One Jay At A Time

Moving day...

2011-06-23T23:22:00.001-04:00

ONE JAY AT A TIME has moved. New posts will be going up over on tumblr. Thought it might be time to get out of my Capricorny safe-zone and try something new. All the old OJAAT posts will still be here for you to reminisce- then head on over here for that same great ONE JAY taste, but with a new look and url.

What I learned: A new dad's year in review

2011-06-15T11:11:00.001-04:00

I survived one year of being a dad. Over the past year, I've used this blog as a sort of punching bag-- I thought it'd be fun (for me anyway), to look back over the past year to see what being someone's parent has taught me. Some if it I probably knew already, some if came out of left field- but all of it will stick with me. Here's a gander at what I learned:

I wasn't fully prepared for what I may see on delivery day.

I don't ever want to have to see my little girl in the hospital ever again.

Children's playthings can be haunting.

I may never show up on time again.

Happy to not have lost my outward inner-child.

Later in the year, we did discover zippers.Glorious.

Who knew I'd get so much nourishment from feeding a baby.

I talk to a lot more strangers now.

Who needs to sleep in, anyway?

Wait- parenthood isn't a competitive sport?

Why wouldn't I want to save myself some precious time?

I don't want to see it.

Everybody does it-- and you kind of have to, especially in NYC.

I'm a man- but that doesn't mean my ovaries can't ache.

Yes, pink.

Sometimes, you just have to say it in a haiku.

What an informative and draining year it was... no break though, year two lies ahead!!

No emergency!

2011-06-14T17:55:00.002-04:00

If you've spent any time on the NYC subway, you've noticed the little cord with the red handle hanging from the ceiling in the back of each car: the emergency cord (brake). Only to be used in case of an emergency!

Well, posted under or at least nearby the dangling cord is a sign listing possible emergencies- Police Activity, Fire, Sick or Injured Passenger... following each however, is the phrase- DO NOT PULL EMERGENCY CORD. Which makes me wonder, in what case is it in fact okay to use it? Earthquake? Flash flood? Godzilla attack (or any others beast of mythic proportions)? It seems though in those cases the trauma would be such as to make the train derail, rendering the emergency brake moot.

So when do you use it? And if the answer is never-- why is it in every car on every train, out in the wide open where anyone could pull it? At any time? It's not even behind glass or anything, like they do with fire extinguishers- so as to ward off the riff-raff. So what's the deal? To pull or not to pull?

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 34: The best day she'll never remember

2011-06-09T15:33:00.010-04:00

The first birthday is a milestone to be treasured. A time to look back at the incredible year that has past, and remember all the moments that brought your little one to this day. A day to celebrate her.

The first birthday party however, is a completely different beast. It's not for the child. She's not going to remember what she wore, what plates were used or what food was served on them. She'll not someday reminisce about the decorations, nor the presents she received. The first birthday party is for the parents. A "Whoo-hoo we made it through a year" kind of bash, and most deserved. However, the party is not thrown for the parents- it's the parents that throw it for themselves, under the guise that it's really for the child.

Matching napkins and specific color schemes, addressing specialized invitations and planning the menu. Cleaning the house until your reflection can be seen in the bathroom fixtures (a New York City bathroom, mind you- which doesn't ever look that clean not matter how much bleach you use). Stressing over every detail to make sure it's perfect for your little angel.

Only it's not for the little one- I reminded my friend of this when she was throwing her son's first b-day soiree, I reminded my wife of this when it was time to throw one for our little nugget. And yet, still special cake pans were purchased, and cupcakes were baked in quantities large enough to feed the Union army- with some left over for Lee's boys in gray as well. Minor breakdowns ensued when the day came and there was still so much left to be done to make the day all a one year old could ever wish for. If only she knew what a wish was. Right now her wishes would probably consist of more Ritz crackers and unlimited play time with the TV remote (so she can unwittingly order pay-per-view movies mommy and daddy don't want to see).

The day was a success... I mean the food for the adults was an hour late. The food for the kids was purchased about 20 minutes prior to the party starting- and only then because my sister asked when were putting the chicken nuggets in the oven. K. was, no surprise, overwhelmed and clingy to me and my wife. And after all the prep time her mom put into the birthday treat- our little cupcake wanted little to do with hers.

But we survived. And the baby-sitter was invited, so when she showed up a little pressure was lifted. And everybody had a good time. It was a day to remember for us- even if we wanted to forget it afterwards. Our little girl turned one year old. Happy Birthday, Miss K... you are loved.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 33: Teething (a pair of companion haiku...)

2011-04-18T14:22:00.002-04:00

Crying, screaming babe.
Writhing and sleepless at night-
Cheerful though, come morn'.

***

My pillow asked me-
Where had you gone, overnight?
My crossword just laughs.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 32: Color games...

2011-04-13T17:55:00.007-04:00

As a sports fan, I was always slightly miffed at the pink versions of team apparel donned by females at sporting events. I get it- they're trying to sell more merchandise by appealing to the feminine side (which, of course, gender stereotypes tell us means pink!). But I have always just found it very unsettling, seeing as though two fans could be walking side by side, and it's not necessarily readily apparent who's rooting for who if they are both decked out in opposing- yet matching- pink jerseys. And when my wife started coming with me to games, I found it refreshing that she wanted to purchase items only the true team colors. All was right in the world of sports...

Now I am seeing life through pink-colored glasses. When our little K. entered the picture, despite our best efforts to fully explore the color palette of fashion, more and more pink has entered our household. Sure she has greens and blues and purples in her wardrobe (her room is even painted sky blue!), but so much of what is out there for little girls to wear is (thanks again, stereotypes) pink! And plus she looks so darn cute in pink, it's hard to resist. And resist I didn't. When I purchased her Yankees apparel the other day it was in shades of pink. A hot pink #2 Derek Jeter jersey-shirt, to go with a pastel pink hat with the revered interlocking NY. It just seemed right. Maybe as she gets older she'll want to follow her mom's path of team color choice- but for now, she'll stay our little Yankee pinkee!!

Whetting my bleak

2011-03-17T17:55:00.004-04:00

Why, oh why do I continue to read the fiction in the New Yorker? Why, when it continues to be, without fail, depressive literature? Not just depressive- bleak is more accurate. Characters wandering through their lives as ghosts of real people, their dreary existences mapped by failures and/or misfortune, or at best oddities.

Recent yarns I have read include: A story about a boy who makes it his life's goal, quite apropos of nothing, to press his lips to every square inch of his body- he actually snaps vertebrae in the process; A tale of a put upon guy with an asthmatic toddler, his ex-wife hateful and hurtful, his job and carpool mates a miserable mess; A remembrance of two college girls, from different backgrounds, interested in the same man- one of them settles for small town boredom (after the man had chosen the other girl), and dreams about what life had been like they been together, only to meet the man on a train many years later, and discover he's really not all that great after all; And a dizzying story in which a man's mid-life to death is reduced to half-remembered flashes of drunken nights and never quite knowing what in his life he really has had any control over- told in a rapid succession of seemingly overlapping memories, unsettling as it is confusing.

Even a piece by Stephen King a while back- I wasn't expecting happy go lucky, but maybe something scary or suspenseful to break up the monotony. But no, it was a simple piece about a man waiting in his car on a very hot day, while his wife goes into a convenience store. She proceeds to have a heart attack and die in the store. He goes in and is consoled by the people in the store, and stays around just long enough so that when he leaves to go to the hospital to claim his wife's body- he returns to his car to find he had forgotten the dog had been in there and is now dead as well. Sigh.

It's not that these stories aren't compelling, or poorly written. The fact that I have plowed my way through them, despite the somber subject matter, speaks to the fact that they are clearly interesting pieces. And maybe I read them, hoping for a little sunshine to peak through somewhere. A little joy... perhaps some whimsy. It's gotta happen sooner or later, right? I suppose I'll just keep reading to find out.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 31: That old feeling...

2011-03-16T23:11:00.005-04:00

I've seen, many times, when mothers (maybe some dads too, but mostly I notice this in moms) are around another new baby, it's always, "Oh I remember this!" Or "I miss this..." I just didn't think something similar would happen to me.

It's such a great and rewarding experience to see your child grow, and develop, and change before your eyes. Her personality coming through, her increased response to you and things around her are just amazing. So why in less than a year's time do I find myself pining for small babies when I see them on the street, or the train. Or when a picture of K from the first few months pops up on the computer, I get that pang of longing... longing for what though, I can't exactly say.

Do I want another little baby already? My wife and aren't sure at this point if we even want another child. I mean, we lightheartedly discuss it sometimes as we lie semi-comatose across from one another on the couch at the end of another exhausting, yet all too normal day. But at this point I can't even realistically imagine such a thing. Or is that I just want my current little nugget to shrink back down to when things were simpler? To relive the innocence? Of course there's a part of me that misses that time, but really I wouldn't want to trade the stage we are at with her now for anything. Ask me again when she's thirteen.

So what is it about seeing a tiny baby that gives me that ache? Probably the fact that it's not my baby. The fact that I can be free to look, maybe even cradle him/her in my arms, without having to give the whole of myself to this little being. It's the fantasy of having another baby- all the coos and tiny appendages- without the reality- the middle of the night feedings, etc. So until that time comes, when reality sets in (or doesn't)- I'll just be the baby gawker. Living vicariously through other parents' and their teeny tinies, while enjoying my ever-growing one.

2011-03-16T12:00:00.000-04:00

My friend Kerry of Citizen Kerry asked me to be a part of her on-going discussion on the WSJ article “Where Have All the Good Men Gone?” Thanks to Citizen Kerry for including some of my thoughts, and linking OJAAT as well!

The High Road (Or the Blackberry never lies)

2011-03-09T17:55:00.001-05:00

Why do people feel the need to be hostile? Or why is it, that for some people- hostility seems the easier path, than reasoning it out level headed-ly?

I was at an appointment the other day for physical therapy- when some lady limped in claiming to have an appointment, with the same therapist at the same time as me. Her go-to argument being, "But it's in my Blackberry!!" The girl at the front desk was calm and non-confrontational in trying revolve the situation. In the course of probably two and a half minutes, limpy lady stated that: She had made the appointment a week ago. Then: She had made the appointment a week and a half ago. And then: She had made the appointment two weeks ago. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, she glared at the girl "I know you think this is very funny, because you keep shaking your head at me, but it's not!" The girl was just as confused as I was, as there was no laughter or insinuation this situation was funny at all. "I just spent $10 on a cab ride over here, what the..." was followed by "There's no way I would have scheduled an appointment last week, I had big clients in from Mexico for a few days." Then about a minute later, "I had really big clients in from Mexico all week last week."

I get it. It's frustrating when appointments get crossed. I would be put off, for sure. But when someone is trying to be helpful, why don't people realize that perhaps verbally abusing this person isn't the best way to get what you want out of the situation? It seems simple to me.

Well, eventually the girl at the front desk excused herself to go talk to the physical therapist about the situation, and gimpy chick huffed and puffed off to the side saying, "It's always something or another with this place, I should go somewhere else," all the while staring at her Blackberry- presumably at the appointment that the god of all schedules had apparently beamed into her electronic calendar. And when the therapist came out to tell her what the were going try and do, squeeze her in if she'd just wait a couple minutes, she kept interrupting accusingly (going back to the $10 cab ride argument in the process) as if he he was saying I am sorry you are not on the schedule please go home- which is what I wanted to say, as she was cutting into my appointment time. Which was both on my schedule and the physical therapist's schedule too. And when the situation had seemed to be corrected, there was no thank you. No awareness that her behavior was affecting anybody else's schedule but her own.

I like the saying, "If your lunch mate is nice to you, but not to the waiter- then they are not a nice person." This woman was not nice. It took a lot of restraint on my part not to say anything to this awful woman. And she was truly awful. Not my battle, I kept telling myself, not my business. This woman couldn't possibly wrap her mind around the fact that the mistake could have been her own. No way. Not when it was In her Blackberry. I have no idea what kind of baggage or issues, other than physical pain, this woman brought in with her, but there is no excuse in my book for treating someone as she did- especially when that someone is in the position to and trying to help. Perhaps "physical" isn't the only sort therapy she should be looking into. I realize I am far from a saint- judge not lest ye be judged, I once read somewhere... But I hope I am never as ugly to others as this woman was, and let's face it- probably is in other other aspects of her life. Ugh.

(Steps off his soap box, which was positioned very carefully, on very high ground)

A lesson in 21st century Jungian Analysis

2011-03-04T17:55:00.001-05:00

An overheard conversation on the train this morning between two teenage girls.

[Mid-sentence:]
"...and isn't having sex on the train illegal?"
"I dunno..."
"It's just weird, what a weird dream."
"It's weird."
"I know I was like, 'what'?"
"You should look it up on urban dictionary."
[end]

Which made me think, she should look what up on urban dictionary? Matters of legality? Symbolism and meaning in dreams? Yeah, urban dictionary is totally the first place I think of to go to get that kind of information. I'm not even aware of any purpose of urban dictionary, other to enlighten the reader as to the meaning and derivations of slang words and phrases. But what do I know, I'm old. Maybe there's some sort of secret section for teens where they log in and all is revealed to them. Life, love, investment strategy...

And anyway, I was eavesdropping... eavesdropping of course being a relative term since they were both less than a foot away from my ear, speaking at increased volume do to the fact that the entirety of their conversation took place wearing earphones, attached to their respective iPods with audible music emanating. Ah youth...

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 30: Mobile mayhem

2011-03-02T17:55:00.004-05:00

Mood music: The Who, "Going Mobile"

Getting ready in the morning, lounging around in the evening, preparing a meal... well, just about everything has changed now that our little Miss K has gone mobile. (Thanks Pete and Roger, I'll take it from here.)

Time was we could leave our little girl snug on the couch for second or two in the boppy, with little fear of her rolling off or causing any sort of calamity. Then when she started rolling over, the couch became off limits as a means of her minding herself. But she fit every so nicely in on the carpet, or in her little play gym. If she did move, it wasn't far and she had all she needed to keep herself entertained with dangling toys, not to mention her fingers and toes. Then rolling over turned into rolling and tumbling- a true means of transport. It may have taken her a while, but she could get from point A to point T(rouble) if she wanted to. But the grunts and sometimes little yelps that accompanied the little tumbleweed were alarm enough to know that she was on her way to no good- and in enough time to scoop her up or change her course.

Well, when the tumbleweed joined forces with the "army crawl" (using her arms to pull herself along like a soldier in the field) it spelled the beginning of the end of, let's call it, normalcy. Now she was able to get around a little swifter and quieter- opening her eyes to things all around her, now that her head was somewhat forward while she puttered along. Such as her feline brother Mickey Mantle, who was at once intrigued and terrified by the slow-moving mass coming towards him. It was during this phase that my candidacy for Parent of the Year hit full swing, when I happened to snooze for maybe two minutes one morning while "watching" her, only to find when my eyes opened that she had moved deftly across the room and pulled over the basket in which we keep (see also: kept) our cell phone chargers, with wires aplenty attached- and plugged in, mind you. So my POTY candidacy really did take off you see, what with the risks of electrocution and strangulation all rolled into one!

But we were still somewhat able to keep her entertained in various devices at that point- the exersaucer or the swing, or the like. But what came next- what we are dealing with now- is the full-fledged crawl. The crawl!!! And not only the crawl, but she can pull herself up willy-nilly on any object to a standing position thereby creating- literally- a whole new level of trouble for her to get into. The crawl happens fast. And it happens ever so quiet. So when you turn your back, and turn around again, she's made it into the foyer and pulled some of the books off of the bookshelf. Or she's found the one cord we haven't baby-proofed. Or she's dialed India on my cell phone- or at least the Indian take-out place up the street. Or neither, but you get my drift.

Now that she's mobile, she's not nearly as amenable to being kept one place by the exersaucer or the swing for any extended period of time. She's gotta move! So in the morning, when either my wife or myself has to care for her alone, while trying to get ourselves ready- it proves to be quite challenging. There's a lot of "keeping the ears open," and running from room to room so as to accomplish what we need to, yet not allowing her to find her way into the very things we try and keep her away from. There are only so many things you can block off with a baby gate. I've been looking through the baby-proofing aisles for some sort of tether-ball pole inspired leash sort of thing, where the most she could do is crawl around in circles. But oddly enough, I haven't found such a device. And when I am part of the team that designs it- my election to Parent of the Year will be a shoe-in.

P.S. I know it will only get worse when she starts walking... sigh.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 29: The schedule

2011-02-22T17:55:00.005-05:00

Trying to get your baby on a schedule, is a challenge that most parents struggle with. What time they eat. What time they nap. What time they go to sleep. It really is a struggle, because of all the internal/external variables that affect your day and theirs. Took longer at the store than anticipated? That's going to cut into nap time, if it happens now at all. More likely she'll pass out in the car for a few minutes and then be wide awake at home and demanding your attention when it's time to put the groceries away. Did her morning nap run longer than usual? Now lunchtime is a little late, and you can almost forget the afternoon nap.Or if she still happens to go down for the afternoon nap- now you can pretty much count on the fact she'll still be awake at least an hour past her usual bed time.

Put hands to head and pull hair. (Screaming: "Heeeeelp!" to the heavens optional)

Some parents (super-parents!) try to squash the variables, by rigidly sticking to the schedule come hell or high water. Maybe they won't go to the store if it means there's a chance it could run long. Or they'll wake their child up at an appointed time when the planned nap is over. There's a lot to be said for that kind of diligence. But most of the time we're so thrilled when K goes down mid-morning or day, that we feel she'll wake when her body tells her it's time to wake up. And, she's got to eat- so we have to go to the store. Schedule be damned! And let's face it, she probably has something to do with us getting out the door late. That's right, blame the baby.

All that said, we do have our little one on a decent (if not written in very light pencil) schedule. But since we aren't the super-parents mentioned above, she gets off schedule a little here and there. With minor tweaks every now and then, she's pretty good and keeping to it. So much of the talk surrounding the "schedule" is that they baby gets fussy when the schedule is deviated from. But what I've come realize is that although sure she gets a little cranky when her schedule gets screwed up, it's her parents that really get cranky. That nap time is our time to nap too- or at least get stuff done around the house that is next to impossible to do while she's up. So when the day doesn't go as planned we're the ones that get grumpy.

I can't imagine, though, that the super-parents are any less cranky at constantly having to re-arrange and reschedule their days so as not to disturb the almighty schedule! I mean yes, you have to make a lot of concessions in your life when a baby arrives- but you can't let them take completely take charge. As with a lot of things in parenting, compromise is the name of the game. Nobody likes a fussy grown-up, after all.

