i'd like to get my invisible hand on her supply curves

adam smith would be proud

aha! proof that capitalism is a mysterious and wonderful thing. the marketplace is a fiercely competitive venue. auctioning a pregnant belly is apparently merely the opening salvo in advertising-on-bodyparts war that, unfortunately, has finite possibilities. OR DOES IT? let me be the first to auction off my liver to the highest bidder: budweiser? johnny walker? rumplemintz? anyone? or maybe it would make more sense to use my appendix as ad space -- it's certainly not doing me any good as a potential toxic time bomb. i say open it up to wal mart or costco or something.

anyway, thank you, buxom glaswegian (glaswegienne?), for getting in on this game -- truly you would make p.t. barnum shed tears of vindication and gratitude. also, you truly made mr nice guy's morning a happier place. and, finally, you have convinced me that auctioning off my wife's belly isn't going to cut it in this cutthroat environment, i too must kick it up a notch. and so, starting today, i shall be auctioning off advertising space on my ass. any takers?

you are now about to witness the strength of street knowledge

ladies and gentlemen, i present to you: genius. GENIUS.


there comes a time when one realizes that one is in the presence of pure and unadulterated greatness. for me that time came today. do you see the screengrab above? DO YOU? click on it. admire it. pet it. lick the screen. adore it. name it maceo and command it to play unspeakably funky alto sax for you. because ladies, gentlemen, squidkids, guppies, et al., you are breathing the air of BRILLIANCE.

as i write this, that unidentified yet vaguely alluring woman has raised more than TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS for whoring off her body. she is selling advertising space on her bloated, fetus-infested belly ... she is auctioning herself off like a fucking pro, and she didn't even have to have sex with a stranger! (well, ok, she had to have sex. but not with the person who will ultimately pony up two grand to slap an ad on her paunch, presumably.) i am but a wee padwan before you, oh jedi pregnant ebay lady mistress woman. teach me the ways of your wiliness.

honestly. this comes unto me as an epiphany: mr nice guy now knows what he needs to do. he must distract, intoxicate, hobble or otherwise incapacitate mrs nice guy and SELL HER BELLY. because, clearly this is the only way we'll ever be able to afford the education of our child. (and make a little extra spending money on the side, if you know what i mean. poppy needs a new pair of shoes, and WHAT BETTER WAY THAN BY PIMPING OFF MY WIFE ... and child ... before it's even born? hmm. i am finally beginning to understand the powerful forces that govern ashlee simpson's father.)

UPDATE: after a troubled night of little-to-no sleep, trying to figure out exactly how to sell my wife's body without her knowing, i still have a question: how exactly is this supposed to work anyway? IT'S COLD HERE. do we slap a nike swoosh around her navel and make her walk around, with her belly exposed? won't the fetus get frostbite? do we stick a starbucks stamp on her innie and watch with glee as it gradually pops, becoming an outie? that would be a pretty groovy 3D ad type thing. do i paint a big red-and-white Target logo on her? seems like that might be asking for trouble. i am at a loss.

perspective

(would you believe this is in brooklyn?)


mrs nice guy says: my boobs have gotten big. they're bigger than ever. but my belly is even bigger still. so, in the end, my boobs look smaller than ever.

mr nice guy hears: boobs. bigger. than ever.

dads-to-be of the world, unite!

so in perusing the parenthood guides for future moms and dads and mostly moms, mr nice guy has found a disturbing trend ... parenting writers tend to take it as an article of faith that men are deadbeats! i am shocked -- shocked! -- by this portrayal of my noble sex. don't believe me? look:

• "Several moms I spoke to knew from the start that the early months would be flown solo. They harbor no fantasies of Dad racing to the nursery for midnight feeding or leaving his office early to take the baby to the pediatrician." (The 7 Stages of Motherhood, p. 11) (a post script, it irks mr nice guy to no end that they left '7' in the title and didn't take the apparently agonizing pain to write out 'seven.' i guess cover ink was expensive that week.)

