We have two cats: Kitty 3, and José. Kitty 3 was, obviously, preceded by Kitty 2, who passed away in a tragic accident involving her digestive system and a foreign object. Kitty 2 was the successor of Kitty 1, who moved to the Northwestern United States to start a grunge band. José was so named because my wife refused to use the name “Kitty” again. And so did I: it is much too feminine for a man such as José.

José is a Champion Hunter. Grasshoppers, mice, string, air: these are no match for his Cat Grip of Death. When José hunts he crouches into Attack Position, his body lying as flat as possible to the ground, and his tail waving wildly behind him, ready to transfer its energy forward at the Moment Of Pounce. And when he catches his prey, he immediately releases it, so that he can catch it again. This is the accepted system among cats. It’s like Catch and Release fishing, except over and over again. And there’s eating at the end.

Kitty, on the other hand, has been known to spend entire seasons lying on her stomach. The bulk of her day consists of sleeping on the couch, where she keeps a substantial backup of her hair in case she should lose it all. She periodically gets up from the couch to scratch her way through the blinds and get up next to the window. My theory is that she’s checking to see what time it is, or what year it is, and if she has missed any significant world events. Typically, she has not. She then resumes lying on her stomach.

She wasn’t always this way. Kitty decided it was time to grow up and get lazy when we brought home José, who is about a year her junior. He had much more energy, and not the kind that you want to bottle and sell as an alternative fuel source. It is the annoying kind of energy that, when he is scratching at your bed at three-thirty in the morning, makes you want to grab him by the tail and strap him to the mailbox with a sock full of catnip in his mouth.

And he is always ready for affection. José will never refuse your touch, and even when he bites you, it’s that warmhearted kind of bite that says: “I love you enough to draw blood.” Kitty, however, has determined very specific times during the year when we are allowed to touch her, but does not tell us when they are. We have to guess. If we choose correctly, she is warm, and loving, and cuddly. If we are wrong, she will slink and bend into unimaginable shapes so as not to come in contact with your hand, as if it is infested with a contagious disease known in cat circles to attract fleas and dampen the shine of one’s fir. I would never, in a million years, suggest that this has anything to do with her gender.

Both José and Kitty 3 have their quirks, like any of us do. But it’s hard for us not to love them. They are an important part of our lives, and of our happiness. Even now José is cuddled up next to me, and I can’t help but think how loving, tender, and delightfully sedated he is, and how I have to go lock him on the other side of the house before his Valium wears off.

I’m speaking, of course, about my daughter, Naomi, who was born on Friday, July 11, at approximately one o’clock in the morning, when my typical activity is to not be awake.

Lyndsay’s labor began early Thursday morning when she awoke to some mild contractions, and by that afternoon we were in the hospital. We have heard childbirth stories wherein women are screaming and swearing and biting off their partner’s extremities, but Lyndsay is generally reserved, and would never do anything to draw attention to herself. She carried this same attitude while giving birth to Naomi, and until the more difficult end, appeared to be only mildly uncomfortable, as though she would have felt better with some Saltines, 7-UP, and an ibuprofen.

But it was still no picnic in the park. I am sure someone has thought of this before me, but if we really want to rely on abstinence programs to impress upon our young people the importance of sexual responsibility, and if we really want to prevent teenage pregnancy, then what we need to include in our curricula are live births. And I don’t mean on video. I mean field trips to the delivery room. No young woman in her right mind would witness a child being born, and then think, “Sign me up!”

I will admit that even the thought of my child entering the world made me start to cry while we were waiting for her to appear. When it actually happened–when my daughter actually appeared in the open air–I found myself weeping with happiness that I could now hold her, that I could look her in the eyes, that I could touch her little fingers, that I could hold her close to my face, and that my wife could drink alcohol again.

But Lyndsay’s diet is not the only thing that’s changed. Rather than using our dirty clothes hamper, we transfer clothes directly to the washing machine, which is constantly running. It is full of clothes, and sheets, and things called “burp cloths,” which are pieces of military-grade protective material meant to guard the baby-carrier from projectile spit. Plus, they are so cute.

