Dillon

At 3:44 this morning, this child turned 17:



He is the child that most people only ever dream about. As a baby, he rarely cried. He happily sat, wherever I put him, smiling and gazing about the room. He chewed on the cat's ear, he played with his toys, he just laid down and slept whenever he got tired. He didn't fight with other kids. If someone else wanted the Lego he was playing with, he just gave it to them. He never bit or pinched or hit. He was a diplomat in school and always got excellent grades. He adores his little sister and treats her like a princess. He comes home at curfew, calls whenever he heads somewhere unexpected, and admits to his mistakes. He likes Classic Rock and animals, his long hair and retro fashions. He is an artist and a scholar. He has an incredible sense of humor and is handsome to boot. For seventeen years he has been the light of my life. I am so, so grateful for the mistakes and choices that led me to become his mother and the strength and support to remain so.




He and "Elaine" at his Birthday Dinner.








With his Frank Sinatra t-shirt...








And his new nutcracker.

Drama, Defined.

This will have to be a Double-Entry night. I have something Very Important to say later, but first, an update on the Drama: (and proof that nothing is ever as Simple as it seems....)

If you prefer not to read an update, that is ok with me, just click on that "Next Blog" button in the top right corner and hope you don't land on porn...

(Or hope that you DO! Whatever.)

So. On Christmas Afternoon, Jeff, Singing-Lisa, Torrey, Rachelle & Scott were here at the house and we were drinking, eating, and checking out our new presents when we noticed flashing emergency lights through my grandma-sheers in the front window. I was immediately concerned that Joe, our 70-year-old neighbor had had another heart attack and ran to the front door to check on him. He was ok. He and his wife, Phyllis, were actually sitting in their car, in front of our house after returning from lunch and on their way over here for a visit. Turns out that the paramedics were aimed at the townhouse on the corner, 3 down from mine, where Laura (who had cataract surgery on the 6th) and Al live. Phyllis went and checked out the situation and found that Laura had found Al unconscious on the kitchen floor. She refused to go to the hospital and they took him on in. Unfortunate, but not really a surprise, as Al is 88-years-old. And not exactly spry.

That evening, Phyllis and Joe went over to take Laura to the hospital but she couldn't function well enough to even put her pants on and stand up straight. When she fell back on the bed, Phyllis called 911. They came, took Laura off in her own ambulance, and we were worried, but glad they were both in the care of Trained Medical Professionals. Around 11:30 that night, I noticed a taxi out front and figured, correctly, that the hospital had released her.

The next night, Monday night, Mac noticed the emergency lights again through the Grandma-Curtains. I just couldn't stand it. I had to know that she was ok. So I wandered on out. (This is what Candi calls "Knocking on Drama's door".) The paramedic-lady said that Laura had called 911 but they couldn't get in, did we know anyone who had a key? (No.) They had to break in the back door. Literally. They also didn't know that the paramedics had been there twice the day before or that she had fallen last Wednesday and Al had knocked on my door asking me to pick her up. She told the 911 operator that she had fallen and hurt her back, but when the paramedics checked her out, they decided she was ok and left her home*.

I went to work Tuesday morning and hoped she was ok. But by Wednesday, when I noticed that her car hadn't appeared to move and it didn't seem as though anyone was visiting her, I knocked on her door. She called from upstairs to come in, so I did.

I don't know Laura well, just enough to say, "Hi" and "What a lovely afternoon it is" in passing, but she was clearly not taking care of herself and I wasn't even sure that she was capable. She was crying and her eyes wouldn't stay open and there was a hole in her back door. I told her I would bring Tater back to fix her door and bring her some chicken and rice for dinner. I did and he did and she threw up. Apparently, not eating for 4 days and then eating my chicken, rice and peas is not good for the stomach. While I was there I also noticed an open bottle of Brut on her nightstand. Whatever. I might need a drink or so after the week she had too! Phyllis came over and we got her next of kin (none) and Al's (2 ancient sisters and a niece in Massachusetts), and a set of keys for each of us. I called the hospital and talked to Nurse Hazel who gave me Al's bedside number so Laura could call him.

But then, things got complicated. Phyllis took her vomit-y clothes home to wash them and found a receipt from the supermarket dated that day at 2:30pm, for $12 worth of champagne. No food, just liquor. That little shit! She told us she hadn't left the house. When I went back to her house later that night, the bottle was gone and I found 4 caps in her trash.

