Let’s get right to it. Constipation’s a bitch. We’ve all been there. No one enjoys it. Some go the route of Metamucil, laxatives, or over-the-counter stool softeners. Others prefer the dried fruit/bran consumption path. With a 13-month old, we preferred the latter approach combined with cheese abstinence – which is very difficult for this family.
So why do I bring this up? Perhaps my inspiration tool box is a bit blocked up as well this week, but mostly because constipation has been dominating the T household headlines. (Pardon the absence of "industry standard" in the following - I can't figure out the spacing.)
INT. OFFICE LAW FIRM
DENNIS sits at his desk typing furiously on his computer keyboard as his office phone rings incessantly around him, which clearly interrupts, bothers, and disrupts him. His tie is crooked. His hair is disheveled. His face is more wrinkly than normal. His cell phone begins to ring. He opens the phone and places it to his ear.
DENNIS
(wincing)
Hi.
WIFE
Well she finally pooped. Good one, too.
A co-worker knocks on his door. DENNIS waves her off politely while mouthing that it’s the WIFE on his phone.
DENNIS
Wow. (pause) That’s great.
WIFE
Yep. It wasn’t hard like the last one. She didn’t cry either.
DENNIS
(nodding )
The office phone rings again. DENNIS ignores it.
WIFE
Just thought you’d like to know.
DENNIS
Okay, heart you big time.
WIFE
Heart you right back. Oh, WAIT! I have something really important to ask you. What should we have for dinner tonight?
DENNIS
(sighing loudly) I gotta go.
We’re not sure of the cause for G’s pipes being backed up. We think it may be due to her recent conversion from formula bottles to whole milk plus the tail end of an antibiotic cycle for the latest ear infection. It honestly broke our hearts to witness it but when she pooped during this period, she cried and writhed in pain until the stool passed. When the poo finally flung into the diaper, its consistency was like play-doh that’s been sitting exposed for like 12 hours – not quite hardened but definitely no longer malleable.
Last weekend, we ventured to Strong Island, New York to visit the wife’s college BFF and husband, as well as some relatives on my mom’s side, and a few of my own college besties on the way back home. At each of our stops, we fed poor G-sizz with prunes, raisins, fiber one bars, prune juice, pears, and a double espresso. Her digestive system was like a Republican senate minority, just instinctively saying no to anything that came down the pike.
Fast forward to the Mass. Pike last Sunday night. As we approached the eastbound Charlton rest stop, we detected a faint hint of dumpsky in the air and decided to pull over. As I unbuckled G’s car seat belts and lifted her out, I saw that one of her pant legs had the appearance as if she had slid into home plate on a rainy day.
We jogged quickly inside as I held my baby under the pits. I went into the men’s room but a dad and son were bogarting the koala ahead of us. Panic-stricken, I ran back to the arcade area in the hopes of catching mama before she entered the ladies’ room. A waiting and sympathetic bystander mom motioned towards a door. “Family restroom,” she said. “Thanks!” I responded.
After placing our protective sheet down, I laid G onto the changing station and buckled her in. This was going to be tricky.
I tried to do what I could. Unfortunately, every ounce of dried fruit that my daughter consumed that weekend appeared to have manifested in and around her diaper. I opened the door and yelled for mama. She was kibitzing with one of our best friends who had left New York before us next to the Buck Hunter machine.
Long story short: three parents, a sacrificial onesy, a full outfit change, a crying/naked 13-month old, and many, many paper towels and wipes later, we had a happy little girl again. Somehow, the wife managed miraculously to salvage G’s pants. Nothing like having a stranger open the door to see me consoling an unhappy toddler as the wife washed poopy pants in a sink. Kudos mom!
My profuse apologies to the custodian of Charlton’s Rest Stop family restroom. My gratitude to Helen Zilla for assisting in our time of need. And my special thanks to Sunsweet Gold Label prune juice. May this message find all of you on a comfortable and regular schedule.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Eat
When G-sizz started eating real food, she was generally agreeable to anything reduced to a puree: veggies, fruits, protein, bologna, Indian takeout, basically your standard baby food. There were of course the occasional bites that rendered faces of confusion and pure disdain. Peas come to mind. Blueberries, surprisingly, too. On the whole, though, we couldn’t complain because she ate most everything else. I was cautiously optimistic.
Food pickiness is a lesser discussed category that truly factors into relationship compatibility. I should know. I dated a vegetarian. And then I dated someone who basically ate only chicken sandwiches. I didn’t marry either of them.
Eating is one of the simplest activities every human engages in (hopefully) on a regular basis. Yet eating can be so easily complicated. I love the thought of “breaking bread” together. No matter where you come from or what you do, everyone needs to eat. And sharing a meal with someone has a certain special aspect to it that cannot be denied.
When Jules discusses the Big Kahuna Burger with Brett and declares that dating a vegetarian basically made him a vegetarian, I agree and disagree. In her defense, the ex-veggie gf didn’t lecture me about ordering veal oscar, nor did she predict arteriosclerosis if I ordered a Coney hot dog. Her aversion to meat was not because of religious or ethical beliefs. She just didn’t care for the taste or the way her body felt as meat digested. I respected her position – and still do – as well as anyone else who avoids meat or animal products for whatever reason. I just feel sorry for peeps of that persuasion.
Me: Your Honor, I move to admit “bacon” as Exhibit 1.
Opposing Counsel: Objection, your Honor, and move to strike -
Judge (glaring at opposing counsel): Overruled. Proceed counsel.
