DadCentric

No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service

Our daughter recently decided that clothes are for LOSERS. A fairly simple morning ritual has turned into the Ultimate Fighting Championship, in which the smaller, hungrier opponent out-maneuvers her larger, exasperated parents. Just in time for the holidays. God help me…I’m raising Courtney Love.

This wouldn’t be so bad if she stayed indoors (like I wish Courtney Love would), or at least sat on the porch and drank moonshine with her maw and paw. Nudity is no hindrance to play-time, though, and if the door cracks an inch she’s a fleshy little rocket shooting down the hall. The only thing that stops her is the elevator door (sometimes rather suddenly if she’s got enough speed) at which point she’ll submit to having us put her shoes on. Just her shoes.

Far be it for me to discourage freedom of expression, even if it’s the Spring Break Cancun or Bohemian commune type. But it’s NOVEMBER, girl! And that playground equipment is made of metal! Do you really want your nether regions on that slide without some protection? Remember what happened to Flick?

So if you see a white-trash baby running through your neighborhood (possibly accompanied by a blue furry monster with googly eyes) please give me a call. We cannot stop her…we can only hope to contain her.

Ironically, They Sell A Product Called 'Frack'

This weekend, I found myself pondering a couple of fairly deep questions. How much is my time worth? And if I had a time machine, what would I do with it?

Beth is now working from home, and I'm actually making progress with the book I'm writing (i.e., I'm actually WRITING, not merely thinking abut writing) so it was decided that we should convert some available space into an honest-to-God office. We have a dining nook that to date has served as an endzone/backline for indoor football/soccer games. We'd need a new desk and some shelves, plus something to partition off that section.

This sounded like a good idea, and I would have been more enthusiastic had it not been for the fact that we didn't want to sink a lot of money into the project. Which meant one thing.

Ikea.

It's difficult for me to convey the stark depths of my hatred for Ikea. But I'll try.

So many facets. The Tool (actual Swedish name: "fukdis"), of course - that aborted conjoined twin mutant Allen wrench horror that I'm sure will be the cause of mypremature arthritis. The particle board (actual Swedish name: "moosoffal") that inevitably cracks when one inserts a screw, or bumps it on the floor, or looks at it in a cross manner. The stores themselves, more disorienting than a Vegas casino (I'll interrupt my own metaphor with an update - Beth has been working for most of the day on a shelving unit; she just informed me that a piece, a fairly good-sized wooden section, is gone, nowhere to be found. More on this in a second.) The little wooden connector pegs (actual Swedish name: "peg", which seems benign until one remembers the definition of "peg" as found on www.urbandictionary.com; yeah, makes perfect sense) - one of which is always missing.

There's all that, but the clincher for me is that no matter how closely one follows the carefully worded directions (and by "worded" I mean "no words at all, just a bunch of out of scale drawings that look like they might have been written by Wile E. Coyote"), I inevitably get about 3/4s of the way through the building process when I notice that I've used Widget A and not Screw B on one small section of the thing and thus have to take the whole fucking desk apart and put it back together, and oh, the screws, made as they are of Number 2 pencil lead, have all been stripped, and good luck with that.

(Back to current Ikea nightmare - the missing wooden piece is still missing, and Beth, who often admonishes me for my Hyde-like temper that emerges every time I have to build Ikea furniture, is on the couch after a brief bout of swearing at the new bookshelf. Good sign - perhaps this is the last of our Ikea purchases ever. And wives/partners - until you've gone through the hell of trying to put one of these bastards together, do not judge the Ikea Hate.)

So to my questions. How much is my time worth? That can be answered with another question - does Pottery Barn have something like that ? What would would I do with a time machine? Travel back to 1943, and persuade a certain Ingvar Kamprad to just stick with the meatballs and the ligonberry juice.

Well, I’ve decided to grow a beard.

Here at DadCentric we may come across all mushy and nice, sincere and thoughtful. Hell some people might even go so far as to say we are a pretty good bunch of modern day dads, sensitive and caring.

Sometimes, yes we are that, but at the end of the day we are still a bunch of blokes and given half the chance I’m sure we would all catch up for tequila and strippers on a weeknight then turn up late for work with a bit more than a 5 o-clock shadow and an instant shower. (that’s a quick spray of deodorant for those of you not in the know about our tequila and stripper nights. Deoderant is handed out at the door.)

This being said, I have made the decision to do one of the great things that only blokes can do. Grow a beard.

Now before you go off into fantasy land and imagine me with biker braids or a Gandalf hat, there are many different types of beards. Some are fantastic looking and others look like the top of your head came down for a look and decided to stay there. How do I know there are some great looking beards I hear you ask? Well I must say I just love the power of Google.

