DadCentric

Ah...Push It. Push It Real Good.

As a man who lacks a bit of mechanical inclination, I've had my fair share of mishaps with regards to following directions that come with my products.  I've had an IKEA dresser end up with drawers in the back; a picnic table function better as a see-saw; and once, after I installed a new refrigerator, you had to flush the toilet to fill the icemaker.  "Some Assembly Required" historically sent me in to a panic.

However, I got better as I got older.  In fact, I'm getting pretty good at this stuff now.  I'm poor confident enough to the point I've been doing all the work on my $15,000 Harley (and it still starts!).  I'm actually seeking things to doodle with now instead of wetting myself at the sight of that ominous looking black and white piece of paper at the bottom of the box.  However, even for ex-idiots like myself, some things are just self-explanatory and really shouldn't require instructions.  Case in point...

Last week, I indulged my daughter's request for "Nonalds" and took her to Mickey D's where we each ordered up a Happy Meal.  She got the rigor-mortised Polly Pocket toy and my boy-themed meal included a little toy truck.  (The McNuggets tasted like the box they came it, btw).  I played with it for a couple of minutes and then noticed a little piece of paper with a couple of black and white illustrations still stuck in the plastic bag that contained the truck.  Was it a rub-on tattoo?  Perhaps a warning on choke hazards?  No.  It was what you see above. 

Apparently, McDonald's felt the need to provide visual help for those who haven't quite grasped that whole "pushing" thing.  Who are these poor bastards they're targeting with these instructions anyway?  If you can't figure out how to make this toy truck mobile in two or three tries like I did and need to consult the owners manual, perhaps McDonald's is a little too high up there on the food chain for you.

What does this mean for Goofy?

There are constants in this world we take for granted.  1+1=2.  Area=length*width.  A piece of toast, if dropped, will always land butter side down.  Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line.  And the Yankees suck.  All of my life, there have been nine planets.  Nine.  Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Neptune, Uranus (heh, heh, he said Uranus) and Pluto.  "What's the largest planet?  Jupiter."  "What's the smallest?  Pluto."  We all remember questions like this in elementary school when we learned all about our solar system.  Now what do we do?  How do I go about un-learning all that?  Don't get me wrong, it's not like I've been studying quantum theory for years and now just heard that Max Planck was actually wrong, which in turn essentially makes that whole realm of science a house of cards (look at me, the English major, oversimplifying a complex theory).  But, when things we've come to appreciate as never-changing are suddenly altered on such a grand scale, it is likely to shake us down to our foundations.  Or at the very least make us say, hmmmm.

Ok, it's really not about me or my foundations.  We need to think about the children!  I know if I were going into the fourth grade and my teacher said to the class, "Last year, Pluto was a planet.  This year?  Yeah, not so much," I might start being more suspicious of what these adults were telling me.  "So, the sky is blue because of Rayleigh scattering, huh?  Sure, ok.  Maybe it's just some guy with a really big paint brush, whaddaya think of that?"  Yes, that's a bit of an exaggeration, but I think you get my point.  I just think we need to be more careful when we change what is generally accepted to be a fact.  Next thing you know, they'll tell us there's no Santa Claus, Easter Bunny or Tooth Fairy.

Aaaahh, My Cubicle...Now I Can Relax

As I was leaving the office tonight, a colleague asked, "So, are you coming in tomorrow?"  Why would I?  After all, you're more likely to see a tumbleweed and a bleached cow skull than people in our office on Fridays.

"No, I'm coming in.  It's WAY easier to come in than stay home."

I used to work from home all the time.  I'd put in a couple hours of teleconferences and Powerpoint time sprinkled between trips to the gym, a healthy lunch of croutons and Kraft singles, and however long it took to clear the next level of Ratchet and Clank.  At some point, I might even put on pants.

Last Friday I worked from home.  It was nothing like that.

First, I live in New York.  Here, for the affordable price of $600 ba-billion you can get a cozy apartment the size of a postage stamp.  Any noise or activity that occurs in one room in essence occurs in every room...there's nowhere to hide.  We do have a den, though, and I was committed slipping on some headphones, cranking through some work, and ignoring the distractions just over the wall.