Our sleep habits have changed, albeit not drastically since Naomi is such a great sleeper. Still, newborn babies need to be fed every few hours, which means that Lyndsay is up a lot, and I am cheering her on from my pillow with encouraging phrases, such as: “Lemeknowifuneedhelpwifsumfin.”

As a first-time parent, you become concerned about every peep your child makes while she is sleeping. There is a gurgle, and then a sharp inhale, and then some type of noise that sounds like she is doing aerobics. You wonder, “Can she breathe? Is she uncomfortable?” And you find yourself peeking into her crib every few minutes to make sure she is OK. And then, when there is silence, you peek into her crib because you’re concerned that she’s not making any noise.

The amount of diaper-changing I have been participating in has majorly increased, which is not as bad as it sounds, thanks to a contraption called the Diaper Genie. The Diaper Genie is a trash-can-looking container that houses dirty diapers in a smell-proof fashion until such a time as it is full, and then you waltz away, hoping someone else will change the bag. Changing the diaper is also a special bonding time between Parent and Baby, with special bonding activities such as getting the new diaper on before Baby can emit new bodily functions.

But the most significant change in my life is that there is a whole new person to think about. Taking care of Lyndsay and myself was a fairly simple task, and the cats ask only for food and some furniture to destroy. Now a brand new human is relying on us for nourishment, shelter, comfort, and waste disposal. I suppose that, for a baby, Naomi is fairly low maintenance, and I am convinced that when she does cry, which is not often, it is not really for Baby-related reasons, but about real issues that concern her, like the environment, and the corruption of politics. I know this because of the furrowed brow she wears that says, “This is a difficult world we live in, Dad.”

And she’s right. But it’s a lot better now that she’s here.

There was a day when we spent our waking hours pouring over guest lists, color selections, flower arrangements, table settings, reception locations, photography, music, linens, and varieties of pasta. In reality, Lyndsay–my wife–spent her waking hours pouring over these things, while I took on the role of the Traditional Groom, which is: to do almost nothing. But don’t get me wrong, I was an active participant in our pre-nuptial preparations. I did every single thing that was asked of me. I attended all significant wedding-related functions, including meeting the caterer, who–by the way–served us an excellent lunch during our meeting.

CATERER: Cory, what would you like to dip in the chocolate fountain?
CORY WITH MOUTH FULL: ISS iza good tookey sanwich!

But, honestly, when it came down to it, on the day of our wedding ceremony my primary objective was: to shave. And even that wasn’t so bad because Lyndsay let me keep a little facial scruff. Partially because it makes me look manly, but primarily because without it, I resemble a twelve-year-old. I had to show up and look good, because that is what is asked of the Groom.

My point is that the bulk of wedding preparations do not tend to fall upon those of us with the Y-Chromosome. But don’t think we’re not willing! No: we will help design the programs. We will gather mailing addresses from our friends and family. We will tell you which color we prefer as soon as we’re sure it is the same color you prefer. We will–with fervor–choose between the chicken or the steak. But the truth is that our masculine brains do not possess the capacity to deal with the amount of detail involved in putting a wedding together. This is why Lyndsay is the default Administrator of our household. Not because I don’t care about the day-to-day details of our lives, but because I forget to pay attention to the necessary elements of our existence, like getting smog checks for the cars, paying bills, cleaning dishes, and personal hygiene. “Did you brush your teeth today?” is a common question in our home.

Weddings take a lot of work. And while so many people will refer to your Wedding Day as “The Happiest Day Of Your Life,” the actual Happiest Day is probably the next day, when the wedding is over and you are married. Yesterday you became legally wed. The event was wonderful and perfect. You looked good, the music was on time, and even the mistakes were enjoyable. For example, the fact that you couldn’t–even with the help of three other people–light the unity candle, only served to lighten the mood, and should not be taken as a foreshadowing of any future disunity, if you catch my drift.