Would you believe there are websites dedicated to the art of growing a beard. Yes my friends, there certainly are. Grooming tips, help with keeping it trimmed, you name it there is info out there about it. Shit, all you blokes over there in the states even decided to get fucking team together!!!

So has anyone else decided to go caveman and grow the old soup strainer or am I all alone here? Did you have any hassles, difficulties or prejudices?. And what the hell type of conditioner should I use?

I Steal Candy From A Baby

Damn, I feel like a total tool. I just raided the kid's Halloween stash while she was asleep. And this, after we already skimmed 80%+ of it off on Halloween night with our parental "safety inspection."

A 2-year-old who'd probably had candy like five times in her life to this point just did not need that much candy, we figured. [She'd already started out confused by and/or skeptical of the whole concept of <em>getting</em> treats from strangers, so she packed her own treats when she went door-to-door. Then she was ready to stop after the first door because, seriously, what're the odds of getting free candy <em>two times in a row??</em> She eventually caught on.]

But she's adapted pretty well to this alien holiday and has stuck with the strict one-piece-a-day rule, no complaints. And what does she get in return? A dad who steals her hard-won, carefully preserved M&M's while she's asleep. 

[Uh, I should say that this isn't really Greg. It's, uh, Jason. I'm just posting using Greg's account, since he hasn't posted for so long. Yeah, that's the ticket. I'm not Greg, I'm Jason.]

The Dog Days of Daycare!

Now, correct me if I'm wrong here, folks, but is there anyone else out there who thinks it's more than a little fucked up that my daughter's daycare costs ten times more than my college tuition? 

I know I live in a city where a shoebox-sized hovel in a crappy neighborhood can set you back half a million and where the latest dining phenomenon is the $100 hamburger.   But still, it's a little disturbing to me that the going rate for day care in New York City is close to $2,000/month!

How the fuck are middle-class people (much less the working class) supposed to be able to afford having a job? 

How is it that affordable child care has become as rare as the dodo bird, unicorns, or natural blonds in Playboy?

When L'Enfant Part Deux arrives into our humble household, I don't know what we're going to do.  It doesn't seem to make sense to spend more money on day care than one spouse actually earns from work, does it? 

Virtually all parents say that they need to put their child's best interests first.  And usually, they say this as a means of rationalizing the sacrifices that they make in order to have one spouse stay home.  It seems to be the standard belief that all children are better off staying at home with a parent. 

However, I've got to disagree with the universality of that statement.  In our case, the Peanut is absolutely thriving at daycare. When I pick her up at the end of the day, she usually doesn't want to leave.  The socialization aspect of daycare has helped her personality blossom. The kids have fun music classes, art projects, and a whole array of other stimulating activities?  Who the fuck am I to think that I could do a better job with her at this age? 

On the flip side, I can sometimes hear the annoying voice of those bitter anti-breeders who ask why anyone would have a child only to leave him in the care of strangers all day?  I know those loonies don't have kids so they're really missing the entire point of this discussion.  Loving your kids doesn't mean staying home with them all day (could you imagine?) 

But whereas 10 years ago, the political discussions concerning the cost of daycare and its effects on our society were mere tumbleweeds in the wind to my then-childless self, I now consider this to be one of the more political issues of the day. I witness my friends, fellow employees, and total strangers struggling with this issue every day.  I can't even begin to fathom what life is like for a single working parent?  How do they do it? 

I have no idea where I'm going with this rambling post.  I just got a call 10 minutes ago from our daycare center saying I was late on this month's payment. When I started thinking about the cost of daycare, something in brain snapped and I thought I'd jot it down here. 

As always, feel free to discuss, delete, or ignore.  But just out of curiousity, how are those of you with pre-school aged children handling the whole daycare aspect of parenting? 

OK, Now Prove It

Last night the whole family went a-votin'.  I still have the naive heartfelt belief that my vote counts, and that it's my civic duty to make my voice heard in our plutocracy democracy.  So my wife and I each took one of our daughter's hands and walked the three blocks to the voting center.  If Congo, Iraq, and the West Bank can do it, we should too.

I consider myself an independent, but I hate arrogant, incompetent, stupid fuckwads, so I usually vote against Republican candidates.  Whether I like it or not, that also usually means I'm voting for uncharismatic, confused, bumbling morons, i.e. Democrats.  Apparently I'm not alone, 'cause yesterday was a good day for the morons.

So now we're all cynically waiting for the first declarations of "mandates" and "a new dawn in America" and wonder if anyone is actually going to DO anything.  Look, the Red Sox won the World Series, but, as Yoda once said, that does not a dynasty make.

