If you have been wondering, a change has come.

Okay, it has been established - Cathi is not pregnant. Of course, I am referring to this post about change and how I crave it. I do, however, figure that now the actual change has taken place, I owe my reading audience some sort of explanation. First, I will tell you what the change was not:

I did not get breast implants. (But still considering butt implants)

I did not make it on next season's So You Can Think You Can Dance, although I know I totally could if I wanted to!

I did not add a urinal to our new bathroom, despite my pleas to my wife. I wanted to get one that went all the way to the floor, as to keep the spillage to a minimum. I thought it was every woman's fantasy, but she has us all trained to sit down anyway. Oh, and it turns out, George Cloony is every woman's fantasy... not a urinal.

I will not be posing topless for a magazine shoot. (Although, I have been asked like a bazillion times. It's just that I'm not comfortable sharing that side of me... my front side. Especially since I did not end up getting the implants)

As it turns out, and I know that this may come as a complete shock to many of you, I will be switching schools next year.

I know, I know. It's okay. Calm down people. Seriously, here is a paper bag. Deep breaths. Hold on, I'll get you a cold drink of water.

Okay, all set?

What can I say? I know, I am just that important.

My Principal - a good, outstanding man - invited me to move with him one mile west to his new school. I was a little hesitant, the caveat being this was not a normal teaching job I was being offered. It involved teaching a group of First Grade geniuses, or rather, just high achievers - and dealing with their overbearing parents. (Editor's Note: I just misspelled "achievers" like six times before finally getting it right. Editor's Note 2: I just misspelled "misspelled". I am not kidding. I am sure they do not have the right man for the job.)

The teaching of the smartypants sounded interesting to me - sort of like a First Grade version of that awful 80's sitcom Head of the Class. (Of course, I would play the role of Dr. Harold Samuels - wickedly funny and generously gifted) The kids in this class are all eager to learn and they are generally all well behaved. After giving it much thought, I decided to accept.

Now, I have no idea where to begin. I'm thinking I am going to need to get out some storyboards and concept map-type-things... maybe a diagram or two and brainstorm what these mini-brainiacs might want to do. It's time to start thinking out of the box. Thinking out of the box may be a difficult proposition because if you have seen me teach, my style is already out of the box. Thus, I need to think outside outside of the box. I guess I need to just destroy the box. Send the box packing - which would be perfect because it is a box. What was I talking about again? Oh yes, my butt implants. Do they ship those in a box?

FYI- The Blog O' Cheese will be on hiatus for a full week while I get my implants. Pictures to come!!

Saturday Graph: Things Cathi tells me she wants for her birthday every year.

The 24th of July and Mormon folklore stories I do not believe.

The 24th of July is not my favorite holiday. I find it a tad bit pretentious, like it thinks it's better than the 4th, but knows it's not. I am also not a big fan of the parade and it's, "We're too good for the giant, floating balloons, and every float must have huge macrame angels pushing handcarts or your out!" attitude. And I definitely don't like the fact that the only place I can see the fireworks is at Liberty Park. Why is Liberty Park so high and mighty? Just because Brigham Young lived there for a spell? And don't give me this "There are fireworks at the Bees game" jive. I like my fireworks like I like my Costco samples: free and surrounded by old women with mini microwaves and scissors!

Perhaps my least favorite part of the 24th of July is this yearly article we seem to be force fed every year by the Trib or the Deseret News on Mormon folklore. Allow me to recap some of the old standbys:

1. Yoda, of Star Wars mythology was based after President Spencer W. Kimble. Yeah, riiiiight. I had this one taught to me as a kid as if it were gospel truth. What's next? Chewbacca was based after Donny Osmond? C3PO was Thurl Bailey?

2. Steve Martin is Mormon. Uh huh. That would explain his choice of recent roles: Baby Mama, The Pink Panther 2, Bowfinger, and Shopgirl. All clearly Mormon cinema at it's best! Although one role clearly makes more sense than the others - Cheaper By The Dozen. 12 kids - chaos and mahem ensue! The only thing missing is the "Quest for Perfection" matching tee shirts.

3. "Two LDS elders stray a few miles from their area -- a ground-rule no-no for missionaries -- to attend a baseball game. But their hard-working mission president, taking some time off, catches the same game on TV. The camera pans the crowd and stops on the two off-base missionaries. When they return to their apartment that night, they find their mission president there. In his hands are two tickets for their flight home."

Okay, I think this rumor started flying about the same time that Ferris Bueller's Day Off came out. There are three things wrong with this story: 1. I highly doubt attending a baseball game is grounds for dismissal. 2. The camera never stops on two regular 19 year old Joes. 3. What is the Mission President doing watching a baseball game? No way did this ever happen.

This was just a stupid story designed to scare missionaries into being obedient.