Apparently she's an alcoholic to boot. It explains a few things.

So today it's Friday. Al's niece has called me several times each day since Wednesday (she's concerned about Al, and Laura, and Laura's ability to care for him when he leaves the Rehabilitation Hospital, and Laura's "sobriety". Hmmm. She's called Social Services to evaluate the situation.) , checked on Laura several times a day, and took her to the hospital today. For the last 2 days she has been lucid and bright eyed and more steady on her feet.

I feel good about her being alone now, but I'm not convinced that she shouldn't be in an Assisted Living center. I even asked her about it. She doesn't want to do it. She and Al aren't married and they won't be allowed to live together in a home.

I've done what I can. I'll continue to check on her and keep an eye out for flashing red lights, but I'm glad the week is over and hope that things are returning to what we call "Normal".

*I now believe that she was actually drunk, as she doesn't remember either of the last 2 ambulances coming.

And We're Back To the Drama...

There's been Drama here on Geriatric Court and I'm smack dab in the middle of it. Only because I was the only one brave...(stupid?)...enough on Monday to go find out why elderly Mrs. M had yet a third ambulance in front of her house in two days. Thank God I did, because she needed help. I can't explain now - I have to go to bed and tomorrow after work I have to take her to the hospital to visit her 88 year-old boyfriend who has had a stroke. She hasn't seen him since she found him lying on the kitchen floor on Christmas Day. :(

Do I find the Drama.......Or does the Drama find me?

I'll try to update this weekend.

P

Christmas Wrap Up

What an Excellent Holiday!

Christmas Eve, Scientist-Lisa, Dr. Tim, Kirsten and Emma came for the afternoon. They stayed for dinner and met Scott, Rachelle, and Torrey and we had a really great time eating lasagna, having some Christmas Cheer, and connecting with long-lost "family". Scott, Rachelle and Torrey woke up with us on Christmas morning and we had the best time laughing and opening presents... Later in the day, Singing-Lisa and Jeff came over for some Christmas Gumbo and then our neighbors, Joe and Phyllis, stopped by with some Drunken Carrot Cake to share.

Clearly, The Girls had a happy, happy Christmas Day. This is Me, Rachelle & Singing-Lisa enjoying a very spirited Apple-tini. We had Cosmo's too. Get it? Green & Red?







Dillon got a new tie to go with his new suit.










And they both got new Nano's. Black for D, White for Mac. Thank you, Wago!







I also got a new Canon Rebel camera, which I adore! So we have our Christmas photos spread out among 3 different cameras this year. It will take me a while to round them all up.

A Doubly Merry Christmas

Dude. I realize that I said yesterday that I thought Rachelle was the best present a girl could get, but that was before this:





Yup, that's a Flamingo Cookie Jar.

A cookie jar that's shaped like a Flamingo. How awesome is that?!?! I got it from Beth. This is Beth and I at my office Christmas Party (and that's my bra you can see on my right boob):



She's my boss. But not really a boss because bosses are horrible and not your friend and I really, really like her and she covered my back twice this week when I got busted for not being a very good secretary (key word: "secretary"). She's a lot of fun and we get along great and I like to hang out with her even after work.

And she knows I love flamingos. So she ordered me that flamingo for Christmas. And it made me laugh really, really hard. And Dillon and Mackenzie cracked up and then told me I need to make cookies. But now I'm a Working Mom so I think I'll buy some.

I got her socks. Because she needed them. They are stripey and fun (though still muted so as not to scare her off too quickly). She always wears very boring, pedestrian (huh! that was like a pun!) socks and not fun, polka-dotty, stripey, match your sweater socks. I didn't buy her the orange or red or pink ones I wanted to, but stuck with the brown and black and gray that will ease her into the super-fun world of exciting socks verrrry slowly. And then she will see how much her spirit is improved by the super-fun socks and want to wear them all the time. And she will thank me.

The Best Christmas Present Ever

This is Rachelle, Torrey, Mackenzie and I.