ok, look, i have a fancypants job too, but you know what?, you're DAMN RIGHT i'm going to hit the nursery for midnight feeding! how else am i going to sneak a little gin while mommy's asleep? and as for leaving the office early ... why, that's the best time to find hookers! no competition!

and this! from the ZERO TO THREE website -- a noble bunch of folks if ever there was one. a little advice for pops-to-be:

• "It's not unusual [is it just me or is tom jones TOTALLY stuck in your head now? -- ed.] for dads-to-be to feel a little left out during the pregnancy ... You can help set up the nursery, baby-proof the house, and get the car seat installed, as well as make decisions together about various plans--from getting to the hospital to career changes and caregiving decisions."

thanks, zero to three! guess who is now in charge of buying a bigger house in which to build a nursery, baby-proofing said house, planning for the future, assembling a crib, getting a better job, and buying a car in which to install said car seat! mrs nice guy and i both thank you for giving me this special role in my child's life. i am so happy now.

look, you know what? it's actually astonishing how poor the father-to-be literature out there is. why don't we all just buy "Attemping to be a Good Father but Failing Anyway Because Your Child Will Hate You Regardless For Dummies" and call it a day? because mr nice guy is astounded at what passes for fatherly wisdom these days. you mean working 32 hours a day is bad now? you mean i should change diapers occasionally? you mean i can't go to strip clubs with my boys any more? you mean i have to learn its name?! but this is hard! i want out.

there goes my faith in humanity

ok, i know i promised a photo with every entry, but i am too riled up right now after reading this.

the list of oscar nominees, released this very morning, is an affront to all that is good and holy and decent in the world! thomas haden church gets the nod and paul giamatti doesn't? what? michael moore has been totally snubbed. like the man or not, he did make the highest-grossing documentary of all time and perhaps the first, however flawed it was, to take part in shaping the national debate.

but that's not what has mr nice guy all worked up. no. look, i'm willing to let the vincent gallo and david hasselhoff shutouts slide. but there are some things by which he will not abide! where on this list, i ask you, is paris hilton?! has the world forgotten her sublime cinematic output this year?

i tell you, there is no justice in hollywood! (there is, however, according to poor mel gibson, jewstice. booya!)

ps: go don cheadle.

pps: so. do not fear mr nice guy's swift and just condemnation. do not seek the soothing balm of his approval. simply ... discuss.

and they saw that it was good

file under: new era, dawn of a


behold! the nice guys have entered the 21st century. ok. about five years after you. (this, coincidentally, was exactly how long it took us to finish the marathon: five years). we have a digital camera! it works! instant gratification is ours! never again shall i be ungratified instantly. wait.

so that's the brooklyn bridge up there. also known as The Most Photogenic Thing In The Universe. click on it for an enlargement. do it! it's the lone thin string that connects us to manhattan (excluding, of course, the manhattan and williamsburg bridges, and the subway and various ferries, but no one's splitting hairs around here so why should you start?). mr nice guy took that picture last weekend, before The Snow. i think i shall post a new picture with every blog entry. and the picture will have nothing whatsoever to do with what i write about. and it will be good. and the children will sing and the men will weep and the women will expose unto me their supple breasts.

anyway. so we are almost six months pregnant. <-- can you tell what is wrong with that sentence? no? here, take mr nice guy's hand and he'll show you. not that hand, the other hand. good. still no clue? here's the answer: WE are not pregnant, SHE is. subtle distinction, i know. but every time you meet a man who says, with a twattish grin, "we are pregnant" slap him AS SOON AND AS HARD AS YOU CAN. because, of course, he (implicit in the "we") is categorically not pregnant. right? right. he is not pregnant; he is a twat.

sorry you had to hear that.

so. by my calculation, we are 5.783982716653 months pregnant. you know what that means, don't you? we are LONG overdue for a What to Expect When You're Expecting consultation. my bad and mea culpa. let's begin.