4. In this well-worn missionary retread, a couple of Mormon elders are spreading the word door-to-door in a bad neighborhood. A gang surrounds them. The missionaries hop into their car and speed away. The thugs look on, stunned. Once the two elders are safely away, their car dies. The two pop the hood and find there is no engine.

I actually think the first time I heard this one, I was at Youth Conference. It was used as an "inspiring moment" of some sort.

There are problems with this story as well: 1. If you are a missionary in a neighborhood with gangs, you likely do not have a car in the first place. 2. Why would anyone, even gang members, want to steal an old Chevy Cavalier engine? 3. God is a good mechanic, but he ain't THAT good!

5. Of course, there are all sorts of stories about the 3 Nephites, many that I have heard too many times to count. Personally, I think the 3 Nephites are all driving the same ice cream trucks they have been driving for years.

My father in law is Jerry Sloan.

I have Jerry Sloan for a Father-In-Law.

Tough as nails, gritty and hard nosed, with moments of fiery intensity - my father in law has all these qualities.

His name is also Jerry.

He even looks a bit like J. Sloan!

When I first met Jerry, I was petrified of him. He was quiet, but confident and it sometimes felt like he was going to explode on your butt at a moments notice. Of course he wouldn't, but I was sometimes so intimidated by him, I would avoid him at all costs. This, even though he had never shown me anything but quiet kindness.

I wonder if the guys that dated Jerry Sloan's daughter felt the same way?

At long last, I left for two years only to return and re-fall in love with his daughter. I felt as though I may as well have been Greg Ostertag at that point.

Jerry retired very early and as a result he was always around the house. Finding a time and place to kiss my girlfriend without getting decapitated or worse yet - neutered, became troublesome. Perhaps I would be neutered and then beheaded? Anyway, it was probably for the best that he was around.

As it appeared more and more likely that Cathi and I were to be wed, a puddle would form each night in my bed. (Rhyming unintentional) It seemed that everyone wanted to know, or rather, informed me that I must first ask the permission of her father. After all, it was the only manly thing to do. I disagreed fervently and informed them that "he was totally cool with it". Of course, I was only kidding myself. Well technically, I was kidding others too, but they didn't really get the joke as I was the only one that knew the true intention of the kid.

I decided that it was time to man-up and just do it. Cathi had sisters that were married, and their husbands were still alive and well. Surely, it couldn't be that bad, could it?

I decided to do the asking while Cathi's brother was around. That way, there would be a witness. I gutted up my guts, tightened my belt and asked the question. Because of my nervousness and the fact that my belt had been tightened way too tight, I must have sounded like one of the Chipmunks. Not Alvin, or Simon, but that third chipmunk, Theodore. The wimpy, gutless one.

After a very long and awkward silence (I believe that he was in the middle of doing a project and was taken off guard), he looked at me and said, "Cheeseboy, we would be happy to have you join our family." Only he used my real name. And to this day, I think he meant it.

My father in law may have Jerry Sloan's temperament and occasionally he may have Jerry Sloan's mouth. However, I was wrong about him in every other way. I love this guy! He is kindhearted, sympathetic and generous. Most of all, he loves his children and grandchildren more than anything else in the world. He would do anything for them.

Jerry has been there to bail us out of more than enough mini-emergencies. Toilet flooding? Give Jerry a call. Need a quick oil change before going on a road trip? Time to call the Jerr-bear. (Jerry, if you ever read this, I would never ever call you Jerr-bear in real life) Thinking of getting a kidney transplant? Uh, okay, we haven't needed that yet, but if we did, you better believe Jerry would pull out his own and hand it over.

I am no longer intimidated by Jerry. I love that guy. They say that women marry men that remind them of their fathers. Well, in our situation, that couldn't be further from the truth. However, thank goodness he is not like me. His ultra handiness and immensely caring ways have made life so much less stressful for our little family. Really, I don't know where we would be without him. Most importantly - my boys adore him!

My own father is a great man and I admire him for so many reasons. However, my father in law is superb too. I can only hope that I am his Matt Harpring and not his Greg Ostertag.

Oh, and a final word of warning: never, ever, butt in front of him in line. No... actually, I dare you! Make that a tripple dog dare.

My conversation with Paula Abdul

What is this I hear? Paula Abdul - you are not returning to American Idol? You've been reduced to blowing kissing in the wind.

I'm a morose wreck.

Paula, really, I save my loudest laughs and groans for you. Week in and week out, you would never disappoint. Your moronic and sometimes asinine statements were both bold and unabashedly idiotic. And to think, some people thought you were saying those things on accident! Deep down, I know you couldn't really be that stupid, could you?

Your logic would often confound even I, your biggest supporter. Hey Baby - you've gotta remember, I'm forever your girl... or boy in this case.

I'm hoping you still have enough painkillers to get you through this tough time.

I saw that that Seacrest mini-brute just got 45 mil to stay on that grotty piece of garbage show. Seacrest doesn't bring a damned thing to the table! He's not even a judge. He's a cold hearted snake, albeit, a very tiny one.

