Baby Ruth.

As parents, we love to get together from time to time for dinner and after the kids go to bed, get mega nuts (yeah right) drinking copious amounts of discounted wine from Trader Joe’s.  This alcoholic grape juice allows us to initiate a competitive bragging session with little to no remorse, highlighting latest achievements and sharing cute photos of our little angels. For single folk and comedians, this provides endless amounts of ridicule and punchlines at our expense.  But this is neither here nor there (whatever that means).

I don’t consider myself a shutterbug per se, but I do have dozens of amazing photos of Ava, donning awe-inspiring headbands and accessories, courtesy of my wife.  However, every once in a while, you capture one of those rare moments where you have to question whether or not this is, in fact, your child or an alien spawn delivered to your house while you were sleeping.

A few weeks ago, Ava and I took one of our infamous beach walks and discovered a little treasure of a pizza shop.  After ogling bikini tops and pushing a jogging stroller for several miles on the strand, I felt the need for an eggplant Parmesan sub to bring back those lost electrolytes.  As we waited for our name to be called, I thought I might snap a photo to upload to my Facebook account.  As I went back to preview my little angel on my Blackberry, I was met with the unexplainable.

It was as if my little darling had turned into Sloth from ‘The Goonies’.  I saw her handcuffed to a chair with Chunk in that remote coastal countryside basement, screaming ‘Baaaaaby Ruuuuuuth’ at me.  I stuffed her face with eggplant and ran home to lock my doors before the Fratelli’s arrived.

It’s our time down here.  Goonies never say die!