We are at Disney Sea in Tokyo about a year and a half ago. Just before Mackenzie and I moved. And we cried. From 2000-2005, we saw each other almost every single day. We lived 2 blocks away from each other and were both spouseless most of our time in Japan. Rachelle and I would drop the girls off at school and then go to the gym and run, lift, bike, or do yoga. You'd think we would have been beanpoles for as much as we worked out, but we also liked to eat (and enjoy a frosty beverage on occasion(s)) and sabotaged ourselves within hours of burning all those calories. We haven't seen them in 17 months and miss them terribly. It was a horrible shock to be ripped away from them cold-turkey like that.

BUT!!!

They will be here in less than 48 hours!! They are on leave (with Scott, the Dad) to househunt in Pax River where they will be stationed next, only about an hour and 15 minutes away. Fate has been good to me this tour.

They will be staying here with us for Christmas. From the 23rd through the 26th.

I had wished for a camera, but Torrey and Rachelle are the best Christmas present I could have asked for.

Done!

We have 364 days to prepare for this holiday. Why is it that we run around like whack-jobs the last week before it arrives? I could forgo sleep for the next 5 days and still not be ready. So now I'm to the crossing-off portion of my to-do list...

Dust
Mop
Cook
Vacuum
Buy Vodka

See? I'm almost done now.

Parties and Concerts and Travels, Oh My!

What a full weekend!

Friday night was my office party. (Who woulda thunk?!?!) I give Tater two thumbs up for going, though he knew only one other girl there besides me. He seems to have held his own, though and didn't look bored the entire evening. We were home before midnight, and I think the Japanese Party Gods all said a prayer in quiet disappointment.

Saturday morning there was no sleeping in for teenagers at my house. Dillon had a dental appointment at 10, we had to be dressed... (Mackenzie in a dress:)



...packed, and at Jeff and Lisa's by 12:30 and to the Kennedy Center by 1:30. The kids and I went with Jeff to a Christmas Concert that Lisa was singing in and I really, truly, enjoyed myself. There was no "Winter Wonderland", "Jingle Bells", or for Lord's sake, "Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer". It was all pretty high-brow, which, I in general, try to avoid at all costs. But nonetheless, whether sung in French, Latin, or Spanish, the music was beautiful and the singing jaw-droppingly impressive. (Check me out, like I'm writing a critique for The Post...)

We left the Kennedy Center and headed straight for Frederick, Maryland, to spend the night with friends whom (who? - damn, The Post's not going to like THAT!) we hadn't seen in 6 years. I missed them so much and didn't realize how badly until we started jabbering away and poking through Antique Shops. Her name, not to further confuse my narrative, is also Lisa. I call her Scientist-Lisa and her husband's name is Dr. Tim (sort of). We met in San Diego, exactly the same way Rachelle and I met in Japan 6 years later*: For months, she and I stood outside the kindergarten waiting for Dillon and her daughter, Kirsten, and not saying a word to each other. Finally, one day one of us spit something out and became fast friends. Dillon and Kirsten got along beautifully. They had many of the same interest, the same temperament, and even looked alike. They still do:



In San Diego we spent holidays, birthdays, and many, many other days together shopping, playing on the beach, going to the pumpkin patch, out to dinner, in for margaritas, and in general, finding fun wherever it was to be had. And then they moved to Portland, we moved to Japan, and neither one of us is any good at keeping in touch. We probably could have lost touch with each other, but as Fate would have it, they moved to Frederick about 2 years ago, only 50 miles from where we landed for this tour. I plan to get busy and fit 6 or more years into the next 2 so as to stock up for the next tour to God-Knows-Where.

When we got home, it was 5:30 Sunday night and the weekend was over. But what an excellent weekend it was.

*Rachelle and I stood outside Mac's kindergarten waiting for Mac and her daughter Torrey for months as well, before saying the first word to each other. But once we started, we didn't shut up for almost 4 years.

In Case You Were Wondering...

Yesterday the subject was STD's. And as far as Mackenzie is concerned, they might as well have been talking about Metaphysical Astrophysics for all it pertained to her. When I picked her up from school (because you know we have all our most profound discussions in the car) I asked her how they enlightened her today and she said, "We talked about STD's and you know, how you only get them from (insert eye-rolling, as if she will never stoop) intercourse."

"Do you have any questions?"

"Well, I didn't really get what AIDS was but I know you can't get it from kissing or toilet seats or sharing food. And the dog can't get it (WHY this is relevant, I certainly don't know, but I do think it probably depends on your usage of said dog)."

So I filled her in.

"It sounds like HIV."