Reverence for the garage (An OJAAT Haiku)

2011-02-21T19:57:00.000-05:00

A surprise snow fall.
Parked on the street last night for
Convenience, ha! Crap.

Blogger's note: A tip of the hat to an old classmate, Julienne, whose blog I Love Bus Haiku gave me the inspiration for this post. Give it a read, very good stuff!

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 28: Behind the plastic

2011-02-10T17:55:00.002-05:00

My first winter in New York, I noticed something that seemed alarming. Babies being pushed around in strollers shrouded in plastic sheets. How awful, I thought, those poor kids- can they breathe in there??!! Then I came to realize very quickly that not only are the stroller covers quite safe, but they are also almost a necessity for city living. When you have to walk from point A to B rather than just hopping in a car, and you live in a place subject to weather, keeping your baby safe from the elements- be it rain, snow, or biting wind- is difficult to do with out one of these devices.

So when our little one came along, we of course purchased the plastic cover for her chariot. And while it's been a godsend on cold, wet winter days, some of those initial fears of mine about these things come creeping back every time a I put it on. After all, while it began to make sense to me that these a perfectly safe for other children, this is now my little girl we're talking about. So of course I'm afraid she'll suffocate in there-- to say nothing of the twelve layers of clothing she has on. If we have a walk of any sustained length or time, I find myself constantly checking to see if she's still breathing. Sometimes it steams up which may make it hard to see her clearly, but at least that's a tell-tale sign there is breathing happening. Then when there's no steam, I have to bat at the plastic to defect the glare so I can see inside that she's all good under the hood. Her making noise while under the sheet help calm the nerves a little, until the point I start thinking- Is she making noise because she's getting carbon dioxide poisoning? Sigh.

If these plastic stroller covers weren't safe, they probably wouldn't be so prevalent- right? There's no need to worry. There's ventilation... she's fine in there... and she'd be cold and wet otherwise. And it's just another reason to pray for warmer weather.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 27: Accentuating the Positive

2011-02-07T17:55:00.023-05:00

Babies have got it good.

I'm not just talking about being pushed around in a stroller, or being changed when they've messed themselves. I'm not just talking about being fed whenever they want to, or held and coddled when they get upset. Those things are nice. But in addition to that- every little thing they do gets celebrated. Nobody smiles and pats me on the back when I finish all my food. And I can clap too, you know- been clapping for a long time- and yet when I do it goes almost completely unnoticed. Not "Yaaaay," followed by clapping along with me in celebration. It's got me feeling like Fredo from the The Godfather 2: "I can handle things! I'm smart!" No- I don't ever voice this state of mind... I'm an adult. Plus, we all know what happened to Fredo.

Which got me to thinking: Can you imagine how productive we all might be if we all received the the kind of positive affirmation afforded to babies? I'm sure it would get a little annoying after a while, but man it would feel good to be showered with compliments on the way I walked to the printer from my desk... and back!! What a big boy!! And what satisfaction: Going to the bathroom... in the potty? All by myself?? Yaaaay! Just think of Barak Obama signing a bill into law, and being hoisted up on John Boehner's shoulders for being the bestest President ever!! And the cutest!! What a proud papa he'd be!

But sadly, the hyper-positive reinforcement ends as soon as you're old enough to appreciate it. So live it up while you still get it, babies- because it's much less of big deal when you make poopies in your pants at age 34. Well, it's still a big deal- but not in the good sort of way. And the rest of you, hold your applause, please.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 26: Must NOT-See TV

2011-02-04T17:55:00.013-05:00

I've never been a big fan of TV news pieces or articles that deal with misfortune involving children. Kidnapping, child abuse, inspirational yet depressing stories of children dealing with terminal illness- not my cup of tea. If I happened to be watching a program and one came on, I might watch some of it- but I would never go out of my to watch or read these stories or seek them out in any way. (I know you are are thinking, Who does? Plenty of people, although they may not admit it, love watching that heart-wrenching real life drama stuff. Maybe they like a good cry, maybe they watch to make themselves feel better about where they're at- but they are out there. I know this, because that's why you see stories like this abound- TV producers and/or news editors know their audiences.)

Now that I have a little girl- who has, like all children do I suppose, become the center of my universe- I can't even bear to peek at this stuff. The second something like this comes on the screen I will change the channel- can't do it. My neuroses about the health and well-being of my child don't need any help going to dark places, thank you very much. Having been in the hospital with my little girl for a non-life threatening situation was difficult enough, let alone imagining the struggle that the parents and children involved in these tragedies must go through. I don't want to think about it!

I know sticking my head in the sand doesn't make the ills of the world disappear as it concerns my daughter. But it's not so much putting on rose-colored glasses as it is not inviting any more stress and worry than is already there to begin with. More like sweeping it under the carpet. I know it's there, but I don't have think about it, or deal with it. Out of sight, out of... well, never completely out of mind- but maybe it gives me a fighting chance to keep it in the way back of my mind.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 25: Temporary Backseat

2011-02-03T17:55:00.004-05:00

We've been very lucky in that our little girl has a very easy going personality. We can take her places where there's a lot of different people, and she's fine with being passed around. But around the house lately, it's become Mommy-time!

When Mommy leaves the room it's accompanied with a yelp from K., or sometimes even a full fledged cry. Sometimes Mommy can sneak out without her absence being detected, but not usually. So left in the room is me and a crying baby. "What's wrong with Daddy?" I'll ask her. "Remember me? Daddy?" At which point she'll look up at me with that break-your-heart pout, and realize #2 will have do- but not without another whip around of the head to make sure Mommy's not coming back. When Mommy hands her off to me, it's met with the same kind of reaction, much like I am aflame or something.

It's hard not to take it personally. The little bundle for whom you expend so much energy, and love so much it aches doesn't seem to like you!! Daggers!! Okay, yeah this is an over-exaggeration. Because it's not all the time- it's not even a majority of the time. But it's amazing to me how easily this tiny human can sway my emotions. It's the outward display of displeasure to be left with Daddy- even if it's momentary- that stings, only to be erased mere seconds later by her toothless grin. And the other thing is, it's never a feeling of jealousy towards my wife, at all. I absolutely love the way K. looks at her mom. It's more precious to me than even when she looks at me- and that doesn't bother me. Watching the two of them together gives me an indescribable joy, and I'd never want that to go away or nor would I change it for anything.

I also know that someday, this is all bound to change. That there will be a Daddy's-little-girl phase, where I'll reap the benefits of unbridled and uninterrupted affection from the little miss. Until then I'll put up my parental suit of armor so as not to suffer the daily slings and arrows of tiny mood-swings.

Goundhog Day Revolution

2011-02-02T17:55:00.001-05:00

A year ago on this day, on this blog, I questioned the validity and the very tradition of Groundhog Day. After re-posting today (on a popular social-networking site which is the subject of an Oscar-nominated movie which will remain nameless), my friend Kerry commented, asking a very pertinent and though-provoking question: Why not entrust another animal to foretell the weather? Her answer to her own question was perhaps a cat- pointing to their intuition. Valid point. It got me thinking, what other animals could apply- and how would their version of February 2nd play out? And, what to do with the groundhog now that he's got more free time?

CATS: It might go something like this. As Kerry noted, cats do have a very intuitive quality to them. In which case, I say the cat makes every attempt not to let anybody pull them from the carrier (assuming they allowed themselves to be put in the carrier to begin with), knowing full-well the madness that awaits. Arms bloodied, and nerves rattled, the handlers tell the awaiting crowd they're not really sure about the weather, but they look to have 6 weeks of recovery ahead from their injuries.

DOGS: Dogs are too smart for this. Plus, if they're outside all they are going to want to do is play or go to the bathroom. So the dog gets excited- runs around in a wide circle a few times to burn off some of that pent up energy from being cooped up, tuckers out and takes a very long-awaited pee. Again, the dog runs off, in hot pursuit of his shadow. At which point everyone forgets why they've come- but walk away with the valuable lesson re-learned to not eat the yellow snow.

PARROT: After emerging from its cage, the handlers may say something like, "Tell us what the season brings..." To which the parrot will respond: "Tell us what the season brings...bwaaaah!" "Six weeks more winter?" "Six weeks more winter?....bwaaah!" "Or will spring come early?" "Or will spring come early?..bwaaah!" I think you get the point.

GOLDFISH: Dreadfully, someone has left the goldfish bowl out for too long out in the elements and it has frozen solid. It is announced that six more weeks of winter will be observed in remembrance of our frozen-gilled friend. Also- special on goldfish at the fish market!!

BURMESE PYTHON: I guess we'll have to go with him today, because we can't find the groundhog, or the cat, dog, parrot, or goldfish. Seriously- where the hell are they?

We could go on all day, feel free to add your own.

So, what to do with the groundhog? All this history of predicting on his resume, where does he go? Perhaps he could go to Vegas and set odds for sporting events. Or how about Wall Street? It would be nice to know which way the stock market's gonna go- in six week increments of course. Or if that fails he could be the crazy groundhog who can guess your weight at the carnival. Maybe he retires somewhere without seasons, and forgets it all. Don't ask him if he saw the weather report- he's sensitive.

It's a lot of pressure to put on a groundhog, to have him make a meaningless prediction like this every year. But until the revolution, it looks as though the groundhogs will continue to hold the monopoly on this one. And to Punxutawney Phil, who today told us spring would be coming early, I say "What Phil?? I couldn't hear you with the sound of all the ice crushing under my feet!!"

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 24: True Confession

2011-01-24T17:55:00.035-05:00

Our little one- like many babies- prefers her food/bottles on the warm side. And by prefers I mean she hates it any other way. So we warm it up, for her benefit and our sanity.

All formula canisters, as well food labels come with a stern warning: "NEVER USE A MICROWAVE when heating, as serious burns may occur." What they don't state is: "It will also take you 10-15 seconds to warm up as opposed to 4-5 minutes sitting in a bowl of hot water." So after a few months of staying true to the label and hours of thumb-twiddling beside bowls of hot water (let's face it, as new parent you wouldn't ever defy what is says on a label!), we now USE THE MICROWAVE method. Against all warnings!! Rebellion!! Perhaps the makers of the these products have never had a baby- but those extra 3 minutes and 45 seconds or so can make a big difference to a hungry, fidgety baby.

As far as "serious burns" occurring- how long are you putting it in the microwave for? It is the 21st century, you do know that microwaves heat things up very fast, yes? And another thing- you always test the food or formula before you give to the baby, just as you would if you heated it up any other way. Don't you? If it's too hot, don't give it to the baby. Serious burns avoided!! I seriously don't get what all the fuss is about. Unless the warnings are there for the stupid people? Or I suppose we should all pop our popcorn on the stove, and cook our frozen burritos in a conventional oven too? Or maybe the baby food industry is funded by the anti-microwave lobby? But I digress...

A little convenience goes a long way, is all I'm saying. There are so many things world of child rearing where you absolutely can't cut corners- but I'm not adding heating up a bottle to the list. Not when there's a simpler way. Even if means defying warnings for stupid people. Lock me up if you must, child services- our baby is getting a warm bottle on the quick, and on our terms- and then going about her business burn free.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 23: Sass and solids, the battle wages on...

2011-01-20T17:55:00.002-05:00

Mood music: U2 - "One"

Is it getting better...? Yes, thank you Bono, it is.

The daily struggle of getting our little princess to ingest solid foods is moving towards reconciliation, but it's still a labor of love. Not only is it a battle with her, lady high-queen of the high-chair, but it is a battle with yourself- a battle to remain cheery and playful in the face of mounting frustration. And in the face of a baby growing ever sassier before your eyes.

I was, I thought, fully prepared I knowing that my little daughter would at some point become a sassy little thing- "All little girls are," people have told me since we found out we were having one. But I figured perhaps this wouldn't be the case until maybe she learned the word "No!" or "I want that!" Well the seeds of sass have apparently already been planted, and roots are forming- well before verbal acuity has reared its head. One needs only to bring a spoon close to K.'s lips and watch her willfully clamp her lips shut and dramatically turn her head aside, to glimpse the future of what attitude may lay in store for us.

On a couple of occurrences, I have seen her actually swat the spoon out of my wife's hand. Arguments can of course be made that she still may not complete understand exactly what she's doing- but coupled with the stare-down duel that followed between the queen and her minion- it makes me wonder. And then two seconds later it's all smiles and giggles from the chair, and her mouth opens just ever so slightly, so you swoop in with the spoon- only to be greeted with "lips of steel," as I like to call them. The same lips of steel we are met with when she doesn't want the bottle, but much messier and stickier. The same lips of steel that fly wide open when it's time to take her yummy medicine, the same lips of steel that welcome the thumb with ease during feeding- so they do work...

But it is getting better. Once you can sneak some food into her royal mouth, she generally relents- realizing that we're not feeding her cat food- and keeps the drawbridge open for the waiting feeding implement. But she'll let us know she's done- even if we do try and push the envelope still, "Just one more bite..." You know who usually wins.

Never let them (her) see you sweat, is a good motto to go on. Once she sees that frustration build up on your face- feeding time is over. And try, against insurmountable odds, not to laugh when she sasses it up- I know someday very soon it won't be cute at all, but right now it's really friggin' adorable.

Hopefully she turns into that kid who after giving us food-related grief as little one, becomes a very good eater in her later kid years- very much like one of my nephews. Until then we'll fight the good fight (the food fight?)- trying to keep the sass down to a minimum, and the solids down the gullet!

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 22: In it to win it?

2011-01-16T17:55:00.004-05:00

To borrow from a sports analogy- raising a child is not a sprint, it's a marathon. But it's not a race. And it is not a competition. Right? Well then why do we feel we need to win so badly?

My wife and I have been blessed with the fact that we have close friends who have had babies around the same time as us. It has given us a wealth of support, and to see their children grow up along side our little girl so far as made it an even more rewarding experience.

The draw back of course is the inevitable comparisons of your child against theirs, in regards to milestones and development and such. A new tooth is reason to celebrate, except when your child has been teething for two months or so without any teeth to show for it. Walking is incredible, but when your child isn't even crawling yet- despite your belief that she could if only she'd... blahblahblah... sigh. You get the point.

My wife and I know that our little lady is a healthy and happy baby. She is learning and growing everyday, and isn't behind in any sort of developmental way. So why isn't it good enough? Why do we internalize her unique path to her milestones as some sort of failure as parents on our part? It's just not logical, or productive. We always remind each other of this. That K.'s on her own journey, and that she's progressing very well, that we're not horrible parents and no, our child is not suffering due to our lack of parental ability and skill.

It certainly doesn't cloud our happiness for our friends' children in the least- we truly want them to excel and grow as they should. It's amazing to see. So why can't it be, "Wow! That's great!" rather than "Wow! That's great! Why can't/isn't our baby...?"

I guess this is only the beginning in the marathon of wanting nothing but the best for and out of your child. I can only hope that we become more reasonable as K. gets older and more aware. I wouldn't change a single thing in her life so far, and I would hate for her to ever see or feel disappointment from us in this regard. Because it's not disappointment in her. It's nothing more than excitement of what's to come, coupled of course with fear- of our own failure- that her development and speed thereof is a direct reflection on what we do day-to-day as parents. We will just continue to remind ourselves that we are all on this journey together, and that we all are learning as we go. I am positive K.'s not beating herself up over any of it, so why should we we?

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 21: Tiny laundry...

2011-01-10T17:55:00.001-05:00

Being married opened up new horizons for me when it came to laundry. Gone were the days of maybe just throwing the colors AND the whites in the same load to save time and money... gone too were overloading, and just ripping everything out of the wash and throwing them into the dryer. You see, certain things just can't be dried. And some things needed to be put into little mesh bags so they wouldn't be damaged. It all used to be so simple! Well, with the arrival of the little wonder (really more beginning during pregnancy), my wife has certainly let up a little in her laundry demands because much of the laundry-related extra care and energy goes towards the tiny laundry.

The sheer volume of the tiny laundry is impressive, especially given the fact that the laundry is so very tiny. Normal adult-sized articles in this magnitude would surely fill up many hampers and subsequently washers, causing great stress and hair pulling. But the tiny laundry usually fits in two or three loads- and only that because of the tiny sheets and tiny towels. And let's not forget the tiny laundry gets its own special detergent, and NO drier sheets.

It's perpetual. I mean, how many clothes and linens could a tiny baby possibly go through? Well, between food spills, external pooping episodes, flash-flood like drooling sessions, spit up events- A LOT. Funny how the drawers teeming with tiny outfits, quickly become empty, and we find ourselves back in front of the machines, watching the tiny laundry dance and spin. I hate doing laundry, but it's nearly impossible to be overly grumpy when you pick up to fold a tiny pair of pants or socks- especially when there's something like "I love Daddy" printed on them.

About those tiny socks- socks are one of those things when doing our normal-sized laundry, I don't care if they fall on the floor as I take them out of the drier... I mean sure the laundry room floor can be dusty, but hey- the socks just go on our feet, so no big deal. Well, not so with the tiny laundry. While those socks still just go on the feet, the fact is those feet go in the mouth! So special attention must be paid to keep the socks as clean as possible. Tiny baby mouths can't go in the wash, although that does give me an idea...

So the tiny laundry will keep coming. Although it will get less tiny, hopefully the spitting up and pooping on the clothes will decrease over time, thereby holding the amount to a minimum. But with a teenage girl, I am sure mulitple outfits per day will be in order... whoa, hold on there.. just aged myself... let's stick with tiny laundry for as long we can.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 20: Speaking of myself...

2011-01-07T17:55:00.001-05:00

We all do it. Talk to ourselves a little... while you're performing odd tasks around the house, or perhaps when you screw something up- "Nice work, [your name here]," kinda under your breath. You know what I am talking about.

Oh you don't, do you? Well, I am secure enough in what's left of my sanity to admit that I do. Although lately I have noticed a bit of a change, when the task I am performing is some what related to the baby- packing her bag, or making her a bottle- I've realized I am calling myself Daddy. As in, "Way to go, Daddy," when I've dumped half a scoop of formula on the kitchen counter. Not only that, by my wife has also become Mommy in my conversations with yours truly- although this only in my head. As of yet I don't I think I have called her Mommy out loud to myself.