One of those distractions has gotten really good at slamming laptops closed.  Really, really good.

No effort at insulation can keep me from still knowing what's going on.  I hear the endlessly repeating refrain of Elmo's World and the Blue's Clues theme.  I catch the oily scent of french fries in the toaster-oven, or the toxic death cloud that passes by on the way to the changing table.  If I hear a crash or an explosion, especially if accompanied by smoke or fruit projectiles, I'll at least investigate, if not grab the extinguisher.  It's hard to stay focused when colleagues are laughing at your daughter's impression of Ernie's laugh in the background of a conference call.

Then there's the stink-eye.  I get this because every other time I'm home I'm running the tub, or reading Hide and Snake, or performing any other valuable service which enables my wife to piss without someone tugging her pant legs.  Even though everyone knows I'm busy and can't help as much, you also get the feeling she's thinking, "It's awful quiet...I'll bet that bastard's surfing porn."

That's why, despite the wonders of modern technology and a light workload this week, you'll see me bright and early at the office.  The commute, the grim flourescent lights, the construction noises outside the window...they're necessary environmental elements that keep me productive--and employed.

Because if I'm trying to write a proposal or send an e-mail, and my daughter comes in and rests her head on my lap, I'll be done for the day.  Finished.  No threat of missed deadlines or performance reviews can save me from that.

You Know You're a Parent When...

...you go to find a bandage to cover the cut you gave yourself with the lid of a cream of mushroom soup can (which you suffered while preparing your kids a delicious tuna noodle casserole that they refused to eat), and realize your Band-Aid choices come down to Spongebob and Hello Kitty.

...and you spend two minutes selecting which Spongebob character would best suit your left hand. (Squidward, natch.)

...and later, when you're preparing to have hot sex with your wife, you realize that your bandage glows in the frigging dark, and you roll over and go to sleep with tears streaming down your cheeks because this doesn't make you look the least bit fuckable.

Now all I need do is grab me a pair of these, and no woman in a 50-mile radius will be able to keep her tenacles off of me.

The Zero Boss: Making My Son Miserable Since October 1999!

After seven years of attempting to hack life in Seattle, the wife and I have decided to pack it in. While we love this area of the country - the woodlands, the majestic mountains, the ability to order a latte smack in the middle of West Bumberfuck, WA - we can't take the cost of living. Lay down half a million on a "starter" home? I'd prefer to be out of debt before my grandkids retire, thanks. So we're laying down plans to pull up stakes and head back east, to my birth home of Rochester, NY.

Only two things stand between us and exodus. The first obstacle: money. We ain't got any. That requires I find a job in Rochester my next summer - preferably one that pays relocation. The sticky wicket here is that I'm from Microsoft Township, and upstate New York is predominantly Unixville. So it's either find the perfect, one-in-a-hundred job, or surrender my Borg-ness and join forces with the Rebel Army.

The second obstacle: Our kids. Or rather, one kid in particular - my son Jaxon. Neve, the nine-year-old, is excited about the prospect, even though it means leaving her friends behind. Veda, my five-year-old, is excited for reasons that baffle even her. Luka, who just turned three, couldn't give a shit: so long as he has his potty and his Thomas the Tank Engine, he's portable.

But Jaxon is pissed that he'll be leaving "his house" and his best friend T. behind. It took my guy a while for the physics of a cross-country move to sink in. Being almost-seven, the concept of "thousands of miles" had no traction in his brain; he assumed he'd just be able to walk down the street from Rochester and be back in Seattle within minutes. Once it dawned on him that he wouldn't be able to visit T. at all once we moved back East, he became as inconsolable as a Democrat on November 3rd, 2004. 

So here's my question: How do you explain to a six-year-old that it's in his best interest to move a galaxy's distance away from his best bud? Lie him into a false sense of security? Attempt to buy him off with a slew of new Xbox games? Or do you just do it, and accept that he's going to spend a year hating you and plotting your demise Stewie Griffin-style?