Your friends were there, and they were happy for you. You saw people you hadn’t seen in years, eager to embrace you and your spouse. Your extended family members, whom you had never met, were there, and they brought you gifts! Your parents were there, wiping tears of joy, and discussing the appropriate time to ask about grandchildren.

The food was plenty, the wine was good, and you dipped bananas and apple slices in the chocolate fountain. If anything went wrong at all, it didn’t really matter, because Yesterday was a very Happy Day.

But Today is even better because you are eating Eggs Benedict and you are alone with your new spouse in a new, and possibly Very Remote Location, just enjoying being with one another. There is no wedding to plan, no invitations to send out, no relatives to please, and no major discussion to have beyond where to eat lunch, and if they have quality beer on tap. Today, even in the midst of your stressful travels, you will be reveling in the glory of your marriage. So embrace your new spouse with the kiss of a passionate lover! And remember to brush your teeth.

This week a nice man named Antonio came to install satellite television service in our home. This is the first time we have been subscribers to more than just your run-of-the-mill rabbit-ear stations. We now have the full-blown “Choice Extra Grande Premium” package of channels with extra whipped cream, so there is no longer an excuse to devote our time to meaningless tasks, such as reading, or bathing.

Antonio came to our rescue, providing us with the little black box of entertainment that now sits atop our television, and a satellite dish, now attached to the outside of our home, receiving signals from Star Command, beaming in episodes of the police drama Law & Order twenty-four hours a day.

We finally caved in to subscribing to a television provider because my wife and I are going to need something to do when our impending child wakes us up every forty-five seconds during the night. Now that we have satellite service, whenever the baby wakes us up, we can hop on the couch and watch Law & Order, Law & Order: SVU, Law & Order: Criminal Intent, or Law & Order: Prehistoric Times.

Our fear, however, is that we’re going to become addicted to the television. There are only a few shows we watch regularly, over at my in-law’s home, but now that we have our own service we may find ourselves in front of the television more often. The first day we were pretty responsible. I got a lot of cleaning and yard work done, regardless of the fact that I now have HUNDREDS OF CHANNELS WORTH OF ENTERTAINMENT available at my fingertips!

We did watch a little bit of the Olympic Trials, several minutes of Comedy Central, and part of an episode of Star Trek: The Original Series. And let me tell you: it was a marvelous feeling to come inside after mowing the lawn, open a beverage, and sit down on the couch to an episode of Law & Order: The Musical.

For the most part, I think we will be immune to the siren call of our TV. That is, if we can escape the clutches of the dreaded Food Network. The Food Network is made up of various spunky food-related personalities who host instructive cooking demonstrations, and get really excited about “arugula.” You will want to eat what they cook on the Food Network. But you can’t afford their ingredients. Not when you’re paying for satellite television.

I think we’re excited about our new investment. Our child will surely benefit from this nation’s wealth of televised education in the form of puppets, and the TV will be a great way to do “research” so that, as a Youth Director, I can stay familiar with our “culture.” I will never again miss out on great cultural achievements such as American Idol, or Law & Order: On Ice! But when it comes down to it, the television will have to stay on the back burner. I have other things to worry about. My arugula is burning.

Putting the crib together is a major step in what is called “Nesting.” This is the part of pregnancy wherein the expectant mother instinctually prepares her home for the arrival of her forthcoming child, becoming obsessed with cleaning, and rearranging, and building a refuge in which to hide her eggs. Fortunately for me, my wife’s nesting has been limited, and there has been no sign of twigs or branches in the house (I can’t say for sure what she’s been doing outdoors).

The crib was generously purchased for us by my in-laws, who generously dropped it off at our house so they could sit at home and generously laugh about us putting it together ourselves. If you have ever put together a baby’s crib you know what I’m talking about. The instructions start out with the disclaimer “Pictures May Differ From Your Model” which means that there is one set of directions for every crib in the universe that has been carefully crafted by Baby Pranksters and inserted into each box. So Dads, for your convenience, here is my fool-proof plan for putting together your new crib:

1. Collect these items: Crib Parts, Screwdriver, Allen Wrench, Telephone, Encyclopedia.
2. Take a break.
3. Using the telephone, call someone to come and do it for you.

