twice the smartass, half the laughs
Olive Juice
Post Date:

Let me just start out by saying: I don't like olives. I don't I can't help it. What is it about them you may ask? "The taste." I'd respond. It's disgusting. Now, Shelley's shaking her head right now and thinking to herself "Jesus my husband is so wicked hot, and so funny. How did I get so lucky?" Okay, not really. What I suspect she's thinking to herself is "Jimmy, though you won't eat a whole olive, I know for a fact that you will eat stuff with olives in it." Touché baby, touché. It is true that I have been known to eat stuff with olives in it, as long as the olives are finely chopped, and I can't really taste them. But, for the purposes here, I am of the position, that I do not like olives. "What does this have to do with anything?", you may be asking yourself. Let me answer with this: First of all, what does anything I write about have to do with anything? Secondly, isn't it a little early in this blog for you to be wondering what the point is? I'm setting up another of my incredibly awesome, hilarious stories, so, kindly do me a favor, and for the moment, shut it. (Touché me, touché) So, where was I? Oh, right. You know who does like olives? Gator. She loves em'. So much so, that you could theoretically get her to eat all the olives off, say your piece of Extravaganza pizza. Or (theoretically of course) maybe even a couple of pieces. Note to self: DO NOT FEED ALLEE THE OLIVES OFF YOUR PIZZA. Actually, let that be a note to everyone. What's the harm you ask. "My, aren't you chock full of questions?" I retort. Let me briefly recount my friday evening (For those of you who are new to this blog, this will not be brief. Also, I have this other site.....damn, I never get tired of that. Ha ha.)

Okay, Extravaganza pizza for dinner, I imagine you already gathered that (If you didn't then you're about as slow as I type, and probably as sloppy. Try and keep up.). Nothing out of the ordinary with dinner, nor bath, nor bottle, nor bed. So, here's the scenario: Allee's sleeping peacefully in bed. Shelley has resigned herself to our bedroom, as I have commandeered the TV in the living room. Chuck and I had a play date to kick some Madden (Though only one of us really played. Isn't that right Chuck? Isn't it?). So, I'm up, two games to...what was it? Chuck, put Derek down for a minute and remind me. Oh right, nothin'. It's getting late, and I'm thinking about calling it, but Chuck, of course, has to push for a third game. Rams/Panthers. I was forced to be the Rams, because I was not allowed to be a team with anything close to resembling what could be called a defense. That was the fatal mistake from the first two games, where I was surprisingly allowed to be the Bucs, and in the second, the Steelers. Not to toot my own horn (You totally know I'm gonna. What can I say? I'm a tooter of my own horn.), but, I think if you asked anyone who plays Madden with me (Really just Joe or Chuck. Doug doesn't seem to like video games, at least not Madden, but that's really neither here nor there.) and I think they will agree that, for the most part, generally, I am a defensive powerhouse (Which is why I sometimes get complaints about my game. I don't get it though. I mean, what's not to love about a 10 to 7 game where I eat up almost the entire clock by running it, and get my points off of picks? Yeah, I don't know either.) My offense, however, is suspect. And that's being generous. So, shortly into the third game, there was a disturbance in the force. (The force being Allee's room.) Of course, like the good dad I am, I go calm her down, and then get back to my game. Well, it isn't long before I hear her again. So, again, I pause the game and go take care of it. Now, it gets really, really good, or, really, really bad, depending on who you are. For me...let's just say it wasn't great.

