Текст книги "Daddy, Stop Talking! And Other Things My Kids Want but Won't Be Getting"

Автор книги: Adam Carolla

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CHAPTER 3
Don’t Be This Guy

AS THIS BOOK is filled with advice for my kids, I’d like to take a little time to list the people that I hope they don’t grow up to be. Kids, pay attention. I’m laying down a preemptive disownment if you become this guy or gal.

First Up: Sonny Boy’s List of Don’ts

Zombie Guy: Not naming names, but one of the guys that I employ took a ration of shit from me one day because he was wearing an Evil Dead T-shirt.

I just don’t get the fascination with the undead. We’re all undead. Big deal. And I feel like any one of us could outrun a zombie. They don’t run; they don’t even jog. They shuffle. It’s like being scared of the eighty-four-year-old guy dragging his oxygen tank through a casino.

It feels like there are a hundred shows and a million movies about zombies. Are we not satisfied with this topic? I keep seeing shit about the zombie apocalypse. I’m pretty sure we have a military that could handle that situation. A bunch of decomposing guys ambling toward you, mumbling “brains,” aren’t going to be much match for an M1 Abrams tank.

I haven’t seen Evil Dead, so it’s not an issue with that specific movie. It is the fact that this dude is in his early forties. How are we so out of problems that forty-three-year-old educated men can be obsessed with the undead? I’ve long complained about adult males who are into this nerd fantasy bullshit, whether it’s zombies, comic books, Game of Thrones, whatever. When did it become okay for guys to start talking about how much they were anticipating the Silver Surfer movie, and how devastated they were when it didn’t live up to their expectations? We all have computers with porno and Wikipedia. You could become an expert on something in a weekend. Do it.

Foreskin Restoration Guy: Sorry for the cock talk, son, but if you end up as one of these assholes, I’ll know I did a shitty job as dad. Because that’s what this whole deal boils down to. If you complain about your foreskin, it is just another way of saying, “I hate you, Dad.” We did have you circumcised mostly for the hygiene aspect, otherwise you’d have to pull that banana peel back and do a little extra cleaning. Plus, I was hoping that you’d play a skill position on the football team, and every ounce of weight you can cut counts.

For some bizarre reason, out here in California there is a movement to ban circumcision. It should not be shocking to you that this movement is centered around ultra-liberal places like San Francisco and Santa Monica. And there are guys who go through various surgeries and attach weights and insert balloons to supposedly restore their foreskin. That’s a lot of calories burned just to freak out your next hooker. I know that uncut is natural, but it just looks weird. It’s like a Doberman with floppy ears. That’s how God created them, but they look fucked up.

These guys always make a big stink about supposedly being mutilated. I’m pretty sure we’ve been doing this for thousands of years. Heck, it’s a sacred rite in Jewish culture. Which is why they all become agents: They’re used to taking ten percent off the top. Half the world is cut and the other half is uncut, and it hasn’t made a shit bit of difference. So, Sonny, if you’re making a big deal about your now smaller penis, that means you’re just pissed at me about something else. You’ve picked a cause to pour that anger into. This is not an issue. This one we should file under “Who gives a fuck?” Don’t be one of those dicks who has to make it about their dick.

Formerly Fat Guy: I think you’ll have a good metabolism like your mom, Sonny, and this shouldn’t be an issue, but, just in case, if you do gain a bunch of weight, just stay that way until you have your massive coronary.

Tom Arnold came up on the podcast recently, and I saw a picture of his now skinny ass. I didn’t like it. We need to get the word out to all the formerly fat people that if they’re planning on getting skinny, we’re not into it. We know you as the fat guy first. No matter what your nationality is, what your job is, what your sexual proclivities are, fat trumps all. To us you’re just the fat Asian guy, or the fat guy in accounts payable, or the fat gay dude.

And, personally, I like fat guys, because they make me feel better about myself. When you get into it with a fat guy you always win. If a cop writes you a chicken-shit ticket, and you look in the rear-view mirror and see him waddle back to his cruiser, you can think, “I win, because you’re a lard ass and I’m not.” If a guy swipes the spot you were trying to park in at the Costco, and he gets out of the car and you see that he’s a wide load there to get a pallet of Chef Boyardee, you can think, “I win, Tubby, even though I’m here to buy Rogaine and wine.” Even if the guy is getting out of a Bentley in front of a salon in Beverly Hills and you’re in a Daihatsu Charade, you can still think, “I win,” as you watch him waddle in for his weekly pedicure in elastic waist pants.