You may not need to call for help if your wife is around, and she is not too busy gathering tree limbs. She will be able to hold up Headboard Q5 while you insert Side Rail A1 into Post B7, so that you can screw Bolt HB2 into Pre-Drilled Hole XY, which Doesn’t Fit $&#@! But eventually it will all come together, and you’ll be proud as you step back and take a look at your baby’s new crib, which may be slightly shorter on one side (Hint: Use the Encyclopedia as a prop).

But there is nothing to worry about! Right now you may be floundering in your Bathtub of Expectations, getting the Suds of Unpreparedness in your eyes, all while trying to unclog the Drain of Self Doubt, which is full of the foliage your wife keeps bringing into the house. But trust me, everything is about to change. Or so I am told.

To the students.

In the name of God our Father and of his Son, Jesus Christ, who is totally awesome: Peace be with you. I just want to tell you that God is totally cool and so is His son Jesus. He like, died for you. And that’s good, because sin is bad.

I want to encourage you to be “on fire” for God. Doesn’t that sound good? Actually, it is more fun, and less painful than it sounds. When you’re on fire for God, your life will be better. Seriously. Trust me. I went to Bible School.

When you’re on fire for God, you can do awesome things like evangelize to your friends and family, and share with them scriptures that that made you feel really good in your morning devotional, regardless of the context. Not only that, but the way you live will show others that you’re on fire for God (Idea: Hold a Bible Study at lunch, or join the Young Republicans).

Think about making friends with a Mormon or a Muslim. Not as a real friend, you know, but like as a Mission Project.

Be sure you are listening to the right music. There is a lot of good Christian music out there. Sure, there is a lot of bad Christian music too, but let’s be honest: bad Christian music is better than good Secular music! Besides, most of those secular musicians drink and smoke (bad). Some of them even have tattoos.

Speaking of music, worship is a very important part of being on fire for God. Just be sure that you raise your hands, and close your eyes, and look very concerned when you are singing. This shows God that you are serious about worshiping Him.

When you’re on fire for God we’ll do awesome things together like take a mission trip to Mexico, the Official Mission Trip of Christians. We will build a house there, and we will change your life! You will learn that there are people in the world who don’t even have iPods! You will learn to be thankful for what you have, and not complain anymore. You’ll also learn not to worry about what you look like because we won’t take any showers. You will come back a different person, and that is what it’s all about. Also, a nice side effect of our trip is that someone will get a house.

When you graduate from high school you should think about going to one of those awesome Christian Universities. I went to one of those. There are a lot of Christians there, and they pray in class, which they don’t allow in public school anymore, and that’s why the world is falling apart. At a Christian School you can learn to be a Missionary, or a Pastor, or a Youth Pastor like me. You’ll learn how to get people fired up for God, just like you! You may also hear about something called Theology.

In the name of Jesus, I pray that you are excited about your faith, and that you are coming to the Lock-In on Friday night! Grace and Peace to you. Amen.

If you have been watching the news or listening to the radio or if you have been awake for the last few weeks you’ve probably heard that we are in an Economic Crisis. The value of everything is on the rise. Everything except your home, the price of which is inversely proportional to the rising cost of gasoline, as shown in this detailed graph:

As you might already know, the value of a given commodity is determined by something called the Law of Supply and Demand, which states that if someone Supplies something you don’t have, they will Demand money from you if you want to get it. This proves to be especially harsh on our economy. On top of that our stock market is driven by fear, speculation, and–as recent studies show–the gravitational pull of the moon. If Investor A is afraid his shares in Company B are going to lose value, he sells them. As a result the shares lose value, and Company B plummets into oblivion until it is bailed out by the U.S. Government.