What the producers don't realize, is the show is nothing without you. Straight up now tell me - you are the best thing they've got going. You were a Laker girl!!! You were a Laker girl...

It's not like Kara is suddenly going to have all your silky neck scarves in her closet, that little hussy. Has she even have a single hit single? Did she ever dance in a video with a cartoon cat? No. Kara's got nothing. NOTHING!

Paula, you know I love you. We've come together, cause opposites attract, ya know?!

You know what time it is - It's the promise of a new day. So rush, rush out there and find a new gig. Perhaps the 4th hour of the Today show needs a third co-host? Imagine the sparks that would fly between you, Hoda Huda and Kathy Lee. I know they would pay you what you are worth. (But I am not sure what that number is yet)

You were a Laker girl...

Song of the Day: Metric - Sick Muse

Okay, I readily admit that I haven't always been a fan of bands with a lady lead singer. In fact, I will readily admit that I had a deep seeded hate for them. However, within the last year or so I have seen the light - and the many great bands that sport a woman lead. This is one of my favorites - Metric. This song is off their latest album, their best.

I hate machines and I'm pretty sure they hate me back.

Our air conditioner is on the fritz. I'm not sure what that expression means - "on the fritz". I assume that it means that it is in bad condition. I definitely know what "on the ritz" means, because that is my number two way of enjoying spray cheese. (The first being a direct shot to the mouth) Of course, I also know what "on the spritz" means, because I live in Utah and I have seen those Draper girls at the mall.

I hate machines. I hate them and their shiny, silvery, self-centered parts! In fact, as a chronic worrier, there are two things in life that provide me with unlimited stress: health concerns and when machines I own don't work right. I hope I am never kept alive by a broken machine. That would be my worst nightmare. Possibly even worse than the reoccurring nightmare I have about the giant sized Draper girls chasing me with their spritzes and gels.

Whenever a machine breaks, I feel it my duty to pretend to look at it like I know what I am doing. Being the man in the family, it is my patriotic duty that I at least try and break whatever it is I am trying to fix. I fiddle and fumble until I am as frustrated as one of those old guys on the ExtenZe commercials... before they have tried the drug. In the mean time, Cathi stays cool as a cucumber, keeping in perspective that it is just a machine. (I am not sure what that means either - "cool as a cucumber". We have cucumbers in our garden and during the day they are hot! At night, they are not really cool, but more lukewarm. I suppose if I brought them inside they would be cool, but you see, our AC is broken, so that doesn't really work either)

Here is my wife's theory about machinery: if you simply leave it and come back later, the machine will fix itself and it will work! Car won't start? Try it in the morning. Computer has a virus? Probably will be okay in a couple hours. Stove not heating up? Probably because it's Wednesday and not Thursday. Stoves hate Wednesdays and surely Thursday it will be back to it's old self.

Rarely does Cathi's theory of self correcting machines hold true. However, imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning to a cool breeze in my face from our floor vent. Cathi had clearly seduced the air conditioner into running with her steamingly good looks. I have to admit, I was a bit jealous.

Some day, I truly believe that most machines will be self fixing. We already have self cleaning ovens, although that is a misnomer because I am always wiping that stupid thing off. I have also seen movies in which robots fix themselves and I have seen movies in which robots fix other machines. I just need a robot that will fix my AC.

I turned on the air conditioner this afternoon. I was by myself. It made a loud screeching sound, followed by a gurgle, a puff of smoke and a long hiss. It was eerily similar to my reoccurring Draper girl dreams, except the spritz smelled like acid.

Anyone know the name of a good air conditioner guy?

My email to Lagoon Corporate Offices

Email sent to Lagoon Park management at 3:30 PM today. [market@lagoonpark.com] I will post any reply I receive upon receipt. (And this post is dedicated to you Mel - cause I KNOW you LOVE this song!)

Dear Lagoon Management,

I have been visiting your magnificent park for over six decades now. It is a lovely place, with an aura of magicalness and enchantmentness that that commercial corporate bully - Disney can only dream of. Your place has a nice, down home feel to it - sort of like eating carrot cake on the back porch swing.

I would just like to inform you that your current ad campaign, staring the musical styling of "Sonnet", fits the theme and feel of Lagoon perfectly. Her voice is so simple, so sweet, so tender - just like spending a scorching Saturday afternoon with the family at Lagoon. When the advertisement comes on, I hope it never ends, much like a spooky ride on the Terror Ride.

FYI - A funny thing happens when your advertisements come on; my kitties ears perk up and they start walking in circles around the room - almost in a daze. And then, when Sonnet sings, "We could just celebrate", I swear their tails start waving a little faster. It totally makes their day. It's a good thing that your commercial comes on at least 45 times a day. In fact, it just came on now, and little Jasper just jumped on my lap for a good petting. Jasper NEVER jumped on my lap before this current Lagoon advertising campaign! Thanks Lagoon!