Problem With An Asshole

Whew!  There's been a lot of heavy topics here on DadCentric lately - suicide, poor and verbally abusive families, choosing your life over your child's, mumps, etc.  As the foremost leader of shallow thinking on this particular bloglomerate, I would be remiss if I didn't tell you that my daughter's asshole is so sore from the wiping associated with pooping* the past several days that she screams holy terror if we try to wipe or wash her there now.  Her little bunghole is not getting the attention it deserves. This, of course, only perpetuates the problem. I don't know what to do - hold her down and force-wipe while she screams in agony?  Let her do it?  You tell me.

Now, back to the deep thoughts...

*Poops seem normal.  Just very frequent.

Shut Your Mother(#$*%ing Mouth, You Mother(#*$%er

Sheer buzzkill. I'm on a latenight run between DC and NYC, as always, on my way out of some NJ Turnpike rest stop [northbound side, right after the freeway splits, exit 8, honestly, all these years I neither know nor care who it's named after], it's 11pm. A mid-90's minivan with a shinier, newer-looking trailer on the back pulls into the firelane as I step off the curb, the passenger window rolls down, a huge shirtless bald dude calls out to me across his slightly less huge passenger, "Excuse me, sir."

{Quick check: she, the passenger, is clothed. whew.] I think he's going to ask for directions, so I slow but don't yet stop. Instead, he asks, "Can you help us with some money for gas?" And I'm so surprised, all I can do is shrug and reflexively say sorry and take my next step.

The woman in the passenger seat had started screaming something at the man before he even finished his rejected plea, though, and then the two of them erupted like a pair of bull elephants, screaming the title of this post so loudly on top of each other, that it seemed like everyone in the giant parking lot stopped, turned, and listened.

The sudden outburst stunned and scared me a bit more, and my New York street reflex kicked it up a notch, walking away rather than trying to sort out a thoroughly unpredictable situation.  But it was at that moment that I spotted the two kids in the back. Or, rather, that I spotted the silhouettes of a car seat and a booster seat, with dark forms in them. There were two children in the car while their parents, so poor they had to beg for gas money, so angry at having to beg for gas money they erupt at the slightest reminder of being so poor they have to beg for gas money: which would be me.

As I filled up at the next rest stop, I kept watching for their minivan, the one that may have had all their shit in the back, pull in, and I fantasized about how I'd slip my card to the pump jockey and tell him to give'em $20 on me, but don't tell them, etc. But I didn't see them again.

The Curse of the Bambino!

As many of you know, I like to pepper my writings with the occasional curse word.  In many ways, I like to consider myself as the Poet Laureate for the word FUCK.  However, I want to let you know that I never curse in public.  I never curse in front of my mother.  And as I've mentioned on my own site, I'm trying damn hard not to curse in front of my kid. 

I've often thought that the artful form of cursing is best learned in New York City.  After all, most kids growing up here usually learn to curse in about 4 different languages by the time they're 10 years old.  More importantly, my hometown city also has a long-honored history of shit-talking, a tradition which helps our youngsters develop the skills necessary to perfect the fine art of swearing. 

Why am I bringing all of this up? 

Because on Sunday night, I was watching some of the Little League World Series on ESPN.  One of the teams that made the final round this year is from New York.  More specifically, they're from Staten Island, an old-fashioned working class enclave of the city.  Kids there grow up tough and they don't take shit from anyone.  I love Staten Island.

Anyway, during the broadcast, Staten Island was down 1-0 in the bottom of the 6th inning.  To rally his teammates, one of the kids yelled out from the dugout, "C'mon, guys!  We need to get one fucking run!  One more fucking run!" 

Immediately, the coach smacked the 10-year-old kid upside his head. 

(In Staten Island, people don't sit in cafes, sip cappucinos and discuss the moral relativity of spanking one's child.  You fuck up?  You get smacked.)

Needless to say, this cracked me up. 