How can anyone, anywhere, anytime resist bacon? Or steak? Burgers? Sausage with peppers and onions? Turkey on Thanksgiving? Franks at Fenway? Brats in Milwaukee? (Ok, I’ve never been but I want to and heard they take their meat products seriously there.) My dad’s chicken francese? My mother-in-law’s roast beef? My Uncle Tony’s ribs? My wife’s pork loin? My Uncle Carl’s anything-with-meat? The “Big Bitch” at Scranton U.? The “Morning Shiner” at Kountry Kart? The turkey hash omelette at My Diner in Southie? WHO ORDERED THE CODE RED, COLONEL JESSUP?! I WANT THE TRUTH!!! Your witness, Captain Ross.
As for the other ex-gf, it didn’t matter what kind of restaurant we went to: seafood, Mexican, fast food, steak joint, Chinese – she ordered a plain chicken sandwich. I can’t tell you how many times we’d walk from restaurant window to restaurant window reading menus for god damned chicken sandwiches as I fumed when Duxbury oysters or tuna tartare were on the appetizer list.
By no means whatsoever am I some kind of food snob. Honestly, I'm probably an awful critic because I like almost everything. At minimum, I'm willing to try anything. I love to ask a server at a restaurant to order my meal for me. Or going "splitsies" with someone else at the table to hedge the odds on missing a real winner. But if a partner is vegetarian or chicken sandwich only, it significantly limits one's options.
Unfortunately, G has recently evolved into some kind of cross between Padma Lakshi and Gail Simmons: none of them cook in any professional capacity but all of them are full of expert opinions about how to make or present food.
G started off by discretely depositing rejects quickly over her shoulder when she thought no one was looking. Soon, she moved onto vise clamping her mouth shut and twisting her face away, while swatting annoyingly at spoonfuls of peach yogurt with Cheerios like they were bothersome flies. Now, she smiles lovingly at me as she grasps an apple slice, followed immediately by a spiteful drop of the fruit over the side of her throne, all the while making eye contact as chunks hit floor. I just sigh and bend down to eat whatever hasn't sat for too long.
Oh well. At least I know my baby mama will go for a steak and a ginormous glass of red with me about six months from now. Until then, leftover apple chunks and yogurt with Cheerios will have to do. Looks like I’m eating vegetarian all over again, but at least it’s not just chicken sandwiches…
Food pickiness is a lesser discussed category that truly factors into relationship compatibility. I should know. I dated a vegetarian. And then I dated someone who basically ate only chicken sandwiches. I didn’t marry either of them.
Eating is one of the simplest activities every human engages in (hopefully) on a regular basis. Yet eating can be so easily complicated. I love the thought of “breaking bread” together. No matter where you come from or what you do, everyone needs to eat. And sharing a meal with someone has a certain special aspect to it that cannot be denied.
When Jules discusses the Big Kahuna Burger with Brett and declares that dating a vegetarian basically made him a vegetarian, I agree and disagree. In her defense, the ex-veggie gf didn’t lecture me about ordering veal oscar, nor did she predict arteriosclerosis if I ordered a Coney hot dog. Her aversion to meat was not because of religious or ethical beliefs. She just didn’t care for the taste or the way her body felt as meat digested. I respected her position – and still do – as well as anyone else who avoids meat or animal products for whatever reason. I just feel sorry for peeps of that persuasion.
Me: Your Honor, I move to admit “bacon” as Exhibit 1.
Opposing Counsel: Objection, your Honor, and move to strike -
Judge (glaring at opposing counsel): Overruled. Proceed counsel.
How can anyone, anywhere, anytime resist bacon? Or steak? Burgers? Sausage with peppers and onions? Turkey on Thanksgiving? Franks at Fenway? Brats in Milwaukee? (Ok, I’ve never been but I want to and heard they take their meat products seriously there.) My dad’s chicken francese? My mother-in-law’s roast beef? My Uncle Tony’s ribs? My wife’s pork loin? My Uncle Carl’s anything-with-meat? The “Big Bitch” at Scranton U.? The “Morning Shiner” at Kountry Kart? The turkey hash omelette at My Diner in Southie? WHO ORDERED THE CODE RED, COLONEL JESSUP?! I WANT THE TRUTH!!! Your witness, Captain Ross.
As for the other ex-gf, it didn’t matter what kind of restaurant we went to: seafood, Mexican, fast food, steak joint, Chinese – she ordered a plain chicken sandwich. I can’t tell you how many times we’d walk from restaurant window to restaurant window reading menus for god damned chicken sandwiches as I fumed when Duxbury oysters or tuna tartare were on the appetizer list.
By no means whatsoever am I some kind of food snob. Honestly, I'm probably an awful critic because I like almost everything. At minimum, I'm willing to try anything. I love to ask a server at a restaurant to order my meal for me. Or going "splitsies" with someone else at the table to hedge the odds on missing a real winner. But if a partner is vegetarian or chicken sandwich only, it significantly limits one's options.
Unfortunately, G has recently evolved into some kind of cross between Padma Lakshi and Gail Simmons: none of them cook in any professional capacity but all of them are full of expert opinions about how to make or present food.
G started off by discretely depositing rejects quickly over her shoulder when she thought no one was looking. Soon, she moved onto vise clamping her mouth shut and twisting her face away, while swatting annoyingly at spoonfuls of peach yogurt with Cheerios like they were bothersome flies. Now, she smiles lovingly at me as she grasps an apple slice, followed immediately by a spiteful drop of the fruit over the side of her throne, all the while making eye contact as chunks hit floor. I just sigh and bend down to eat whatever hasn't sat for too long.
Oh well. At least I know my baby mama will go for a steak and a ginormous glass of red with me about six months from now. Until then, leftover apple chunks and yogurt with Cheerios will have to do. Looks like I’m eating vegetarian all over again, but at least it’s not just chicken sandwiches…
Friday, February 26, 2010
Summer 2010: Rise of Baby T2
Since discovering that the wife was pregs with Part Deuce, my focus (in the stereotypical spirit of an emotionless male preoccupied solely with solutions, not feelings) has concentrated almost exclusively on selling our condo and finding a house ... with a driveway ... and grass. So, the thought of Gigi's sequel has been extremely slow to absorb.