I mean we spend so much time talking K. about Mommy and Daddy, it's perfectly reasonable it should spill over into my "talking-to-myself" time. Right? No more unreasonable than talking to yourself in the first place, anyway. Right?? I mean, at least so far it's only when I am doing baby related stuff that the D word pops up. So far. I have not been at work, thinking or saying to myself, "Oh crap- Daddy forgot to send out that email!" Not yet anyway. And so what if I do? These are my conversations with myself- I can call me whatever I want! Yeah! ...yeah. Although, if you happen to be around, please punch me in the face or lock me up if ever I introduce myself as Daddy to someone else. In the meanwhile I'll keep telling myself Daddy's got it under control.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 19: Fear and parenting

2011-01-06T17:55:00.003-05:00

I've come to realize in my short time as a parent, that so much we do as parents is driven by fear. Not by love or responsibility- although, sure those come into play- but fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of the known all to well. And I am not even talking about the fears that come into play when one thinks about their child's future- what will she become, what will the world be like then, etc. It's the day to day fears that keep those fingernails short and the eyes bleary, and make the hairs gray.

I guess the trick is not to be consumed by it.

We still go in an check on K. multiple time after she's gone to bed to make sure she's breathing. Thanks to the ever-present availability of information these days, new parents are bombarded with stories of SIDS and other awful things that can happen in the night, and steps you can take to prevent it, although taking these steps won't assure your child's safety. So we remove the bumper, we put her down on her back (which is moot now, she just rolls over onto her belly), we do all things we're "supposed" to- and still we go in and check. Still breathing? Yes. This I have found may never end. My brother-in-law informed me he still does the check with his boys- and they're 4 and 7 years old.

Why isn't my child eating? Is she getting enough? How much does she weigh? Is it appropriate for her length? Her length appropriate for her weight? Is her head getting misshapen? What are those bumps on her face, her back, her bottom? Why doesn't she have any teeth yet?

And then there's sickness. Fear is now accompanied by helplessness. She feels warm. Her temperature's 102.6, she won't be consoled- give her some Tylenol. But what's really wrong? As you are holding her in your arms, you are literally trying to will her fever from getting worse- she's already so upset, and you are wishing she could just tell you what exactly was wrong so you could at least try and make it better. So daylight comes and we go to the doctor to find out she has had an ear infection. A brief moment of, Oh, that's what it is- is followed by:

Why didn't we go to the doctor sooner? What if what if what if?? Antiobiotics prescribed. And taken. What if she has an allergic reaction? How will we know? What do we do? Don't look on the internet! It will only manifest symptoms!

Then ten days later, another fever, another long night. Back to the doctor. Ear infection still there, despite the round of medicine.

What if there is something really wrong with her ears? Once again, did we wait too long? Did we miss a sign?

Stronger antibiotics. Now we wait for the follow up. K. is still tugging at her ears, but since there is no fever or night waking, doctor's not concerned. Yes, we've called. It's a good thing we don't have his home number.

Should we give her Ibuprofen? I don't want to OD our child! Is that sound she's making normal? She hasn't pooped in three days? That's a weird color! Does her pee smell funny to you? Is she still sleeping? Hope she's okay... And on, and on, and on...

These fears, I know, are not uncommon to any parent, not just new ones. And despite the multitudes and frequency of these thoughts, I think we do a pretty good job of not letting them overtake us. Truthfully, there's not really time to dwell on singular fears, because something always needs to be done, or the little one will suddenly smile and make you forget there was any cause for alarm. Fears will always be there- whether it's fear of being a bad parent, or fear of something being wrong- and I guess it's all the love and responsibility that makes being a parent to so rewarding and frightening all at the same time.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 18: Weak-ends

2011-01-05T17:55:00.000-05:00

Like so many working people in this world, I'd had Friday circled in red in perpetuity on my mental calendar. The weekend was time for rest and rejuvenation- maybe catch up on a few household chores that fell by the wayside over the course of the week. Ahhh, the weekend. Just saying it made it feel all was going to be okay.

And then along came parenthood.

Now the weekend is full. Every weekend. There's always something going on. Even when there's nothing really going on. Even the once exciting trips to Target [read: (tar-zháy)], have now become the obligatory trips Target- in which to purchase diapers, formula, and other accouterments for Miss K. When we get home, it's not time to plop down on the couch and catch the second half of that game; it's time to change her diaper, bathe her, play with her... you know, the 24-hour job of a parent.

A funny thing happens though. After being exhausted all weekend, and longing for rest and respite- come Monday morning- when it's time to drop her off at day care, it's painful and I can't wait for the end of the day when we can pick her up. Repeat for days Tuesday-Friday. And all starts again.

The weekend is certainly not what it used to be, but I wouldn't change it for anything.

Found treats not welcome

2010-12-21T10:53:00.000-05:00

Our laundry room is in the basement of our building and becomes the landing place for all unwanted items from people's apartments: clothing, books, CD's, knick knacks, even the occasional small appliance. Well a new find was waiting on the table when we went down to do laundry the other day: a couple of boxes of Pop-Tarts.

Mmmm.... Pop-Tarts... blech.

Hey I like a Pop-Tart as much as the next guy, but really? You are going to leave Pop-Tarts in the laundry room? Like, While you're perusing the discarded books, have a snack! Well to my dismay, the culprit did appear to have a taker. Both boxes had been opened, and in one of the open boxes one of the individual wrappers had been opened and a pop tart had been removed. So one remained in the open wrapper. To which I say- REALLY? You're going to leave an open Pop-Tart in the laundry room, inviting ants and who knows what other vermin into- let me repeat- the LAUNDRY ROOM? It's bad enough you ate a random Pop-Tart from God knows where, but don't drag the rest of us into your poor snacking decisions.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 17: Throwing away money

2010-11-17T17:55:00.009-05:00

Being a parent gives new meaning to the term disposable income. There's the clothes she wears once before pooping all over or growing out of them. And of course there's all the gear you need to buy that she'll soon to be too big for or have no use for. But I'm not even talking about that. I'm talking stuff you buy that's as good as garbage the second you bring it home.

Diapers. Man, diapers are expensive. We've even recently gone to the generic brand- they may not have recognizable characters from popular children's TV programs- but they work. And they're a lot cheaper. But they're not exactly what I'd call inexpensive, in the grand scheme of things. And think- they're designed to be used once, and tossed. Same could be said for wipes- which we just tried the generic, and the kibosh was put on that one by the wife. They just didn't feel right, or something... a price can be put on some things. But I digress- we buy the stuff, we throw it away. We by more of the stuff- we throw it away. With alarming frequency. She's a baby: she poops and pees a lot- she's supposed to, I get- but it really does feel like we're throwing away money. The alternative, of course, you may tell me is re-usable cloth diapers. To which I respond: show me two parents who also work full time, and don't own their own washer-dryer that have time to launder cloth diapers, and I will ask the them for the device they use that freezes time, because it would be really useful. But in all seriousness- I'd rather throw the away the money, and hold onto at least a shred of sanity- I'm being realistic here. I'm complaining, but I'm being realistic.

Baby formula. Forget diapers. Formula makers of the world... that's where the money is at!! And forget the name brand stuff- we started using the generic stuff as soon as we ran out of the free samples of the brand stuff. After all, the doctor told us the generic stuff is just as good- so, say no more. That said, the generic formula- like their diaper cousin- although cheaper than the alternative, is not inexpensive. But a baby's gotta eat right? Tell her that. Our little K doesn't always like to eat despite all signs pointing to the fact that she's hungry. And the formula label tells you when you must discard unused formula: If it's untouched, 2 hours at room temp or 24 hours in the fridge. But it's never untouched. And if she starts to drink it, thereby mixing her saliva in- it must be consumed in one hour or it needs to be tossed. Even if we don't stay hard and fast to exactly an hour (we try and stretch out a little) we wind up throwing away a good deal of formula. I mean, you want to believe that it's still good for two or three hours, but you also know it's your baby's well-being that's at stake, and you don't want to play around with that. It's just not always easy to tell just how hungry she is- so we'll try and make a little at a time- but of course if she wants more, you have to interrupt her feeding to make a little more, then a little more. Not the best course of action for anybody involved. So when you go on good faith that, yes, she'll polish off 6 oz. this time around- that's when she only feels like taking 2.5... and then falling asleep for just longer than window of time you feel comfortable saving the bottle for. Sigh.

There's no escaping the above expenses. And if you told me I had to throw away crisp $100 bills in order to maintain the well-being of our little girl, I would do it a heartbeat. No question. But it doesn't make it any easier to stomach, financially. And hey, all this is moot if we strike it rich- I'm looking at you, lottery gods (so what if we don't actually play). In the meanwhile we'll be knee-deep in diapers and formula for the foreseeable future; even if our pile of money doesn't reach quite that high.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 16: Conversation Starter

2010-11-16T18:00:00.001-05:00

Living in New York, making small talk with strangers is not something you have to go out of your way to do. In the elevator, on the train- nothing earth-shattering, just small talk. Since becoming a parent, I feel I have become even more small-talkative, especially when I encounter other parents with their small children.

I've always liked seeing babies and small kids while I'm out and about. I'd even make the occasional funny face, or wave at them, or smile at the parent- so as to say your child is cute... Now that I'm a parent though, it's not just mindless talk-about-the-weather stuff, it's also about information gathering. How old? is the first question. Notice the lack of a pronoun attached to the question; often times one can't tell by look if the baby is a boy or girl. Then I offer the information that I have new baby girl at home myself, so as to show I am not just a creepy guy on the train asking questions about their baby. Sometimes the conversation ends there, and we wish each other luck and go on our merry way. But sometimes it goes deeper. Weight, length, developmental stages are all subjects that can be delved into within minutes of striking up this conversation with a complete stranger or strangers.

Nothing truly personal is usually exchanged. In fact- even though I usually walk away knowing the name of the child- nine times out of ten I will not have asked the parents' names. And it doesn't necessarily feel like I should have, either. It's enough that we we had this moment -on the train, in the deli, on the street- as if to remind ourselves we're not fumbling around alone in this new thing we call parenthood. A little small talk can go a long way.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 15: Gift of grab

2010-11-12T17:39:00.000-05:00

One of the great developmental milestones any child achieves early on is learning how to reach and grab things. It's tough not to be bowled over by my little one when she I see the look in her eyes as she reaches out for something and takes it into her tiny little hands. But the curiosity and wonderment that just weeks ago was so adorable and endearing, can turn decidedly not as much so when accompanied by gained dexterity.

Cute: When she reaches out to touch your face.

Not as cute: When she grabs your bottom lip, digs those little nails in, and pulls with all her might.

Cute: During feeding when she reaches out and holds onto the bottle.

Not as cute: During feeding when she reaches out and grabs a hold of the spoon and holds on with a death-grip, threatening to fling whatever it holds asunder.

Cute: When she notices the TV remote, and paws at it like a new toy.

Not as cute: When she grabs the remote off the couch and changes the channel with her mouth at the most inopportune time.

Oh, who am I kidding? That last one is friggin adorable. And really so are the others listed above under the "Not as cute" category for that matter. The one one thing she's always known how to grab is my heart. And I fear that her dexterity in that department will only get sharper and sharper in the months and years ahead.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 14: Feeding the baby... and the soul

2010-10-26T18:00:00.004-04:00

I remember the weeks leading up to the delivery of our child. I was pretty sure I was going to be bawling my eyes out when she came out, the emotional climax of quite a journey. As it turns out, there was a lot going on at the moment her birth, and it wound up being more a whirlwind. The surreality of it all didn't really give me the opportunity to have that cathartic moment, lost in tears of joy.

It did, however, come a little more than 24 hours later. While my wife's breast milk was still coming in, we decided along with the nurses we'd supplement the little one's feeding with a some formula. That gave me my first opportunity to feed our little wonder. She opened her mouth, started sucking on the bottle and our eyes locked. Well, I completely lost it. Tears galore. There was just something so intimate about the fact I was literally providing our child- this little girl who had been inside my wife not hours ago. Whom I had not met before yesterday, but somehow knew my whole life. And although she probably didn't know what or who she was looking at, her gaze catching mine made it all the more special and momentous.

Now that the process has been repeated and repeated, and will be repeated and repeated, again and again- it's easy to lose that feeling of connectedness. There's nothing like feeding your child, but it's that aha moment where everything in world makes sense and nothing else matters that can be missing. But the other night, both of us fighting to stay awake- me to feed her, she to eat- she reached up and grabbed my finger and just held on for the rest of her feeding. While there weren't tears, I was certainly taken back to that night in the hospital. Her little fingers grasping mine, is all it takes to change what can come to feel like a chore at times into something I'd rather do above all else. And as we start her on solid foods- a whole new ballgame- moments like those are going to come fewer and farther between before I know it. I've got to hold onto to those gazes, and those little fingers for as long I can.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 13: Walking the plank(s)

2010-10-21T18:00:00.001-04:00

Growing up in the city, our little girl has grown accustomed to the sounds of garbage trucks passing, sirens blaring, dogs barking, or the crunch of an occasional fender-bender floating up into the windows of our apartment. More often than not, if she's sleeping none of these sounds cause her to stir. Even summer thunderstorms have passed without rousing her. But there's one sound that seems to disturb her with great regularity: the squeaking floor boards in our apartment.

We are blessed with a good deal of space for a New York apartment, and don't pay anywhere near market value thanks to rent-stabilization, and the fact that my wife has been residing in it for well over a decade. But as the case in a lot of New York apartments, she came in as sublet, and the people that were there before her were there for a while- so when she finally was added to the lease, it was just a continuation of the previous tenants' lease agreements. Good news? Rent-stabilization. Bad news? There hasn't been any serious work done in our apartment for who knows how long, and, short of moving all of our stuff out of the place, it's not going to happen anytime soon.

We're not just talking about a creaky spot here or there. A good deal of the floors in our place squeak and groan when stepped on- in pretty much every room. In our little one's room we laid down a nice thick area rug, not only for decorative purposes, but in the hopes that it would muffle the creakiness of the floors. Well, it was a nice thought, anyway.

When putting our little girl down for a nap, or for the night- we have to choose our path out wisely so as not to hit a loud spot and stir her. Even more dicey a situation is when she is already asleep and we are going in to check on her, because that involves both an entrance and exit. And don't fool yourself into thinking just because you found a reasonably creak-free route on the way in it's going to be the same on the way out. Tip-toeing doesn't really do the trick, either- that's good to mask a footfall, but once the weight of your foot goes into the floorboard, it's curtains... well, floorboards. I'm thinking maybe what we need is a simple zip-wire, or even a Tarzan rope which will allow entry into the room with having to put our feet on the floor... although that might pose a problem when putting her in the crib... I mean I suppose we could practice with a doll first... Okay, okay... maybe some sort of conveyor belt...

Until we have one of those devices installed , a very common conversation in our house will continue to be: "I'm going to go check on her." "Okay, don't wake her." We'll just have to count on the floorboard-gods to show us the us path as we enter the room to check on sleeping beauty... and then hope that a garbage truck smashes into a parked car outside when we do, so she won't be disturbed.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 12: Other children's parents

2010-10-20T08:30:00.000-04:00

Being a parent, one can't help but observe (and okay, maybe judge a little) the acts and practices of other parents. As a fellow parent, there is a level of sympathy and understanding when it comes to dealing with someone else's unruly or noisy child in a public situation- but there are limits. When I'm out in public trying to feed my little girl, or trying to calm her so as to avoid a melt down I'm not unrealistic in my desires. I understand that silence or even reasonable quiet is not going to happen, but when some reasonable facsimile of it is spoiled by the actions of another child- I have no patience. And while it's easy to find yourself annoyed at the offending party, the ire shouldn't directed at the child- who, let's face it, is only acting like a child- but at the parent, who can tend to be either encouraging the calamity or allowing it to take place by indifference.

I'm not talking about the parent with the crying baby. Or with the toddler who wants something and isn't getting his way. Those are situations where can be more or less out of the parents control and everyone around needs to just ride wave. No I'm talking about the parents oblivious to polite society- or at the very least oblivious to the presence of others in the world.

Like the parent who permits their child to ride around the store in perhaps the squeakiest- no, piercing-est sounding tricycle in the history of squeaky tricycles. Like really loud. And I'm across the store thinking- how is that not bothering you? How is is it you can continue to talk amongst yourselves as your child makes my ears bleed and disturbs my daughter's peacefulness. And maybe that's the only thing keeping their child from melting down, but you know what? It's not working for me. Don't "fix" your problem by potentially causing one for me. Not cool.

Same goes for the guy who's keeping his kid entertained to the point where it's annoying. He's either making too much noise himself, or getting his kid so riled up that the squeals and giggles start to resemble that tricycle. I mean, I applaud your attentiveness to your child- but remember you are in a public place, and not everyone in the world needs to be reminded of just what sound a piggy makes over and over again.

But worst of all is the parent whose child can do no wrong. Who celebrates their child's behavior when there's no cause for it. Like the older brother of one of my little girl's day-care mates. Old enough to know better (I'm guessing 8 or 9), this kid was constantly sticking his face right up to my little one's face, and tossing her stuffed bunny into her stroller at her as if she was expected to catch it. "Oh let's not do that," I'm saying trying to sound as playful and non-threatening possible, all the while hoping for a little assistance from his mother. And although she was talking to the day-care lady, she she was not far away and could plainly see what was happening. All I got though was a smile, as if we were all playing some fun game. And when her kid proceeded to stick his dirty hands (no exaggeration, there was dirt caked under his nails) into my daughters my mouth I said much louder and sterner, "All right no hands in the mouth please," when what I really wanted to do was smack the kid into next week. All the while I am trying to make my way by the kid in the narrow hallway so I can get to the elevator and home. But to my dismay I am delayed long enough so we all have to share the elevator ride together. Me, my little girl, her day-care mate and his oblivious mom, and Dirty McFilthyhands the older brother. In the elevator he continues to lean over and stick his face into my daughter's stroller thereby encouraging his little brother to do the same. Keeping one eye on them and trying to fend them off, I look to the mom for some sort of reprieve but all she says is "Oh, he loves little babies- he's such a good big brother!" I want to scream. Are we riding the same elevator?!! Are we on the same planet??!!

Now I am certainly not telling anyone how to parent their own children- just as it pertains to and affects my little one. Do whatever you want in your home and your lives, as long as I don't have to compensate for your seeming lack of social perception. I just hope that I can impart to my daughter that a little respect of your surroundings goes along way.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 11: I just might snap

2010-10-19T10:22:00.000-04:00

You know who should win the Nobel Prize for cruel and unusual punishment? The person who invented/ designed the snap up pajamas that our little one wears. They have little snaps up and down the legs,
sometimes all the way up the front. They're great and all- they keep her toasty and she looks cute as a button in them- and it makes it easy to get them off for a quick diaper change, getting them snapped back up and
fastened and situated can prove to be quite challenging. Especially when the baby is cranky- kicking and thrashing about, and especially when it's three o'clock in the morning and dark and you are just trying to get her buttoned up and back in the crib after you've changed her wet diaper, before she really wakes up.