at this point in the baby baking bonanza, "avoid eating fried dishes (agemono, katsu, agedashi, tempura) as well as those that contain raw fish or seafood" (p. 229). ahem. well let me be the first to say WHAT? NO AGEDASHI?! HOW THE FUCK ARE WE SUPPOSED TO SURVIVE? sorry, but i can live without tempura and, yes, even katsu (crazy, i know), but the nice guys will not relinquish their agedashi EVER. you hear me?

and this! "intercourse will probably be restricted under the following circumstances: Anytime unexplained bleeding occurs" (p. 237). now, mr nice guy doesn't know about you, but he does know this: where there's unexplained blood, there's going to be sex. and how.

"Asking for or accepting medication is not a sign of failure or weakness" (p.251). excuse me, teacher? i have a question. WHY FOR THE LOVE OF MIKE ARE PEOPLE WORRIED ABOUT TAKING DRUGS DURING CHILDBIRTH? ladeez, repeat after mr nice guy: "drugs are good. drugs make the world pretty and my husband funny. i like drugs." still not getting it? mr nice guy has reduced it to a simple algebraic formula for you:

• pain = bad + easily avoidable.
• drugs = your friend.

let's see, what else. "'I'm concerned about the rectal bleeding I've been having'" (p. 244). wait. did you not hear mr nice guy's stance on unexplained blood, so eloquently articulated in this very entry? looks like you'll have to stay after class and redo the reading.

walkin' the walk

is it so terribly wrong that i think mrs nice guy's awkward pregnant duck waddle -- hands on her hips, belly out-thrust, feet splayed -- is smokin'? because, well, it is hot, i tell you what.

ok, yeah, sure. she has "sciatica," fine. i get it. it's "excrutiatingly painful" to get out of bed in the morning. she is in "terrifying agony" when she tries to walk whilst her sciatic nerve is "shooting sharp lightning bolts of screaming, burning, prickling red torment, jangling through the buttocks and down the legs." blah, blah, blah. yes, bien sur, mr nice guy is compassionate. he feels her pain. it's just that, well, he also thinks it's durned cute when she walks all funny like that.

insights various and sundry

a few random observations:

1) i still can't count in weeks. mrs nice guy is FIVE AND A HALF MONTHS pregnant. ok? she is not 22 weeks pregnant. mr nice guy simply does not think in weeks -- and when you are looking at yourself in the mirror, very early in the morning, you have weak moments where you admit that you don't either. i know this.

2) pregnancy does not last nine months. it lasts FORTY WEEKS (see number 1, above). in other words, pregnancy lasts TEN MONTHS. who is the shiftly salesman who came up with this pitch? were people not signing up for the ten month plan because it seemed too long? you know, double digits and all. the evil propaganda machine has had me fooled for nearly thirty years! indeed, some of the smartest people i know are shocked to learn this little fact. TEN MONTHS, PEOPLE. not nine. i want a refund.

3) i still haven't felt it kicking. it's like when you take your car in to the mechanic -- you know when there's something terribly wrong with your car? and you bring it to the shop? you know how it STOPS DOING THE THING and the mechanic can't find anything wrong with your car at all? well it's like that. the fucker kicks and kicks but when its old man lays his hands on the belly ... nada.

4) no, i am not bitter about this.

5) this weekend we did a little initial research into buying baby things for when the baby gets here. and you know what? only in new york will people go to an evil store called "buy buy baby" and fork over $800 for a FUCKING STROLLER. (a stroller that even the salesman admits is far from the most versatile. actual conversation: "you mean it's not actually all that practical?" "no. but it's very hot." "why?" "manhattan.")