So, thank you Lagoon for introducing us to Sonnet. Her music is a joy and her voice charming. Unfortunately, I will be unable to visit your lovely park this year as my ulcer has been acting up and my kitties require four weeks notice before putting them in the kitty kennel.

One final word: Please consider bringing back the fun house. I loved gallivanting through the spinning tube and diving into the ball crawl. I once lost my retainer in the ball crawl, so if you find it, please return it. (He he, I am totally kidding. I know you probably don't still have my retainer. That was like 20 years ago. LOL! He he! No, seriously though, if you find it, let me know.)

Thank you for your time,

Cheeseboy

For those of you living in a deserted desert or a cave, here is the Lagoon song, IN IT'S ENTIRETY!

Saturday Graph: How funny Cathi thinks I am over time

Feeling intense today...

I'm feeling intense today! I have no idea why, but I am like a firecracker. I've been watching these videos to fire me up:

Want to hang out with the Cheeseboy? Better stay away from these phrases.

Would YOU like the pleasure of hanging out with ME?! Unlikely... but REALLY unlikely if you say one of the following things during our first conversation:

(Many of these were actually said to me recently)

• All of our babies were born in a large, metal barrel in our backyard. Backyard births are beautiful.
• ...and then my dad cut the umbilical cord.
  
• We should get together and exchange mission stories some time. (I've had people tell me this that didn't even go to the same mission as me)
  
• My wife and I met at a quilting party at BYU.
• We looked for a house in Sugarhouse, but there were all these Obama signs on the lawns and we just didn't feel right about it.
• Ryan Seacrest is so cool - and uber talented!
• We only eat organic.
• We have to be home before The Bachelor starts. (I don't care if you watch the Bachelor, but if you have to go out of your way to watch it, that is where I draw the line)
• We were watching "Ward Ball" the other night and I could just not stop laughing!
• Do you play World of Warcraft?
• Tim Burton's movies are just too "out there" for me.
• We just don't believe in public education.
• Well, I can't help it... I've always been a Lakers fan.
• - Referring to pants as "slacks". -
  
• All 8 of our kids are named after famous prophets from the Pearl of Great Price.
• I wish there was "tunnel singing" in Salt Lake.
• My kids were playing in Liberty Park and I have never been so scared in my life!
• Finally, you probably will not be invited over to my house for "game night" if you look like one of these people:
• 

5 things I wanted from 80's sitcoms.

If you grew up in the 80's, you know what I am talking about - lame, tacky, droll family sitcoms with a laugh track that seemed to cycle every 2 minutes. As a result, I grew up a coveting, envious child - wanting the bodacious gadgets that could be seen weekly on ABC's TGIF.

It seemed as though every TV sitcom family in the 80's was rich. (Rosanne wasn't, but I didn't watch that show, and anything I didn't watch didn't technically count as a show) I suppose writing a show about poor folk wouldn't exactly reel in the big sponsors like Wheaties or Oldsmobile. Thus, on every channel, in every hour, we were subject to watching rich people and their rich stuff. I present to you my top five things I wanted from 80's sitcoms:

5. My dad to work in our basement. (The Cosby Show)

Sure, it's a little absurd to think that a gynecologist would be working out of his basement. I mean, after all, is a little creepy. Even creepier was the fact that he had no receptionists, nurses or even janitors roaming around to keep an eye on things. Just Dr. Huxtable, some stirrups and a dark, clammy basement. Amazing he had so much time to spend with his kids and he didn't have more patients.

Nevertheless, the idea that dad could come up at any time to goof around and make you pudding was enthralling to a ten year old.







4. A live-in maid, or butler (Who's The Boss, Mr. Belvadere, just about every show on in the 80's)

I think I have blogged about the male maid thing quite enough. Nevertheless, if you watched TV in the 80's you would think every household was cleaned by outside help. And the maids in these shows always provided the BEST advice. I remember in one episode of Different Strokes, Edna the maid was giving Kimberly Drummund the best advice on her changing body and her need to buy a bra. My body was changing too! Did I need a bra too? We didn't have a butler, so I wasn't sure.






3. A snarky, sarcastic hand puppet from outer space to liven things up around the house. (Alf)

Also, Alf ate cats. I've always hated cats. Actually, we could use more Alfs around our neighborhood.

This boy liked Alf too.










2. Hidden passageways. (Webster)

I'm not sure where the hidden passageway in Webster's clock took him. I believe that he also had one in his kitchen and bedroom. Maybe they were all connected, but this was the coolest thing a kid could ever have in his house. Of course, the passageways had to be small enough that only kids could go in them.
















1. A train that takes you from one room of your mansion to the next. (Silver Spoons)

I don't doubt now that the train on the Silver Spoons set went all of 40 feet. However, just the idea of it in my house still makes me pee my pants a little bit. I swear, if it weren't for Ricky Schroder (which my wife admits to having a huge crush on), the only reason anyone watched that show is because they loved the idea of having a train take them from one room to the next in their house. I guess I also watched the show for Erin Grey (which I will admit I had a huge crush on). But I'll tell you one thing - no one watched because for Alphonso.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go change my pants.