Half the time I think I am sailing along great- snap snap snap- only to realize I've missed a snap in the beginning somewhere and have to pretty much start all over again. That's when the snaps and holders
fail to match up again as they just had- let's face it, mainly due to operator error. And by the time my motor skills return to somewhat full function, and she's all snapped and ready- she's peed again, and I'm left standing
there pondering just how good a parent am I? Do I just put her back to bed wet? How long til she probably wakes up, and... of course I'm not putting her to bed wet, and the process begins again.

At which point she's wide awake, I'm cranky, and Osama bin Pajama-maker has won. Defeated, I think to myself- there has to be a better way! But seeing as though they've been around for years, and I haven't really seen any other handy options out there- it looks like we're stuck, or, all snapped-in as the case may be. Until a crack-team of scientists unearths a new methodology of baby PJ's, I will just have to continue to pray to the patron saint of digital dexterity and hope for the best.

Confessions of new dad, vol. 10: First born

2010-10-05T13:58:00.001-04:00

Let's get one thing straight. There's always been a child living in our household, long before our little girl came into the picture. That child is me. And I am doing my darnedest to keep my inner-child on full display, despite the fact that fatherhood is now upon me. I say why let the awesome responsibility of parenting rob me of my childishness!

There always seems to be a bottle or two to wash. All the time we're washing bottles. Gotta keep it interesting, right? Well, I discovered that when cleaning the nipple, you can fill it half way with water then shove your thumb into it, thereby creating a pint-sized squirt gun, issuing a pretty impressive little stream of water. The cats are often the target of attack, but nothing beats when my wife unwittingly walks into the kitchen while I am on bottle duty. If it's a good one I can sometimes induce a little scream, although usually I get the sideways glance and a "Really?"

Even the in-ear thermometer has also surprisingly proved itself an excellent source of self-amusement. There's these little plastic covers that you place over the in-ear portion of the device, so as to keep things sterile, that then are released at the push of a button. Now, if you push the button quickly and with enough force- these little plastic covers become less sterile and more missile, bouncing off the arm or sometimes forehead of unsuspecting and decidedly less-amused wives. Even though the thermometer has barely been used so far, it's been used enough so that as soon as it comes out of the ear, my wife's reflex is to put her hand up and give a stern, "Don't." Yes, mother. (Then as soon as the hand goes down, it's fire away!)

Hmm. The above examples of my childishness seem to lend themselves to weaponry. Maybe it has to do with the fact my mom wouldn't let me play with gun-toys when I was younger. I don't know who to page, Sigmund Freud or Charlton Heston? In any case, my little girl's still too young for me to worrying about setting any sort of example- so my inner-child is living it up! I'd like to think that as soon is she is old enough to realize what goof her dad is, I'll have stopped doing childish things- but who are we kidding? Plus the toys and gadgets only get cooler as the kid gets older- so, who needs to grow up?

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 9: Careful what you wish for

2010-09-15T18:00:00.001-04:00

So much of the enjoyment having a newborn is the anticipation of what's to come. And while these next steps and milestones are to be celebrated, they also bring a certain amount of ruefulness- of innocence and freedom lost. But, as good parents, we encourage our children to take these steps- which invariably will make the process of caring for the child more challenging.

One of the nice things when babies are new is you can lay them on a blanket, and play with them and watch them kick and coo and look around for some time, seeing as though they pretty are much immobile. But you can't just leave them there, you're supposed to give them tummy-time, to build their strength in their arms and necks, eventually leading to rolling over onto their backs. Well, being as though our little lady never was a fan of tummy-time to begin with, she taught herself to roll over real quick. And that was exciting! Our little girl rolled over onto her back!! Well, in the weeks that followed my wife and I tried and tried to get her roll from her back to her tummy. Definitely a harder task for her to achieve- but we knew she could do it! And do it she did... three cheers! But, somewhere in the process though she forgot that she had the ability to roll from her tummy to her back-- but she remembers how much she dislikes tummy-time-- and now proceeds to lay on her tummy and moan and cry and face-plant into the blanket, until one of us finally gives in and helps her flip back over. At which point she rolls right back onto her tummy... screaming ensues. Rinse and repeat. It's not really a fun game, for her nor us.

Same will go for crawling. Doubly so. And then walking. Oh we'll egg her on, and then somewhere between chasing her across the living room and chasing her down a city street, we'll have that What were we thinking we should have just kept her strapped into the swing forever moment. But why fret about what's not yet happened?

There are things though, on a daily basis, where similar moments are experienced- on a smaller scale mind you, but still with the careful-what-you-wish-for bent to them. Such as: She hasn't pooped in a couple days... I wish she'd just poop so we know she's okay. And BOOM. She's okay. In fact she's gonna be okay three times on that day. Or even: Why she is making so much so much noise in her crib? Why won't she go to sleep? And then when it suddenly stops, it's- "We better go check on her." And it's a race down the hallway to check on her, only to find her sleeping peacefully- looking as though she's been asleep for hours.

I'm learning that one of the more challenging things about being a parent is staying in the moment. You want your kid to progress. To achieve. Why else do we hold a four month old over our laps saying, "Look at you standing! What a big girl!" Of course we can say- oh it's important to build her leg strength up... but really really we're picturing the day our little girl is standing on her own, walking, unintentionally pushing her to grow up. But the next second she's crying because she's hungry, or reacting to a new sound bringing us right back into the present. It's her unconscious way of reminding us there will be plenty of time for growing up- let's enjoy the simplicity while it lasts.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 8: Tardiness is next to...

2010-09-14T17:30:00.002-04:00

My wife and I have always been a punctual couple. You tell us what time to show up, and we're there at the appointed time. Well, this all came to a crashing halt as soon as our little wonder showed up. It's almost comical.

The first time we had to make our way out the door for an outing with the little one, it was- Oh we forgot this, and don't forget that, and oooh we need to bring this too... So next time- we make a list! That way, we know exactly what we need ahead of time, thereby trimming get-out-the-door time significantly... well... it seems that no matter how organized we tried to be, something always came up. She decides to poop. Or decides she's hungry, despite out best efforts to get her fed in the hours leading up to our departure. Or she demands a little extra attention, which keeps one of us from getting ourselves ready. For one reason or another, we can't seem to make it out the door when we say we are going to. And we've tried the whole- let's say we're leaving at 11:30 so we'll really leave at 11:45- thing, and it doesn't fool us, or her for that matter.

And to hammer home the feeling of inadequacy our friends who have a baby themselves- 10 weeks older than ours- always seem able pull it together and show up on time. And when we pointed out our serial tardiness as of late, her (very kind) utterance of "Well, you have a baby now" didn't fly with us since they have one too. Great, even other people have to make excuses for us.

Maybe we've always been closet-latecomers, and our little girl has just brought this out in us- like our punctuality was just a front to build up goodwill with all the people we'll now keep waiting for our arrival. It's also very possible that the amount of energy we've expended lately rearing our first-born is causing us to just move a little slower.... it is possible... but it's neither here nor there, seeing as though this is clearly a "blame the baby" post. In fact even this post is late, seeing as though I planned to post it a couple of days ago.

Other people's baggage

2010-08-24T17:01:00.001-04:00

Yesterday, I touched on the experience of air travel with a small child. And once we arrived safely back in Newark, I was reminded of a rather annoying rite of passage that takes place at baggage claims throughout the world.

Those people.

You know them- the ones who don't seem to remember what their luggage looks like, despite the fact they had it in their possession mere hours earlier. Sorting through each suitcase, regardless of color or shape, hoping for signs of identification that this is the bag containing their personal effects. Okay, maybe your black bag you looks similar to the one you are trying to pick up- but do you see the big red ribbon tied to the handle?? Do you remember tying a big red ribbon to the handle of your bag? No? Then it's probably not your bag.

One of these morons got me in trouble one time. A woman was struggling to get her bag off the carousel, so I assisted her in retrieving it. And she put it down next to her, and proceeded to wait for more bags to come out. A short time later a man came over to me and began to yell at me that I had his bag. "I don't have your bag," I replied. "I saw you take it off the carousel!" he said to me, at which point I realized the bag I had helped the lady with was sitting next to me, although the woman no longer was. I tried to explain that it was the woman's fault, that I didn't know it wasn't her bag, she hadn't said anything to me. He was stuck on the fact that it was his bag, and I had taken it, and I should really check to see who bag it is before pulling it out, yada yada yada. It gets cloudy here, but as I recall, I may have called him him an asshole and told him to take his friggin' bag and leave me the hell alone, or something of the sort. This could have been avoided had the lady I helped said to me- "Oh my, this isn't my bag." At which point we could have put it back on the carousel, and Jerky McJerkerson could retrieve when it came around to him, and we'd all head home much less elevated blood pressure levels.

So the other night, weary from travel with our baby, I am waiting at the baggage claim for our luggage- which as fortune would have it, I can identify without having to put my hands all over each article that passes. Not so much for the woman in front of me. And when she struggled to pull a suitcase off the carousel, I steered clear as other Samaritans helped shoulder the load. Once they got the bag on the ground for her, she proceeded to unzip the top of the bag, and look at its contents, so as to decipher whether or not this was her suitcase. Because looking the name tag hanging off of it wouldn't give her quicker, more accurate information. Leaving the bag sitting next to her, she continued to wait at the carousel, presumably for other pieces of luggage she had checked. You can see where this is going. As I wait- it's not too crowded- I see her starting to inch away from the bag. My wife returns from the restroom with our little one, and I apprise her of the situation. "I'm pretty sure that's not her bag," I say after relaying what I had been watching. Once the lady had moved about five feet from the suitcase, I approached her and asked if that was her bag. "No," she replied, as if she had never seen it before- and proceeded to walk away, leaving her douche-baggery in her wake. So as to avoid any further baggage claim altercations, I picked up the bag and put it back on it's it merry way. Now who's the good Samaritan??

Here's a suggestion to these treasures of the gene pool- get a suitcase that had your name emblazoned on it in foot-tall lettering. Get one that's magenta or chartreuse. One that has a speaker built into it that say's "I'm your bag. I'm your bag. I'm your bag." Because the whole name tag or ribbon on the handle- none of these tried and true methods of bag-recognition seem to be enough for you. Or pack lightly and carry-on. Or do us all a favor and take the bus. Nobody wants to deal with your baggage.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 7: Traveling circus

2010-08-23T15:50:00.006-04:00

Now, it's obvious that travel changes when you have a child. Anybody with any level of common sense can figure that one out. But just how much it changes you can't know until you've done it with a child of your own.

We made a trip down to Baltimore for Fourth of July weekend, when our little girl was just over two months. We made this trip by car. While there was extra time added to the trip to take care of feedings, changings and the like- it wasn't too out of the ordinary from a normal car trip. You see, you just load up all she needs for the weekend in the back of the car and there it stays for the duration of the trip. While this is mostly true for plane travel, the added romp from through the airport until you actually get on the plane proves to be the challenge.

Going through airport security is a hassle without a baby. Take your shoes off. Take your belt off. Empty the contents of your life in a plastic bin and motor through the metal detector and try to make sense of it all on the other side. Add a baby, and her accouterments, to the mix and it's like adding mass amounts of tequila to the hokey-pokey. "You put your left foot it in... wait, which is my left foot?...(drink)... wait, what's a foot?" It's now take your shoes off, take your belt off, empty the pockets (the wife does so as well)... Then it's do "We take her out of the car seat?" "Yes." Remove the baby from the car seat, detach said car seat from the stroller and separate it from its base, collapse stroller, make sure everything fits through the rubber curtain separating the rest of the world from x-ray land... breathe. Look back, realize that you're holding up a bunch of people who look thrilled with you- and let's face it if they were in that much of a hurry there's been ample time for the to have gone ahead of you- quickly slide the remaining bits of your inanimate entourage on the treadmill, race through the the metal detector hoping and praying you've taken everything beep-worthy off, and then start the whole process in the reverse on the other side.

And I realize they're probably doing the best they can- but can we get a little consistency with how this process goes? On the way back, thinking I've got it down pat this time, it's "That needs to be upside-down, that one needs to be wheels first, and please hold the baby by its ankles as you go through the metal detector." Okay, perhaps not that last one, but come on people, let's get it together.

I will say, the pre-board is nice. The "those of you traveling with small children" treatment. Although by the time we get the jet-way and take everything apart to be checked at the door, your pretty much fighting all the regular boarders anyway. On the trip back my wife was wise enough to scoot ahead with the precious cargo whilst I wrestled with the less-precious cargo.

The flight wasn't really all that bad. She didn't sleep quite as much as we'd hoped, but while awake she didn't have any major meltdowns. There was a few moments she was on the precipice, but we were able to coax her back from the edge. Just a lot passing her back and forth between my wife and I, and thankfully understanding passengers sitting adjacent on both legs of the journey.

Getting off the plane and recovering the stroller and car seat, and putting it all together didn't seem to take too long. However, each time we were pretty much holding up the entire flight crew from leaving- not that they offered to help, really.

All in all, we made it. And it certainly wasn't anywhere near as bad as it could have been. I realize that traveling with older children is problematic for other reasons, but look I forward to the day I can say, "You can hold your backpack, sweetie," as she walks next to me. It seems like an upgrade now, but I am sure I will be yearning for simpler times when it comes around.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 6: Hearing things

2010-08-03T17:30:00.005-04:00

With a newborn around the house, you tend to hear things. My wife and I tend to be unconsciously vigilant about listening for our little one when she is in another room sleeping, either on the baby monitor or with the naked ear. It's not uncommon for one of to stop the other when we think we've heard a noise resembling that of our child. "Was that her?" Sometimes it's her, but often times it's not her, but a noise from outside or the like. Now none of that is outside the range of normalcy for parents of a young baby. But we hear other things too, which may or may not make us a little crazy.

I'll think I hear a peep or cry through the monitor, when the monitor may not even be on and she is lying in the same room as me. Or the monitor will be on and I'll think I hear her from down the hall, yet no noise is coming through the monitor. Her sleep sheep- which is an ingenious little white-noise machine and is set to calming wave noises to help her go to sleep- I hear quite often throughout the day whether it's on or not.

We also have a couple of little entertainment devices for the little lady: one being a play "gym" which amounts to an elaborate mat that she lies on and looks up on various animals unrecognizable to science hanging above (such as Geebee the ginormous light-up butterfly, or Gloria the turtlebug... and yes, they have names). The other is a bouncy chair where she can sort of recline in while looking at sea life shapes and dancing lights. Now it must be said that both of these things can be a lifesaver. She can sometimes be entranced by them for quite a few minutes, giving us a small respite from entertaining her ourselves. They share another quality in that they both play various catchy* (*see also: burned-into-the-fibers-of-your-brain) tunes. So common are the tunes heard, and so limited in their variety, we tend to hear them sometimes- even when they are not on. So much so, that if we are in another room and think we hear one, one of us will call out to the other saying something like, "I hear Geebee. Do I really hear Geebee, or is that just in my head?" And to add to the mayhem, throughout the day I will catch myself or my wife humming or whistling these tunes unconsciously.

We recently added a swing to the mix, which as luck has it, plays the same tunes as the bouncy chair. Who needs variety? Right now as I write this I am hearing a couple of the songs from said devices- a quiet tune that makes me think of stately people doing medieval dances in candle-lit chambers, and also a quite jaunty arrangement of Ba Ba black sheep... Yessir, yessir my brain is full.

Yes, I'll hold...

2010-07-24T17:35:00.001-04:00

My lovely wife's post the other day got me thinking. Holding doors open for people- and the etiquette of doing said service and/or receiving it.

Now I do my best to hold the door open for people, regardless of their physical status- be they pregnant, hands-full, handicapped or able-bodied. It's not out of any sense of real politeness- it just seems like common decency (yes, here's my back- go ahead and pat directly on the sign that says "pat here"). I actually feel bad if I let a door close behind me and then notice there was somebody coming in after me. Not really bad- like I don't feel the need to apologize profusely or track them down and offer to write them a check for the damages- just a normal amount, like "Oh damn, wish I had seen them," and then I move on - I might apologize a little, depending on the severity of the door-in-face to distance-behind-me ratio; but within reason.

When I do notice somebody's behind me, there's often that fine line of- is that person to far away for me to hold the door? We certainly don't want to offend, so usually I'll make the attempt- if not holding it open, at least performing the common maneuver giving the door an extra push or tug, so as to keep it open a little longer for the person without actually standing there holding it. If I do stand there, I do appreciate if the person makes at least the tiniest effort not to take their merry time getting to the door. Or when they do reach the door, at least an attempt to take the load off me- reaching out for the door- is always appreciated. I'm not your butler after all, and my courteousness only goes so far. Don't make me passive-aggressively (or is it passively-aggressive) let the door close on you on purpose- I've done it before and I'll do it again (you can have that pat on the back you gave back now). Also, a quick "thank you" or gesture of appreciation is always nice. A little acknowledgment is all I need. Although, when treated like a butler, some sort of tip might be more in order.

Like I said- it should be a matter of common decency. But for some I'd like to think it's less a matter of utter rudeness, and more of a complete obliviousness to the presence of others on the planet. Like: In a city of ten million people, there's no way somebody is coming in the same door as me, better just let it slam shut behind me. These are the same folks who stand in front of doorways- chatting it up and having a ball, completely in the way. Helllooo??

Ah, the lost art of politeness. Just remember, the door swing both ways, people- sometimes quite literally, but that's not what I'm talking about; focus people! Hold a door: that extra two seconds could come back to you in mass amounts of karma. Of course, it could also make you miss the elevator.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 5: On Diapers

2010-07-16T16:31:00.000-04:00

My life, among other baby-related things, revolves a good deal around diapers now. Check her diaper, change her diaper, make sure we've packed the diapers, how many diapers are left, emptying the diaper pail... not to mention the conversations and notations of what's in the diapers- what color, consistency, frequency...

So now that I am regular consumer of diapers, I feel comfortable in addressing a particular issue that's troubled me for some time: Kids in public in just their diapers. Especially if they are are walking around on their own. If they're old enough to walk around, they're old enough to have some sorts of pants on. End of story. I don't even necessarily like seeing little babies in their parents clutches, sans clothing on the bottom. I don't care how hot out it is. Keep those butts (and the diapers surrounding them) covered, please.

And now, is if to further perpetuate my annoyance, Huggies brand has come out with diapers made to look like denim. News flash: They still look like diapers. Just blue diapers with little lines on them made to resemble stitching and pockets. And you know what? Never mind that they still look like diapers- they ARE still diapers. You're not a part of the solution, Huggies, you're exacerbating the problem.