For weeks, I knew that we had an ultrasound appointment at 8 a.m. this morning. We were going to learn about our next baby's sex. Unfortunately, in the interim, I somehow scheduled a 10 a.m. work appointment immediately after. Minus ten points right there, dad.
Southie to Brookline is approximately 4 miles. No train goes between them directly, so driving is really the only option. Due to my work thing, the baby mama and I took separate cars. 40 minutes and 4 miles later, I miraculously found a meter spot.
"Usually, these ultrasound visits are no more than a half hour," I thought. It was 7:55 a.m.
Me: [Standing idly sans coffee in my system.]
Me: [Staring at the meter but not really reading.]
Me: [Squinting and staring without focus.]
Me: [Coming to and slapping 4 quarters for 60 minutes. Plenty of time.]
The wife and I met shortly therafter and arrive together at the waiting room. The most recent olympic SI issue beckoned to me as soon as we entered. She checked in - I dove in to the photos first and articles second.
Like any random group of professionals, doctors are mostly good and decent, some great, and a few who constitute the rotten apples that spoil it for the rest of the crew. I am, unfairly, prejudiced against doctors until they have proved themselves worthy of my trust. Admittedly, the bias is rooted in a jealousy that they were able to pass chemistry in college (my original major was "undecided" but leaning towards pre-med freshman year until encountering Chem II) but mostly because I detest waiting for anything and no medical office on the face of this earth sees any patient on time.
Miraculously, we only waited until 8:10 a.m. for our 8 a.m. appointment to begin. The assistant pulled a fresh sheet of paper over the examination bed and my baby mama - a seasoned pro - immediately recognized the drill. She hopped on, pulled down her pants to the hips, exposing the slight bump in her belly as her shirt moved up, while the assistant tucked more paper around for modesty's sake. The assistant left.
We sat alone together. It was quiet. We waited. Suddenly, the wife looked at me and smiled energetically. I widened my eyes lazily and raised my brows to reply without speaking.
"Aren't you so excited? We're finding out if there's a penis or a vagina!"
I was about to smile and chuckle when the doctor came in. Naturally, she acknowledged only the wife and pretended I'm not in the room. I was annoyed. I hate when they do that.
Granted, my ankles aren't swollen and I haven't puked without warning because I suddenly smelled my husband's hungover breath, but my DNA is in 50% of that creature swimming around in utero - and I drove 40 minutes to get here! I remembered how much doctors annoy me again.
They spoke here and there. My mind drifted to the 10 a.m. appointment. "Should I try the parking lot across from work or resident parking?," I thought. "Oh man, Huntington's going to be a freaking nightmare when I get out of here." The inner monologue continued similarly.
About 20 minutes later (the clock on the flatscreen for the ultrasound image said 8:35 a.m.) after the doctor has referred to our baby as a "she" at least twice, she asked if we want to know the sex.
"Yes!" we replied almost sheepishly, just like in the operating room the night G was born. The doctor replied, "You're having a ... boy." Her emphasis on the word "boy" was subtle and gentle. It wasn't the first time she delivered such news. The wife began to cry immediately and squeezed my hand.
Ever the cyborg, I asked "What is the plus/minus that you're wrong about the sex?" Probably not the greatest opening comment. Then, the wife piped in about hermaphrodite percentages and I think the doctor winced noticeably. Next, I asked if the baby's dong was unusually large. She said something about a third leg and genetics, while I nodded understandingly.
Okay, the plus/minus and hermaphrodite parts were true and the rest wasn't. But the moral of the story is I didn't talk for 20 minutes. When I spoke for the first time, the doctor got all annoyed at me. I stewed and thought again about my 10:00. The mean doctor threw me off my game.
The rest of our appointment is a blur. The wife and I kissed and high fived. I ran to the car. Phew, no ticket. I drove behind a Green Line E train for what seemed to be forever and arrived for my appointment barely at 9:55 a.m.
About ten minutes into the deposition and the important news finally began to penetrate my thick skull. We are having a boy. We are having a boy! Wow. It's hitting me now. WE ARE HAVING A BOY. Sweet.
Will Sanchez still be QB when he starts to watch the NFL? Will Jeter still be captain when he starts to watch MLB? Will we talk about women, sports, geography, or music? Will we compete and argue and laugh? Will he ever love me like I already love him?
Okay, it's hit me. We're having another baby - and it's a boy!
Thinking back, the doctor was annoyed she couldn't get a good view of T2 because he moved around so much. Nice work, bud. Let's pick this back up in July.
For weeks, I knew that we had an ultrasound appointment at 8 a.m. this morning. We were going to learn about our next baby's sex. Unfortunately, in the interim, I somehow scheduled a 10 a.m. work appointment immediately after. Minus ten points right there, dad.
Southie to Brookline is approximately 4 miles. No train goes between them directly, so driving is really the only option. Due to my work thing, the baby mama and I took separate cars. 40 minutes and 4 miles later, I miraculously found a meter spot.
"Usually, these ultrasound visits are no more than a half hour," I thought. It was 7:55 a.m.
Me: [Standing idly sans coffee in my system.]
Me: [Staring at the meter but not really reading.]
Me: [Squinting and staring without focus.]
Me: [Coming to and slapping 4 quarters for 60 minutes. Plenty of time.]
The wife and I met shortly therafter and arrive together at the waiting room. The most recent olympic SI issue beckoned to me as soon as we entered. She checked in - I dove in to the photos first and articles second.