Song of the Day: Papercuts - Dear Employee

I am not a huge fan of this band, but I do have smudgen of love for this song. The Papercuts are esentially indie pop, they use a lot of organ mixed with some folk-rock guitar. They have a pretty warm and sunny sound that can be quite catchy. I can't listen to any of their albums all the way through - although I can listen to this song over and over and over...

I don't mind "Girls Night Out", but why does it have to be so stinking complicated?

"Girls Night Out" has to be one of the most overblown, overrated and overcooked nights of the year.

I just wish there were more of them. It's the one time that I can take the boys to McDonald's without feeling a bit guilty about it. My guilt, however, is replaced with that sinking, uneasy feeling that you get from eating at McDonald's.

I've noticed a few rules of "Girls Night Out" - and yes, there are rules. This is not some goofy night to be trifled away. Women take this crap seriously! They put more planning into a "Girls Night" than men put into their engagement night. So, here are the rules of "Girls Night Out" as I have seen them.

Rules:

1. The night must be planned at least four months in advance, thus allowing for women to change the date at least 16 times. Once GNO - as it will be hereafter known - is planned, it may be reshuffled to another day at 16 times. Once the number 16 has been reached, the GNO is replanned for a different day... four months in advance. Then, the process begins again and it is a neverending cycle.

How men do it: Hey, want to get together tonight to watch the game?

2. The eating establishment must be mutually agreed upon by all female parties at least five days in advance. The eating establishment must:

A. Be within a ten minute drive of the movie theater.
B. Be fun and light - or just real feminine with girly entrees like turkey avocado sandwiches or flavored lemonades.
C. Have a separate menu containing entrees with less than 400 calories to go along with their 1,000 calorie dessert.
D. Not have TV's with sports on them or tables with women dancing on them.
E. Be a place that "someone in their Relief Society" told them was "to die for".
F. A combination of all the above.

*If no known eating eating establishment can be established between the parties, one of the sixteen previously mentioned postponements may be used.

How men do it: [Once everyone is assembled] "Hey, before we hit the game, we should grab a burger!" Everyone in unison, like Siamese cavemen: "Yeah, sounds good."

3. Children must be watched by the husbands. If a husband is busy or has previous plans, a babysitter is NOT to be hired. HUSBAND MUST WATCH KIDS! It's only fair on GNO. Of course, if something drastic or unexpected happens and a husband really can not watch the kids, instead of hiring a babysitter, one of the 16 previously mentioned postponements may be used.

** If a husband does hire a babysitter, and does so unbeknown to the wife for date of the GNO, the penalty for said husband is: 2 months - nookie free. I have never received this penalty. I wouldn't dare test this rule.

How men do it: "See ya. I'm watching the game at Brent's. Have fun with the kids, or hire a babysitter, I really don't care."

4. The movie must:

A. Be about shiny skinned, pretentiously absurd, teenaged vampires that can't have sex because either the author went to BYU or something about the vampires killing each other... I am not really sure.
B. Have the word "shopaholic" in the title.
C. Be about someone dying of cancer - but someone funny.
D. Have slow motion camera that circles around two people making out on the corner of a Manhatten street.
E. A combination of all of the above.

How men do it: "Probably something with explosions."

-End of rules -

Thursday is GNO in our household. Unless of course, the ladies can't agree on a suitable eating establishment, in which case a postponement will be in order. Fortunately, they have only used 3 of their allotted postponements so far.

In the mean time, my ten piece McNuggetts, fries and subsequent six hours of heartburn will be awaiting me. And I am NOT washing the boy's hands after the Playland. Men simply refuse to carry that hand sanitizer goobaly goop in their pockets.

(Give that my audience is 75% female, I can't wait to get flamed for this one. Well.. flame away ladies! Also, I used a lot of pink in this post - to better appease all the ladies that may be offended)

Song of the Day: Death Cab For Cutie - Grapevine Fires

Sure, the last Death Cab album did not receive the same warm reviews as the previous albums. And sure, we were told that this album "would sound like nothing Death Cab has ever put out", only to find that it sound exactly like every album Death Cab has ever put out. It's not my favorite Death Cab album, but it has really grown on me. Certainly, it is better than 95% of the other crap out there. This song is my favorite on the album. The storytelling and songwriting is brilliant.

Random musings that make me hungry for ice cream and make me want to grow out my sideburns.

Some random musings.

A musing is a contemplation. I looked it up. I knew it meant something like that, but I wasn't sure. What I am writing now is not a musing, but rather a simple definition. If I continue on any further with this train of thought, it may become a musing, but as it stands now, it has not been mused yet.