Here's this team from a rich suburb outside of Chicago playing these tough kids from NYC.  I couldn't help but laugh and think about the Bad News Bears.  This kid from Staten Island was like the reincarnation of Tanner Boyle!  I fucking loved it. 

(Anyone remember Tanner's famous line, "All we got on this team are a buncha Jews, spics, niggers, pansies, and a booger-eatin' moron!"  Can you imagine that line being used in today's environment of political correctness?  The censors would have a field day!)

Anyway, in this era's puritanical state of unforgiving moral rectitude, ESPN has decided to now install a 5 second delay on all of its Little League broadcasts!

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?

Discuss...

Moral Dilemma

I had this truly freaky dream last night. You know the ones where you really really think they’re real? The ones where you wake up and think “OMFG I have to get out of here….RUN….. RUN …….RUN …..oh, hang on. Thank god for that. It was only a dream!”

I was going out for a bushwalk with the family but the thing was, it wasn’t an ordinary bushwalk, there were dinosaurs. One of the bastards got loose. The big one that eats you called T-Rex. Everyone was screaming and trying to get away whilst old Rexy was busy chomping his way through a smorgasbord of people. I had Nikayla in my arms and she was extremely scared. Really really scared. We were on top of this shed trying to hide from the roaring, killing T-Rex. I remember cuddling her as tight as I could, patting her and whispering in her ear “we need to be quiet baby……please please be quiet for daddy” I knew that if she screamed or cried, we were as good as gone.

I woke from this dream with a real sense of dread. It was soon washed away as I realised, it is in fact the 21st century and dinosaurs haven’t been around for quite a while.

On the way to work I was thinking about this dream, thinking about what I might if I was faced with a dilemma like that (well obviously not that one, but you know a lion or croc or something).

Should I try to let my daughter save herself and sacrifice my own life. Knowing there is a chance that I would be unsuccessful and get us both killed

Do I try and save us both knowing full well it could mean we both get harmed or killed.

Or should try to convince myself that I need to live for my other daughter, that if I try to save her we both go and save myself.

I honestly don’t know what I would do. I’m leaning towards trying as hard as I can to save us both, then if that isn’t going to work then saving my daughter(s) and giving myself up. I dunno……heavy stuff for that early in the morning.

Do any of you guys think about these types of things, or am I just fucked up.

Please let me know if I’m bonkers?

The Mumps' '06 Comeback Special

  Question for you all: when is a vacation not a vacation? Answer: when, two days into your trip to the beautiful Boca Raton Resort and Club, you're out having a nice lunch at an absolutely fantastic Cuban restaurant when you look at your kid and you notice that the entire right side of his face has swelled up to twice it's normal size, thus causing you to freak out and haul ass to the local hospital where four hours and one blood test later the doc tells you that your kid has somehow come down with a case of the mumps. Or as I referred to it, the "what the fuck? The mumps? The fucking mumps? Like what Bobby Brady had? Those mumps? Are you bullshitting me?!"

Yeah, I know what you're thinking - isn't this the same kid who has managed to pick up Kawasaki Disease, 5th Disease, and croup? Indeed, and yes, I'm now making a concerted effort to stop taking the Lord's name in vain, because Jesus H. Christo Con Queso golly, it just seems weird that he keeps picking up these bizarre viruses, like the kid is a two-year-old Job. So I decided to get all Quincy-like and do a bit of research. Turns out that there was actually a case of mumps here in San Diego several months ago; nothing on the scale of the Iowa outbreak. So who knows how he picked it up. Chances are he got it from some kid whose parents decided not to give their child their MMR. So now he's stuck at home for the next few days - even though he's looking and feeling much better, it's very contagious (well, duh), so no daycare for him.

A final note to the story: on the drive in to work this morning, 91X DJ Chris Cantore (new dad and genuinely nice guy, and yeah, he'd be a great pick for Dad O'The Week! Maybe we can make that happen. I'll have my people call his people.) and crew were discussing the topic of immunizing kids. I called into the station and gave my two cents to the good people of San Diego, and I'll say the same to the rest of you. Get the shots, people. 'Cause, really.