5.5 months and countin'

so another week another sonogram. this time the thrill of the new was gone. the delight in the mystery of life was no longer a novel thing. yeah, yeah, that's the baby. great. old hat. we're pros. profile of kid sucking thumb? got that (top pic). image of baby's arm, grasping helplessly for aid as a miasma of poisonous uterine cloud envelops its helpless frame? got that too (bottom pic)!


stone cold chillin' ... and drownin'?

again: i know what you're thinking. what the FUCK? one minute baby is maxin' and relaxin', thumb in its mouth--which we can see from the profile of its freakishly large head--and basically stone cold chillin'. you can tell: this kid is enjoying pre-life. but then! all of a sudden the toxic fog of wombfury seeps into the frame. and if you close your eyes you can almost hear the baby going "wha!? umf! motherfucker! help! ackgh! too ... young ... to drown!" honestly. where did baby go? did it dissolve? evaporate? the doctor seemed unphased, so i guess we should be too, but man, that was creepy. i like to think that in its final, panic-stricken moments it was waving to its mom and dad as if to say "so long and thanks for not drinking too much while i was in here."

actually, as usual, i joke. (please, dearest gods of karma, don't do anything ironically tragic to my unborn child, please! make me a donkey tic in my next life, if you must, but don't hurt my baby just because its father is a humorless turd. -- ed.) in all seriousness, the baby is exceedingly healthy. and, as you can tell from it's gorgeous profile (top pic) and supple fingers (bottom pic) clearly destined to be a supermodel and classical piano prodigy.

although, there was one thing that gave the nice guys a moment's pause: all through the ultrasound the kid kept kicking itself in the head. this is disconcerting. how brilliant a career as a concert pianist can one have if one starts life by kicking oneself repeatedly in the head? not too bright, i'd say.

UPDATE: frere nice guy has his own theory as to what the hell is going on in that bottom picture. to wit: that is clearly a gang sign that s/he is throwing up. word to that. time to incorporate a little NWA into the nightly musical roundup.

ne touche pas my wife's belly, punk

-----Original Message-----
From: nice guy, mrs
Sent: Wednesday, January 12, 2005 3:04 PM
To: nice guy, mr
Subject:

Holy shit, dude, I'm pregnant! The kicks are getting strong enough to be felt from the outside.

You'll have to feel tonight.

-----Original Message-----
From: nice guy, mr
Sent: Wednesday, January 12, 2005 3:05 PM
To: nice guy, mrs
Subject: RE:

NOBODY IS ALLOWED TO FEEL BEFORE I CAN.

-----Original Message-----
From: nice guy, mrs
Sent: Wednesday, January 12, 2005 3:06 PM
To: nice guy, mr
Subject: RE:

it was me with my hand on my belly feeling it. easy, killer.

baby music

mr nice guy has taken to serenading his unborn squid. the ears are in place and the little alien can probably hear by now, so what better way to bond with it than by playing a little music to it? so most nights, as mrs nice guy drifts off to sleep, her devoted husband whips out his cherished guitar and strums a few chords of ... murder ballads.

here are some of the more popular old-timey ditties at the nice guy home. these are the totally inappropriate songs that babysquid nice guy seems to find the most soothing:

john hardy was a desperate little man by the carter family. this is a lovely little tune about, well, a desperate little man who shoots some dude on a west virginia train. later, while blind drunk in a saloon, The Law takes him by the arm and leads him to death row. while waiting to be hanged, he is visited by his two women. one says she always was true to her john hardy; the other says she would rather see him dead. the baby loves this song. if it's a boy, maybe we should name it john hardy.

boomer's story, a traditional tune most notably recorded by ry cooder. another cautionary tale about those ramblin' ways. boomer, a young man who is taken with the hobo life, meets a gal in san francisco and marries her. he promises her that his ramblin' days are done and it's time to settle down. but. then he hears that train whistle and wouldn't you know it, he ditches her at the station. at the end of his life he realizes that he's been everywhere and now he has nowhere to go. so before he hops on that train to the everafter, he asks us to bury him beside the tracks so he can always hear the trains go by. healthy, right? maybe if it's a boy we should name it boomer.