I keep hearing the ice cream truck drive up and down our neighborhood. Has anyone seen this guy? I swear he is just canvasing our neighborhood for children. However, I do need to ask him how he got sweat stains on the front of his white tank top and how he gets his sideburns to grow to his shoulders.

I'm surprised that when Dateline does their "Catch a Predator" deal, there has not been a single ice cream man. It's probably because they pay off the producers with push-ups (not bras) and Crunch Bars.

I'll admit it, I have never bought my kids ice cream from the back of a van. I've bought them other things: Used car audio equipment, jewelry, drugs, those rubber bands you put over your Swatch so it won't scratch . But when it comes to buying stuff out the back of a van, ice cream is simply the biggest rip off.

If I were an ice cream man, I wouldn't use that disturbing music box music crap. No one even looks out the window when they hear that nonsense now. No, I would crank the Jonas Brothers and Hannah Montana! And I would name my ice cream bars after them. What preteen would not want to buy a Nicky Licky?!

Am I still musing? I think I am actually just BS-ing. Musing requires introspection and sincerity. I am without either. Now am I musing about musing? I am a such a simpleton.

I have memories of Michael Jackson. The first time I watched Thriller at a friend's house, I left in tears. I was frightened by the mouthfuls of red jello. At the right consistency, jello can look very much like a bloody mouth and bloody mouths are scary. Also, Captain E-O one year was my favorite Disneyland attraction. If you would like, I can still show you a few break dance moves I picked up from the man/woman/thing. I am a dancer. I dance.

My memories of Ed McMahon are a little less clear. I don't think he was in Captain E-O.

My musings took an unexpected detour. I felt as though there wasn't enough coverage of Michael Jackson's death. I am obligated to allow The Blog O' Cheese to weigh in. Allow me to refocus my musings.

I don't believe that I have actually ever seen the ice cream man on our street. Perhaps he is intimidated by my rugged manly man ways. Nonetheless, his obnoxious tones are heard far and wide across our great city of Murray.

Here's a helpful hint: Tell your kids that the ice cream van does actually give out ice cream, but only after you get a shot. Say, "You want an ice cream bar from that van? Okay, first you must get your rubella shot." Then grab your kid by the arm and drag them toward the van while trying to roll up their sleeve. They will never want a $5.00 Dove bar from the sinister, porn-stached, grease-soaked fellow again. And your wallet will thank you for it.

An open letter to the two dogs that live three houses up from me

Dear two little barky, yappy dogs that live four houses up the street,

I hate you and your barky-bark guts!

I know, I know, you can't read English - or human.

But seriously, could you shut the @$%! up already? (@$%! = "heck", but I didn't want to offend anyone, thus the use of these signs)

Honestly, you've see me every day for five years. If I was going to kill you, I would have done it by now. Keep up the yapping and I may just change my mind. Don't think I haven't thought of ways...

I have. Seriously, I want you both dead.

You are not cute - you are the Bachelorettes of the dog world. (The newest Bachelorette too - What I am trying to say is that she is ugly - like you) You are not breed worthy - even a Pug wouldn't smell your butt. And you will just not shut up! In fact, I can hear you jabbering away right now. It's grating, like listening to Kathy Lee Gifford and that gal from "The Nanny" argue over ice cream.

I don't mind dogs, really I don't. I just hate you. I think I have a friend in the dog Mafia. We can make this as clean or as dirty as you want.

The thing is, I generally like dogs. Good dogs. I know good dogs. I've seen them behaving. You are not good dogs. You're bad dogs. Bad dogs!

If only you understood talkings of humans. You'd know I hate you. I hate you and your flea-bagged guts.

Your friend (if you stop barking),

Cheeseboy

Saturday Graph: An Episode of "So You Think You Can Dance"

Stuff my boys love..

Lincoln and Calder love this video. Rather clever.

Please, breastfeed in public. (I am NOT a sexist pig!)

Hey ladies, I am all for breastfeeding, even in public. It's normal, natural and beautiful and if you want or need to do it, I've totally got your back (because your front is clearly taken).

In fact, I am a card carrying member of the Public Breastfeeding Association, but I am still not sure what my yearly $35 fee is going to.

The reason I bring this up is that yesterday I watched a woman walk down our street while breastfeeding at the same time! I was not disgusted or offended, just amazed that she could multitask. I can't even walk and chew at the same time.

So ladies, if you feel the need to feed, by all means feed. Heck, put a blanket over yourself, or don't, I really don't care. Just leave your shirt on. I don't think we need a bunch of topless women walking around the valley... or do we?!

I once went to a BYU football game (not sure why) and within my peripheral vision I could see three women breastfeeding (not each other). One woman was breastfeeding and reading a novel at the same time. Another was breastfeeding and crocheting. Nevermind that there was an actual football game going on. The funny thing is that the babies were probably getting more caffeine from the 64 ounces of Diet Coke their moms drank earlier in the day than was available in the entire stadium.

