Mouse House

The other morning, I came downstairs into the kitchen to make breakfast. When I flipped on the overhead light, there was a mouse standing next to the oven. For what seemed like five unbroken minutes, we stared at each other. He was busted, and he knew it. But he also knew that my days of being able to catch any animal faster than a Basset Hound were long over.

Recently, I’d begun to suspect that we might have mice. There seemed to be a constant rustling coming from the kitchen. There were frequent flashes of gray at the corners of my eyes. And, of course, there were tiny little turds in places where turds shouldn’t be. I’d managed to bury this in the back of my mind, but then there it was: undeniable proof.

“Dude,” I whispered. “Go away.”

Eventually, in no particular hurry, he disappeared beneath our refrigerator. I felt an overwhelming sense of dread.

Back in my childless bachelor days, I lived in a tiny apartment in Arlington, Virginia. Every winter, a family of mice would move in. I essentially gave them the run of the place, and they lived happily on Dorito crumbs and the heels of my bread. It would be easy to assume that this agreement I had with the mice—to live in harmony—was based on laziness. But it wasn’t.

Most guys wouldn’t have a problem killing mice—or, at the very least, overseeing their deaths. Clearly, though, I am not most guys. I look like one, I suppose. I can grow facial hair surprisingly fast, and I wear lots of sports-themed clothing. But, emotionally speaking, I’m pretty much a pear-shaped 14-year-old girl with braces who wants to grow up to be a veterinarian.

Mice are adorable, defenseless creatures. In movies for children, they often wear scarves and drive small motor bikes. But, they’re also rodents. And rodents carry germs, and they crap everywhere, indiscriminately. I am no longer a childless bachelor, and I’m married to a person who feels that the words “rodent-infested” are not words commonly used to describe an ideal home for a baby. Maybe she has a point.

This afternoon, a nice man named Mike came to the house. My wife was wise enough to call in a professional. My skills are mostly grammar-related. Mike set up a series of sinister little guillotines around the house and loaded them up with bait that he assured me “the little bastards can’t resist.”

And so I wait. At some point, probably tonight, there will be a snap from the cupboard, or, perhaps, from beneath the oven. The sound of adulthood.

thenormannation@blogspot.com

Is This Funny?

The other day, my friend Ryan told me a joke. Well, he wrote it, actually, over e-mail. This is how jokes are told in the year 2009: virtually, from one cubical to another.

I immediately loved the joke. It was simple, perfectly clean, and absolutely absurd. I’m happy to announce that it is officially among my favorite jokes of all time. It dawns on me now, though, days later, that it might be one of those jokes that only people like Ryan and me enjoy.

I’ve developed a scene in my head. My friend Ryan is at a dinner party. He’s drinking a martini and wearing a sport jacket and talking to a bunch of good-looking people he hardly knows. He delivers his joke and then smiles, only to be met with bland stares and soul-crushing silence. “Security,” says the host, and Ryan is whisked away and beaten mercilessly by goons.

A side note here: Many of the scenes I develop in my head end with my friend Ryan being pummeled by goons. One in particular takes place in a karaoke bar in Virginia that plays only country music. Ryan is wearing a purple cowboy hat and twirling a lasso. But I digress.

The simple fact that you are reading this blog instead of doing something even a little bit constructive is proof that you are among an ultra-select group of awesome people who have their fingers placed firmly on the pulse of modern-day humor. And so I turn it over to you, my nearly 97 followers around the world. Is this joke funny?

A cow climbs up a pine tree. A squirrel in the pine tree says, “What are you doing up here?” And the cow says, “Oh, I thought I’d climb up here and eat some apples.” The squirrel says, “Apples? But this is a pine tree.” And the cow says, “That’s okay, I brought my own apples.”

Please comment with your opinion. Funny or not funny? If you say "not funny," I invite you to share a joke that you like better.

The Norman Nation. It’s not just sexy. It’s interactive.

thenormannation@gmail.com

Bathroom Humor

This week, my daughter will be one month old. I think we can all agree: comically speaking, that’s pretty young. However, I’m proud to report that she has already developed a healthy, if not entirely sophisticated, sense of humor.

Her favorite joke, one she performs three to four times a day, is to go to the bathroom on me while I’m changing her diaper. Those of you who don’t have children might doubt whether or not an infant has enough going on cognitively to pull something like that off. In response, allow me to pose a question, one that I believe was posed before me by Shakespeare. If you spent 23 hours and 55 minutes a day sitting on the toilet, how would you spend those five minutes of freedom? Would you spend them going to the bathroom?

I think she knows exactly what she’s doing.

The scene is almost always the same. I place her carefully on one of several changing mats. Sometimes she looks up at me. Sometimes she looks off over my shoulder into whatever space it is that babies stare. Her expression is innocence personified, but behind those eyes she’s scheming. Her father is no genius; she knows this. He’s perpetually tired, and his reflexes have been dulled by 15 years of binge drinking and attending rock concerts.