Like any random group of professionals, doctors are mostly good and decent, some great, and a few who constitute the rotten apples that spoil it for the rest of the crew. I am, unfairly, prejudiced against doctors until they have proved themselves worthy of my trust. Admittedly, the bias is rooted in a jealousy that they were able to pass chemistry in college (my original major was "undecided" but leaning towards pre-med freshman year until encountering Chem II) but mostly because I detest waiting for anything and no medical office on the face of this earth sees any patient on time.
Miraculously, we only waited until 8:10 a.m. for our 8 a.m. appointment to begin. The assistant pulled a fresh sheet of paper over the examination bed and my baby mama - a seasoned pro - immediately recognized the drill. She hopped on, pulled down her pants to the hips, exposing the slight bump in her belly as her shirt moved up, while the assistant tucked more paper around for modesty's sake. The assistant left.
We sat alone together. It was quiet. We waited. Suddenly, the wife looked at me and smiled energetically. I widened my eyes lazily and raised my brows to reply without speaking.
"Aren't you so excited? We're finding out if there's a penis or a vagina!"
I was about to smile and chuckle when the doctor came in. Naturally, she acknowledged only the wife and pretended I'm not in the room. I was annoyed. I hate when they do that.
Granted, my ankles aren't swollen and I haven't puked without warning because I suddenly smelled my husband's hungover breath, but my DNA is in 50% of that creature swimming around in utero - and I drove 40 minutes to get here! I remembered how much doctors annoy me again.
They spoke here and there. My mind drifted to the 10 a.m. appointment. "Should I try the parking lot across from work or resident parking?," I thought. "Oh man, Huntington's going to be a freaking nightmare when I get out of here." The inner monologue continued similarly.
About 20 minutes later (the clock on the flatscreen for the ultrasound image said 8:35 a.m.) after the doctor has referred to our baby as a "she" at least twice, she asked if we want to know the sex.
"Yes!" we replied almost sheepishly, just like in the operating room the night G was born. The doctor replied, "You're having a ... boy." Her emphasis on the word "boy" was subtle and gentle. It wasn't the first time she delivered such news. The wife began to cry immediately and squeezed my hand.
Ever the cyborg, I asked "What is the plus/minus that you're wrong about the sex?" Probably not the greatest opening comment. Then, the wife piped in about hermaphrodite percentages and I think the doctor winced noticeably. Next, I asked if the baby's dong was unusually large. She said something about a third leg and genetics, while I nodded understandingly.
Okay, the plus/minus and hermaphrodite parts were true and the rest wasn't. But the moral of the story is I didn't talk for 20 minutes. When I spoke for the first time, the doctor got all annoyed at me. I stewed and thought again about my 10:00. The mean doctor threw me off my game.
The rest of our appointment is a blur. The wife and I kissed and high fived. I ran to the car. Phew, no ticket. I drove behind a Green Line E train for what seemed to be forever and arrived for my appointment barely at 9:55 a.m.
About ten minutes into the deposition and the important news finally began to penetrate my thick skull. We are having a boy. We are having a boy! Wow. It's hitting me now. WE ARE HAVING A BOY. Sweet.
Will Sanchez still be QB when he starts to watch the NFL? Will Jeter still be captain when he starts to watch MLB? Will we talk about women, sports, geography, or music? Will we compete and argue and laugh? Will he ever love me like I already love him?
Okay, it's hit me. We're having another baby - and it's a boy!
Thinking back, the doctor was annoyed she couldn't get a good view of T2 because he moved around so much. Nice work, bud. Let's pick this back up in July.
Friday, February 12, 2010
Please Phrase in the Form of a Question
We might as well just get my criticisms about Jeopardy out of the way first. Number one – spastic clickers. Some use their whole body. Others violently nod their head. Even worse – the clickers who sigh disappointingly when a competitor rang in before them. Total peeve for me. Number two – when Alex pronounces anything not in English. He may be speaking properly, but it’s annoying. Number three – when Alex speaks unnecessarily between Q&A selections and the round ends without completing the board. That’s just plain unacceptable.
Aside from the above, I’m a huge fan of Jeopardy. Growing up, my family and I would watch and yell out the question as soon as possible in the hopes of earning temporary big brain bragging rights. Like most Teravainens who invent any excuse to wager against each other, my dad would inevitably create a betting pool of one dollar for each of us playing in “Final Jeopardy.” “You got a buck?” he would ask, emphasizing “buck” to instigate a competition. It was on.
Nowadays, when I watch Jeopardy with the wife on DVR, she does so only on the condition that we listen to the awkward biographical anecdotes of each competitor when we’re back from the first commercial break. For whatever reason, she loves that part. I cringe whenever I hear those awful stories without punchlines or any semblance of personality. I can’t complain, though, as long as Alex and Johnny make the cut into our DVR lineup.
Of all my interests, I pray that G shares at least just a fraction of my competitive drive. Mind you, I gave up a long time ago about competing for anything materialistic. If that’s something important to you, I already surrender. That’s not the kind of competition that interests me in the slightest. I prefer way more enjoyable contests: board games, card games, brain games, and sports.
In no particular order, the following are some of the best games ever played: cribbage, bocce, poker, Scrabble, skat, Frisbee golf, pitch, backgammon, or basically anything involving an Almanac, an atlas, or a map. There are few better sounds than that of a card deck shuffling surrounded by chairs pulling inwards and chips stacking in piles, or even just the arguments about rule interpretation between participants during a game.
I’m not sure where I developed this particular thirst for competition. Neither of my parents were anything at all like the Cobra Kai sensei or even Emilio Estevez’s apparently psychotic dad in “The Breakfast Club.” I think my folks were just way better than me at whatever we played, so I just wanted to be like them.