What former fatties forget about, especially the guys, is that you don’t go from fat to skinny in our eyes, you go from fat to weird. We don’t understand you anymore. That was your identity. We were all thrown off for a year like when Jonah Hill lost all that weight. And don’t even get me started on what’s become of Al Sharpton. Al, get back in your velour tracksuit with the giant medallion and jog on over to Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles, we miss you.

Weird Handshake Guy: Sonny, one of the signs of being a real man is having a real handshake. A nice firm grip that says, “It was a pleasure doing business with you.” So don’t become one of those guys who has a limp handshake, for God’s sake.

We’ve all experienced this. We go for the shake and it’s like the Pope holding out his hand for you to kiss his ring. Are you afraid that you’re gonna have a big meeting with some Japanese businessmen later and want to save your grip?

There are lots of variants on the lame handshake. There’s the guy who grips the front of your hand and just milks your cuticles. Or the guy who has an odd style of handshake. I don’t mean the soul brother complicated eight-stage handshake. I’m talking about the guy who takes the traditional handshake but instead of going up and down he goes right to left, or who takes your hand and turns it ninety degrees so that it is flat, and then shakes. People won’t think, “It is nice doing business with you,” if you go in with a handshake like this. They will think, “Too bad he was bullied as a child,” instead.

Empty Ice-Cube Tray in the Freezer Guy: I know this seems a little specific, but it is time to focus on the tuned-out fuck at your office, or God forbid, your home, who is too ignorant of other people and so wrapped in their own thoughts that they can pull off a move like leaving an empty ice-cube tray in the freezer. I have encountered this in my own studio. One of the lackeys used up all the ice and couldn’t take the 8.34 seconds it takes to pour some water into the tray before putting it back in the freezer so that when the bossman wants to toss a couple cubes in his Coke, they’re ready. You know you took the last one, you can feel the weight difference as you slide the empty tray back in. This is like putting an empty toilet-paper tube back on the holder. These are the same assholes who don’t put the tin foil back on the tray of food at the staff lunch, so that the flies can shit on the roast beef. It’s not that they forget – it’s that they don’t give a crap.

Then there is the dick who leaves the microwave door open. The microwave at our studio is a constant issue for me. Not only do people leave the door open for the light bulb to burn some extra kilowatts for no fucking reason, they’ll leave time on there, too. If you take your shit out of the microwave early, just zero it out so that I don’t have to deal with it. I shit you not, I put a cup of coffee in the microwave and went to hit start and some asshole had left it at 3:31. What the fuck were you microwaving that you could take it out and still have over three minutes left, a buffalo? And why didn’t you zero it out? Enjoy that 3:31, whoever you are, because once I get to the bottom of this, that’s how long you have left under my employment.

Anti-Milk Guy: Speaking of food and drink, there is another jag-off that I hope my son never becomes. The anti-milk guy. It’s nearly 2020 and we’re still arguing about milk. We all know the idiots who say, “We’re the only animal that drinks another animal’s milk.” These are the same Whole Foods ass-Wholes who say, “People weren’t meant to eat meat.” Then why do I have incisors, numbnuts? Those fang teeth we all have evolved for the pure purpose of tearing at meat.

These idiots also say, “We’re the only mammal that drinks milk into adulthood.” Here’s what I have to say to all those mammalian motherfuckers. I don’t see any manatees inventing Facebook. Maybe they would if they started drinking some other mammals’ milk into adulthood. I’m going to gather all of these dickwads in San Francisco (and many of them wouldn’t have a long commute to get there), park the Space Shuttle on the Golden Gate Bridge and say, “Hey, bitches, any other mammals come up with this shit? No? Then shut the fuck up and drink some milk.”

Unfinished Beer Guy: I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had a party on a Saturday night, and then walk around for an hour on Sunday morning, tearfully emptying 2,600 unfinished beers. I feel like the guys who removed the bodies from a Civil War battlefield. Where’s the honor? You’re not supposed to leave a wounded man behind. Who is the asshole that grabs a cold beer the host of the party paid for, cracks it, takes one-and-a-half sips, then sets it down without a coaster to sweat and leave a ring on their Steinway? How is this okay? Are you that much of a puss, or did you start the beer right before the Feds busted in, and you had to jump out the window? This is far worse than the guy who has too many and pukes into the potted plant. I’d much rather you be the asshole who finishes his beer and passes out with a lampshade on his head than the one who can’t finish that last three ounces of Michelob Ultra. Make your old man proud, Sonny boy.

