I arrived in Dallas, stiff and exhausted on Monday. Hands and knees bloodied and bruised from battle with a flaring, gritty, granite chimney in Joshua Tree. Technically, I won, but it sure didn't look that way. Who needs an epidermis anyhow?

I arrived to a home with no less than seven, yes, SEVEN screaming, sniffling, swirling children, three large, drooling dogs, one bird who makes me seem positively reticent, a couple of Italian parents, and at least twenty garden gnomes. Somebody, anybody, please rescue me. I can handle the kids with just a few hours of quality iPod time, the dogs are always a joy, no matter how much Purina scented saliva I have to wash off my chinos, but the garden gnomes, the gnomes I fear are plotting a revolt. A cul-de-sac coup d’etat. Something about inhumane living conditions. Frankly, there are no females. The gnomes need women.

Heh. They probably still get more action than I do.

I'm here for the week. My record with Dallas weather stands. It snowed today. Yes. Snow. I left SoCal for this?

Oh, if it weren't for the slobber therapy. Both varieties. Drooling dogs and drooling babies.

I don't know what they put into a baby's skull, but the smell of my new niece's noggin makes even my ovaries twitch. I've got dogs drooling on my legs, kids drooling on my shoulders, and yesterday I lay down on the floor and put my hand in some rogue, roaming baby poop that managed to escape it's pampers prison. There's more cheap plastic, blinking crap in this room than on the dash of a Pontiac, and I'm constantly stepping on things that make noise.

That the homeowner's association hasn't kicked us all out of here is positively miraculous. Eh. My dad voted for Bush. They probably gave him a pass for that. Speaking of, what the hell was a copy of the Utne Reader doing in the YMCA in McKinney Texas? It's like finding a copy of The National Review in a Berkeley coffee shop. Geez. I thought they had run those liberals out of here years ago.

No matter. I'm sure to have some stories to tell. It's Christmas and there are Italians around. Something is bound to be blog worthy. Until then, I'll stick with pictures.

Genetics. They're a bitch sometimes.

This little one has been raised in Hawaii. Needless to say, this whole "snow" thing came as a bit of a surprise.

At the mass indoctrina...I mean baptism of my brother's children, my sister's youngest and the only boy amongst the latest generation decided to do a little break dancing on the alter. Clearly he has my respect for the church.

He also exhibits his father's respect for violence. He laughed every time he pushed my head back with enough force to make my next adjustment redundant. This picture was taken just before he wrapped four fingers around my bottom lip and pulled down. Hard. And then laughed at this new game, skin the bald dude.

There's nothing Atkins friendly about a dinner in my house.

Wash away that fresh baby smell for a lifetime of guilt. I'm gonna make a super Godfather, dontcha think?

Oh, I'm kidding. And if not, her Godmother will keep me in line.

This look. Right there. That's why I dig this kid so much. Right there this kid is telling you that he is copping a feel every time some hottie picks him up. See it? That glint behind the eyes. Ladies, watch out for this one. Watch out.