And the 3-point-shot goes to Noodle, who pays attention in Sex Class!

(THAT'S my girl.)

(And NO, Annie, I haven't filled her in on "Fred" yet. But there's time.... I won't let her down.)

:)

For Annie:

Direct quote from HRH Mackenzie:

"Creepy people collect elephants."

Sibling Rivalry. With Growling.

We don't have sibling rivalry at my house. What do a 16-year-old man-boy and a 10-year-old girl have to rival about? They have different interests (except for movies, music and X-Box), different friends, different clothes, and different schedules. They have no issues.

I can not say the same for the dog.

Mackenzie has always been my shadow. As an infant & toddler, she freaked when I left the room. I was the only one who could push the grocery cart. We didn't think she would ever go to kindergarten*, and likewise for college. She follows me around the house - it would be blasphemy for me to get up right now and go get on the computer in the basement without telling her where "we" were going. She sits smack-dab right next to me when we watch TV. Until she gets up. Then Taiko swoops right in and lays in her spot.

Every Single Time.

And it makes her Crazy! Last night she got up twice within 3 minutes and both times he just nonchalantly got up and curled up right next to me in her spot like he'd been there all along. Then when she went to move him, he growled at her like, "How do you have the NERVE to move me while I'm RESTING?!?!"

She was 5 when we got him. It's 5 years later and now at 5 and 10 they have yet to find a peaceful coexistence. For the first year or so we had Taiko, he was unwilling to accept that she outranked him in the pack. We had to do some serious re-booting of his hardware before she gained the upper hand. Now, on the surface, he seems to accept that she's Alpha, but in an incredibly nefarious way he lets her know that she's dogmeat to him.

From the moment we got Taiko for Dillon & Mac, he was my dog. I picked him up while the kids were at school. He sat on my lap the whole way home and hasn't left my side since. And I gotta tell you, it's getting a little crowded in my immediate vicinity, a frequent complaint from the Dad. When I leave the room, Taiko follows me. When I go to bed, so does he. If I'm sitting on the couch and I even act like I might be getting up, he jumps off and twirls around waiting to see what exciting thing we're going to do next. Though he has, in his middle years, stopped following me into the bathroom. I guess he finally figured out that there's only one way in and out of there and he's quite safe to just guard the door. Quite frankly, he's the worst present the kids have ever gotten.

Hmmm... Follow me on this tangent if you're not doing anything else...which you're clearly not, if you've got nothing better to do than listen to me go on, and on, and on... She's got 7 1/2 years left before she's off to college. In 7 1/2 years, Taiko will be 13. Approximately the life expectancy for a 14-pound spaniel. Fall of 2013 is going to suck to be me big-time.

Anyway, they live together in this house, each tolerating the other while just under the surface, is a smoldering desire to push the other out of the pack. Thankful that the dog doesn't have the vocal cords to yell at her, or the coordination to stand on his hind legs and stomp out of the room while slamming a door in her face, I will just sit here and silently referee the nightly battle for my personal space.

And enjoy it while I can.

*She did go without a single tear. Can't say so for myself...

Things That Can Get Me Dooced

So I'm sitting at my desk today and about 11:30 my coworker comes strolling in with a huge smile on his face. He grabs 2 cups and starts filling one for me.

With Eggnog. His own recipe of "Puerto Rican Eggnog", complete with coconut extract and Rum. It's just he and I in the office (until a homeowner comes in and bothers me) so we had ourselves some Christmas Cheer for lunch. It was a good day. And I highly recommend a little rum to make a Customer Service Job more tolerable.

In case you are not as hip* as me: Dooced

(*Hip..Dorky...whatever.)

Continuing the Theme...

So somehow we ended up on the subject of Menstrual Flow. She's hoping to be a light-flower. I told her not to count on it, as she has half my DNA and I have historically had the cascade and duration of Niagara Falls. On the other hand, my sister had what we thought was the good fortune to have a 1-day, mini-pad controlling period. Until she was 19-years-old and a doctor discovered that she was hormonally challenged and informed her that she would never have children. And I was explaining to Mackenzie how even though my periods have been a complete ass-ache all my life, at least I had enough hormones surging through my body to mature and pop out an egg every month, thus increasing my chances at Motherhood.

So she took all this in then looked at me and said, "So that's why Auntie had 3 babies? She was stocking up?"