Next Up: Natalia’s No Nos

Breastfeeding Activist: The female version of the anticircumcision crusader is the breastfeeding activist. Yes, breastfeeding is natural and important. It’s not the act that bothers me. It’s the enormous deal made about the act. When it comes time to breastfeed find a nice corner and a blanket, and take care of business. Don’t be the chick who wants to sit on top of the player piano in the mall and breastfeed in full view, and then lawyers up and sues when someone asks you to go to a less public space. For you breastfeeding blowhards, this isn’t about breastfeeding at all. It’s about you calling attention to yourself. You could feed your baby anywhere, but you choose high noon at the Vatican so when someone says put a blanket over it you can alert the media. Urinating is also completely natural and important, but if I took a leak into the fountain at the Bellagio, I’d be zip-tied and thrown in a Vegas jail cell (again).

It’s like the guy with the aggressive piercings and facial tattoos that gives you the “What the fuck are you looking at?” when you stare. Mission accomplished. You’re angry, so you do something to get yourself judged, and then you get angry about being judged. There’s a way for you to breastfeed without drawing attention to yourself, lactivists. You choose to do it publicly and make a crusade out of it to make it about you. Do I need to see tits every time I go to Foot Locker? I just don’t know why these breastfeeding activists need to shove their titties down my throat. (Actually… I’m turning the corner on this one.)

Half-Marathon Chick: I’m not a big fan of the marathon, and the people who need to prove something to themselves and get that picture with the tin-foil poncho being put over them at the finish line, but whatever. What I really don’t like is the way the marathon shuts down the city. It’s even worse when it’s a half-marathon. Everyone reading this could complete a half-marathon. If your car broke down 13.1 miles from civilization, do you think you’d just impale yourself on the hood ornament? No, you’d just walk that half-marathon. A lot of people doing the half-marathon are walking it anyway. To them, I ask, would you brag to someone that you climbed half of Mount Everest, or that you were playing hoops and you went to the one-and-a-half point stripe and drained one, or that you grabbed half a boobie? If you have something to prove, lock yourself in your apartment and don’t take a shit for two days. That’s way more impressive.

So, Natalia, if you become one of those ladies with the “13.1” bumper sticker on your Subaru please drive it 13.1 miles away from me and never look back.

Drunk Woman Who Calls Herself a MILF or Cougar: The rise of the terms MILF and cougar has given drunken older broads carte blanche to continue being loud and annoying way past the point at which we guys would tolerate it. The twenty-two-year-old chick dancing on a table at the bar can be an annoying twat as long as she wants, because we’re all hoping that, in the midst of that annoyance, she’ll lift her top. But when it’s the forty-two-year-old, we’re not interested, just irritated. But because her appletini-drinking desperate housewife friends have enabled her by calling her a cougar, we all have to deal with her nonsense. Now that she’s a MILF or a cougar, she feels okay acting trashy. If we all just called her what she really is, “Mom,” she’d slow down pretty fucking quick.

Slow Crosswalker: I was in San Francisco, running a little bit late for a live show. And I had the slacker chick in the crosswalk in front of our car with her face buried in her phone, texting. She was walking so slowly that she was literally leaning backward. She looked like a weatherman reporting from a category 6 hurricane. Have you ever seen those people who are walking so slow that their feet are a yard in front of them? I thought, “Bitch, are you trying to get run over? Because this is what you’d do if that was your goal.”

Then I thought about it on a bigger scale. People in general don’t cross the street well anymore. It used to be a sprint, followed by a shoulder roll, then pop up to finish the sprint and stick the landing on the sidewalk. Because when we were kids, people had horrible old drum brakes, and were drunk, so the chances of you getting clipped by a Buick were pretty good, if you weren’t hustling. Nowadays, people aren’t frightened. They’re not scared.