I think that I have mentioned the lady that sits in front of us at church and breastfeeds. Yes, she uses a blanket, but it was a little awkward when the deacon passed her the microphone to bear her testimony and we could all hear slurping sounds. I have to admit, I am a bit jealous of these babies. I'd LOVE to have a milkshake to eat during sacrament meeting. In fact, I think that I am going to recommend to the bishop that for the next father's day, instead of the usual candy bars, they bring us fresh Iceburg milkshakes. And they bring them to us right after sacrament so we may enjoy the rest of the meeting.

When I told a friend of mine about the walking/breastfeeding woman on our street, she told me that she actually has a sister that breastfeeds WHILE SHE DRIVES! I thought that was really odd. How in the world does she get her breast to stretch all the way to the back seat?! Her breasts must look like those long, clown balloons that they make balloon animals out of.

I was reading a study that said that ten out of ten Pediatricians recommend breastfeeding. Apparently, it is really healthy for babies. I was breastfed and you can see how wonderful I turned out. In fact, scientists have asked for some of my DNA so they may clone me for future generations to enjoy. (By "scientists" I mean this guy sitting on the park bench that swears he's a scientist. And I wondered why the cotton swab was already wet BEFORE he shoved it up my nostril.)

My dad was not breastfed and we all know how he turned out.

Here's an oddity that I have often contemplated: Human milk is really healthy for human babies until cow's milk is better for them. And cow's milk is really healthy for baby cows. But what if, during a cow's life, human milk would actually be better for them? Why are we withholding human breast milk from the cows? Could it be that we are frightened that the cows will soon become a super-species to rival humans and eventually kill us off? Can't we just give breast milk to a single toddler cow? Duh scientists, one super-species cow is not going to kill us all.

So women, continue on with the breastfeeding and the complete nurturment of your children. It is completely legal in every state. And if you can do more than one thing at once, more power to you.

Our house... is haunted. (I mean this)

Raise your hand if you have had an old man commit suicide within the confines of your home.

Why am I the only one with my hand in the air?

We were at a dinner party with some friends when it was "accidentally leaked" that the old lady that previously owned our house had a husband that killed himself. He was old and feeble, but his death was not naturally caused - and it was not naturally caused in our house. I'll tell you one thing he's not doing and that's housework. Am I right ladies? (By "ladies" I mean Cathi)

Our dinner guest friends would not provide us with any further details, other than some of them had been called over the day after it happened to "clean up the mess". I'm not sure what the chosen method of death was, but no wonder the wallpaper in Lincoln's room was so hard to get off!

It is also unknown if he was smuggling American Indian trinkets. (I apologize for that one)

So, our house is haunted. This old fart roams our halls in his half-robe and listens to talk radio in our basement. How do I know this? What else would the old, dead jackrabbit be doing in our house all day?

I have never actually had a conversation with "Tom", but I have told him to tie up his stinking robe. And if you were going to commit suicide, why do it in a robe? I'd at least put on one of those tuxedo tee shirts. That way, when they found me lying on the floor, they would say, "Well, at least he dressed for it." And I would still be comfortable. Makes perfect sense.

I wonder how long "Tom" is planning on staying. I hope that he doesn't mind that I am pulling out his pink bathtub and sink. I hope he will at least stay until Christmas. He always does such a superb job in our family's annual reenactment of "A Christmas Carol".

Oh, and thanks neighborly neighbors for informing us of this gruesome news. Thank you for not telling us what room this occurred. I guess I really don't need to know any of the gory details.

If anyone needs to borrow a headless, mini-robed, old man ghost to scare your friends for a weekend, just let me know.

(RE) Designing Woman - minus the "Wo" but plus a bit of "sexy"

It seems that I am always gung-ho about taking on massive new home improvement projects. Hey, when Don Ho goes gung-ho, does that make... Okay, I got nothing.

Ever since I was 5 years old, I dreamed of redoing my bathroom. I'd sit all balled up in the corner of my bedroom, paper and pencil in tow, designing intricate tile patterns into the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes, my dear momma would wake up and bring me a bit of bread and some warm milk to buoy my spirits.

Today my childhood dreams became a reality. With sledgehammer in hand, and Sketchers in - or rather - on, foot, I demolished every last inch of lime green tile. It was a little like watching a petrified jello explosion.

Our house is 60 years old. After 60 years, the original dust has gathered dust and that secondary dust has a collection of dust that it keeps in a trapper keeper in it's locker. As I pounded into the room's skeleton, I was completely covered in it's soot. In fact, I'm still blowing wall sediment out of my nostrils. I may have drywall stuck in other places, but I have not yet fully disrobed.

As I demolished, I felt those lonely childhood hours bear down on me. Within the dust clouds, I saw myself there on the floor of my bedroom, towel rack ideas blooming from my frail body like a youthful Vern Kipp. I was in my element.