good night irene, by the inimitable leadbelly. you only think you know this song. seriously, have you ever peeped the lyrics to this one? it's not what you remember. the singer is a married man, smitten with irene -- who just happens to be an underage girl. her mother forbids the gentleman from comin' a-courting. but this doesn't stop our friendly neighborhood humbert, who is haunted by dreams and visions of irene. he contemplates drowning himself in the river but decides instead to drown himself in the hooch. he gambles. he rambles. he is told to go back to his wife and kids, but instead says if he can't have irene, the frustrated pedophile will kill himself with an overdose of morphine. maybe if it's a girl we should name her irene.

single girl, married girl, also by the carter family. this is a mrs nice guy favorite. it should probably trouble mr nice guy that his wife seems to take such bitter delight in this song. it's a simple ditty that compares the lives of two "girls" -- one single, the other married. the single girl is a hipster, dressed real purty like. the married girl just puts on any old rags. as the single girl goes shopping, the married girl stays at home, weeping piteous tears as she rocks the cradle. while the single girl flits about, footloose on the town, the married girl is stuck at home, pinned down by the terrible weight of the baby on her knee. the wee squid inside mrs nice guy isn't sure what to make of this one. but i play it anyway. over and over. gotta keep them on their toes from day one, right?

baby sex

christ almighty if one more person asks me this question, i am going to stab my fucking eyes out:

well-meaning nitwit: are you going to find out what the baby's gender is?

this drives mr nice guy up the proverbial wall. but i might as well answer it now. yes we are going to find out what our child's gender is. but not before it's born. and probably not for, oh, like 13 or 16 or even 18 years after that. because, well, you see, GENDER IS A SOCIETAL CONSTRUCT, PEOPLE.

some folks when asking the question they actually mean to ask get pretty close. they stammer a little. they pause. they choke on the word that is mysteriously giving them problems. what is this word, you wonder? it's SEX, friends. say it with me: SEX.

so, the question as it should be asked: are you going to find out the baby's sex?

ah. better. now. why is this so hard for people -- well educated, otherwise very clever people capable of complex, subtle thinking -- to master? my theory is that this is a byproduct of political correctness and michael jackson. why else would people be afraid to say BABY and SEX in the same sentence? (like, have you ever heard that urban legend about the person who, in the days before digital cameras, got calls from the police because they had taken pictures of THEIR OWN CHILD IN THE BATHTUB?) do they think that i will take umbrage in the insinuation that my precious baby might actually be classified by -- gasp! -- sex? "how dare you ask me about my baby's sex, you fucking pervert!" no. look. i am a pedant, you see, and an asshole. if the baby is a boy, then the baby's SEX is male. biology, people, it's biology. nothing nawty about it.

as for the baby's gender, well, that's pretty much up for grabs. and frankly, i don't care what its gender is ... provided its gender doesn't make it do things like get very expensive operations requiring heavy hormone treatment and lots of knives. no. in fact, come to think of it, this sex-vs-gender thing is something that all of our well-meaning friends and colleagues would have, without a doubt, understood when they were well-meaning earnest college sophomores. what happened to them?

but fear not, mr nice guy is not so gauche as to actually correct a well-meaning friend when they ask him about his unborn child's gender. he merely answers the question by unsubtly and annoyingly substituting "sex" for "gender."

ps: and the answer is ... NO. we're not going to find out the baby's sex. until it's born. hopefully. but basically we don't need 87,201 tons of pink crapola if we announce we're expecting a girl (or 87,201 tons of blue crapola if it's a boy). besides, that would be gender typing our baby. and we wouldn't want to do that, now would we?

pps: in the terrifying event that it's a boy, don't even get me started on circumcision.