One exception I would make is the impromptu run through the sprinklers or fire hydrant- you find yourself at the park on a hot day, and your small child wants to play in the water- and you haven't planned for this and don't want his or her clothes soaked. By all means, send your child out in just a diaper. Completely understandable. But don't walk around the grocery store or down a city street, with your child half-clothed. I'm sorry if you think it's just adorable... because it's not.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 4: The hospital

2010-07-11T23:59:00.020-04:00

Our little wonder was diagnosed a little over a month ago with a hemangioma- a benign tumor- under her right eyelid. Not a terribly uncommon condition in children, but because of it's location and its threat to her developing eye and eyesight, it needed to be treated with medication. Unfortunately, to begin her treatment, she had to be admitted to the hospital for at least a 48 hour stay, so she could be monitored. Fortunately my wife and were allowed to stay with her for the duration.

I've been in the hospital for out-patient procedures, and for a few days with my wife when our little girl was born- never really an enjoyable time. But nothing compares, nor adds to the trials of the process as when the patient is your child. Adding to the heartbreak, are all the other children you see- and their parents wearing looks of concern and emotional exhaustion. Even with all the worry and nervousness I was experiencing, even with the all the wires attached to her little body, it made me really grateful that my little girl wasn't there recovering from major surgery, or wandering through the halls with an IV drip following close behind, or in worse condition. It was all there on display in our little corner of the ward.

(Emotionally unattached rant:) Speaking of those we shared or little corner with- and on a lighter note- and not to pat ourselves on the back- it appears as though my wife and were the only people who seemed to have any respect for those around us. These poor sick little children's cries paled in comparison to the noise made by their adult companions. People very loudly speaking on their phones, or talking to each other as if they were in separate zip codes despite the fact they were sitting next to or very near each other. There was a posted "Quiet Time from 1-3pm" sign that was never observed. And overheard at 3 am one morning was some guy saying, "Man this place is like a ghost town," with the subtlety of a lawn mower in a library. It's three o'clock in the morning dude, SHUT THE F UP. I understand everybody has their own ways of dealing with stressful situations, but is it too much to ask that they do it in a quieter fashion? It is a hospital after all, not the mall. When I'm trying to keep my daughter calm after being poked and prodded- I don't need to hear somebody talking about their leaky kitchen sink. Emoting over the state of your infirmed child is understood, discoursing at volume about your plumbing is not.(End of rant)

The greatest news came when we learned that she was responding well to the treatment, and that we'd be going home today. Her treatment was only just beginning, but now it could continue in the privacy of our home- away from the hubbub of others' chaos, and away from the reminders of how much worse it could be.
I'm glad that at only 11 weeks old, this isn't an experience she'll ever remember. I'm glad that she's too young to know that she should be afraid. And I'm filled with unbelievable gratitude that we're back in our own beds tonight. At one point this morning, I looked down in the eyes of my little girl and asked her to promise me she'd never be sick enough where she'd have to come back to this place. A promise I know she doesn't really have control over- but nonetheless a promise I hope with all my heart she keeps.

Confessions of a new dad, vol 3: Ready, set... wait!

2010-07-01T19:00:00.002-04:00

There was a pizza party/baby shower for a co-worker of mine at work today. He's having a little girl too, and also like with us it's his first. So doing my best grizzled-veteran (of just over two months, mind you), I imparted some advice. Eat that pizza while it's still hot.

It's just another thing that if you think about it, it's like- of course it's hard to sit down and eat a meal when there's a tiny baby involved. But you gotta think, well the baby's gotta sleep at some point, we'll eat then. The thing you need to figure out on your own is that babies are born equipped with built-in heat-seeking sensors that work as such: If it's warm and I'm not eating it- than neither are you. If I'm asleep and dinner is ready to eat- I will wake up. If I am already awake, I will fuss and demand your attention until the food has cooled considerably. At which point you may go about your business, and "enjoy" your meal.

Now luckily, with two parental units, one gets a warmer dinner than the other. And I think my wife and do a pretty good job of switching off. I eat, you tend to the babe... you eat, I wrestle the child. Re-heat and repeat. It works, and it has to because dinner at 10pm on a Tuesday night is not high on my to-do list. And on those few nights where the sensors get jammed somehow and we enjoy a warm meal together at the same time- we feast like... well, like normal people. Grateful, normal people.

Confessions of a new dad, vol. 2: First time for everything

2010-06-30T23:11:00.000-04:00

Having a new baby in your life, you encounter firsts everyday. Her first bath, her first smile, the first time she squeezed your hand- even the less desirable but no less memorable first time she poops/pees/spits up on you- all go on the list of new things you experience thanks to this new little bundle of joy. All of these things remind you that you're a parent now, and brings on the joy/stress/wonderment/fear that this little one is going to be completely dependent on you for some time to come.

Which brings me to another first which really made it all hit home. Her first bill. A medical bill, addressed to this little girl, not yet but a few weeks on this earth. And the joy and wonderment more than slightly gives way to the stress and fear when you realize that this dependency isn't just going be an emotional transaction. And yes- we all know how much it costs to raise a child these days- but it's suddenly different when it's black and white (and maybe a little red due to the hospital's logo). It's as if there's a letter attached stating: You owe such and such amount, and guess what? It's just the beginning, pops.

I realize the time will come where she'll pop in the room while I am watching TV or penning my memoirs, and squeak: "Hey Dad, can I have twenty bucks?" But we're not there yet. And yes, we've already spent more than the GDP of some third-world countries on various needs and supplies for her arrival and sustenance, but it's just different when it comes in bill form.

There's one thing I can always count when I wake up in the morning (be it 8am, 4am...): and that is I will get another day of firsts from from my little girl. I know that they can't all be the warm and fuzzy kind- yet part of me wants a little time a buffer of say a few months, to retain the innocent and sun-shiney side of child-rearing. Ah hell, if I'm asking for time- gimme a few decades instead- maybe by that point I'll be ready for the slings and arrows.

Confessions of a new dad, volume one - D(elivery) Day

2010-05-26T16:05:00.005-04:00

After months of staring at ultra-sound images of the contents of my wife's uterus, I knew I would see the contents of what had been contained in the uterus- namely the baby- however I was unaware that, due to the c-section, I would see the uterus itself.

During the surgery, I was positioned at my wife's head- safely tucked behind a curtain. With the various sounds of surgery taking place, I was more than a little interested in what was taking place on the other side. "Am I allowed to peek?" I asked the anesthesiologist, after he peered over the curtain. To which he quickly responded, "No." Oh well.

Fast forward to-- our daughter's out, and I am fawning over her at the warming table- taking pictures and getting acquainted with her while they clean her up and such. I cut the umbilical cord- which surprises me how very like a nice thick piece of calamari it is in its consistency. Grilled, of course, but really high grade calamari- not the cheap stuff you'd just throw in the deep fat fryer- but I digress.

I happen to look back over toward the operating table where, apparently, all the kings horses and all the king's men (and women and doctors and nurses- as it were) are putting my wife back together again. I notice that in the doctor's hands were what looked like guts. You know, guts: Freddy Krueger slashes the guy open, and you see his guts? Guts- that's what it looked like. "Is that the placenta?" I ask, assuming that what has been taken out of my wife were only things that were staying out. "No, it's her uterus," replied the doctor casually, at which point I was told by the nurse to keep my eyes the other direction, lest I pass out on the OR floor. Show over, I obliged, although whilst I snapped more pics of the baby, I wondered what other interesting photo ops lay just a few feet behind me.

If only I had been quick enough on the shutter- perhaps I could have been able to post a picture of my wife's guts, er uterus, on Facebook or something. She could have used it as her profile picture, with the caption, "my guts" or something cleverer like, "me, on the inside." But again, I digress.

Fatherhood begins, and a long list of things I probably never thought I saw or say or do. It only took me 6 weeks to get this post completed- so hopefully I'll post again before she goes off to college.

Out of the Woods?

2010-02-19T12:33:00.002-05:00

Tiger Woods made his first public appearance and statement today after what you could probably characterize as "a couple of bad months." Tiger seemed contrite, visibly shaken, and sincere in his apology. Now begins the veritable fire-storm of coverage- What did he say? How did he say it? Was he sincere enough? I watched a little of his statement, and you know what? Good enough for me. And you know why? Because really, it has nothing to do with me.

Let me be clear about something: Tiger Woods owes the media and general public absolutely nothing. His wife and family? Absolutely. Friends and close supporters? Sure. But for any of us that follow or cover golf or professional sports of any kind, to stand in judgment of this guy seems foolish. He is after all, a human being. I don't care how much money he makes. I don't care what kind of image he put out, or has had put upon him- he is subject to the same issues and problems that any of us can have. It doesn't mean he's a good person, or that I feel sorry for him- I'm just saying that if I, as human being, am not immune to the emotional challenges of life, then why, just because he's a public figure, should he be? Anybody who feels different is living on another planet, or perhaps should maybe work on some of their own issues.

I like watching Tiger play golf. He's an amazing talent. The fact that he is an imperfect being does not sway my perception of him as a golfer. I will continue to watch him, when he returns to play. If you don't want to buy the products he hocks, if you don't want to watch him or root for him because of is transgressions- that is certainly your prerogative. But for anyone who judges him as a person, because of some sort of unreachable ideal that was projected on him, needs only look in mirror before the casting of stones.

I'm the type that's willing to forgive. And it's easy to do, when the person really hasn't done anything to me in the first place. Also, not to put marital infidelity on some sort of sliding scale of wrong-doing, but let's face it- he's not the first guy to cheat on his wife, and he won't be the last. He got caught, and it seems he's taking steps to repair the damage done to his family. He shouldn't get a pass, but he also shouldn't be scorned- least of all by the general public- because bottom line, it's really none of our business.

Groundhog Day Nonsense

2010-02-02T15:20:00.005-05:00

I'm not feeling it.

The idea of allowing an over-grown rodent to predict the near meteorological future isn't flying with me. I get it- believe me- I get it. The pomp and circumstance of hauling this groundhog - who no longer lives in the ground, by the way- out every year, the ceremony, the pictures... it's very dear, and I'm sure he enjoys it immensely.

So legend has it- if the groundhog comes out and sees his shadow, he gets scared and goes back in and it's six more weeks of winter. I've got a problem with this. If he sees his shadow, then there's gotta be some semblance of sun out, so how does that constitute more wintry days ahead of us? Don't insult my intelligence, or the intelligence of groundhogs. There must be some sort of international allegiance (or at least a Facebook page) for groundhogs who are furious over the fact that human kind has invented a scenario in which these hogs of the ground don't understand the basic principles of seasons; or that they are such cowardly creatures as to be scared into six weeks of self-imposed imprisonment by the sight of their own shadow. I mean, honestly. Honestly.

I would love for one uppity groundhog to walk out, and declare "It's February 2nd, of course there's about six more weeks of winter left. Look at a calendar, douche bags." And then walk back into his domicile with his middle claw extended in the air for all to see. Such a groundhog would have my admiration.

But until then, it's Punxutawney Phil, every February 2nd forever and ever- or at least until the groundhogs rise up and destroy us.

The year we made contact?

2010-01-11T15:18:00.004-05:00

2010. I mean- man! 2000 and 10. Twenty-ten. Geez Louise. Remember when that number was just total science fiction? Flying cars, vacations to the moon, not to mention the 1984 movie: "2010: The Year We Make Contact" - the title of which having something to do with making contact with a lost spacecraft, as well as making new discoveries on the moons of Jupiter (that's if memory serves, as it's probably been 20 years since I've seen the movie). And while flying cars have yet to hit the market, and outer-space trips are available only to the mega-rich, I do believe we are still waiting on that whole "making contact" thing.

Not to say we are out of touch, per se- Facebook and text messaging and the world wide web itself keep us abreast of even the menial details of each other's lives: Who-had-what for breakfast, or who's-wearing-what on which red carpet... we what's going on, for better or worse. But this isn't really one of those, "how connected are we really?" kinds of pieces, so I digress.

Recently, while trying to resolve a matter of supreme annoyance in regards to a present I had ordered for my wife for Christmas- I did what anyone might do these days. Go to the website I ordered from, and look for the "Contact Us" link to try and right the situation. Now with all the technology at all of fingertips these days, this should make the whole Contacting-us thing a simple transaction. But, no it's- "press 1 for this, press two for that." Or in this case, it was "leave a message and we'll get back to you within 48 hours..." Or for faster service, "visit our website or send us an email, and we'll return your message within 24 hours." And while these response times are extreme for nowadays, the actual the fact that the contacting part of "contact us" seems harder than ever is the norm. (At the risk of sounding like a grumpy old man) There is no contact when it comes to customer service- and some prefer that way these days- but how hard is to make eye contact with someone across the counter at the drug store. If that's too much to ask for, then hoping for a little virtual-face time for an internet or phone transaction is probably a pipe dream. So perhaps we just change "Contact us" to- "See if we care" or "You've got to be kidding."

2010 has brought us to a world that is indeed uber-connected, but we've got a long way to go before we've actually made contact. Sorrowfully, this has turned into one those "How connected are we really?" kinds of pieces, so feel free to stop reading now.

Take two (or three) and call me next season...

2009-10-05T16:00:00.000-04:00

What is our fascination with the TV hospital drama? Obviously this is not a new thing, they've been around forever, but in recent years it seems to be getting out of hand. Some go off the air, only to be replaced by two, three, or four replacements in the same slightly-tweaked format. NBC itself, after finally shutting down the long running show ER- replaced it this fall by introducing to new shows "Trauma" and "Mercy" - which seem to be the old ER split into two different shows.

Now this is not to say I'm immune to the hospital genre. I watched ER back in its infancy, and currently watch Grey's Anatomy. But for anyone who has spent any amount of time in a hospital, as patient or visitor, these shows take an enormous suspension of disbelief to take them seriously. How many times have you been put off by a show or movie because of something like - Oh come on, that's sooo unrealistic it's ridiculous. Well, these hospital shows that we know and love are the worst offenders- and yet we keep coming back for more.

On the shallowest level- I have never been treated by a doctor in a hospital who looked like any of these people. Yes I know it's TV, but come on- dial it back a little; perhaps at least one "normal" looking character. Nor have I ever seen nurses in the hallway pleading with and fighting the doctors for patients' rights or needs, or the emotional connections to said patients that invariably happen on these shows. Hell, I'd settle for nurses who at least act like they want to be there.

Although, I am willing to believe that they're all sleeping with each other in empty OR's and broom closets- this at least explains why it take so friggin' long to be seen.

So as another television season descends upon, against the backdrop of the country's battler over health care, we'll tune into visions of what health care isn't. And why the hell not, TV's a good form of escape- right? Or is it what we'd hope it to be? Might as well set the next hospital drama on the moon or Mars- or would that be too unrealistic?

Bathroom couplet...

2009-09-25T17:18:00.002-04:00

Methinks that I shall never see,
A lovelier place 'n which to pee.

Okay, not that kind of couplet- more of a couple different musings both centered on the bathroom at my place of employment.

THE SMELL!!
And no, it's not what you think.

Ten floors up, our bathroom faces out toward the backs of buildings on 48th Street. Often times the window is left ajar a bit, so as to air out the goings on that go on in a bathroom. Well, somewhere down below there is restaurant, from which delicious smells waft up into the air, seeping through the open window and into the bathroom- burgers, chicken, onion rings, and other fried goodies...

Often times I have walked into the bathroom, and for moment thought -- Mmmm, what's that smell?-- and then immediately remembered where I was, and felt very strange about the sensory contradiction I have encountered. And I'm not the only one- I have spoken to a few other co-workers who have faced the dilemma of the delicious-smelling bathroom. It just feels wrong to walk into bathroom and be made to feel hungry.

Don't get me wrong, sometimes it stinks like a bathroom usually does. But it's almost a comfort when it does. Ewww, that's more like it.

A SIGN OF THE TIMES?
On the mirror above the sink, there's a sign that states "It's flu-fighting season, don't forget to wash your hands!" Because it's flu-fighting season- that's why you should wash your hands. Not because you're in a bathroom, having done your business where countless others have done similar business.

And if it's the type of person who doesn't wash their hands after using the restroom- does this sign even register? Is the fact that it's "flu-fighting season" a deal-breaker? As if it's like, "Oh I don't mind a little fecal matter or the like on my hands- but the flu? I just can't have that!! Better wash my hands." I don't know. I would think this person is comfortable in his savagery enough to think himself impervious to such petty things as the flu, or say, social convention.

So, thanks for the "reminder," but you're probably preaching to the choir with this one.

I know it's hot out, but...

2009-08-16T14:19:00.004-04:00

Come on...

This is what I saw at Starbucks this morning:

He was with his family, and seemingly not homeless or crazy. So what's your excuse, pal?

And note, if you can see it, the shirt flung over his left shoulder- so it's not like he doesn't have one. If you're so freakin' hot, how about putting a pair of shorts on?? How about that? Or are the jeans the next to come off? Pity the poor people in the next store he goes into.

That guy, that's me

2009-08-14T12:43:00.003-04:00

I'm a sweater. Not that I'm made of woven or knitted wool, I just sweat- and saying I'm perspirer doesn't really roll off the tongue or the page (in fact according to spellcheck, it's not even a word). In any weather, in any amount of clothing I can work up a certain lather. This is one reason I never like to make plans for after having gone to the gym. Sure I can shower. What I can't seem to do is dry off. In fact it seems worse when I do shower. Especially in the summer.

The other night, I walked out of the gym- freshly showered- into the humid air of an August evening, on my way to dinner with my wife and friends. As I walk to the train, the moisture on my face graduates to dampness. By the time I get downstairs at Columbus Circle and on the platform, my face can now be classified as wet. I get on the crowded train, and it's not quite as cool as one would hope in my ever-increasing aqueous condition. And as we pull out of the station, it is Niagara Falls. Water is dripping off my face, and people are now looking at me. I'm THAT guy. As in: "Oh my, is that guy okay?" or "Woah, look at that guy!"

As the train moves on, I thought to myself I knew this was going to happen, I should have borrowed (see also: stolen) a towel from the gym to bring with me. Then, I remember that earlier in the day I had bought a roll of paper at the drug store, and had jammed it into my gym bag. Genius! So now here I am, sweating profusely, tying to keep my balance in the middle of crowded subway car, rifling through my gym bag to pull out the plastic Duane Reade bag which holds my immediate savior. Got it! Now I'm still keeping my balance, and trying to rip open the plastic wrap which covers the paper towels, all the while condensating like a can of beer left out on the picnic table. And again, I see people watching me struggle, and I realize that I'm THAT guy again. As in: "What the hell is that guy doing?," or "See kids, you could end up like that guy."