10 minutes passed. I was soaked in sweat and my arm hair had turned a wolfish gray. It was then that I realized that I hated this. It was then that I also realized that the enchanted, pauperish childhood had all been imaginary. I had never actually sat alone in my room for much of anything, let alone to design bathrooms. Nevertheless, when I wiped away the facade of false memories, I was left with this:Remodeling actually sucks!

My son subconsciously hates me. I'm sure of it.

I may or may not have pushed Lincoln off the bed in my sleep the other night. I'm leaning toward the "may" part of the previous statement. What I am going to say from here on out, I am not proud of. In fact, I should be stripped of my father certification that I earned in my two semesters at the Salt Lake Community College.

One room, two twin sized beds. To maximize mattress breadth and width, Cathi slept with Calder and I with Lincoln. A tough decision, but one that had to be made.

Sleeping with Lincoln is rough. Real rough. It's a little like sleeping with that baby kangaroo from the Warner Brothers cartoons. You know the one - Sylvester thinks is actually a giant mouse and he ends up taking an endless pounding. I hate when I play the role of Sylvester. Suffewin Suckatash!

Lincoln is a restless sleeper. He kicks, springs and flops like he is in a retarded ballet about a football game gone wrong. Laying next to him, my body became a punching (and kicking) bag. He may be the first seven year old to float like a butterfly and sting like a bee - in his sleep.

With each waking jab, I would gently move him back over to his side of the bed. With each waking jab, my gentleness decreased at about a 10% rate, until it was, at last, not a gentle moving at all.

I don't remember actually shoving my son off the bed while he slept. It had to be a subconscious, or rather, unconscious, or rather, a conscious-less-ly dip-wad move on my part. The only thing I remember is saying aloud as Lincoln flopped to the floor was, "OH NO!" And it was not an "oh no" like Lincoln had just fallen off a cliff. It was more of an "oh no!" like, "what have I done?!"

It was 2:30 in the morning.

I'll never forget Lincoln's puppy dog eyes and crocodile tears as he looked up at me from the hard, dirty floor. Actually - now get this - it was such a sad moment, Lincoln looked up at me with crocodile eyes and puppy dog tears! No, no - his eyes were even sadder than that. He looked up at me like a puppy dog about to be drowned in crocodile tears... and then gnawed by crocodile teeth into puppy mush. Now that's how sad it was.

I helped him back to bed and put him on the other side of me. That way, if I inadvertently shoved him, he would simply go headfirst into the wall - and I would feel much less guilty.

I laid in bed, unable to sleep for over an hour. What kind of father was I? My scrawny, innocent Lincoln would not hurt a fly. (Unless of course, it was a fly that looked like an ant, in which case, he would probably torture it until it screamed for mercy)

I am coming clean. I (probably) did it. In the middle of the night, I (probably) pushed my son off the bed like he was a farting Richard Simmons. He never knew what hit him. I wouldn't be surprised if he hated me for the rest of my life.

It's a good thing that he didn't remember a second of it in the morning.

Some random pictures of my boys on our recent trip to Island Park, Idaho.

Song of the Day: Tokyo Police Club - Tesselate

Greetings all. Today's song of the day comes from last year's break out band, Tokyo Police Club. This Canadian band actually gives Canada a good name and when I hear them, I almost want to stand up for their God Save The Queen song. (Actually most the good music lately has been seeping in from Canada. Why is that?)

Inspiration has inspired me to try harder to be inspired by it.

Five days of blissful retreat in the shadows of the mountains. Five days. Five day to gather inspiration like gathering armfuls of blossoms of blue. The towering peaks, the breathtaking lakes, the stunning sites. Inspiration came. Inspiration germinated. Inspiration amplified through my brain like a gosh-awful Jonus Brothers ring tone in an empty grocery store.

As we pulled into the driveway, I finally realized what it was that I would be writing about today...

The McDonalds Playland rules.

That's it. That's what I came up with. 5 days; glorious mountains - McDoanld's Playland rules. Ugh.

I don't believe that I should even be writing a blog any longer. I am a shoddy blogger. I am a "shod-blog", a "shlobber". MaybeI should just quit now while I am ahead - pull a Seinfeld, but without the awful final and the horrible credit card commercials.

I guess that I could still poke fun of the McDonalds Playland rules, but what would be the point? I suppose inspiration has failed me. Those "blossoms of blue" turned out to be "blossoms of crap". Maybe they were still blossoms, but they were made out of crap. I have run it through my head time and time again, and there just is no comedy in the McDonalds Playground to be found. It's dull, bland, uninteresting and flat - kinda like taking a BYU coed on a date to the BYU creamery.

I am ashamed in my blogging ability. I've lost it. Five days in the mountains and I don't have a single thing to provide my readers. I am a blogging loser... a blooser.

I apologize to you all. Inspiration failed me. I am hoping for a swifty return. (I had even gathered the armfuls the whole meadow over, to no avail.)