the special-order of "ketchup only" on my burger) goes, as did the paying and the receiving of the food. The woman who handed me my bag was actually pleasant and smiled at me. I drove away feeling pretty good about the exchange... until I looked in the bag.

Oh, all of the food I ordered was there. The problem I had is that it looked like they thought my bag full of burgers and fries was an Etch-A-Sketch and they had to clear the screen before handing it to me. Both of the fry containers were upside down, the burgers were partially unwrapped and sliding apart. One of the straws they gave us was jabbing into the bun of one of the burgers, and there was ketchup everywhere. I had to pull off into a parking spot to make sure I got all that I paid for, and to make sure they got my "ketchup only" request right.

In my opinion, there's no excuse for presenting one's food in such a sloppy manner. I mean, for Jabba's sake, there's an effing diagram on the bottom of their bags that tell the employee's how to load and stack the food!

How much more simple could it get? Sure, when the place is hopping and there's a line at the drive-through a half-mile long, I'll forgive a slightly jumbled bag of food. If I'm the only customer in line and it's almost 9:00 at night, though, there's just no excuse to load a customer's order like that. I think some employees interpret the diagram a little differently.

Have you ever tried to use a straw that had previously impaled a cheeseburger? 

Yeah. It's not easy.

Monday, January 3, 2011

In Which I See an Old Baby*

Over the weekend, The Boss and I went out to see if we could get some of the things we'll need for Baby Badass with some of the gift card money we received for Christmas. Our thought was that some things would likely still be on sale, and we could hopefully snag a few deals on some of the more expensive items.

As it turns out, the sale prices were no longer to be had, so I followed The Boss around the Baby Section of Walmart for an hour while she cooed and squealed at all of the cute pink baby shit they had on the shelves. To keep my mind occupied, I set a goal for myself to find the weirdest looking baby picture used on the packaging for something.

Here's the winner:

I forget what exactly this picture was on, but I think it was one of those walker-bumper things where the kid dangles from the seat/harness just enough off the ground where only their toes touch, but really, that's besides the point. Just look at that face.

Isn't that the oldest looking baby you've ever seen? It's probably only a few months old, but I'm sure it's already getting AARP and Medicare brochures in the mail. The poor little guy is like Benjamin Button, and even has the initialed t-shirt to match.

Finding the weirdest picture out of the bunch was definitely a challenge. If I were to have chosen the weirdest looking product, though, I would have chosen one of the breast pumps for sure. Some of those things look downright dangerous, like something you'd see on a bondage porno flick.

Happy Monday, folks.

*The title of this post is probably one of the weirdest I've ever written, but what better way to start off the new year?