UPDATE: some cheeky acquaintance dodged this whole issue yesterday by asking me "do you know if it's going to be a boy or a girl?" let me say this: very clever way of getting around the question, pal, but you don't fool me for a second. i can just tell you're a "what's your baby's gender" kind of a guy.

you know, the next time someone asks me the gender question, i have resolved to answer thusly: "we're not finding out what it's gender is, but we're both hoping for a really masculine child."

move over DC comics, here comes something meatier

so recently, over drinks, friends of mine and i got to talkin'. as is our wont. and here's what we concluded: the world doesn't have enough bona fide superheroes. but then we realized, collectively, simultaneously, that unbeknownst to me, i have been living with a superhero nigh on five-and-a-half months now!

look, this one's so obvious it's a wonder it hasn't been done before. she's got special powers, she's got a secret identity, she's got a sexy origin myth ... so let us introduce to you, the amazing, superfantastic, uber-hero: EL PREGGO.

skeptical? allow mr nice guy to run through the checklist comprising every superhero's key characteristics and then match that list up with mrs nice guy's own manifold traits. see if you can still avoid the unavoidable conclusion.

• extraordinary powers? check: El Preggo's sense of smell rivals the olfaction of wild canines, which can detect odors at concentrations nearly 100 million times lower than us mere mortals.
• an achilles' heel? check: with great power comes great vulnerability. or something. although El Preggo can outsniff the australian dingo, that same sense of smell has been known to act as her kryptonite, if you will. the strongest of scents (garlic, mr nice guy's laundry) have been known to paralyze her, render her unstable and even invoke nausea.
• mystical abilities? check: fortunately for El Preggo, she has been able to turn her nausea into an asset! almost impossible to defeat, El Preggo will strike just when you think she is at her weakest. her mystical ability? why, it's targeted projectile vomition. or, as her nemesis has dubbed it, "the bazooka barf."
• a nemesis with whom she must regularly do battle? check: you're looking at him.
• a flamboyant, distinctive look? check: have you see that bulging belly? like Superman's cape and Wonderwoman's golden lariat (mmmm, tie me up and make me tell you the truth, Wonderwo -- uh, sorry, that was a typo), the Preggo Paunch is this superhero's dead giveaway.
• advanced technology? check: sonograms, vitamin cream, breast pumps (well not yet anyway, but a dude can still dream)
• secret identity? check: sewn by a tribe of unpaid tibetan teenagers that form a secret cabal known as GAP Maternity, El Preggo's belly bulge is concealed in civilian life, where she whiles away her time as a mild-mannered management consultant -- the perfect foil because no one has any idea what that is!

the best part? her origin story! many is the moment when mr nice guy looks back fondly upon the very moment mrs nice guy mystically transmogrified into El Preggo. people should really do that more often.

UPDATE: how silly of me! i forgot the best part: the sidekick. who, you might ask, is El Preggo's sidekick? why, of course, it's SquidKid, and it lives inside her! SquidKid's special power? it kicks! no kidney, bladder or abdominal lining is safe from the powerful kicks administered by El Preggo's fearsome and nimble-footed friend.

be it so resolved

happy new year, dear readers. apparently you exist. sure, there are only 8 of you, but that makes it easier for me to love you all. aww.

so. to business. what have we resolved in this newest of new years? 2005. the future is now. bring. it. on.

GIVEN that mr nice guy is one handsome gentleman with solid moves on the dancefloor and ...
GIVEN that mrs nice guy is a STONE FOX and ...
GIVEN that everyone we know is basically healthy (physically, at least), well-meaning, gainfully employed, in awe of me and the astonishing potency of my seed and ...
GIVEN that mrs nice guy is some 21 weeks preggers (she went THREE FULL DAYS without puking ... until this morning. a new record) and our child will clearly be better than everyone else's ever ...
BE IT SO RESOLVED that in this new year we will try not to be unbearably smug about our remarkable good looks fortune and ...
BE IT ALSO RESOLVED that in this new year we will gratefully accept as our special burden the piles of cash and gifts and cash that you will all be sending to us at the nice guy world headquarters in brooklyn, new york.

may all your dreams come true this year. (except for that one with the monkeys, spatulas and easy cheese. that's a dream no one needs to know about.)