I'M THINKING OF applying those little white silhouettes to the back window of the minivan. You see them everywhere now, those outlines of the family standing shoulder to shoulder -- mom, dad, the kids, the dogs. In the world of fertility bragging rights, they have replaced "Baby on Board" signs and "My kid made the honor roll" bumper stickers.
Of course, to truly represent our mercurial family, the white stick figures would all have to be arguing with one another, bent over double while yelling, pulling at their hair, howling at the TV.
The mother figure would be brushing her teeth and scolding the children at the same time. The father figure would have to be supremely handsome but a little jowly, slowly going to seed, his knees knobby, his prospects dim.
Admittedly, that's a lot to convey in little white stick figures. There'd also be tiny white outlines of socks people forgot to pick up and fashion magazines strewn just everywhere. But more than anything else, they'd all have their mouths wide open.
"A loud house is a healthy house," I assure my wife.
"What?" she says, unable to hear over the din.
"A LOUD HOUSE IS A HEALTHY HOUSE!!!" I repeat.
"WHAT???"
OK, I'll say it again. A loud house is a healthy house. We're a typical nuclear family -- you know, in the sense of bombs constantly going off. Explosions. Slammed doors. I've got one kid who, when she opens her yap, mushroom clouds escape.
Our house is like a freshman dorm in the sense that no one seems to sleep and we're always arguing vehemently about stuff of no consequence whatsoever. For example, we can argue for days over which Darrin was best on "Bewitched." And three of the kids have never even heard of "Bewitched."
"Yes, I have, Dad," argues one, when I mention the "Bewitched" example.
"You know what a good show was?" says the lovely and patient older daughter.
" 'McHale's Navy'?" I say.
" 'Friends,' " she says.
" 'C.P.O. Sharkey'?" I say.
" 'Scrubs,' " she says.
Come on, admit it: "Scrubs" is one of the worst shows ever. In fact, you can turn on almost any NBC show these days and be pretty certain that what you're watching is the worst show ever. You think "My Name Is Earl" is excruciatingly, fingernails-on-my-eyeballs bad? It is. But wait till you see what the Peacock (actually, a pigeon in drag) has up next for you.