Things begin smoothly. The diaper comes off, its contents are inspected and discussed in vivid detail, and then it is deposited into a Star Wars-looking robot machine that cost as much as my first car. I lift her up by the ankles like one might a chicken that has escaped and make a few passes at her nether regions with a baby wipe.

This is where things often go tragically wrong.

In the three seconds it takes me to grab a new diaper, she prepares herself—readying the cannons and getting into attack position. When I lift her again to put things back together, she opens fire. Often the number is one. That’s not so bad. Sometimes the number is two. I’ve learned to live with this. But, more often than not, the number is unidentifiable—it’s caught somewhere in the middle, it is its own number entirely. This involves the washing machine—immediately—and then a few moments of gentle, masculine weeping.

You win again, baby. You always do.

Street Theater

Last night was the first Halloween night since I was 18 in which I have been neither drunk nor dressed as some sort of an idiot. When you live in a city like Baltimore, clarity of mind often affords you a front row seat to some pretty funny $hit.

It was maybe 2 a.m., and I was awake, lying in bed, thinking about whatever it is that people think about at that time of night: stuff that might make a cool screenplay . . . things I should have said to bullies when I was 12 . . . whether or not I’m the sort of guy who can pull off a soul patch. I kind of think that I might be.

On weekend nights, our street is, essentially, a drunken pedestrian highway leading away from the bars. And so, through the bedroom window, I heard lots of drunk girls laughing, and I heard the clomping of the shoes they’d chosen hours ago but were now regretting. I heard lots of guys, too. They were mostly shouting and pushing each other into parked cars. One group talked about how awesome it’d be to smash my neighbor’s pumpkins. This led to a loud argument about Billy Corgan and whether or not he sucks.

Among all this noise, however, a simple exchange between two passing males has stuck with me all day today. They were drunk, but not aggressively so, and they didn’t seem to be in any sort of hurry. One said to the other:

“And so I told that crazy bitch; I said, bitch, you get out of my house or I’ll have my mom throw you out!”

Suddenly, I was wide awake.

“What did he say?” I said, not out loud of course, but to myself, all inner-monologue-y. If Baltimore were a different kind of city, and if I were a different kind of person, I’d have leapt from my bed, thrown on whatever clothes were nearest and chased them down Charles Street.

“Guys!” I’d have yelled. “Hold up. I need some more information about what you just said.”

There’s a good chance that at that point they would have, out of reflex, simply bludgeoned me. But, assuming the best-case scenario here, I’d have asked. “What is it that makes that bitch so crazy? Does she live with you and your mom? And, why do you need your mother to throw her out for you? Seriously, dude, what kind of women have you surrounded yourself with?”

Sadly though, I stayed there in bed, and within seconds their voices and their footsteps were gone. And now I’m left to fiddle obsessively with this domestic Rubik’s cube. There’s a scene in my mind in which a middle aged woman with a perm throws a screaming 22-year-old girl with a tongue ring out onto the sidewalk. In my mind, there’s a small dog barking incessantly, and everyone is smoking. “Get out of here, you crazy bitch!” she’s screaming. Somewhere, in the distance, there are police sirens.

Baltimore, Maryland. Charm City.

thenormannation@gmail.com

World’s Greatest Dad

When I was younger—back when fatherhood was, at best, an abstract concept—I always promised myself that when my time came, I wouldn’t be one of those glassy eyed dads who can talk about nothing other than his adorable children.

Don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t planning on being The Great Santini or anything. I’d like my kids. I’d read to them and teach them about not touching burners and how much better dogs are than cats, but when push came to shove, I’d still be able to say something witty about politics. I’d be able to read books and keep up with what cool people are wearing and live a life that was at least similar to my pre-child days.

Well, it’s been fourteen days since the little one arrived, and I am currently an unrecognizable shell of the person I once was. The novel I’m trying to get off the ground has sat dormant; my thus-far poorly developed characters are floating in suspended animation, waiting to be told what to do. I can’t even remember their names. My house looks like a Babies R Us threw up in it. I have no idea what’s going on with the healthcare bill. A public option? Huh? Cap and trade? What is that again?

Strangely though, I find none of this even a little bit troubling. It’s like that movie, the one with Nicole Kidman about the body-snatching aliens. Halfway through, the people who had their body snatched are kind of like, “you know, this isn’t so bad after all.” My daughter is sitting next to me. Fast asleep, she’s wearing a pink onesy and she’s sitting in a little vibrating chair. Every few minutes, for no reason that I can identify, she flings her blanket open and tosses her arms up in the air. She’s a miniature referee. She’s calling touchdowns in a game that no longer interests her.

Is this who I am now? Am I going to start wearing sweatpants in to the grocery store? Am I going to hear single people at work discussing a big movie that just opened and not know what the hell they’re talking about? Am I going to start complaining that Letterman comes on too late or that the neighbors make too much noise coming home from the bars on Thursday nights? Is the youngish, socially interested quasi man of the arts dead? Is he gone forever?

