to the A*Hole who stole my twinner
OPERATING INSTRUCTIONS for Teal Green 2004 Baby Jogger Deluxe Twinner
Congratulations! You are the new owner of a four year-old piece of crap jogging stroller made by the Baby Jogger company, subsequently bought by the Bag Boy Company, bought later by Dynamic Brands, in the quest for monoply over the heavily sought-after niche of value priced men’s, women’s and junior golf and its associated running products. RANDOMBRANDING!
You will notice the following improvements in your model that are unavailable in any other double jogger on the market:
- the right tire has an incipient leak which not only adds to the uniqueness of the product but increases your average 5k time by approximately five minutes as you will need to refill this tire nearly every time you set out for your jog
- the foam handlebar cover is now infused with the unmistakable tang of black mildew, which, on its own or in combination with the mildew recently added to the bottom basket, contributes significantly to seasonal allergy responses in most individuals
- for your convenience, the sunshade has been removed permanently, as it is nothing more than a windsail when open and Black Widow spider collector when retracted
- in the mesh baskets behind both seats, I have left one two-month old copy of the Saratoga Times, three miscellaneous advertisements for home improvement service providers in the area, five pieces of recyclable plastic bottles, an assortment of plastic candy wrappers and one Monterey pine cone.
- both child seats are closer together in this model, fostering plenty of sibling rivalry, which means more fist fighting between siblings than ever before possible, and these fights will climax just before you hit a wall in your workout or race
- for this reason, constant overstuffing has left ample room in the baskets behind each seat for baseball bats and clubs with which to pacify quarrels so that you may focus on your workout or race
- in the basket under the carriage, you will find one (1) furry ball that was originally thought to be an owl pellet worth picking up on the sidewalk (to later dissect with the boys, duh), but which, after one month and several sideways glances, suggested itself as a hairy dog turd. I believe this only enhances the owner experience, but you may remove it if inclined. I was too intimidated to decide for you.
- also intended to enhance user satisfaction is the puke-impregnated ballistic nylon seat fabric itself, on not one but both seats of the stroller
I would like to personally commend your ballsy nature in managing to walk into our backyard in the middle of the day and rip off this sunbleached, haggard piece of rotten baby gear. In doing so, you have liberated me from having to push two screaming boys up and down our neighborhood hills while simultaneously whining to a husband who tunes me out to the drone of indie music on his iPod.
Thank you!
Lovelocks
When Chas was a day old, asleep in my arms, I ran my fingers through his strawberry hair and furrowed my brow, wondering where the hell his red hair came from. Neither Damon nor I have red hair. Luckily, Chas has the Sicore nose (read: funky nose that only Sicores have, both in appearance and ability, capable of detecting fabric softener within a one mile radius), so I rested knowing I wouldn’t have to prove paternity. But the red hair had me completely perplexed, and a little worried, too; Damon has always made fun of redheads and freckles, and it appeared we’d managed to spawn little orphan Annie.
But months passed, and Chas’ hair changed. Some babies lose their hair, but Chas only grew more of it. The red paled to a towhead blonde, like Damon’s childhood hair. And while the front half of his crown grew straight, the back half grew wavy and wild. With each day, whether brushed or not, it began to tease itself into little blonde dreadlocks, and to this day it would appear that Chas, even ten minutes after having his hair combed, looks like he just got out of bed, or maybe scrubbed the bathtub with his head.
Everybody seems to love this head of hair as much as he does; in fact, Chas will grin and tousle his hair after I brush it, just to prove I’m ineffective. He loves his hair like a loose tooth, eager to reward compliments with Bruce Lee-inspired side kicks and leaps off of chairs, which make the gold dreads bounce and fly. “I wish I had hair like that!” is an acceptable compliment, less creepy than “I want your HAIR!” Perhaps the one person who would never tire of seeing Chas’ proud display in light of these gestures, besides Chas himself, is Damon; Damon, in all honesty, would actually love to have Chas’ hair. Which, every time I hear him say it, kind of makes me cringe. I always wonder how Chas perceives this strange compliment, being a three year-old and not entirely versed in the full play of our language.
So it happened last night, at dinner, while the four of us were in a booth waiting for our food and talking about the day, that Chas’ hair was catching the falling beams of sunset in a glorious flaxen halo. While he could have asked Chas to pass the chopsticks, or the soy sauce, Damon was stunned by the vision before him, and instead he asked,
“Chas, can I have your hair?”
Chas bashfully tucked his chin into his chest and grinned at Damon, telling him “Nooooooo, daddy, you can’t have my hair!” and I sat there before my empty place setting, looking for my chopsticks and wondering why it always feels to me like Damon’s asking him, “Chas, can I have your spleen?”
But I smiled instead, and before I had the chance to ask Chas to pass the chopsticks, I looked up to find Chas reaching across the table to Damon, stretched beyond the limits of love, grinning and holding in his stout little hand a rather large lock of fine golden hair.
“Here you go, daddy.”