Here’s my solution. I think that everyone between the ages of seven and ten should get clipped by a car just once. I’m not saying run over by a dump truck and put in a coma, just enough to give them the proper amount of fear for the rest of their life. Like the person who gets bitten by a dog at age three, and then is scared of them into adulthood. Parents: Just put your kid in the driveway sometime around second grade, back into them and, when they’re writhing in pain with their femur coming out of their ass, you say, “Doesn’t feel good, does it? Sure would hate for that to happen again.” They need a healthy respect for the automobile. It’s going to save their lives and it’s going to save me time.

This may not be too much of an issue for you, Natalia, being a honky and all. This slow-crosswalking is the domain of the brothers. I think it’s a subtle revenge for slavery and racism. As if to say, “I’m taking my time, Whitey.” I’ve always found it ironic as I watch the big brother amble across the street, that the world’s fastest men are the world’s slowest pedestrians.

Past Life Regression Chick: Natalia, let me just tell you, this is your one go around. You’ve never had a past life. If you decide, at a certain point, that you must have been someone in a past life, rest assured that in this life you’ll be a chick without a dad.

I’m always amazed at the gullibility of the ladies (though some guys do it, too) who are into this past life regression nonsense. These charlatans are just telling you what you want to hear to make you feel better about your loser life. Sure, you’re a fat chick strung out on painkillers now, but a few hundred years ago you were Joan of Arc. Feel better? That will be seventy-five dollars. Ever notice that past life regression only seems to go back five hundred years? What about the fifty thousand we spent as cavemen? It’s always, “You were a knight during the Crusades” or “You were a poet in ancient Rome.” It’s never, “You were just some hairy asshole eating bark until you froze to death.”

And, finally…

Complicated Starbucks Order Chick: I was behind one of these clowns not too long ago, and the order was so inane and complicated I had to run to buy a notepad, just so I could write it down and make fun of her on the podcast. She ordered a “grande skinny vanilla latte, light foam, extra hot.” Let’s break that down. Grande. It’s a fucking medium. Just say medium. Skinny. I’m sure the skim milk instead of regular and fake cancer-causing sugar is going to make a fucking difference when you try to squeeze your ass into those yoga pants. Vanilla. If you really want vanilla, go to McDonald’s and get a shake. Coffee is supposed to be coffee. Light foam? Do you like foam or don’t you? You’d need a fucking microscope to tell the difference between the regular amount of foam and light foam. And “extra hot.” How does that even work? Coffee is as hot as it is. Extra hot just means undrinkable for longer. So am I, as the next coffee orderer going to burn my tongue when I get a cup of the scorching batch they made for you because you need to make a spectacle of yourself?

Let’s take a look at the bigger picture. This was attention-seeking behavior. If I hadn’t been behind this chick, if she were alone in that Starbucks, she would have ordered a medium black coffee and called it a day. But because there were witnesses, she had to make her order as long as the Magna Carta. Asking for “light foam” and “extra hot” is just a way of complicating things so that there’s one more thing the lowly barista can screw up for her highness to complain about.

These retards are retarding the process. Congratulations, bitch, you’ve successfully slowed down everyone else’s life to make it about you. You don’t love foam, you love you. I opened the door to the place and hit someone in the ass due to the line you caused, because the poor Starbucks kid is now heating up Bunsen burners and putting shit in centrifuges so that you can have your perfect cup of coffee. It’s not even coffee anymore. Starbucks is diabolical. Calorically, what this pretentious bitch was ordering is probably as bad as a Blizzard from Dairy Queen, but they’ve called it a coffee, so she gets to feel like she’s not just buying and consuming a hot milkshake. This is also bullying the person behind the counter. You’re lording your power over the poor tattooed teen.

There should be two lines, one for regular people like me who just want a caffeine delivery system. There would be a sign reading “Normal” above it. In that line, you can only order coffee and, when you do, it’s just called a medium, and you put the milk and sugar in yourself. Then there would be another line with a sign above it reading “Poser Douche,” for the assholes who want to order the seasonal macchiato, light foam, extra hot, with soy milk, easy on the nutmeg.

I hope you kids have taken this warning to heart and will avoid becoming any of these assholes. But with my luck, Natalia, you’re convinced that you used to be Cleopatra and are reading this right now at a Starbucks, sipping on a skinny peppermint mochaccino with soy milk while Sonny, who used to be fat, but is now thin, is listening to it on audiobook while he runs a half-marathon to benefit “survivors” of circumcision.