My mom could – and still can – blow the doors off of anyone in trivia games especially in her wheelhouse of categories regarding music, literature, entertainment, and pop culture. I shudder on the verge of any battle with her in Trivial Pursuit because she can run off four or five pie slices in a row at any given moment.
Of course, as a boy, I measured my athletic and intellectual prowess against my dad at any opportunity. I wanted to beat him at whatever we played so badly, I can hardly explain it. He wasn’t pushy whatsoever about winning. I just wanted to be on the same level as him.
Fast forward 30-plus years and the grasshopper has overtaken the master gradually in a few arenas. I write this last sentence without arrogance because the assumed advantage of youth suggests that is simply how it ought to be. However, to this day, I still have never defeated my dad in the following: chess, arm wrestling (our last battle was about 3 years ago – no joke), and racquetball.
Last week, we decided to test the waters on the racquetball front. Griswald plays pretty regularly, while I had not played in at least a year. (Can you anticipate my excuse coming on yet?) Still, I have 26 years on him. I had not yet even completed my first serve and he called some type of vague penalty against me for not striking the ball from an underhand position. I never heard of such a rule. Was he being serious, or was he engaging in psychological warfare? From that point forward, I lobbed meatballs to him and got crushed in two games, but saving face in a 16-14 pride game in our third round.
After our battle, we consulted an unbiased racquetball guru on the contested serve rule. Turns out, Grizz completely fabricated the serving rule. There were no restrictions whatsoever. I demanded a re-match. He yielded without protest.
The grudge match went down this Wednesday. Game 1 to the old man: 15 – 13. He got out to an early lead and I clawed my way back only to be bamboozled on a wily serve during game point. Game 2 to the kid: 15 – 7. Temporarily satisfying, but in retrospect, a Phyrric victory. Rubber match: the champ defends his title yet again: 15 – 11. No excuses. Age was the least of his possible handicaps, yet Clark still proved too strong for his oldest son. It was an honorable defeat.
Thanks, dad. How about another re-match? Hey, maybe we should bring Greta in on that next game…
Aside from the above, I’m a huge fan of Jeopardy. Growing up, my family and I would watch and yell out the question as soon as possible in the hopes of earning temporary big brain bragging rights. Like most Teravainens who invent any excuse to wager against each other, my dad would inevitably create a betting pool of one dollar for each of us playing in “Final Jeopardy.” “You got a buck?” he would ask, emphasizing “buck” to instigate a competition. It was on.
Nowadays, when I watch Jeopardy with the wife on DVR, she does so only on the condition that we listen to the awkward biographical anecdotes of each competitor when we’re back from the first commercial break. For whatever reason, she loves that part. I cringe whenever I hear those awful stories without punchlines or any semblance of personality. I can’t complain, though, as long as Alex and Johnny make the cut into our DVR lineup.
Of all my interests, I pray that G shares at least just a fraction of my competitive drive. Mind you, I gave up a long time ago about competing for anything materialistic. If that’s something important to you, I already surrender. That’s not the kind of competition that interests me in the slightest. I prefer way more enjoyable contests: board games, card games, brain games, and sports.
In no particular order, the following are some of the best games ever played: cribbage, bocce, poker, Scrabble, skat, Frisbee golf, pitch, backgammon, or basically anything involving an Almanac, an atlas, or a map. There are few better sounds than that of a card deck shuffling surrounded by chairs pulling inwards and chips stacking in piles, or even just the arguments about rule interpretation between participants during a game.
I’m not sure where I developed this particular thirst for competition. Neither of my parents were anything at all like the Cobra Kai sensei or even Emilio Estevez’s apparently psychotic dad in “The Breakfast Club.” I think my folks were just way better than me at whatever we played, so I just wanted to be like them.
My mom could – and still can – blow the doors off of anyone in trivia games especially in her wheelhouse of categories regarding music, literature, entertainment, and pop culture. I shudder on the verge of any battle with her in Trivial Pursuit because she can run off four or five pie slices in a row at any given moment.
Of course, as a boy, I measured my athletic and intellectual prowess against my dad at any opportunity. I wanted to beat him at whatever we played so badly, I can hardly explain it. He wasn’t pushy whatsoever about winning. I just wanted to be on the same level as him.
Fast forward 30-plus years and the grasshopper has overtaken the master gradually in a few arenas. I write this last sentence without arrogance because the assumed advantage of youth suggests that is simply how it ought to be. However, to this day, I still have never defeated my dad in the following: chess, arm wrestling (our last battle was about 3 years ago – no joke), and racquetball.
Last week, we decided to test the waters on the racquetball front. Griswald plays pretty regularly, while I had not played in at least a year. (Can you anticipate my excuse coming on yet?) Still, I have 26 years on him. I had not yet even completed my first serve and he called some type of vague penalty against me for not striking the ball from an underhand position. I never heard of such a rule. Was he being serious, or was he engaging in psychological warfare? From that point forward, I lobbed meatballs to him and got crushed in two games, but saving face in a 16-14 pride game in our third round.
After our battle, we consulted an unbiased racquetball guru on the contested serve rule. Turns out, Grizz completely fabricated the serving rule. There were no restrictions whatsoever. I demanded a re-match. He yielded without protest.
The grudge match went down this Wednesday. Game 1 to the old man: 15 – 13. He got out to an early lead and I clawed my way back only to be bamboozled on a wily serve during game point. Game 2 to the kid: 15 – 7. Temporarily satisfying, but in retrospect, a Phyrric victory. Rubber match: the champ defends his title yet again: 15 – 11. No excuses. Age was the least of his possible handicaps, yet Clark still proved too strong for his oldest son. It was an honorable defeat.
Thanks, dad. How about another re-match? Hey, maybe we should bring Greta in on that next game…
Friday, February 5, 2010
Little Lovely
On February 8, 2010, G will be one whole year old. Damn, that was effing fast! I know it’s cliché, but really that time flew by.
