CHRIS COEN

I got to do a casino comedy show recently; my third, if you count the first one.  I’ll get to that later.  No show is the same, but casino shows are all over the place in terms of where they are held.  This one was in the center bar.  The drawback was there are about, oh, 1400 slot machines with lights and sounds (give or take – I’m probably way short).  The good thing was that everyone going to the bar got to check out the show, plus the seating area was set up well and the sound system was great.  Having done shows with bad sound, you can put a panther on stage and I’d rather have that than a shitty microphone.

The show went well, although my favorite part was getting to go through the employees’ entrance.  It was like Ocean’s 11, getting to see the training rooms and kitchens.  Well, Ocean’s 11 if instead of George Clooney you got me, nothing was stolen and I looked shady enough that two security officers escorted me into the room.  It was nothing like Ocean’s 11.

The last casino show I did before this was great, until I went to check into my room and the smug guy behind the desk said, “I’m sorry sir, we don’t let the talent stay in our hotel.”  You son of a bitch.  In fairness, I was concocting a plan to get my dog into the hotel when no one was looking.  The Knights Inn didn’t care as much.  The first one was a “guest set,” which to the lay person means “More important comic getting paid needs a ride and convinces idiot new comic to drive and do time for nothing.”  Ah, show business.

I went to get a physical for the first time in about ten years.  I hadn’t seen my doctor in so long, they kicked me out and tried to make me register as a new patient.  Whatever, I signed up with my wife’s care provider.  Not the OB/GYN.  My lady parts are sound.

I was filling out the paperwork and the secretary asked me which Chris Coen I was, as there were two addresses.  “I moved.  That’s my old address.  I have no idea how you have it…but it’s me.”  She seemed confused, as though no one had ever moved before in their entire customer database.  Off to a good start.

I was filling out the new patient info when I got to sex.  The girl at Babies R Us called me ma’am the night before and I just got an email from the Honest Company about organic tampons, so there’s that.  I looked it over.  “Male.”  OK.  “Female.”  OK.  “Transgender.”  OK, we’ve got them all covered.  No, there’s one more.  “Unknown.”  Now I’m really thrown askew.  I expected a “Decline to answer” or fill in the blank option, but not unknown.  If it means I don’t have to get the ol’ prostate checked, unknown it is.

During the checkup we got to the inevitable hernia check.  Right before I had to drop the drawers and cough, my new doctor, a woman, asked if I needed a chaperone or assistant.  What’s that?  Apparently in order to avoid a sexual harassment case, they can bring in the same gender.  Yes, if I’m uncomfortable with a woman feeling me up, the solution sounds like bring some brutish man doctor to stare at me while you do it.  No thanks, I’ll take my chances with you, doc.

I was in good shape, or at least subpar like every other fat American, so I got out of there.  It is my goal to not go back until 2025, so I need to start shopping online for a bubble or cyborg parts.  Luckily, alcohol preserves things, so I will probably live forever if I keep drinking.

(I’m a huge fan of Poe, so I was inspired to try my own personal version.  Enjoy.)

Captain’s Log.  Date?  Unsure.  Time?  Early.  Much too early.

Screams!  Screams, like the sentries of hell’s gate, penetrate my slumber.  It can only mean one thing.  The vampiric cherub demands to be sated again.  Since this creature emerged from my wife not even two weeks ago, it has been sucking her life force dry.  I mustered up my resolve and peeked into the galley.  It has begun again.  I pray the monster finds no taste for me; I can see my wife struggling to stay awake.  Surely she cannot remain like this, weakened from the dark magic.  Like a wildfire in a dry forest, the small, yet formidable invader consumes, never satisfied.

Incredibly, the attack abates and my wife retreats, leaving me to my own devices against this puppetmaster.  Each cry and grunt makes the entire crew dance to her whims and wishes.  For the first time in nearly a dozen tries, my efforts win the struggle and it sleeps.  Exhausted, I contemplate celebrating with my crew around a keg of grog…but they lay in deep and comatose states, wiped out from the ordeal.  I closed my eyes to thank the Creator for this victory, but the will of the Fates is cruel.  My guard down, a sound emerges from Stygian depths!  It was not defeated, but rather, brewing up a foul and noxious elixir so formidable it breaches both the inner and outer defenses!  Our finest engineers’ work is laid to waste as the mustard poison stains and soils everything it touches.  The screams!  Screams again penetrate my mind and my wife, unable to resist the siren’s call, is forced to do this little one’s bidding.  Will the cycle of horror cease?  I am cast into the lower decks to scrub all signs of the assault from my breeches, but the stain remains.  Who knows what lies in wait at high noon.  I fear we will not survive this day.

I don’t really like hospitals.  After a baby is born, you’re stuck in one for a few.  I realized after midnight the night our daughter was born, my wife hadn’t eaten since an apple 27 hours earlier (unless you count those very filling ice chips) and I forgot a pillow and blanket.  I ran home and then snagged Taco Bell for her.  I had to be the only sober person there at 1 am on a Tuesday.