The paper towels out of their wrapper, everything back in its place, I can finally mop myself down. In my mind, the people around are so happy for me ("Good for that guy!"), and my stop comes and I head up to street level and to some very welcome breezes. After arriving for dinner, I feel the need to apologize for my saturated state- although it's a vast improvment over just a few minutes ago. Once we get inside and I can sit in the air conditioned dining room, I finally start to dry off. Ah, sweet AC and chairs. That's really all THIS guy can ask for in the summer. Someday I'll learn.

Gems abound...

2009-08-13T13:43:00.011-04:00

In my opinion New York is the best place in the world to overhear some of the best quotes by everyday people. Like the time in Starbucks a few years back I heard a seemingly upper-middle class woman sitting at the adjacent table state, "But I'm not an American , I'm a New Yorker." It doesn't always need to be this substantive, or catchy- sometimes it's just a casual exchange or turn of phrase that sticks with me. This week I've had a few of these gems floating in my direction, which for one reason or another tickled my fancy.

Walking down 80th Street past a brownstone, I noticed two little girls and what looked their mothers conversing on the stoop. The moms were quietly discussing something while the girls interacted. One girl was struggling with a biggish toy rocket-ship like thing, that lit up and made noise. The other little girl was struggling to get rocket-girl's attention, in a very pronounced, proper British accent: "What's your name? What's your name?" To which rocket girl, finally in control of her contraption looked up and said in drawn out tones, "Scaaarlet..." The exchange made me smile. The British girl, the American girl named Scarlet playing with a rocket-ship; it could have been out of a movie, but here it was- out on a stoop, on a sticky New York summer evening.

Earlier this week I heard two guys at the gym talking about wrestling- like the Grecco-Roman variety, not WWE or the like- and different moves and holds or locks they knew. The one guy, who didn't really look like a wrestler- kind of lanky- claimed he busted his shoulder because he's always "rolling guys like way outta my weight class." The conversation turned to people trying to pick fights with them on the street or what have you (This portion instigated by the feather-weight). "Who would you rather fight [on the street]," he asked. To which the other, more husky gentlemen replied, "Usually somebody my size or bigger than me... if some guy starts in with me and he's a little guy- I don't want no part, because he's gotta be crazy, or ninja or something." Sound advice grasshopper, you have passed the test... beware the little, crazy ninjas loose in the city!

And finally, one that happened at Duane Reade- New York City's most prevalant purveyor of drugs and sundries. It so entertained and awed me, I actually posted this exchange as my status on Facebook shortly after it happened. I called it, "The Power of Listening."

Customer: Excuse me, where is your duct tape?

Cashier: What?

Customer: Duct tape...?

Cashier: Tape?

Customer: Duct tape.

Cashier: Like scotch tape?

Customer: DUCT tape.

Cashier: (points upstairs) Uhhh, aisle twelve-

Customer: (looks upstairs) Aisle what?

Cashier: Twelve.

Customer: Twelve?

Cashier: Yes.

Customer: Thanks.

I'd like to point I was in an isoceles triangle with these two gents, meaning I was equidistant from each of them as they were to eachother- and I could hear each of them just fine. Maddening, yet so entertaining.

Must GO TV?

2009-07-10T11:36:00.004-04:00

My wife and I have had a steady stream of bad luck luck lately when it comes to latching onto new TV shows. As soon as we decide that we really enjoy enjoy a show, the network up and decides to can it. While reality show after reality show continues to flourish and spin-off, we are left hoping that the episode we're watching of one our favorite non-reality programs isn't its last.

Over the past couple years we have tuned in weekly to watch the untimely demise of such quality shows as Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip, Life on Mars, My Own Worst Enemy, Eli Stone, The Unusuals, and Pushing Daisies (although that last one was more a favorite of the wife's, but I would tune in every now and then). It seems what all these shows had in common was that they were a little different from other shows on TV- quirky, with interesting characters, and bold, if not off-beat storylines and plots. Heaven forbid we get a little variation from the norm! It doesn't say much for those making the decisions at the networks these days, or for that matter the audiences making the decisions of what to spend their time watching. It's a rather narrow spectrum, I fear, that both groups seem to dwell in.

I realize it's all about the money. These shows didn't test well, or what have you- and got yanked because of it. It's just too expensive to keep shows on, with the hope that that just may catch on and gain a following eventually. And some of these shows that stay on for four and five seasons... I just have to scratch my head. Are people really watching this, or is it just that cheap of a show to keep churning out episodes? Perhaps I'm just a snob... Perhaps I can live with that.

As crappy as it is to see these shows go by the wayside, perhaps I should thank these network bigs. After all, the DVR still winds up full most every week with enough shows for my wife and I to barely keep up with. I still hold out hope for quality TV, but in the meanwhile will hunker down with the tried and true staples... and let's not forget syndication. There will always be re-runs! What better way to enjoy the present state of television, than by reliving its glorious past. It might just be better than looking to future.

Who's sorry now?

2009-06-29T14:01:00.004-04:00

It happens.

You're at the store, you bang into someone with the cart, or maybe run over their feet. Or you're in a crowd and you step on someone's heel, or bump into someone walking the opposite direction. In New York, it's pretty unavoidable- and sometimes it's your fault.

When it's my fault, my first instinct is of course to apologize. I mean, 99.9% of the time it's not on purpose, so why wouldn't I be sorry? And in that moment I truly am sorry for the bump, bash, step or whatever transgression has passed between us. However, it is the moment that follows that decides how deep my contrition runs.

For instance, last night at the grocery store, trying to squeeze through a tight area, I accidentally clipped a woman's heel with the shopping cart wheel (I won't even mention she and her companion were taking up more space than they needed to, I won't - because I am that good of a person). I immediately said, "Oh I'm sorry!" To which her response was a sideways glance, and "Geeez!" To which I mumble, under-my-breath-but-loud-enough-for-her-to-hear, "I said I was sorry," at which point I no longer am. And then what I want to say is: Just accept my apology lady and get over it... don't tell tell me YOU'VE never done anything like that!! But I don't- remember what a good person I am?

So, how sorry am I if my sincerity involves the other party's acceptance of my apology? Shouldn't I just be sorry independent of their reaction? Maybe... in a perfect world. Last time I checked, that's not the one we live in, though. So get over it people- it's happened before, it'll happen again. And if you don't like that attitude, well SOOORRRYYY... And I mean it.

Tag! You are...?

2009-06-22T22:04:00.003-04:00

Just about a year ago, I wrote in this blog how I had joined the throng and signed up on Facebook. Well after the all-encompassing preoccupation and obsession died down it has become a fun thing to check here and there, and a great way to reconnect with all the people I always wanted to... and some I forgot I knew. But that's not the point here...

People post pictures on facebook, and there's a feature where you can "tag" people in the photos- meaning you zero in on their face say this is this person, this is that person, and so on. So when you are flipping trough your friends photos, you can roll over people with your mouse and, if they have been tagged, it pops up their name. Nifty.

Well, I realize that now when I am on some other website, i.e. not facebook, and looking at photos I sometimes will roll over a person in the picture hoping to find out who they are... but alas, the NY Times and CNN and the like don't tag people in their photos. Yes sometimes there are captions, but they don't always tell the whole story- Who's that guy behind Obama.. not quite in focus, but he looks so darn familiar, I know he's somebody...? If he was tagged, we'd know.

I like the tag. That's all I'm saying.

Angst in the morning...

2009-06-12T12:00:00.004-04:00

Yesterday was one of those lovely New York mornings. Huffing through the rain, only to get down to the subway platform and find it packed with people; a tell-tale sign that it has been a loooong time since a train has graced this station with its presence.

At last a train comes.. full of people, so that only a few of the more pushy commuters make their way onto the already crowded train (I live only few stops from the beginning of the line, so if it's already ridiculously crowded on the train at my stop- it only gets uglier- and let's face it stuffier and smellier- as the train ambles downtown). The next train pulls into the station: blaring its horn, another tell-tale sign for regular subway riders that this train will not be be stopping at this station. Finally another train rolls in, and I manage to get on this one- packed in with a bunch of my closest, damp and impatient friends.

We make our way downtown. And is the case on a crowded train, it takes a little more time in each station, as people crammed on the train try to squeeze out, and those in the station try and shoe-horn their way onto the train. At which point the conductor comes over the loudspeaker and announces, "Please do not hold those doors open. This train is behind schedule- 15 minutes behind schedule and we need to keep moving." Pardon me while I double over in laughter.

Two problems with the conductor's announcement. 1. Not our fault the train is late. It is only this crowded because the train is late, and did I mention that's not the passengers' fault? 2. There's a schedule!!?? Anybody who rides the subway on a regular basis has to find that statement laughable at best- and completely ridiculous at worst. What's that "schedule" look like? Okay, one train at 9:05, the next one at 9:07, followed by the 9:23, then the 9:32 and 9:58 trains. Please.

Don't BS us. The MTA keeps raising the fares, the least they can do is tell their employees to be straight-shooters with the commuters. "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your conductor speaking. Sorry this train is late and the air conditioning's not on not despite the 83% humidity. We have no idea why we've been delayed, but it's our bad. We also apologize for the stinky fat dude next you- we've told him countless times to wear deodorant. I would say we should be moving shortly, but that would be a lie- since I have no idea when we'll be moving. Thank you and have a pleasant day."

Swimming in the rain...

2009-06-12T11:48:00.003-04:00

As the official beginning of summer approaches, let me put down my umbrella for sec and say something.

I don't want to hear a damn thing about drought conditions this summer. It seems like almost every year, as summer descends upon us, articles and news reports start popping up about how we have a rain deficit- or that we are heading for drought warnings and need to conserve water. Hey I am all for conservation- but don't say the word drought to me. Those of us that have been practically swimming (see also: hyperbole) to work and around the city the past month don't appreciate or believe it. And yes, I am speaking for everyone.

That's all. Pull on your rain boots and slickers and go back to what you were doing (perhaps it was building an ark?).

Your laundry is NOT my laundry

2009-05-14T14:50:00.004-04:00

Common decency... that's what it comes down to.

Doing laundry in New York City, for those of us certain tax brackets, is a communal experience. There's only a certain amount of washers and dryers to go around for ten million people. My wife and I are lucky in that we have decent laundry facilities in the basement of our building. There are four washers and two dryers for about sixty apartments, so it's tight- but it works.

Most of the time.

Which brings me to this question- How hard is it to remember what time you put your laundry in, so as to remember what time you need to go down to retrieve said laundry when it is finished? For some, it seems the answer is: Very hard. Example: Last night we were doing laundry, which my wife started before I got home. While we were putting our last load in the dryer, I noticed a pile of still-wet laundry sitting on the folding counter. "I took those out," my wife informed me, when she had put our stuff in the wash originally. And there it sat, while our next batch of clothes came out of the dryer- and who knows, it could have still been there in the morning.

Now, I don't want to have to handle other people's laundry- but I will (as will my wife, obviously). If your clothes are in my way of getting this pain-in-the-butt chore done, they will be moved. Respectfully, of course- I'm not going to throw them on the floor- but they will be moved. My allotted laundry time does not take into account your laziness. I repeat- I don't want to handle your laundry... and I shouldn't have to, either. Or would you like me to fluff and fold too??

Set an alarm. Or just look at a clock, and do the math. Understand that there are precious few facilities, and we all need a turn. Or were you absent the day in kindergarten they taught how to share? Or how about the day they taught how to tell time, at least? Missed that one too, huh?

Now, I am not unreasonable- if you are five minutes late in getting your laundry out- I am not gonna throw up a fuss. But when your wet laundry is still there after I have taken it out, and done four loads of my own? Give me a break, people. You're not the only person on the planet, stop acting like it.

Scoot. Over.

2009-04-10T13:07:00.005-04:00

On the train this morning, a guy got on struggling with stuff in his hands... his over the shoulder bag, his book, and his... scooter. Like a razor scooter- the kind you might find a child skipping down the street on. Now I try not to be judgemental (often times horribly unsuccessfully), but come on.. a scooter? What self respecting adult finds this mode of transportation reasonable? All I know is the last thing I want to have to avoid as I walk down a crowded city street is some kid on a scooter- notice I said kid, because having to avoid being run over by an adult on a scooter shouldn't even be on the list.

So what does this full-grown man who is okay with zipping around the city on scooter read, you ask: Proust's Swann's Way. Hmmm... Flash back to childhood anyone? Who wants a cookie?

Let's clear something up...

2009-03-30T15:20:00.004-04:00

Because I know you are all going rush out to see Vin Diesel's new movie when it comes out on April 3, I want to take some time to clear up a little confusion that no doubt has been troubling you.

There have been four movies now in the series. The first one was "The Fast and The Furious," followed by the sequel "2 Fast 2 Furious," the threequel, "The Fast and The Furious: Tokyo Drift," and now the latest and probably greatest: "Fast & Furious." Notice how they have cleverly dropped the "The" from the title, and adding an ampersand- making it a completely different title than the first movie!! Now that's some serious ingenuity, people. Bravo.

Now, I myself will not be attending- not only do I have plans on said release date, but I also have not seen the prior three films, and therefore would surely find myself lost and confused. Plus I'll have another chance when the fifth one comes out: "Fasturious!" It's gonna be huge.

What global financial meltdown?

2009-03-26T13:35:00.003-04:00

Even in these trying financial times, there's always gotta be one guy who's got way more money than he knows what to do with.
This guy. He's Charles Simonyi, a Hungarian-born software developer, the so called "space tourist," who today blasted off in a Russian rocket for his second- that's right second- trip to the International Space Station. The going rate for which is $35 million dollars. I don't know about you, but I would love to wipe the smug look of his face.

From the article in the NY Times:

In a telephone interview... Mr. Simonyi said he plans to help Russian engineers calibrate space radiation sensors, chat with school kids via ham radio and discuss his experiences with Internet readers.

Help calibrate space radiation sensors my butt. The latter two seem more like it... "Hey, look at me! I'm filthy rich and rather than use my money to fund humanitarian efforts in these troubled times on earth, I'M GOING TO SPACE!!" Now far be it from me to tell a guy how spend his money, and I am sure this will only boost his chances with the ladies (Hey baby, wanna see my space suit?)- but it seems to me a little insensitive to be dropping 35 mill on something that should probably be a once in a lifetime experience. Once, Charles. Hell, it irks me and I have a job. What must some jobless factory worker think about this? ( Find one and ask them, I am sure they are not happy...)

Okay, bitter rant over. Sweet galactic dreams, Mr. Simonyi, on your pillow no doubt made of soft, laundered currency. Okay seriously, the bitterness is over...

Identity Crisis

2009-03-26T13:23:00.002-04:00

Whatever you do, don't let him know he's a bus. He's got a real bad temper.

Peeves, pets...

2009-03-21T13:50:00.006-04:00

Let me start by saying: I don't like washing my hands with cold water. It doesn't feel like they are getting clean, and the soap seems to take longer to wash off. Do I do it? Yes of course, as public restrooms don't always give you the option: no matter what the handles on the faucet are labeled; or do you really want to spend the extra time in a public bathroom to wait for the water to get warm? So yes, I do wash my hands with cold water when I have to- but I don't have to like it... not even a little.

While on the subject of public bathrooms: Give me paper towels. I know, know, hand blowers are better for the environment, blah blah blah... Hey I'm all for reducing my carbon footprint, but I'm also for walking out of the bathroom with dry hands... or without water up inside my sleeves, where it invariably ends up getting blown to. Paper towels, I'm in control of- I know where the water's going: on the towel. And let's not get me started on the whole automatic faucets and blowers... I've already gone there on this blog awhile ago.

Back to water temperature: I don't like brushing my teeth with warm water. If the water comes out of the faucet, still warm from the last use, and it gets on my toothbrush- I will start over. Water and toothpaste conservationists be damned.

Now a here's "pet" peeve. This goes beyond the normal New Yorker complaint of "Why can't they clean up after their dog??" Although I am behind that one too. This is another issue I have with many dog owners, and a word of advice: Be giving when it comes to your dog. There are those of us out there, my wife and I included- in a big way- who wish to have have a dog of their own- but cannot for now, due to lifestyle and other financial restrictions. So when we stop to pet your dog on the street, and ask its name or how old or what breed- don't act like I've committed a federal offense, or walk away like you don't speak human, dragging your pal behind. Humor us. Hey I know, I'm sure it's the fourth time you've walked your dog today, and you've really got to get to that spinning class at the gym- but share in the joy that your dog is obviously bringing us. I'm not saying we want you to put on a show or display for us all of his or her tricks- just be civil. Embrace the joy, not the annoy.

A list of pet peeves could go on for ever, but that's all for today. So after the peeves, I leave you with some pets:

Our little angels, Mick & Bean.

Madoff's Punishment: Fair Market Value?

2009-03-17T15:42:00.006-04:00

For those who haven't been living in a cave- or for those that do that have their cave wired for internet or TV- we all know that last week beloved Bernie Madoff pleaded (or is it pled) guilty to crimes beyond most of our collective comprehension. For these crimes Madoff may face up to 150 years in prison. Now I don't want to downplay just how serious these crimes were- many peoples' lives were greatly affected. But what does it say about our justice system when this guy faces 150 years for causing financial woes, while drug dealers, rapists and murderers can get 5-25 with time off for good behavior? Hmmm...

Don't get me wrong, I'm not feeling sorry for the guy- it's not like it would be hard time. So he gets sent away- let's face it- to probably some white-collar criminal minimum security prison/ country club for the rest of his life. Not so bad. But it's the math that just doesn't add up for me. Murders get a shot at redeeming them themselves in 25 years, but Bernie needs to stay off the streets forever, a true danger to society!

A better punishment for this guy would be stripping him of all his money, and forcing the guy to work the french fry-vat at Mickie D's, or some other minimum wage gig. It's not like the guy's got the street-cred to be able to open another financial firm, nor does he probably have any friends who would give him a shot to work at theirs. He has done more damage to himself already than any amount of time in jail could do. I would like to see him need to scrounge to make a living, not be given a cushy life behind "bars."

I think I may have contradicted my argument somewhere in there, but so be it- I'm over it.

TP, or not TP? That's NOT the question...

2009-03-16T12:46:00.006-04:00

I've come to realize that there are two types of people in this world. Those who put the toilet paper on the holder so the paper comes out from the top, and those who put it on so that it comes out from the bottom. Even though there are many preaching unity in the country right now, I think it's time we all took a good look in the mirror and decide just which side we're on.

I am and always been a "From The Top," or FTT guy, and always will be. I guess it's just that I was raised that way, and it's how I've done it as I have come of age and into control of my own toilet paper holders throughout life. But it is more than just an ingrained course of action- it is a choice. Studies have shown* there is far less chance of the paper getting caught behind the roll as you pull it, making it a far more agreeable situation for you after you have done your proverbial business (*there are actually no such studies, it's more of a really good gut feeling). Plus, I like seeing the paper I'm about to use- spotting any defects and/ or abnormalities- and us FTTers get that opportunity with our method. The "From The Bottom" contingent's view of the paper is often compromised due to the bulk of the roll and/or sub-standard lighting coming up from the bathroom floor.