One minute left on the clock. Seven to seven. I have possession. I am systematically charging down the field. It's lookin' good for ole' Jim. Lookin' like a three game shut out for sure. One minute to go, and what erupts from the next room? Screams of agony. Screams that tell me "You really thought you were gonna get to finish this game, didn't you. Silly man. Get your ass in here." So, Chuck and I decided to call it, and I rush into Gator's room and go right up to her crib and....that's when the smell hit me. That smell told me something was definitely amiss. There was puke in that thar crib I tell ye. That be true far shar. Now, I'm in something of a dilemma. It's late (like 1:00 am), and I may have been slamming beers while playing Madden (there's a slight possibility), so, I'm not exactly in the mood to strip the bed and change the sheets completely waking up my daughter who will then have to be coaxed back to sleep (Yes, I am aware of what a horrible father this makes me). This is my thought "I wonder how much puke there is in this bed?". I mean, is it just a little bit, so that I might just push her away from it, and deal with the clean up in the morning? Of course, it's pitch black in her room, and I had no way of knowing without...well...checking it. So in I go. I start right by her mouth and run my hand outward towards the edge of her mattress. All wet. At the outer most edge of the wetness, I run my hand lengthwise down the mattress. I had only moved my hand a couple of inches or so, when I felt it. It was just a sliver, and it had been partially digested, but I knew right from the instant my hand came into contact with it, just what it was. Fuckin' olive. Ugh. I continued to run my hand down the mattress, and it turns out, that olive was just the first of many. The olives and the wetness were everywhere. Double ugh! I had no choice. I had to wake her up, strip her down to her diaper, strip the bed, wipe her down with wipes, and exhaustedly drunkenly wonder just how the hell I was gonna get her back to sleep. Now, some of you, without children and who have never taken care of small children, may be saying to yourself, "Wow, that's pretty bad." And no doubt, those of you with children (or have watched or help raise small children), are arrogantly saying to yourself, "Ha. That's nothin'. Why, one day my kid..." Okay, just stop right there you smug ass bastard. There's more to this story, and it includes a triple ugh.

"What to do, what to do? Well," I thought to myself, "perhaps I shall see if she'll fall back asleep if I just lie ("lie", "lay" I don't know. Shut up.) her down (Not back in the puke, you assholes. I had stripped the bed, remember? Also, I had put a towel down where the sheet had been. A soft, fluffy towel at that.) and rub her back. No dice. Just crying and whining. "Hmm, perhaps the couch might make a better spot for her to relax and doze." And, with that thought, I scooped her up and went to the couch to lie down with her. What a tender moment. Her cuddled up to me, clinging to me like I was her savior. Comfortably lying on the couch. Warm from the blanket draped over us. Her olivey, pukey hair resting just beneath my nostrils. Very tender indeed. I don't know how long we were like that (I may have dozed off myself. And by "may", I mean I did.), but finally I knew success. She was definitely out. So, all there was to do was to get her back in bed. But I knew I had to wait a minute, you know, just to make sure she was really asleep. Then I felt it. Just a slight quiver, and she stirred. Then another, more adamant this time. The third was not a quiver at all, but it was, in fact a convulsion. And with it came the most delicious blend of bile and olives that it has ever been my great pleasure to experience. What could I do? I was trapped. I believe I made some sort of sound like "Oh man, oh jeez. Ahh. Ugh." Apparently, it was loud enough to wake up Shelley, though she might have already been awake from the previous commotion. She very kindly produced a towel for me, which I used to somehow, miraculously keep any puke from hitting the couch. Well, that first shot (as you may well know) kinda got her going again, and she produced even more puke for my amusement. As we got up again, and toweled, Shelley set up the spare bed by covering it with towels, so that we could move into there. She thought we might be more comfortable in there, and she was right. I was absolutely as comfortable as you can be, trying to sleep with a periodically puking baby sleeping on you. So, that was how we spent the night. Gator sleeping on me, occasionally waking up to bathe me in more of her vile, olivey vomit. Me, trying to sleep. Waking up when she did. Giving her water and rubbing her back, to coax her back to sleep. I must confess, to say it was awesome, is really quite an understatement. Oh, did I mention I hate olives?

Well, I know this blog is really long. I mean, even for me right? But, I have one more thing to say before I go (I can hear your collective groan from here, but wait, this is a good thing.). I would like to take this opportunity to welcome my newest little nephew, Mathieu Derek Gay, who just missed being born on Father's Day by 24 minutes. There are no words to convey the sheer joy and excitement Shelley and I feel for Chuck, Jana, Julia and of course, baby Derek. Love is a word of limitless bounds, and yet is not enough to contain how we feel for ya'll. But, it'll have to do. We love you guys. Congratulations. Allee will certainly echo that sentiment, once she fully understands what's going on. For now, we'll just work on getting her to say "baby Derek." So, suck on that groaners. Don't you feel bad for groaning now? Don't you? You thought you'd be getting more Jimmy Gay bullshit, but what did you get? Syrup baby. Straight syrup.

Until next time: Station on a wire, one day I'll let go. Tell them all hello. Tell them all hello.
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