Menstruation and Conception 101

Well, Internet, we've reached that point in the story where I tell you about how my daughter is learning about "Human Growth and Development" in 5th grade.

Back in 1977 we just called it "The Talk". It was for an hour or two during one afternoon in the 5th grade. The boys all mysteriously disappeared and went to one classroom and us girls went to another where they covered the windows in the doors with black construction paper*, lowered the blinds, (engaged the Anti-Testosterone Shield) and showed us Puberty Films with cartoons for main characters who showed us to expect hair on our hoo-ha's and how to strap ourselves to a Sanitary Napkin Belt and ginormous pad with long floppy ties at each end that would prevent our knees from touching for one week every 28 days. We even got a Take-Home Sample Belt/Pad Combo. The pad alarmed us more than the inescapable purge of blood and tissue that was to happen in a few short months or years.

*I can only assume this was to keep sacred the Enigma of Woman from every hapless boy that chanced to be roaming the halls of Cumberland Elementary on that day. Knowing what I know now, I'm thinking they should have left off the construction paper and let the Male Enlightenment begin at that point.

I'm just sayin'.

Anyway.

In 2005, "The Talk" is now titled like a college course and I can only hope that more of today's 10-year-olds have at least an inkling of what's to come than some of my peers did back then (I can still see their eyes popping out of their heads and their mouths hanging open in horror). In 2005, it's a week-long special program, one hour per day devoted to their changing bodies and human reproduction. The school sends home "Conversational Worksheets" each night to help start a dialogue between parents and their children. (But really, I'm too busy for that so we just had a chat about it in the car yesterday between errands. Really. I'm so not joking.)

So far, the only dialogue that's started in my house is Mac passing me on the stairs and looking right at me, using her arms for emphasis and saying, "Everyone! Say it with me...NI-PPLE. NI-PPLE." Apparently, that's what she retained from yesterday's lesson.

It seems as though she hasn't been surprised by much as of yet. I'm guessing some of that comes from having a brother 6 years her senior, some of it because not much is off limits for discussion* in my home and the rest from our Alternative/Liberal/Questionable(?) Parenting Style. She probably got a pretty good start on the whole sex-knowledge-thing simply from watching "Friends" and some undeniably inappropriate rated R movies and asking me at 7-years-old what a condom was and where babies come from.

So I told her.

*I'm thinking about this and all I can think of that's been off limits is the Great Santa Claus Debate and Sado/Masochism (not that this would be general conversation around here... I do have some standards). Pretty much everything else though, is up for discussion...

Today they learned about the Miracle of Birth. According to her, no surprises there either. (And again, this conversation took place in the car. Really? At Christmas? They couldn't think of a better time to fit this in?)

(And just for the record, the Indiana public school system didn't think Reproduction was pertinent information until 8th grade. Conservative? Naive? Stupid?)

So. Bottom line. Either I'm doing a pretty good job keeping her in the know, or I need to up the allotment going to her Therapy Fund.

Whispers From the Train

I can hear the train at night. When all is still and I'm lying in my bed, just before I drift off, I hear it. And each time, it paints a picture in my head of my Grandma.

Her name was Mary Jo Murphy. She was born in 1919 and she was short and round. An Irish Catholic with black hair. Her fingernails were long and red and the nails on her forefingers curled under when they got too long, just like mine do. She liked to read and kept RC Cola in the house and made oyster stuffing for the holidays. She had a happy, happy smile, outlined in red, red lipstick. She collected angels and played Euchre and went to Mass every week. She raised ten children, including two sets of twins back-to-back, during the era before disposable diapers, TV, and evolved husbands. Behind her house on Kossuth Street, literally in her backyard, ran the railroad tracks. All night long, everyone in the house could hear the rumble of each train and feel the house tremble in it's passing, the windows rattling us awake. It bothered some of my cousins when we chanced to spend the night, but I loved hearing the whistle as it rolled through town and the chugga-chugga disappear into infinity.

She died in July of 1988. I was pregnant with Dillon and just starting to show. She had hoped it was twins and had faith that even at 21 I could handle it. She never saw my marriage fail, or my Purdue graduation; my children born or my new life with Chris. But I know that she knows. She tells me at night when everyone is asleep and it's just she and I. I doubt that my neighbors even notice the sounds, and to those who do, it's just a train headed to parts unknown. But to me, it's my Grandma reminding me that she's still here watching over me and she still loves me.