I don't wish to change you, just to educate you. If I come to your house and find that you are an FTB, I will not judge you- and I will not passive aggressively change the orientation of your paper. I am an accepting person, and would never assume I can walk into others' commodes and lay down the law (although I have "laid down the law" in many bathrooms- but in a different manner of speaking).

Decide, people. Don't tell me, "Oh, I just don't pay attention to how I do it..." Because you're not only lying to yourself, you are lying to bald eagles and apple pie too. And that's a shame. Just be who you are, and, to use toilet paper and singer-songwriter Steve Winwood as an example: Just roll with it, baby.

Mama, don't let your babies... into a movie theatre!

2009-03-01T18:34:00.003-05:00

Went to see "Coraline" last night- the new Tim Burton-esque animated feature- in 3D no less. Being as it was animated, there were quite a few children in the audience- although for a movie that was pretty slow moving, the kids in the theatre were for the most part very well behaved.

Halfway through the movie though, a small baby could be heard crying. To which the kid sitting next to me, who had been audibly enjoying the movie and its 3D effects, replies, "Who brings a baby to the movies?" Which made me chuckle a little. And it begs the question: If a nine or ten year old kid knows full well that it's foolish to bring a baby to a movie theatre, how does an grown adult not know this? At least this was a movie geared toward kids, but still.

Rule of thumb: If the kid can't walk into the theatre on his or her own, then they don't belong in the movie theatre. I know this. The ten year old kid next me knows this. I gotta think on some level, even the crying baby knows this. I'm too young to be here, it's dark and loud and smells like butter, waaaaaaah!!

I'm just saying. Come on, people.

Standoff on a Friday evening..

2009-01-30T18:36:00.004-05:00

I am not usually that guy. The guy who's got an appendage of some sort stuck in door of the subway as it closes, holding up the train from moving. But it's Friday night and I just really wanted to get home.

As I came down the stairs tonight at the 50th Street Station there was the 1 train... Yes! Quickly maneuvered through the turnstile, got up to the the platform edge, one foot in the doorway... and despite the efforts of a woman who was on the train to help keep the door open for me-- swoosh- the doors shut on my foot. Generally speaking, the conductor will just open the door back up and you can hop right in... not this woman, not tonight. May be she was on her way home too.

I peered down the length of the train, her head peaking out of the conductor's window glaring at me- although too far for words. Rather than flinging it open real quick, the doors slowly inch closer to the center of my foot... at this point I couldn't get my foot out if I wanted to... I actually tried. Not budging. I give another look down, and add kind of a mild shrug, try to win her over from fifty feet away with sheepishness... she responds by increasing the pain to my foot.. there but for the grace of rubber stoppers on the doors go I... Then in a flash the doors part a tad, and I get my foot out, and just when I think all is lost and the doors come together... they come flying all the way back open and I jump into the train! Victory.

I give everybody on the train a sort half-hearted, "Sorry," but no seems to pay me mind either way... especially since there is another woman shoving her torso through the door as it attempts to close again. The conductor lets her off far easier than me, and she gets on the train as well.

"This is not the last train," the conductor lady announces as the doors finally close peacefully, which garners chuckles from those on the train- myself included. And while that's true, we New Yorkers also know that Murphy's law more than applies when it comes to mass transit- this morning I just missed the A train on my way in to work- only to have wait another twenty minutes for another to show up.

So I will fight. While I won't ever be one of those people who throws a tantrum and kicks the train and screams bloody murder when they miss they train... if there's a chance I can make it on that train... I will do my damndednest. I will not trust announcements of "There is a train directly behind this one." I will do what I gotta do to get home. If I have to, I will be that guy.

Y2K...12.

2009-01-27T12:04:00.003-05:00

So apparently, here we go again.

December 21, 2012:

The date marks the end of a 5,126-year cycle on the Long Count calendar developed by the Maya, the ancient civilization known for its advanced understanding of astronomy and for the great cities it left behind in Mexico and Central America.

Sigh.

This has led to growing number of books, websites, and general whack-jobbedness (yes it is a word) that the end is once again, very near (even a web page with handy countdown clock!). Doomsday part deux... or who knows what part. It seems like the signs have all aligned countless times marking the unmistakable end of our civilization.

I would just love to know what the hell these people who proclaim doomsday are doing with their lives. Going to work? Dropping off their stuff at the cleaners? Scrubbing the kitchen sink? Hell, if I really believed the world was ending in 4 years (or three and change at this point) I would be on a frickin' beach somewhere, maxing out my credit cards and thumbing my nose at any sort of rules... Not setting up websites, or writing books...

I have to wonder what these people possibly hope to achieve? If they are right, not only will no one be around for them to bask in their success- they themselves will be doing no basking. And if they're wrong...? Let's just say they might fall off a few Xmas card lists. They might have hard time getting that second book published- the one about the conspiracy theory regarding the poison gas that emits from albino hamsters, causing subordination in humans and will eventually lead to the Great Albino Hamster Empire.

Some in the Maya scholastic community brush off these folks. "The trendy doomsday people...should be treated for what they are: under-informed opportunists and alarmists who will move onto other things in 2013," said John Major Jenkins, whose books include "Galactic Alignment" and who describes himself as a self-taught independent Maya scholar.

And there are those, who are more or less giving these doomsday "prophets" what they desire, that are outraged. "There's going to be a whole generation of people who, when they think of the Maya, think of 2012, and to me that's just criminal," said David Stuart, director of the Mesoamerica Center at the University of Texas at Austin.

Easy David... down boy.

And call me uneducated- do it, I flippin' dare you- but when I think the of the Maya, I think of actress Maya Rudolph. Or the Mayan Indians... or the Cleveland Indians... wait I just lost my train of thought...

2012 or bust? Or 2012 and bust. Putting on my Nostradamus hat: Perhaps these Maya characters were thinking something along the lines of 2012 will be when we stopped doing business as usual. When peace is something that is actually achievable rather than a foolish notion. When harmony is what is encouraged, rather than hate. But I don't want to step the Doomsday-sayers' shoes... especially when they're selling those shoes online with a fancy "2012" already printed on them.

quotes taken from cnn.com.

Hardest working guy in showbiz...

2009-01-25T15:58:00.001-05:00

Saw "The Wrestler" yesterday, and Mickey Rourke notwithstanding- the guy threw himself all over the place, and really got ripped for this part- I was reminded of just who should retain the title "Hardest Working Guy In Showbiz." (That's guy, not man, as I believe Mister James Brown cornered the market on that one a long time ago.)

It is is none other than the little film man, the mascot of AMC Movie Theatres, who I have come to learn is named "Clip."

Every show time. Every AMC Theater across the country. Introducing previews, the feature presentation, hocking concessions- the guy does it all. And all with the panache of a true showbiz professional. Throughout the years, he's gotten himself into all kinds of highjinks and wowed us wih feats of magic- I mean yesterday before the movie the guy jumped off a soda cup... not off the top of the cup, from off the cup itself. When's the last time you Tom Cruise do that?

And all he ever asks is that we enjoy the show.

So take a bow Clip- while a lifetime achievement Oscar may never come, enjoy the title of hardest working guy in in showbiz- and know you've earned it, little man.

Click here for some classic Clip in action.

Alas Oscar, I barely know thee....

2009-01-22T21:37:00.003-05:00

Well, Oscar time is fast approaching, the noms making themselves known today... and as seems to be the case in recent years, I find myself thinking- Yes, of course that one, or Wow, they got nominated - when in true actuality, I have seen almost none of the movies and/or performances nominated in the major categories.

I have seen The Dark Knight, for which Heath Ledger received a nod for best supporting actor. That's it. That's the extent of the value of my opinion of this year's noms.

Point of reference: My 5 year old nephew has seen three nominated pictures. Okay, they're Wall-E, Kung Fu Panda, and Bolt- each nominated for animated feature- but still.

I hope to get to the movies this weekend. And apparently every weekend until Oscar night- lest I watch another Academy Awards show under false pretense, and they take away my movie watching privileges for good. And they'll do it.

Hug a squirrel

2009-01-21T17:21:00.002-05:00

You thought inauguration day was hard to beat. Well today is Squirrel Appreciation Day. If you see a seemingly rabies-infested yet adorable over-grown rat with a fluffy tail on your way home, tell him you appreciate him.

New Year indeed...

2009-01-20T22:14:00.003-05:00

What better day to put in my first blog post of '09? Unless you've been living under a rock, you know that today Barack Obama was sworn in as the 44th President of the United States. My apologies if you do actually live under a rock- but let's face it if you do, you're probably not reading my blog, and have bigger fish to fry...

With this new year, has come new hope for all of us. A good day indeed. A happy new year. While it's foolish to think we can turn this thing around right away, let's hope 2009 brings us closer.

When you think your job sucks...

2008-11-20T22:49:00.004-05:00

She's dressed up like a lobster, if you can't tell. And it was cold out today. And she has to deal with smart-asses like this guy bugging her, and setting up pictures for their buddy (that's my co-worker Jose, starring as the smart-ass and helping me set up the picture).

Gotta pay the bills though, those little lobsters at home don't feed themselves, ya know... or do they? What do lobsters eat anyway...?

What was I talking about?

Signs signs, everywhere the "SIGNS"

2008-11-18T21:58:00.005-05:00

Went to the DMV today, and posted in several places was this same sign:

What do they mean by "YOUR" ? It's as if they are daring you to complete and sign someone else's application... Psstt, hey - don't forget to complete (wink wink, nudge nudge) YOUR application (wink wink). Or are they making a distinct point, hoping to weed out any confusion of just who's application we are expected to complete? Or could be that the person who made these signs, and then posted them throughout the room has absolutely know idea when the use of quotes is called for?

I used to work with such a person, who in the same fashion would post signs throughout the office. For the cleaning crew: Please "Do Not Clean" floor. Or for the staff: Do not "Lock Door." It always left me feeling that there was some sort of code going on. Like, maybe I should excuse myself and go to the "Bathroom." (Cue: Mission Impossible theme)

Anyway, these signs I saw today at the DMV were not new looking signs. They'd been up for a while. Which means on a daily basis, people look at these signs and say to themselves, Yeah that seems right. Or maybe they don't look at them at all. Just suprises me that a municipal or state-run establishment wouldn't have some sort of system in place where things have to get approval before they post them on the wall. But having dealt with a few DMV's in my time, I don't know why I'm suprised.

Some thoughts on the Gym

2008-11-18T21:21:00.005-05:00

First of all, I went to the gym last night and was not struck by lightning as I walked through the doors, so score one for me.

****

Now when I am at the gym I try to remain focused on my work out, and what I am there to do- but some people just bug the hell out of me. Like the guy next to me on the elliptical trainer who keeps getting off every 3 minutes to answer his cell phone. Or the guy who stays on, but just keeps talking on his cell anyway. Who are you talking to that is okay with that?? And like the girl who is chugging along at a snail's pace, out-paced by the speed in which she is flipping the channels on the in-machine TV. Couldn't you just do that at home?

I know everybody's gotta workout at their own pace, but when your flapping mouth or flipping fingers are getting more of a workout than your cardio-vascular system - I think it's time to decide whether or not we need to retain this gym membership. Consider yourself judged by self-professed lazy ass.

And please tell me why only the rankest, most foul smelling people are the ones working out in sleeveless T's or tank tops. There's a guy in particular who will come up the stretching area, and within minutes has permeated the entire room with his stink. I know you're working out and all dude, but a little pre-workout deodorant goes a long way.

***

Acute exercise-mimmick paranoia. I've got it.

You know when you're doing a stretch, or a specific exercise and you look over and the guy or girl next to you is doing the same one? I immediately go to the place where they're thinking Geez, can't this guy think of his own stretches to do?? And it's all I can do to keep myself from saying, "Um, I was doing this first," or "I didn't even see you doing that!" But I don't, because I am not THAT crazy- and for all I know they're thinking the same thing as me!! ...okay, probably not.

**

Speaking of crazy, I have created an alternate universe for myself that kepes me entertained while I am at the gym. I have developed personas for the people I see at the gym. They might be celebrity look-a-likes, or people that look like ugly or chubby relatives of people I know. I'll be plugging away at my cardio, and then, "Hey it's Andrew's ugly brother," or "There's Michael C. Hall," and they're never the wiser. I wonder who I am in their alternate universes? Somebody back me up on this one...

Blue Letter Days

2008-11-05T22:20:00.000-05:00

Not beat this one into the ground- but thank god that more people in this country who chose change, than than those who chose fear. That's all I'm gonna say.

Yes, there IS a Hooters in NYC...

2008-10-09T22:24:00.002-04:00

Tucked away in a breezeway off 56th Street, on the short block between Broadway and Seventh Avenue, is New York City's slice of heartland Americana. Hooters. Famous for its chicken wings, and its legs and breasts of another species.

Although easy to miss from the street, it does have a little sign out front with a small marquee- the kind you might find in front of any restaurant in any town across the country- where you can change the letters to announce specials and such. And usually that's exactly what it does: "Drinks 2 for 1 - 4 to 7pm," or "$2 Pints Tues. & Thurs" and the like.

Yesterday though, it said: "Welcome Foreign Dignitaries!" Which made me think of many things the made me smirk, such as: Are they trying to change their image- We're gonna get some consulates in here! I pictured a bunch of those big black SUVs parked on 56th Street, right under the sign. Then I wondered, wait- does Alabama have a foreign mission to the UN?

In any case, God bless the members of the German delegation who after turning in their expense reports were faced with the question, "Was ist das Hoo-terz??" And soon after relieved of their posts when it was discovered they had gotten blitzed on Bud Light.

Yes I have been to a Hooters, though I haven't been to the one here in the city. But I gotta think that if you really want to go somewhere to ogle women while drinking beer and eating wings- there has got to be at least a hundred better options here in New York. At least. And if you are a female hoping to land a waitress job where you can use your "assets" to get a little extra in the tips depratment- there's gotta be about a hundred plus better places to do that here as well. Which makes Hooters in NYC an anomoly. I assume it's been around for a while, and it will continue to be around. I guess tourists can't live on McDonald's and Olive Garden alone. It's nice they have options. I HEART NY!!

Mick, the canine cat...

2008-09-25T21:34:00.002-04:00

Mention has been made in earlier posts on this blog about Mickey Mantle (the cat, not the ballplayer). Spend a little while with him and you'll be convinced, as my wife and I are, that he is more canine than feline. He scratches and pulls up the wood floors, he greets you at the front door when you walk in, he constantly follows you around with the hopes of being fed, he'll eat just about anything you drop on the floor, he does not always land on his feet, and he absolutely obliterates his toys.

Designers of cat toys don't take into account canine tendencies in cats when designing and constructing their toys. Take for instance the popular cat toy, "Da' Bird." It's a plastic stick with a cord attached to it, at the bottom of which is a bunch of feathers. Meant to be chased, batted at, stalked. And he does do all that- he loves the thing. But it's not meant for what Mick also loves to do: Chew and chew on the cord until the toy is two things- a stick with a cord, and a little cord with a bunch of feathers. Attempts to reattach the bird by tying the severed cord back together are thwarted when he just chews through it again. We are on our third bird in just over a year. This last one lasted about two weeks.

Mick does have his feline traits, but he is a dog at heart for sure. One of these days, we'll remember that when purchasing him a new toy.

Change is good...

2008-09-25T14:37:00.006-04:00

There's a new winner out there, when it comes to clever pan-handling signs. In this election year, even the the folks on the street begging for coin hop the on the bandwagon of politcal humor. The guy's sign:

OBAMA & ME ARE JUST ALIKE. WE BOTH WANT CHANGE.

Of kudos, I have plenty to offer, my man. You're still not getting any money from me.

Suits & Psychosis...

2008-09-25T13:27:00.004-04:00

My workplace is a casual dress enviroment, which fits in with my dressing standard. I am perfectly comfortable in khakis or jeans, and a button down or polo shirt- usually untucked. And that's what I live in during the work week. Well, we held an event the other evening which called for playing dress up- and I dusted off my suit and wore it in to work.

No, it's not the first time I have worn a suit to work- but it's been a while. And despite the fact I was probably one of hundreds of guys on my train wearing a suit, I of course feel like a fraud. And not only that, everyone knows it! They're all looking at me thinking, That guy doesn't usually wear a suit! Look at him him trying to be all dressed up... Yeah, that's really what I'm thinking as I ride the train, walk down the street, what have you.

Not helping the comfort level: in the time since I have last worn my suit, I seem to have expanded a bit(okay a good deal) in the abdominal region and was unable to even come close to buttoning my pants. Rather than accept defeat though, I just counted on my trusty belt- not only to fight gravity, but also to cover up the fact that my pants were indeed not buttoned. And as it turned out, mission accomplished- but my day was spent checking and rechecking the offending waistline, to make sure every thing was- for lack of a better term- on the up and up.

I'm not sure I will ever be a suit man. It's not that I don't like wearing the things, I just like hassle free, easy peasy when it come to the whole getting ready for the day thing. And frankly, the not tucking the shirt in comes in handy with the ever-expanding middle situation. (Okay, okay I'm going to gym- stop yelling at me.)

Intermittent Golfer...

2008-09-19T10:52:00.009-04:00

I really enjoy playing golf. But due financial and time and other worldly constraints I don't get to play nearly as often as I like. Now, I hear guys complain about this all the time- how they've only gotten out to play once this week, blah blah blah. I am playing this weekend for the first time since last summer. Last summer. Yeah, that's how bad I've got it, you whiners.

Golf, like many, isn't a sport where you have the luxury of not playing for a long stretch and then coming back to with the hopes of achieving again what little success you had the last time you played. And that's really all that I ask for: a little success. And yet, for this weekend- that may just be to much to ask.

Somewhere near Princeton, New Jersey, a golf course is trembling. Not so much in fear of my conquering it, so much as it is in fear of what I may do to the course: how many balls I will leave out there, what my wake may look like, how much I will be holding up the group behind us.

And yet, I'm looking forward to it. This relationship with golf is strange and troubling- but it's one that I can't refuse. To have few hours where all my frustrations lie in my attempt to make solid contact with a small, white, dimpled ball- and the frustrations of the outside world subside, or at least take a back seat. The adding of stress to relieve stress. It almost makes perfect sense.

In a perfect world, all this would happen more often. But for the sake of golf courses all over the world, we'll probably keep to a minimum for the foreseeable future.