Oh well. Let’s be honest. I doubt if the world will miss him all that much. Frankly, he was getting to be a little smug for his own good. And all that business about Natalie Portman being in love with him. What was he, twelve?

Day Baby vs. Night Baby: A Case Study

People are always saying to me, “Matt Norman, I hear you’re a daddy now. I sure wish you were my daddy.” My response is always the same: “Seriously, Natalie Portman, that’s the creepiest thing you’ve ever said to me. Now how did you get past my security system?”

But, as usual, Natty P. speaks the truth. I am, indeed, officially responsible for another human life.

Now, anyone who knows me knows that “This Guy” believes in giving 110% -- 115% if the humidity is low. Therefore, in just a few short days, I have pretty much become an expert at both parenthood and baby psychology.

“An expert, Matt Norman?” you say, with doubt in your voice, furrowing your brow.

That’s right, reader, an expert. And I really don’t appreciate your tone, by the way.

You see, for those of you who haven’t had a baby, you might not know that every newborn is actually two separate, very distinct entities. Henceforth, I shall refer to those entities as Day Baby and Night Baby.

Day Baby
Day Baby is so mind-numblingly cute that you’ll hardly be able to deal with it. She will sleep like a cartoon panda all day long. “Oh my God, you are so freaking cute,” you will be heard saying, loudly, over and over again, amazed that your DNA was able to contribute to such profound adorableness. Occasionally she’ll open her eyes, and, for the briefest of moments, she’ll look at you, and although she won’t smile, you’ll see that she understands who you are. She’ll sneeze and you’ll nearly burst into tears. She’s stretch her arms or hiccup and you’ll wonder why you waited so long to have a baby in the first place. “What have I been doing for 32 years?” you’ll ask. “I’ve wasted so much time. I’m going to quit my job so I can stare at her all day. I need to have more. Seriously, like right now. Where can I get a dozen of them? The Internet?”

Night Baby
Metaphorically speaking, Night Baby is a sophisticated robot sent from the future to crush your soul. She will cry so loudly that you’ll check her diaper for broken glass. She will squirm and she’ll wail, and it won’t let up, regardless of what the clock says, because the clock is something you invented, and it means nothing to her whatsoever. You’ll do the things you learned in the baby books that your friends gave you, the shushing and the swaddling and the swaying, but they won’t help at all. In fact, they will somehow make her tiny, fist-clenched rage worse. She’ll be a seven-pound monster in pink jammies, feeding off of your exhaustion. “Why are you doing this to me, baby?” you’ll ask, pleading now, begging for an answer. “Don’t you even care that I bought you all this stuff? I had my whole life ahead of me, and now you’ve ruined it! I could have been a professional dancer or . . . something.” And then, you, too, will be crying. Really crying, not like the crying you did that one time when you accidentally watched The Notebook on HBO a few years ago when you were hung over. “My God, my God,” you will say, yelling at the ceiling, “why have you forsaken me?”

But then the sun will come up. Because the sun always does, no matter what. You’ll comb your hair and you’ll take a shower. You’ll have some caffeine and you’ll brush your teeth and . . . “Oh my God, look at her little feet! They’re so tiny. I need to take a picture of her with my iPhone and send it to everyone I know. Her head smells like flowers! Did she smile at me? Seriously, I think she smiled at me!”

thenormannation@gmail.com

The Reversal

For most of 2009, I’ve been a drain on society and, more importantly, my wife. A sexy drain, one with hair that can only be described as angelic, but, a drain nonetheless. Every morning, she would go off to work and I would wander unshaven around the house watching daytime television and having long conversations with the dog.

Recently though, something truly unexpected happened. Two things, actually. One, I got a job. And two, she went on bed rest.

Most men—better men—would be supportive in a situation like ours. I, however, have handled it smugly and with a great deal of sarcasm. This morning, which was my third day of work, my alarm went off and I made a big show of turning it off and climbing out of bed. I was playing the part of a beleaguered breadwinner, weary from many, many years of working for the man.

“Wow,” I said. “It sure is early.”

I could tell my wife was awake, but she was choosing not to acknowledge me. This is her right, I suppose. It should be noted, though, that when I wasn’t working, I at least pretended to wake up when she did. I would even smile, occasionally.

“I tell you what, baby,” I continued, flipping on my reading light. “I’m gonna go for a quick run, then I’m gonna take a shower. After that I’ll eat a light breakfast, then I’m gonna go to my job—the place where I work—for like nine hours or so.”

She sighed, shuffling a little. People do this, I’ve found, when pretending to sleep.

“What are you gonna do?” I asked. “Oh, that’s right; I forgot. You’re gonna lay around in your pajamas all day. Well, say hi to Judge Judy for me. I’ve got some bacon to bring home.”

I turned off the light, and the room was dark again. But before I could leave, I heard her voice, sleepy from behind me. “You’re an idiot,” she said.

We like to joke with each other, my wife and I. What she meant to say, of course, was, “You’re a gainfully employed idiot. And your hair looks terrific.”

Holla!

thenormannation@gmail.com