CHAPTER 4
Hey, Kids, Here’s a Note to Your Future Therapists

I KNOW THAT all the shit I’m talking about the twins is going to be used against me at some point, so I want to take some time to set the record straight on a couple of things that they’ll surely bring up to their future therapists. I’m going to address this directly to you, guy with suede patches on his elbows, and Jewish broad with the dream catcher on the wall.

First, I’ve done therapy myself, so I know how this works. And I respect it. Ironically, I come from a family of therapists. My grandmother was a sex therapist who worked for the VA and once famously asked at the dinner table what a rim job was, because one of her vets had brought it up in group that day. My dad became a therapist back in the 1990s. He had been reading self-help and philosophy books my whole childhood anyway (instead of coming to my football games), and eventually decided to go pro.

And, to his credit, when I was nineteen, he sat me down and pretty much said, “You’re going to be a mess. Your mother is a disaster, I’m a train wreck; you’re going to need some therapy.” I was making seven bucks an hour digging ditches at the time, so he said he was going to find me a therapist, and that it was going to be a woman so I could work on my mom issues and that he would pay for half and I’d pay for the other half. For someone making minimum wage coming up with even half of the seventy or eighty dollars an hour for a decent therapist was rough. But it was worth it.

To all of you reading this who are on the fence about therapy because of the cost: It’s smart money, spend it. That one hundred bucks an hour pays off down the road when you learn through therapy how to get out of your own way, stop self-sabotaging and thus make good decisions about relationships and career. Think of it as an investment in yourself. Simply going to therapy helps. Just carving out an hour for yourself, and deciding that you and your life are worth spending some time and money on makes a difference. That simple act alone boosts your self-esteem. Don’t think of going to therapy as “I’m a broken pile of crap and need someone to fix me,” think of it as “I’m going to change myself for the better instead of crying, masturbating and blaming my parents for the rest of my life.”

So, back to blaming my parents. I was such a broken pile of crap from my childhood, therapy was inevitable. I’ve done all kinds of therapy: individual, couples and group. Group therapy is kind of rough, especially when you want to leave the group and there’s resistance. Once, when I tried to leave my group therapy, a chick confronted me, telling me I was in denial about how bad I was and that I needed to stay. I think it was her issue, really, some dad shit she needed to work out that she was putting on me. Group therapy is like having all the baggage that comes with a relationship with a crazy chick without the spirited crazy chick sex.

I’ve also done regular one-on-one individual therapy and appreciated the experience, though I don’t love it when a group of therapists share an office. It’s uncomfortable when you see another person sitting in the waiting room and start wondering what their issue is while attempting to avoid eye contact. Especially if you have regular appointments, you see the same guy every week and can hear him in the next room. Seriously, I’ve heard shit coming through the vent system I will never unhear. I’ve heard “My father wouldn’t stop raping me…” while I’m sitting there complaining about my Lamborghini. Makes me realize that most of my issues fall squarely into that rich white people problems category.

I’ve also done the couples counseling thing, which I didn’t like much. But I still think it works, just not in the way it’s supposed to. The reason couples counseling is effective is because you have to report to someone, typically a woman, who is siding with your woman about how horrible you are. At least that was the case with me. I’ve had people tell me that couples therapy worked for them and saved their relationship. For me, it was just a probation officer that I had to report to. So on Tuesday, when she comes home and wants to unload about her boss and you grunt, walk past her, holding a sandwich on the way back to your Duck Dynasty marathon, knowing you have couples counseling on Friday forces you to turn around and listen. It’s like mandatory drug testing in the workplace. It doesn’t make people not want to do drugs, it just makes people understand and avoid the consequences.

I do think psychology is important. We don’t put enough emphasis on this as a society. We live in a civilization, we live amongst other humans, but we don’t really know how they tick. If we lived among lowland gorillas, we’d study what makes them happy or what enrages them and their mating rituals, so that we could live in harmony with them. But we don’t do that with other humans. Instead, we live in a world full of PSAs for click-it-or-ticket and motorboat safety. You see the president coming out of church on Sunday, and you realize he probably doesn’t believe it but he has to do it because, if not, he’d be unelectable. But that same supposed Christian president would be unelectable if we found out he was seeing a shrink, which I think is bullshit. I want the guy making the most important decisions for the country to have an idea of the forces that influence his choices, the ramifications of his fucked-up childhood on his thinking and how that affects all of us. Imagine how much better our country would be if Nixon, Clinton and W. had gotten some real good therapy. So I respect you, Mr. or Ms. Shrink, and the work you’re doing to undo the damage I’ve done to my kids, but let me set the record straight on a couple of things.