In some ways, G’s presence reminds me at any given time of what it’s like to fall in love. Looking back over the last twelve months, I keep thinking about how she warms parts of my heart that I never knew existed or just plain forgot about.
Think about the first time you saw your current flame or even your high school sweetheart (for some of you, this is the same person): maybe your heart skipped a beat, perhaps you gasped, or your eyes widened just a little bit. I mean, you probably felt something metaphysical right? When the doctors placed Greta’s eight pounds and seven ounces in my arms for the first time at 2 in the morning that day, I experienced all three sensations at the same time. She was the most beautiful little creature I had ever seen – even though I could see some of me in her!
Now, the first unsolicited kiss or hug from both a first love or one's child is just gold. The unexpected display of affection can’t be beat. It warms you right up kind of like a little internal fireworks burst from within your chest to all of your extremities. Up to that moment, it never happened before so you have no frame of reference to prepare for it. The first time G drooly kissed me on my cheek I wasn’t looking, but once I realized what happened, I'm pretty sure I welled up a little bit because it was so unexpected.
As for the L word, we’re talking a totally different stratosphere. I’ll probably lose my shit like the wife watching any given episode of Biggest Loser when G drops her first “I love you” on me. In stark contrast to those of us whose first relationship “I love you” occurred in eighth grade, I anticipate (gratefully) that my first L word moment with G will in all likelihood not occur while slow dancing with pegged pants during a Def Leppard song.
And of course, in any relationship, there are the “painful” memories. Since taking G home from the hospital and handling her like a Jenga stack on its last move, I’ve somehow managed to 1) hit her head on an I-beam in a parking garage while placing her in the baby bjorn at just over 1 month old, 2) leave her unattended on the couch at six months old, thus allowing her to roll off and scream bloody murder, and 3) last night, play with the shower curtain until the curtain rod fell and clunked her head – great times! (To be clear, by painful I of course meant clumsy accidents that inevitably occur after spending lots of time together – not the kind of “accidents” that happen in Chris Brown/Rihanna relationships.)
Anyway, today I was killing time during a lunch break and I somehow managed to stroll around a shopping mall that had a Target attached to it. Normally, I gravitate towards those departments that interest me only – music, books, sporting equipment – and disregard any other displays or departments that might impair my search and destroy objective. But today, my typically blitzkrieg-like shopping mission became derailed as I passed by the toy section and spied something with Elmo on it. At that moment, I was thinking about my little Gigi.
Now granted, I didn’t buy anything (we’re trying to sell the place and I couldn’t stomach accumulating yet another item to try and stuff in the toy box especially when she is just as easily amused by emptying our dirty laundry basket as she is by a toy) but I still became distracted temporarily. The thought of G made me smile and realize how lucky I am to have to her in my life. I wished she was there with me so I could give her a big hug. I must be in love again! What can I say? I’m a sucker for a pretty lady…
In some ways, G’s presence reminds me at any given time of what it’s like to fall in love. Looking back over the last twelve months, I keep thinking about how she warms parts of my heart that I never knew existed or just plain forgot about.
Think about the first time you saw your current flame or even your high school sweetheart (for some of you, this is the same person): maybe your heart skipped a beat, perhaps you gasped, or your eyes widened just a little bit. I mean, you probably felt something metaphysical right? When the doctors placed Greta’s eight pounds and seven ounces in my arms for the first time at 2 in the morning that day, I experienced all three sensations at the same time. She was the most beautiful little creature I had ever seen – even though I could see some of me in her!
Now, the first unsolicited kiss or hug from both a first love or one's child is just gold. The unexpected display of affection can’t be beat. It warms you right up kind of like a little internal fireworks burst from within your chest to all of your extremities. Up to that moment, it never happened before so you have no frame of reference to prepare for it. The first time G drooly kissed me on my cheek I wasn’t looking, but once I realized what happened, I'm pretty sure I welled up a little bit because it was so unexpected.
As for the L word, we’re talking a totally different stratosphere. I’ll probably lose my shit like the wife watching any given episode of Biggest Loser when G drops her first “I love you” on me. In stark contrast to those of us whose first relationship “I love you” occurred in eighth grade, I anticipate (gratefully) that my first L word moment with G will in all likelihood not occur while slow dancing with pegged pants during a Def Leppard song.
And of course, in any relationship, there are the “painful” memories. Since taking G home from the hospital and handling her like a Jenga stack on its last move, I’ve somehow managed to 1) hit her head on an I-beam in a parking garage while placing her in the baby bjorn at just over 1 month old, 2) leave her unattended on the couch at six months old, thus allowing her to roll off and scream bloody murder, and 3) last night, play with the shower curtain until the curtain rod fell and clunked her head – great times! (To be clear, by painful I of course meant clumsy accidents that inevitably occur after spending lots of time together – not the kind of “accidents” that happen in Chris Brown/Rihanna relationships.)
Anyway, today I was killing time during a lunch break and I somehow managed to stroll around a shopping mall that had a Target attached to it. Normally, I gravitate towards those departments that interest me only – music, books, sporting equipment – and disregard any other displays or departments that might impair my search and destroy objective. But today, my typically blitzkrieg-like shopping mission became derailed as I passed by the toy section and spied something with Elmo on it. At that moment, I was thinking about my little Gigi.
Now granted, I didn’t buy anything (we’re trying to sell the place and I couldn’t stomach accumulating yet another item to try and stuff in the toy box especially when she is just as easily amused by emptying our dirty laundry basket as she is by a toy) but I still became distracted temporarily. The thought of G made me smile and realize how lucky I am to have to her in my life. I wished she was there with me so I could give her a big hug. I must be in love again! What can I say? I’m a sucker for a pretty lady…
Thursday, January 28, 2010
All that and a bag of chips
[Editors' note - This was originally intended to be a side note @ side bar but it was too long. Not really related to parenthood, but we gave some wiggle room to Daddio this week. Enjoy and as always, thanks for reading.]