Damnit!

Just about the time I've worked myself into a good Mad, he came upstairs being all cute and charming and made me feel better.

My house is still a shitpile, I'm still not making dinner, and I'll still be up 'til the wee hours, but I'm not so pissy anymore.

Shit.

My house is a fucking disaster.

I'm serious. There is NOT ONE room that is clean.

And when I just mentioned it to my husband who does not clean and as a matter of fact, does a better job than the kids of creating a shitpile out of a home, I'm pretty sure he just suggested to me that the answer to my complaint is to "forgo sleep".

I am Flabberghasted. In Awe. Amazed. Horrified. Stunned. Saddened. Disappointed.

Me & Mini Decorate the Tree

Christmas is HERE! Mackenzie and I decorated the tree tonight. It made us happy. And it made our backs hurt. But mostly it made us Happy.

You would think this would be a family endevour. It wasn't. Dillon was up in his room doing homework, Tater was down in the basement allegedly writing a paper (though I heard the TV on Really, Really loud). So Noodle and I did it by ourselves. Just us. And they wonder why we act exactly alike...



Helper-Girl.















Before the ornaments went on...

This is a Real Tree. It's been 5 years since we've had one. And it was the first one Tater picked up in the Knights of Columbus lot. I told him we couldn't buy the first one we saw, but couldn't come up with a good enough argument as to why not.

So we bought it.





Project Complete!

Proof I'm a Dork. And Easily Distracted.

Ok. Its 9:40am and Chandler Bing just made me cry. That's not right.

Noodle and I are watching Season Ten of Friends. We missed the last 5 years due to stupid, stupid AFRTS (Google if you really have to know). When we moved to Japan they were about 3 years behind so we stopped tuning in. Next thing we knew, we got cable and they skipped forward like 5 years, past the seasons we missed, so we STILL couldn't watch it (I was busy anyway; I taught Hiroko English on Thursday nights).

So for the past couple of years we've been catching up via DVD. It's been fun, but a little bit scary how addicting it can be. Those episodes just keep coming and coming and before we know it, 2 or 3 hours gone.

But today Chandler and Monica got a baby.

(Oh my God - trying to concentrate at the topic at hand, but we've moved on to the episode where Danny DeVito is performing a strip tease for Phoebe. It is not pretty. He's swinging his hips and thrusting his groin. OH! She just made him cry!)

Really, I gotta go. I'm missing Phoebe's wedding rehearsal.

Yay... Wrestling!

I figured out tonight why my parents made me a golfer at a young age. They saw, ten years down the road, that if I was a golfer then I would compete in golf meets. Parents don't attend golf meets. You go, you play, you come home and tell them what you shot. There are no parents wandering around unfamiliar cities, wondering where the golf course is. There are no parents standing around before the meet, waiting for a busload of kids to show up so it can start. There are no parents following their kids down the fairway hanging onto every swing. It's a very low-parental-maintenance type of sport (just my kind...). Replace balls and tees every once and a while and you're good to go. Clubs last forever and gloves and spikes are optional. There are no sneakers to replace, cups, pads, swimsuits, helmets, gloves, leotards, sweats to buy.

There's very little guilt in parenting a golfer. You don't have to feel bad when you'd rather be at home watching CSI than sitting in a football stadium. You don't have to feel bad for not wanting to work concessions/provide lasagna/bruise your butt on rock-hard bleachers/drive an hour (each way) for two 3-minute wrestling matches. You don't have to feel dread when you pull up to a school and circle the parking lot, hedging your bets on which is the closer door to the pool.

But on the bright side, with a wrestler for a son, I'm inside a somewhat warm gym and not growing icicles from my nose in the stands at a football game. I feel relatively confident that he's not going to snap his neck on a wrestling mat.

I don't mind coming to these events. I know that in two years, when he is off doing the college-thing, that I will long for the smelly gyms, the sports I don't understand, bleacher-butt, and missed prime-time shows.

But then it will be time for Mac to join.



Sporting the "Onesie". Please note the disaster that is his room behind him. That is unusual. He's been busy.















Saying, "Hey Dude, I'm gonna kick your ass."









Getting his ass kicked in his first match ever.








Here he put up more of a fight during the 2nd match. Check out how the only thing touching the mat is the other guy's foot...