First off, I never laid a hand on them. How could I be an absentee father and an abusive father at the same time? Even if I thought I could beat my kids, that would require me to be at home instead of onstage in Portland… though I was able to Skype in some emotional abuse from the road.

Of course, I’m joking. But the truth is hitting my kids is just not in my wiring. If you grow up in Hawaii, you eat poi. I’ve never touched that shit. So I don’t miss it. If I were a native islander, I’d miss it on the mainland. Same with child abuse. The idea of me hitting my kids is not on the menu. I didn’t grow up with it, so it’s not an option. As far as I’m concerned, the thought doesn’t even occur to me. One evening, after skipping my rope, I was trying to pound out forty push-ups like usual. I had my Beats headphones on and was cranking the Graham Parker. I had my eyes closed, and was totally in the zone. Out of nowhere, Natalia ripped the headphones off my head and wailed like a banshee in my face. I was startled. Had it been my buddy Ray, he absolutely would have gotten punched. But in that twentieth of a second, I processed the face of my daughter and that was no longer an option.

I know that, as a therapist, you’re on the same page, but allow me to rant a bit about this topic. There are certain cultures for whom this is a big issue, and there are cultures around those cultures that suffer the damage. Sometimes, the issue of corporal punishment becomes a national conversation, like after Minnesota Viking Adrian Peterson got charged with abusing his kid. But it never lasts very long. We make a much bigger deal of someone taking a stick and hitting a dog, than someone taking a so-called switch and hitting their kid. The problem isn’t even so much the welts you’re leaving on your kid, it’s the welts they’re going to leave on my kid. Because, by hitting a kid, you’re teaching them that violence is the way to resolve conflicts. I know this is going to get me in trouble, but I don’t care. Black comedians have this whole “who got whooped harder” thing. It’s not a joke; it’s a problem. I saw an interview with Michael Jackson’s dad, Joe, where the interviewer asked him if he had beaten MJ. Joe said, straightfaced, “No, I never beat him.” Then, after a pause, “I whooped him.” As if there’s a fucking difference.

And speaking of beat, let me take one to talk about Joe Jackson. He’s got the hoop earring and the penciled-in mustache. He looks like an evil carnival barker. If there are any Disney animators reading this and you’re drawing up a new villain, Google Image some shots of Joe Jackson. The part that I don’t get, Joe, is that everyone thinks you’re evil and you know you’re evil. So why go with the evil guy mustache? Why not throw everyone off the trail and grow the Ned Flanders cookie duster?

When it comes to discipline, I mastered the dad voice. That “Hey!” that stops the kids in their tracks. The Natalia who is sitting on your therapy sofa is probably a lawyer or agent. She was a world-class arguer. Every conversation I had with Natalia was a fourteen-move chess match. It was like a negotiation between the Palestinians and the Israelis. She had this toy called an EzyRoller. It’s like a mechanics creeper for kids to slide down hills. She loved it. Actually, if she isn’t a lawyer or agent she’s probably ended up in the X Games. She freaked me out with this thing. I’d be screaming as she luged down a forty-five-degree grade. She’d be screaming, too, but with delight. One night, she announced she was going out with Olga and would be bringing the EzyRoller with her. It was already dark and I was afraid she was going to go off a cliff or into a phone pole. So I calmly told her she had to leave the EzyRoller at home. Then she started in. “What if I just drag it with me and don’t use it on the hill, just on the flat part.” I said no again. “What if Olga holds my hand?” “No.” We went through fifteen different variations of this back-and-forth before I had to use the guttural, teeth-gritting, angry dad voice.

She would go ’round and ’round like this with my wife, too. She’d want to take the dog outside, but it would be too cold or too late, and she’d argue with Lynette back and forth for an eternity, until I eventually leaned over the railing and said “Hey! The answer is no. Listen to your mother.” We as parents need to stop pretending that we’re talking to a colleague at a law firm. We need to be firm. These are our kids, not our drinking buddies. It is okay to be harsh and lay down the law once in a while.