When the boys and the girls split up for sex education in fifth grade, what the hell do the teachers say to the girls about what happens if they do not bring an elaborate combination of appetizers or hors d’ouevres when they go to a party? Do they become branded with a hot iron or something? Is their name written down in a book called “Awful women who don’t bring good appetizers to parties so you should hate them forever!” that circulates at secret women’s clubs? Where does this hellish state of anxiety originate from?
Before I can even get the words out about some party that we’ve been invited to, the wife is already scanning recipes on the Internets and polling friends with blanket e-mails from her Blackberry about any recommendations.
Me: [INSERT FRIEND] is having a party next month. It’s gonna be awesome. I wonder if he’ll get an ice luge so that we can -
Wife: WHAT ARE WE GONNA BRING? I can’t do the bread bowl because I think I did that last time they had a party. Maybe I’ll do that shrimp dish that [INSERT FRIEND] made at my girl’s night last month. But oh no, [INSERT FRIEND] was at the same girl’s night and she’ll probably be at the party, so I can’t make that dish.
Me: (wincing noticeably and then groaning loudly) What? Who the hell cares? (exasperated) We’ll just bring booze or a bag of chips. Or something.
Wife: (indignant) We are NOT showing up with a bag (strong intonation on this word, like she was spitting out a piece of spoiled food) of CHIPS! (ending the sentence with serious disgust, as if she was Kate Gosselin describing one of Jon's current girlfriends.)
And so it goes. For every single cookout, birthday party, play date, couples dinner, or even just watching a football game – this conversation inevitably arises in some shape or form.
Granted, before marriage, I wallowed in a Neanderthal state when it came to party etiquette crap. For example, I didn’t know that writing “plus one” on a wedding RSVP even though my invite had no “and guest” on it, was inappropriate. Woops, my bad. Even worse, my go-to trick for any party regardless of the occasion was asking if anyone saw my bulldog before I dropped my pants and ran around on all fours barking to give a description of what he looked like.
So when it came to attending a party at a buddy’s house, I thought showing up with a 12-pack and a bag of Doritos was a nice touch. The furthest thing from my mind was deliberating between picking up pastries from a really cute patisserie in the South End, or buying cookies at Joseph’s Bakery on K Street. I certainly didn’t spend three hours using foreign kitchen appliances to make a complicated fruit dip while obsessing whether the partygoers would like it and then ask 20 questions after the party about how it tasted and whether I saw other people eating it.
What the hell is wrong with bringing a bag of Cool Ranch? Everyone likes the ‘Ritos. They’re like crack mixed with tortilla chips.
Honestly, can someone break it down for me? Is there like a Martha Stewart blackball list of partygoer-food-bringers? If so, I have a feeling I'm on the men's version. By the way, sorry to anyone about the whole adding "plus one" to my wedding invitation! Awkward. Anyone bold enough to confess that I did this to them? Yikes.
When the boys and the girls split up for sex education in fifth grade, what the hell do the teachers say to the girls about what happens if they do not bring an elaborate combination of appetizers or hors d’ouevres when they go to a party? Do they become branded with a hot iron or something? Is their name written down in a book called “Awful women who don’t bring good appetizers to parties so you should hate them forever!” that circulates at secret women’s clubs? Where does this hellish state of anxiety originate from?
Before I can even get the words out about some party that we’ve been invited to, the wife is already scanning recipes on the Internets and polling friends with blanket e-mails from her Blackberry about any recommendations.
Me: [INSERT FRIEND] is having a party next month. It’s gonna be awesome. I wonder if he’ll get an ice luge so that we can -
Wife: WHAT ARE WE GONNA BRING? I can’t do the bread bowl because I think I did that last time they had a party. Maybe I’ll do that shrimp dish that [INSERT FRIEND] made at my girl’s night last month. But oh no, [INSERT FRIEND] was at the same girl’s night and she’ll probably be at the party, so I can’t make that dish.
Me: (wincing noticeably and then groaning loudly) What? Who the hell cares? (exasperated) We’ll just bring booze or a bag of chips. Or something.
Wife: (indignant) We are NOT showing up with a bag (strong intonation on this word, like she was spitting out a piece of spoiled food) of CHIPS! (ending the sentence with serious disgust, as if she was Kate Gosselin describing one of Jon's current girlfriends.)
And so it goes. For every single cookout, birthday party, play date, couples dinner, or even just watching a football game – this conversation inevitably arises in some shape or form.
Granted, before marriage, I wallowed in a Neanderthal state when it came to party etiquette crap. For example, I didn’t know that writing “plus one” on a wedding RSVP even though my invite had no “and guest” on it, was inappropriate. Woops, my bad. Even worse, my go-to trick for any party regardless of the occasion was asking if anyone saw my bulldog before I dropped my pants and ran around on all fours barking to give a description of what he looked like.
So when it came to attending a party at a buddy’s house, I thought showing up with a 12-pack and a bag of Doritos was a nice touch. The furthest thing from my mind was deliberating between picking up pastries from a really cute patisserie in the South End, or buying cookies at Joseph’s Bakery on K Street. I certainly didn’t spend three hours using foreign kitchen appliances to make a complicated fruit dip while obsessing whether the partygoers would like it and then ask 20 questions after the party about how it tasted and whether I saw other people eating it.
What the hell is wrong with bringing a bag of Cool Ranch? Everyone likes the ‘Ritos. They’re like crack mixed with tortilla chips.