The worst thing about post pregnancy isn’t the nurses or staff, it’s the fact they are in the damn room every seven minutes.  Nurses, housekeeping, doctors, admin staff, the lady that gets the food, nurses for the mom, lactation consultants, vaginologists…OK, I may have made that last one up.  “Make sure you rest.  Get some sleep.  You need sleep.  That’s why I’ll be back in four minutes to check on you and wake you up.”  One of my favorites was a head nurse that came in.  “Here’s the important paperwork that I need to go over with you both.”  OK, let ‘er rip.  “First…Oh!  My phone.  I’ll be right back!”  She never came back and we realized the packet was full of questions to ask before you get discharged.  Terrific!

I also got to change my first diaper.  Some people were shocked.  Well, when I was in my 20’s, I sure didn’t volunteer to change other people’s kids soiled britches.  I’m not a fan of poop or having to register when I move.  It was pretty easy, until Gracie decided to kick like a mule and plant her entire foot into a soft pile of meconium.  That’s the dark poo that reminds you of the fourth day of Spring Break in college hangover dark poo.  I got it and immediately started googling “Potty Train your two day old.”  Hint: It can’t be done.  Needless to say, after the rotation door of medical staff, the general feeling of being cooped up and the lack of quality sleep made us want to home pretty badly – like Andy from Shawshank Redemption crawling through a sewer pipe desperate to get out.  Mercifully, they let us out through the door just 44 hours after the grand arrival.  Good, I’m too fat to fit in the pipe anyways.

Before the delivery, one of the nurses teaching the birthing class said my role was to be the “coach.”  I liked this idea.  Get some short shorts, an awful baseball hat with a cord running across the bill and a whistle.  “HURRY UP WITH THAT BABY, SLACKER!  MOVE!”  Then I envisioned my wife jabbing a needle in my eyeball.  I’ll be a passive coach.

My job once the pushing started was to count to ten.  Luckily, my public school taught me to do that when I was a sophomore, so I had it down.  Unluckily, the nurse and doctor we had all day had a shift change right then.  “So, I know you practiced driving in a car all week for your permit test, but it turns out all we have today is a 1200 CC street bike and an M1 Abrams tank.  Break a leg!”

After about an hour, we were starting to wonder what in the hell was happening, but at last, I saw some movement.  Then the tiny hairy top of a head showed up.  I was nervous that it was the butt and my daughter was taking after her dad, but thankfully that wasn’t the case.  I then began to wonder just how in the blue hell whatever else was attached to that little crown of her head was going to squeeze out of that opening.  I’m pretty dumb, but I kept that thought to myself (see above, the needle in the eyeball part).

The rest was a bit of a blur and I was pretty convinced my mother in law was going to pass out, but once things started going, they went.  My plan was to ask how to make sure my girl didn’t have a weird outie bellybutton when I cut the cord, but I forgot about everything and just enjoyed the moment.  We loved this little mess right off the bat…and boy was it messy.  I got to cut the cord, so I’m pretty much a surgeon now FYI.  I’ll cut stuff off anyone reading this for half what your normal insurance covers.  You’ll probably die, but you’ll save money.

I must say it was the greatest moment of my dumb life and I’ve had several cool things happen to me over the years.  When I got to hold her for the first time, I knew I would punch a grizzly bear right in the face if made my daughter upset.  I’m a proud father and so is her mother.  She is truly a blessing to us.

You may have noticed I haven’t been blogging as much of late – I also haven’t been sleeping or eating right or working because my wife and I are very happy to have welcomed our first child, Gracelynn to the world.  Beforehand, I took every single baby class, even the breastfeeding one to prepare.  No, I didn’t expect to breastfeed, but I knew so little about babies I didn’t want to miss anything.  Plus at 3 am, I would rather be able to answer my wife’s questions quickly when Gracie is screaming her lungs out.  Nothing prepares you for a delivery though.

Our due date came and went, so we had an induction scheduled, but my wife was checking the openings for earlier inductions more often than a crackhead steals stuff out of cars.  I was at work when I got a call and text saying we got bumped up…to 8:30 that night.  Suddenly, it went from casual to serious faster than White Castle gives you the shits.  We got to the hospital that night, carrying bags like displaced refugees, nervous about being late.  We checked in, then some lady’s water broke in the lobby – guess who gets wait in the lobby another two hours!  Some old guy with a cowboy hat, boots and flame patterned button up beat me to the bathroom by 4 seconds and was in there long enough to give birth himself.  I considered peeing in the fake plant by the check in desk, but he came out and I ran in.  I wished I had watered the plastic tree; I didn’t know I could hold my breath that long.

We finally got called back.  A delivery is like this – someone comes in the room every 20 minutes, checks on the pregnant lady, then tells you that you are getting closer…for about 18-32 hours straight.  We didn’t actually make any progress on the cervical effacement (a term I didn’t know existed three months ago) until about lunch time.  Oh, and your family will text, Facebook message, call, smoke signal, carrier pigeon and telegraph messages to you asking for updates every 3 and half minutes when there are none to give.  “Oh, crap, we had the baby a month ago!  I forgot to call!”

My advice if you’re hanging out with the expectant mother?  Bring books, games, arts and crafts, iPods, snacks…hell, work on your memoirs or you will lose your damn mind.  Not that I’m bitching.  Number one advice – DON’T COMPLAIN ABOUT ANYTHING TO THE PREGNANT LADY.  Does your back hurt?  STFU.  Are you hungry?  She can’t eat, STFU.  Are you nervous?  She has a human about to rip through a hole about 20% as big as it needs to be.  STFU.  After 22 hours, it was finally getting to the show.  (Stay tuned for more!)