_______________________________________
Also posted on my sports blog The Jayfiss Report.

Yesterday's news and such...

2008-09-19T10:52:00.006-04:00

I work across the street from Lehman Brothers' corporate HQ. And with all the grim reports this past week, news vans have been camped out- with cameras fixed on the building all day, as if something spectacular was about to happen.

Now, by the end of the week, the news vans have all but dwindled and left. Somebody must have told them all that the collapse of Lehman didn't mean the building would collapse as well. So much for the big scoop.

****
Other ramblings...

Lots of action on the streets of NYC this week. As always, the freaks seem to find me- as if they recognize a kindred spirit in me. No, you don't have to agree.

Yesterday, this guy walked past a co-worker and I on the street, and as he did, he let out a very full and tone-full belch. Impressed, we got a good chuckle out of it. Wouldn't you know, five minutes later we shared an elevator with the guy. It was a snicker-filled ride, and no more gasses were expelled.

*

A couple of days ago, I twice came around a corner (once on the street, once at the gym) and nearly ran smack into a female of the species. Both times it was clear that both parties were at fault, more or less. Both times, I was the only apologetic party. And both times, I received a good deal of attitude from the other party in return. Message to all other carelessly walking women out there: Next time it's all YOUR fault! You have been warned.

*

The other day as I walked down the street, I watched a guy give his girlfriend one hells of back scratching. I mean, hands up the shirt going to town kind of back scratching. Now, I like a good scratch of the back as much as the next guy, but if I am in need of one in public- over the shirt is fine for me. I'm just saying.

*

I saw what was left of a pigeon in the middle of Seventh Avenue, nearly smashed beyond recognition. Just a bunch of pigeon-colored feathers and guts. I don't really have anything else to say about it- it's just something you don't see everyday. Ane the perfect thing to think about just before lunch.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is your un-biased captain speaking...

2008-09-05T16:39:00.004-04:00

Flying home from Seattle last Monday night, we experienced a really rough patch of unstable air. The captain came over the loudspeaker to say he was turning on the fasten seat belt sign, and to casually mention we were currently flying over Minneapolis/ St. Paul.

No word on whether the turbulence was caused by the rush of hot air that was undoubtedly flowing up from the RNC, a mere 35,000 feet below.

Do-it-yourself take out!

2008-09-05T11:14:00.003-04:00

On a recent trip to the Northwest, my wife and I had the luxury of staying the entire time at a friend's house that they don't use... which was perfect, because the primary point of the trip was to relax- and having comfy, domestic lodging made this easy to do. We planned our days so that nighttime would have us at home, to watch movies, order take out and just chill.

Being that we were in a rather remote area, the option of having food delivered was not available- Hello, culture-shock for the city folk! We were apprised of a local pizza chain, and decide to give it try one night. Now this was a different pizza joint than I had ever experienced. A so-called, "take and bake." You order the pizza, they make it for you, and give it to you uncooked to take home and bake yourself.

My wife was all for it. And I admit, it truly worked out for that evening because we were able to grab it on the way home from that day's travels, so as not to have to go out again. But in a way it seems against the whole idea of take out. The idea that take out is something you do that's super easy. You order it, you pick it up (or have it delivered), and you eat it. Where does, you-cook-it, fit in there? Let me answer the question: it doesn't. If you want to cook, you don't order take out... it's really that simple.

The pizza was okay, and no it wasn't that hard to make- but that's not the point. It is like paying somebody to wash your clothes, and then still having to dry them yourself. All right, I'm done. Off my soapbox. Although, it was heaven last night to have a hot pizza delivered to our door- no assembly required.

Visual Evidence

2008-08-18T14:45:00.007-04:00

If you are ever late for work, and you need to use some outlandish excuse, like- My cat hit the snooze button! You can use this picture as visual evidence.

Whether or not she actually hit the snooze is irrelevant as far as I'm concerned.

Are ya kidding me?

2008-07-21T17:02:00.003-04:00

Yes this actually happened.

Senator Elizabeth Dole (R-NC) introduced an amendment to name an HIV/AIDS relief bill after the recently deceased Jesse Helms. It all has the feeling feeling of a big frickin' joke- albeit a sick and cruel one. And let's face it, Ms. Dole isn't exactly known for her winning sense of humor.

Tom Viola, the Executive Director of Broadway Cares/ Equity Fights AIDS, and its treasurer, Philip S. Birsh vehemently objected to the proposed amendment. Saying among other things

"Dole's recommendation demeans hundreds of thousands of Americans currently living with HIV/AIDS and implies that Helms' hatred for gay men and Americans of color everywhere (except in Africa where they are safely a continent away) is acceptable, even good. In Jesse Helms' world we are all dispensable, better dead. . . . It's a sad, sick and deliberate attempt to re-write history and clean-up Helms' sad legacy."

The story does have happy ending though. The bill passed, without Helms' name.

"Yeah No. 1..."

2008-07-19T11:39:00.003-04:00

That's the greeting we get when we call our local chinese take out place. "Yeaah, numba wahn," is probably closer to what is actually said- but that could be construed as being in poor taste on my part (note to self: delete last sentence). On the lovely two-color menu it says "Lucky lucky lucky No. 1," and states "We cater for all parties." Bar-Mitzvah? You're covered. Flag Day celebration? They don't discriminate. Cat's birthday? As long as they didn't use your cat to make the mu shu pork, you're good to go (okay that one was too easy).

Bottom line is, whatever greasy concoction it is, is usually pretty damn good. And every time we order delivery, we give our address and say we are in apt. 4J. To which they always respond: "J like John or girl?" Yes...really. And it does vary a little, like last night she made a guess at it and just said, "J like girl?" To which I respond J like John, but always wanting to add- now be a good jirl and bring me my food. But I don't.

They do a good job at No. 1 Chinese. And I don't mean to poke fun, but it's just so darn amusing to me. Who could ask for more- it's quick, it's cheap, and it's entertaining. And, now I've got some left over sesame chicken in fridge for lunch, so it must be my lucky lucky luck day.

Keep 'em outta sight, please

2008-07-18T15:46:00.005-04:00

I don't mean to be insensitive. And I know babies have gotta eat when they've gotta eat. But the last thing I need to see when I get on the subway, or sit down for a cup of coffee, is some stranger's boob hanging out while her kid gets their nosh on. Look lady, I'm real glad that you're comfortable with it, or have been exhausted to the point that you just don't care who sees- but guess what: I'm not there.

To me, it just seems like such a personal thing to be shared between mother and child, not something that should be viewed by anybody and everybody in between subway stops. And if the kid's gotta eat right then and there- which believe me, I understand it happens more often than not- there are more discreet ways of accomplishing it. A little blanket coverage goes a long way in my book.

Babies of the world: Demand that your mommy cover herself during your public feedings! Let her know you deserve a little privacy! Don't take... um, hello? Are you even listening to me? All right, all right... go ahead, keep eating- just pretend like I'm not here.

July 16 from my vantage point

2008-07-16T19:04:00.002-04:00

When I was walking to work this morning I saw a billboard advertising Coors Light as : "The most refreshing beer in the world." Now, how exactly do they quantify that?

****

While walking up Seventh Avenue this afternoon there was an older lady dressed in pink outfit walking down, sort of skipping and happily doing jumpy turns. Crazy, I thought as she passed me, but so happy. And then she spat in my direction, and continued down the street muttering to herself angrily.

***

Summertime in city leads to many women parading about in short skirts and dresses. As a male of the species, I don't usually have a problem with this. But the thing that gets me is how uncomfortable some of them look. Constantly adusting them, or holding them down as they walk up stairs. I gotta think, if your skirt is so shirt you feel the necessity to hold it place as you walk up the stairs, it's probably too short. Just throwing it out there- rule of thumb kinda thing.

Note to the guy standing above me on the A tain on the way home: "You're standing right next to your friend! Do you really need to talk so loud!?"

East Coast biaszzz...

2008-07-16T17:15:00.003-04:00

Living on the east coast is great. Wouldn't trade it for anything.

That said, the only thing that stinks sometimes is nationally televised sporting events. Last night's MLB All-Star was a harsh reminder of that fact. But other things like the NBA Finals, or Monday Night Football for instance make it difficult to watch the game and get one's proper amount of sleep on any given night when one has to get up for work the next morning. And how about NFL Sundays on the west coast, where you roll out of bed and the day's games are about to begin; and the late games are over by 4pm- plenty of time left in the day to run errands or fix that doorknob or what have you. Although, then there is the Sunday night game... but I digress. Last night was the extreme example of us east coasters getting the time shaft.

Now I am no dummy, I know that an advertised start time of 8pm EST for an event like this doesn't mean that the first pitch will be at 8pm. And I thoroughly enjoyed the opening ceremonies of last night's game, all the Hall of Famers along side the night's starters. But when it came to throw the first pitch, it was practically 9 o'clock. On a school night! But dammit, I love the MLB All-Star game, and I am going to watch it in it's entirety. Well, I'm ashamed to admit- about 1:15am, and after 14 innings I decided I had to go to bed. I would DVR the rest of the game and watch it in the morning before I left for work. Which I did. About which my wife quipped, "That's why you got up so early this morning." To which I realized I had no strong argument.

Now, I realize the other side of the story is that on the west coast, I wouldn't have even been home in time to catch the start of the broadcast. Well, that's when you DVR the bad boy and catch up by fast forwarding through the multitudes of commercials. Problem solved.

Easy fix to this problem would to be move to the west coast. And that's just not happening. So I'll just complain about it, and the next time the Yankees go west to play Oakland or Seattle- I'll arrive at work a little more bleary eyed and cranky than usual.

___________________________________________
Cross posted on my sports blog The Jayfiss Report.

The Queen Bean, adds another royal name...

2008-07-11T11:00:00.002-04:00

Flashback: Two nights ago, we had a delicious rotisserie chicken for dinner. After which, we threw the remains in the garbage.

Fast forward to: Last night, I tied up said garbage and left it by the door to take out the following morning.

Fast forward to: This morning around 5:30am, my wife wakes, sits up and says, "Oh, Bean threw up on the bed!" I wake with these words, but upon further review (my wife in her blindness, poking at the mess) we discovered she hadn't thrown up at all. It was a chicken leg- mysteriously similar to one consumed two nights prior. I ambled down the hall, and my suspicions we confirmed: the little brat had chewed through the bottom of the garbage bag and removed an early morning snack for herself.

Flashback (presumed): Bean, sauntering down the hall in the early morning darkness, chicken bone in jowls, howling away- as she is want to do when she is holding things in her mouth.

This female feline of many nicknames (her real name is Josie, after all) has deservedly earned another: Princess Drumstick, as so dubbed by my wife.

The button to the story is that later I discovered that Mickey Mantle, the masculine feline presence in the house, had indeed thrown up in his room down the hall. Thanks for bringing it all home, Mick.

SAUSAGE!

Running of the idiots

2008-07-10T16:36:00.003-04:00

Yesterday marked the fourth day of the annual running of the bulls in Pamplona, Spain. And when I read stories like this one about the people who are injured daily in the run, I think to myself- Good. Now while I don't necessarily wish harm on any person, I gotta say I always find myself rooting for the bulls.

Every year thousands of people come from all over the world, so-called thrill seekers, to confuse and disorient and goad these poor animals. You want thrills? Risk bodily harm to yourself? Jump out of plane, climb a mountain, walk across hot coals. Don't pick on a mentally inferior species to get your jollies.

It's been going on for over 400 years, so it will probably keep going on. If that's case I say, Go bulls! Trampled, gore, and ram those idiot humans that can't out maneuver you. As the saying goes, "You mess the with bull, you get," and most-deservedly so, "the horns."

Arriba los toros!

Lost in Translation...

2008-07-02T16:10:00.009-04:00

Yes, for real. My co-worker found this in a Puerto Rican grocery store in Jersey City (and bought it for me), and it says on the back of the package- product of Jamaica.

Now, obviously it's some kind of chicken soup mix, but nobody caught this before it hit the shelf in America? Or is somebody having real good laugh somewhere? It's even all over the back label : "Use Grace Cock soup to add body and flavour to... your soup" or "Grace Cock soup can also be enjoyed...without the need to add other ingredients." Oh, I bet it can.

Kinda makes you think twice next time before using the phrase, "Tastes like chicken."

About, Face!

2008-06-29T22:52:00.009-04:00

I caved.

It all started years ago, when I started getting unsolicited emails from people I know, saying "[Such and such] wants to be your friend on Friendster! Click this link to join..." I would hit delete, thinking to myself I am not joining that stupid thing- not really even knowing what it was all about.

Then a couple years went by, and the Friendster emails were replaced by invites to join MySpace. Once again, I scoffed, and I hemmed... and then about a year ago or so.. I joined. I was hooked. So many people out there wanted to be MY friend (including strange girls with web cams i could look at if I just went to their website and had a major credit card handy). I was re-connecting with people I hadn't spoken to in years, and even sometimes connecting with people (my wife) who were down the hall in my living room. The obsession soon died down a bit, but I still would check my MySpace page, feeling I was up to date in this internet based society in which we live.

Then something happened. Fast forward to this year. The emails, they started again. Apparently I had waited too long, and MySpace was now passe', and Facebook was were it's at. Nope, I thought. I don't even check my MySpace often enough, and now I am going to join Fcebook? Please. Well, last week my wife joined. Then I didn't see her for two nights after work, as she loaded up on friends, and wrote on people's "wall." So, just to see what all the fuss was about... well, you know how it happens.

My Facebook initiation was way more overwhelming than my humble beginnings on MySpace. This time, even more people I hadn't talked to, people who I forgot were on the planet all wanted to be my friend... and BAM, I am one of the popular kids again! They even have this this where you can create pages for your pets- which my wife and I did for each of our cats immediately- after which I felt excited and ashamed all at once.

Where does it all end? And have I waited too long again? When will the emails start again, asking me to join [TheNewCoolKidsSite].com? And how long will I have the strength to stay away? Too much to think about. And plus, I need to get back to Facebook- I just got a friend request from a guy I think I know from class... but I am not sure if it's the guy I am thinking it is. Ain't the internet grand?

Ramblings for a Monday

2008-06-23T21:42:00.002-04:00

It's a warm soupy evening in the city- this Apple they call Big. Not particularly hot, just humid as all get out. Even my sweat is sweating.

***
I was walking down Broadway this morning on the way to work, and I passed a newsstand with a Playboy Magazine cover prominently displayed on the side. The headline on the cover, accompanied by the obligatory scantily clad female, was: "Vegas Showgirls Nude!" And I fail to see the gimmick. What next? Porn Stars Nude! Or, Nudist Colony Co-Eds! I'm just saying. Vegas showgirls are supposed to be nude. Putting them in a magazine just takes away the two drink minimum. That's all I'm saying.

***

Did I mention it's damp out? It is. Damp that is.

***

I'm gonna go on record and say cibatta is my favorite sandwich bread. I had a turkey sandwich today on cibatta bread- and one bite into the sandwich I knew I had made the right choice. If you haven't had cibatta, give it a try. I defy you to not enjoy your sandwich. And if you say you don't enjoy it- you're lying. And you're lying to yourself and that's what hurts the most.

***

I'm just saying. It's uncomfortably humid today. And it's only the second full day of summer.

"A" Philosophy to live by

2008-06-17T13:08:00.004-04:00

This morning, as the A train I was on pulled into Columbus Circle, my fellow riders and I were instructed by the conductor to "Have an interesting morning." Now pleasantries from a conductor- while not the norm- certainly aren't a rarity, but the choice of words was. I've gotten the "Have a nice day" or "Enjoy your day" - there's even one guy who always says "Have a blessed, safe and prosperous day." All very normal positive affirmations as you exit the subway train, ready to tackle the day. But, have an interesting morning- that's deep. It can be taken so many different ways.

We should all be so lucky to lead interesting lives, and have our interesting mornings blossom into intriguing and mindful days. I'm trying to fight through the crowd to get off the train, and this guy's waxing philosophical in between transfer and other train info. And you know what, why not? He's got the mic and (some) people's attention. As long as your not screaming at me that my soul is destined for hell fire, I say spread your gospel Mr. Subway Philosopher. It gave me pause, not sure if anyone else even noticed.

And maybe, just maybe the conductor meant to say "Have a nice day" and just misspoke. Maybe he was half asleep and just mumbled out the first thing he could think of. Whatever it was, his interesting choice of words got my attention. And while the rest of my morning was somewhat normal, I had already had an interesting morning as I walked off the train.

Tis the season

2008-06-10T16:42:00.003-04:00

Subway car roulette. You are waiting in the hot, sticky station when the somewhat crowded train finally rolls in. As it comes to a halt, you realize that the car that has stopped right in front of you seems completely empty. Now someone not familiar to the subway system might think- My lucky day! Empty car during rush hour, whoohoo! But to the seasoned rider it can mean one of two things. One: A particularly foul smelling homeless person has either taken residence or left their scent on the car. Two: No air conditioning.

This morning, fortunately, it was the latter. I wasn't feeling tip-top to begin with, so there was no way I gave any thoughts to toughing it out- braving the AC-less car. So when the empty car opened its doors in front of me- lights out to boot, never a good sign either- I made directly for the end door to move in to the next car. A couple people follow suit. Crowded, but about 50 degrees cooler.

Now the curious thing is what seems to happen next with regularity. Whether it's the promise of empty seats, or the tight squeeze caused by the extra people entering the car- a couple people decide they want to move to the car everyone's trying to get out of. I don't know if these people are being brave or stupid, but invariably they come back- and almost immediately at that if the reason winds up being the homeless stench.

But there always exceptions to the rule. There are those people that will sit in that car no matter what. Impervious to smell or to heat, or willing to put up with hazardous conditions for the sake of a seat on the train? Only they know. All I know is that even the best possible circumstance, you are never 100% comfy on the subway. I am not going to purposely lower that percentage even more, choosing to be nauseated by heat and/or stink.

All in my head

2008-05-06T17:38:00.002-04:00

I woke this morning with a song stuck in my head, by the artist Pink. It's a song that I don't know the title, and really know very little of the lyrics. I am not even sure when I last heard this song. It is a mystery to me how this song came to be the first thing that popped in my head this morning. It is possible that I heard it on a radio as I passed by a car the other day, or in a store- and I didn't register at the time.

So, even more confounding then was when I got off the subway and found myself kind of quietly whistling the theme song from "I Dream of Genie." Yup, hum along if you wish... not sure where that one came from either. Apparently my brain has harnessed the ability to screw with me- that is to subliminally store things, and release them only at a time when it will feel completely random and unassociated to anything present... well, songs at this point. Who can say what I'll wake up singing tomorrow.