Honestly, can someone break it down for me? Is there like a Martha Stewart blackball list of partygoer-food-bringers? If so, I have a feeling I'm on the men's version. By the way, sorry to anyone about the whole adding "plus one" to my wedding invitation! Awkward. Anyone bold enough to confess that I did this to them? Yikes.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Going Wookie
A ginormous, curly, pubic-like hair strayed way off course from my right eyebrow this morning. Upon closer inspection, there were probably five or six other renegades similarly deserting their ranks on both sides of the brow. To be honest, the furry eyebrow phenomenon has been an epidemic for me since G was born or probably even earlier. Perhaps the cause is more attributable to my age, but I can’t shake the thought that becoming a dad somehow exacerbated my body hair situation.
In addition to the brows, I’ve sprouted ear hair like a fireworks display over the Charles on the Fourth of July. I pluck em’ but they grow back like weeds. I'm a mess.
Now, the nose hairs aren’t as lush as the ear hairs, but when one goes rogue – it’s a distracting situation for any passersby. Last week, I had a party favor just whistling in the wind beneath my nostril. I roamed around completely oblivious to the straggler dangling around at different angles depending on whether I was inhaling or exhaling. Fortunately, my brother (who is obsessed with spotting ear/nose/brow hair) called me out. My cousin Emily courageously did the honors. Thank you.
Meanwhile, amongst the explosion of facial orifice hair, my facial scruff still pales in comparison to the five o’clock shadow that most of my buddies had in the sophomore year of high school. If I grow out the stache, say five days, my upper lip looks like it’s got dirt on it. The side burns are splotchy. And there’s nothing whatsoever that connects between the tomb stone area and the lamp chop. It’s kind of a Bering Strait in that region. It's pathetic. Just once, I'd like to go Grizzly Adams.
As for south of the border, it’s at least less of a disaster. Granted the trimming is much less frequent than the days pre-wife, but it’s not like I’m a candidate to star in a 70’s porn yet. In other words, I’m not wearing Chewbacca’s undies but I’m not exactly a Bic poster boy.
Speaking of which, how the hell do I ever address the issue of bikini waxing with Greta? Does that fall under mom’s department? Or is that in the “let her learn about it from friends” category? Or do I lean on one of her aunt-like figures to discuss the pros and cons of shaving versus waxing versus Nair?
On one hand, I don’t want G to be at a pool party in junior high with boys and experience a Miranda-in-Mexico-with-Carrie situation. She’ll be ostracized as the muff monster or something else horrible like that. But then again, I would have no clue how to even open the conversation.
G: Dad, I’m going to the Noonans’ pool party next weekend. Don’t worry, Jack and Molly said their mom and dad are gonna be there. But I don’t want you to go. Please stay at home. You’re a freak show and you embarrass me.
Me: Oh okay, have a great time. By the way, did you get a bikini wax?
Eeeeeeekkkkkk! Record screech. That convo’s not happening. Nevermind, I’ve got it.
Be forewarned all you aunty and godmotherly figures to G-sizzle ... when I nod at you and say “Wookie Talk” many years from now, I hope you remember this post. I'm relying on you!
And by the way, between now and then, please tell me if you catch me with a renegade brow/nose/ear hair and I’m clueless to it. Much obliged.
In addition to the brows, I’ve sprouted ear hair like a fireworks display over the Charles on the Fourth of July. I pluck em’ but they grow back like weeds. I'm a mess.
Now, the nose hairs aren’t as lush as the ear hairs, but when one goes rogue – it’s a distracting situation for any passersby. Last week, I had a party favor just whistling in the wind beneath my nostril. I roamed around completely oblivious to the straggler dangling around at different angles depending on whether I was inhaling or exhaling. Fortunately, my brother (who is obsessed with spotting ear/nose/brow hair) called me out. My cousin Emily courageously did the honors. Thank you.
Meanwhile, amongst the explosion of facial orifice hair, my facial scruff still pales in comparison to the five o’clock shadow that most of my buddies had in the sophomore year of high school. If I grow out the stache, say five days, my upper lip looks like it’s got dirt on it. The side burns are splotchy. And there’s nothing whatsoever that connects between the tomb stone area and the lamp chop. It’s kind of a Bering Strait in that region. It's pathetic. Just once, I'd like to go Grizzly Adams.
As for south of the border, it’s at least less of a disaster. Granted the trimming is much less frequent than the days pre-wife, but it’s not like I’m a candidate to star in a 70’s porn yet. In other words, I’m not wearing Chewbacca’s undies but I’m not exactly a Bic poster boy.
Speaking of which, how the hell do I ever address the issue of bikini waxing with Greta? Does that fall under mom’s department? Or is that in the “let her learn about it from friends” category? Or do I lean on one of her aunt-like figures to discuss the pros and cons of shaving versus waxing versus Nair?
On one hand, I don’t want G to be at a pool party in junior high with boys and experience a Miranda-in-Mexico-with-Carrie situation. She’ll be ostracized as the muff monster or something else horrible like that. But then again, I would have no clue how to even open the conversation.
G: Dad, I’m going to the Noonans’ pool party next weekend. Don’t worry, Jack and Molly said their mom and dad are gonna be there. But I don’t want you to go. Please stay at home. You’re a freak show and you embarrass me.
Me: Oh okay, have a great time. By the way, did you get a bikini wax?
Eeeeeeekkkkkk! Record screech. That convo’s not happening. Nevermind, I’ve got it.
Be forewarned all you aunty and godmotherly figures to G-sizzle ... when I nod at you and say “Wookie Talk” many years from now, I hope you remember this post. I'm relying on you!
And by the way, between now and then, please tell me if you catch me with a renegade brow/nose/ear hair and I’m clueless to it. Much obliged.
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