Fortunately, I have given the matter of the Economy a lot of thought while I shower in the morning, and I have a plan: My plan is that we all–as a Global Community–agree to lower the cost of everything (oil, rice, labor, beer, etc.) by 23%. I chose this number based on a very technical algorithm and the fact that I was born on December 23rd.

How will this work? Let’s say you are a taxi driver, and you lower your price of your fare by 23%. How will you manage to pay for gas? No problem! The price of gas just went down 23%!

As you can see from this example, my Twenty-Three Percent Plan is fool-proof. If we work this right we could eventually bring our costs down so far that we will have resorted to the Barter System which is something my friend, Travis, and I have been advocating for years, largely because we do not have any money. I am somewhat confident that my Solution will possibly come close to fixing our High Cost Crisis. But we will never know until we try. And so I leave it in your hands, World. I have some vegetables to can.

I know this because at various intervals throughout each day the cassette player will launch into some kind of process that sounds as if Satan’s Little Helper is in there constructing his custom home. He doesn’t even have a permit. Not only that, but the volume knob occasionally decides that clockwise means softer, and counter-clockwise means LOUD AS POSSIBLE., which–as you may know–is in direct violation of the Law of Volume Control.

The car runs fine, but the noises are getting annoying to deal with everyday, and it’s not exactly what we’d like to be driving, and we are assuming that trading the car in would be easier or less frightening than holding an exorcism.

That means we may be looking for a different car. The last time we bought a car we wound up at a man’s home here in Modesto to take a look at his Honda. When we arrived he was wearing a shirt with the “Burning Man” logo. Burning Man is an annual event exploring vital aspects of Humanity such as Community, Self-Expression, and Naked Wrestling. This takes place in Nevada, if you hadn’t already guessed. Burning Man derives its name from their Saturday Night tradition of–this is true–burning a wooden effigy.

Anyway, I made mention of the shirt and asked him if he had attended the event. “Yes,” he said. “I’m The Titty Man.”

Yes, that’s right: He was The Titty Man. He said this with the same tone you might use to comment on the weather, as if I should be familiar with him; as if I should have said, “Oh Yes! Of Course! The Titty Man!” When we got home I did a little research into Burning Man, and you do NOT want me to explain to you what is involved in being The Titty Man. After leaving his home, I couldn’t even recall his real name, and it was very uncomfortable to have to put his number into my cell phone under “Titty Man”.

We did like his car. We chose not to buy it, but opted instead to purchase from a licensed individual reseller who happened to be a Vietnamese refugee by the traditional Vietnamese name of “Tom”. We still own this car. The one that is possessed.

Buying something is typically a simple process. Let’s say, for example, you find a pair of shoes you like. You try them on; walk around in them; push down on the front to see how much space there is in case your foot grows two inches longer in the next year; stare at them in the mirror while they are on your feet; and then take them to the register to find that they cost three hundred dollars. You spit on the counter in disgust, and then storm out the door. Simple.

No so with cars. Buying a car means always having to deal with someone. While I consider myself a “people person” I don’t like being in a situation where someone is trying to sell me something. I become extremely skeptical, and how do you trust someone who voluntarily refers to himself as The Titty Man?

I also have to pretend that I know what I’m talking about. This is part of the Male Job Description, specifically when it comes to vehicles. When my wife and I went to check out The Titty Man’s Honda I walked forcefully around it and checked underneath the hood in order to nod approvingly at the hoses and tubes. The result of my inspection was, if I remember correctly, that it looked “like a cool car.” This is typically the point when I call my father, who will give me a list of actual questions to ask about actual car parts.

So, as I mentioned before, we bought a car fully loaded with a CD Player, a Sun Roof, and an Irish Spirit of Impending Death. And since I can’t bring myself to either fix our car, or venture into the outside world to find a new one, I will continue to wake the neighbors every morning with the piercing noises that echo from under my hood, and to shake my fist in anger at Satan’s underling inside my cassette player. I will do this until my car disintegrates back into the dust of th earth, and we will have no choice but to call up The Titty Man.

Rollerblades: Also an option.