The Backpacking Dad brand is really taking off. I’m expanding from the social media empire I’ve created out into other pursuits. This week I’ve worked hard with world-famous fragrateurs to produce SAHDness, the scent of the stay at home dad.

Coming up with the proper blend of herbs and spices for this new fragrance was not easy. I had to really smell myself over and over again and think about the notes I was giving off. But I think I’ve cracked the code.

SAHDness combines the earthiness of my front yard (still no grass) with the woodiness of the tree roots I’ve been digging up for two days. It introduces the tang of the pasta sauce I wiped off my foot (after stepping in the dinner my son flung to the floor) to the fresh apple sweetness of the detangler I spray in my daughter’s hair every morning to brush it out. A hint of rosemary from the bush I ripped out of the backyard complements the wet diaper and cat box odours that always seem to permeate the back rooms of the house. And finally, like the finish of a fine wine, sour milk and Mr. Clean blend together to carry the wearer away to a land of Band of Brothers reruns and and sprinkler systems that install themselves, a.k.a. heaven.

I am confident that you will enjoy SAHDness every bit as much as I do.

SAHDness, the scent of naptime.

The three kidnappers came in the afternoon. I was just starting to think about making dinner (a “london broil” that was on sale that I bought despite all of the experience I’ve had not being able to make “london broil” taste like anything worth eating) when they burst into the kitchen via the garage door.

“You’re coming with us, and you aren’t going to like it very much!” said one.

“You’re coming with us, and you aren’t going to like it at all!” said another.

“You’re coming with us, and we’re totally going to make you watch a Twilight movie!” said the third.

They were very insistent.

After generous application of a cattle prod to my back my kidnappers forced me out the door and into their kidnapper van. It was one of those vans with curtains on the windows. I hate those vans.

The kidnappers drove me to a movie theater, bought some goddamned Raisinettes and a Slushy, forced them into my hands, and then led me away into the darkness.

I don’t remember much about what happened after that. There was something sparkly, and a girl no one likes but everyone seems to be in love with, and a guy who couldn’t keep his damn shirt on.

I wish I could describe the pain I felt in my eyeballs, but I don’t have a way with words. It was kind of like stabbing your eyes with knitting needles seven times then tilting your head back and pouring vinegar into your bleeding eye sockets. It was like passing a kidney Lautner. It was like getting punched in the face by the Friendly Giant after he’d had a few and had stepped on his tiny furniture and was totally pissed off because he was going to have to go to Amish country to get some new tiny furniture for all of his tiny guests to sit on.

My kidnappers drove me home and tossed me out of their van like yesterday’s Twilight movie. I stumbled back inside the house and collapsed in a heap, eyes still aflame with ocular Chlamydia.

And then I died.

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This story brought to you by the fact that I totally slammed the toes on my left foot in the door and the nail on my second-smallest toe immediately turned blue and will probably fall of any second now. I didn’t really see a Twilight movie. But you know how when you’re in pain they say you can take your mind off of it by getting hurt somewhere else? I just wanted to imagine the worst pain possible to take my mind off the fact that I nearly cut my toes off with a door.

I do hate Raisinettes and vans with curtains on the windows, though.

“Let’s go to the beach,” Emily said. So we went, out the door to Santa Cruz.

Driving down highway 17 through San Jose traffic stopped just before the junction with highway 85.

“Let’s go to the beach,” Emily said. So we went, off the 17 and on to the 85, on our way to Monterey.

Driving down the 85 we joined the 101, and paralleled the distant coast.

“Let’s go to the beach,” Emily said. So we went, on highway 129, into the hills to Watsonville.

Driving through the mountains we passed cyclists and overlooks, then stopped at a berry farm just outside of Watsonville, which is not the Artichoke Capital of the World. That honour is Castroville’s. The berry farm sold pies and canning supplies and berries and apple juice and we bought everything but the pie. Then we ate our berries and drank our apple juice and did absolutely nothing with our canning supplies (because what are you going to do with canning supplies when you’re having a picnic?) and let the kids play on old tractors and tiny four-wheelers.

“Let’s go to the beach,” Emily said. So we went, driving out of Watsonville and joining highway 1 as it paralleled the nearby coast.

Driving south on the 1 we were stopped in traffic again, and realized it was beyond lunch time. So we stopped at Moss Landing and had lunch at The Whole Enchilada (rather than The Haute Enchilada, the only other enchilada joint in Moss Landing, but clearly inferior for being snooty).

“Let’s go to the beach,” Emily said. So we drove down highway 1 until we came to Marina State Beach.

And then we went to the beach.

As it turned out, Marina State Beach was less of a swimming beach than it was a hang gliding beach…

The waves at the beach were unpredictable, but getting soaked unexpectedly was fun.

“Let’s go home,” Emily said. So we left the beach and drove with the masses fleeing north. And we passed through Castroville, the Artichoke Capital of the World.