I'd love it if someone could eliminate the need to spend money on both insurance and doctors.   I'd like the planet to be treated more like the perfect spouse than a $10 whore, 'cause it won't be long before we start treating her like Helen of Troy (am I over-using my similes yet?).  I'd want someone to go into Exxon's bank account and take their god damn money away and distribute it to everyone who has a car.  I want people to stop treating the Middle East like it's a Stratego board and realize that they're playing a different game.  But I doubt it will happen.

So yeah, I'm a little disenchanted and bitter.  But I'm still a believer.  Someday I'll explain to Cheeky the importance of studying the issues, understanding what people stand for and what they're likely to do, and to calculate the pros and cons of candidates and initiatives before casting that vote on Election Day.  I'll teach her to focus more on a person's credentials on energy independence than the bodies of immigrants found buried in their backyard time he let his wife ride in a government funded limo for a hospital visit.  I may have to outsource the Electoral College discussion, because WTF? 

And maybe I'll be wrong, and the New Guys will work together and use the next two years to make life better for Americans instead of wasting it on a stare-down with the president.  Let's hope so, because I don't want Cheeky's first vote to be for the guy who promises "to rebuild the crater that was once Denver" or "to protect the family values of our nation's 100 million hobos."

Buckin' Trends

I don't consider myself a trendy guy.  I don't buy into whatever fad is splashed across Lifestyle or Living pages or featured in some puff piece on TV.  I had tattoos before every Tom, Dick and Mary was visiting a parlor and getting barbed wire wraps or some Chinese symbol.  I saw no use in adding any more holes in my head, tongue or nipples.  And a Prince Albert?  Best left where he is.  I wore flannel, well, because where I come from it gets cold and flannel is warm.  But, in the interest of full-disclosure, I must admit to some minor indiscretions in the 80s including the fact I had parachute pants, Z. Cavaricci jeans, and a drawer-full of Polos.  I also pegged my jeans, but I never wore pastels.  A man should never wear pastels.  Ever.

I bring this up because there seem to be a rash of trends and labels aimed squarely at today's guys.  And these trends?  Well, they sap the manliness right out of the room.  After the media get done with these things, there's more testosterone at a Red Hat Society lunch.

We've all heard about metrosexuals and ubersexuals -- those who spend a great amount of time and money on appearance and lifestyle.  It mainly applies to urban males of any sexual persuasion who have a strong aesthetic sense.  Marketing gurus (in order to make it more palatable) tell us that the metrosexual is decidedly hetero and in touch with his feminine side, likes to exfoliate and is devoid of any body hair.  Essentially a walking, talking Ken doll.  Brad Pitt instantly comes to mind.  Pretty to look at, but once he opens his mouth?  It's over, Johnny.

And, of course, since trends are more or less like physics, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.  Hence, the retrosexual.  You know him.  Hell, you are him.  Well, Pierre might be the exception (is it pile on Metro day?  Dude, I kid because I love.).  The retrosexual's got a gut, a Buddha, a mini-keg where his six-pack should be.  You can talk to him all day about the end zone, but mention T-zones and all you'll get is a blank stare.  His t-shirt is vintage because it was bought at that 1987 U2 show and not at Urban Outfitters.  But, why, may I ask, does there have to be a label for this?  Isn't this just being a guy?

One more for ya.  And this one just chaps my ass.  Mancations.  What. The. Fuck.  Are you kidding me?  So, if I were to go on a golf weekend, say, to Myrtle Beach with a group of friends, smoke some cigars, eat some big ol' steaks and knock back a scotch or two or ten this is a mancation?  If we get a few dads together next year for Whiskey Fest, instead of BlogHim, we are now on a mancation together?  I'm sorry if I offend anyone, but that just sounds less-than-manly.  It has a very Brokeback Mountain kind of sound to it.  I wish I knew how to quit you.  Sorry, that line always gets a laugh.  But, seriously, why can't it just be a guy's weekend, a golf getaway, anything but a mancation?

And don't get me started on Grups.

FLAME ON!

Remember back in sixth grade, when a couple of kids would engage in fisticuffs, the cry would go up - "FIGHT! FIGHT!" - and kids from miles around would flock to the scene. Nothing attracts a crowd like a crowd, Soul Asylum once said, and clearly the blogosphere likes a bit of the old rhetorical pugilism. I'm not astride a high horse, folks; I'll jump in on occasion, though it usually takes some pretty blatant hypocrisy on a blogger's part to set me off (and for the record, yes, making fun of Sweetney's kid was a shitty thing to do, but one would think that if one suffered so from a cruel "joke", one might be less inclined to make cruel "jokes" about others - or if one chose to make fun, one should probably be prepared to take a few shots).

What's interesting about the recent Flame Wars (artwork by Jack Kirby, story by Warren Ellis) is that it points out one of - perhaps the greatest - difference between mommybloggers and their male counterparts.

Us guys, we noble few, we band of brothers, we don't flame each other.

To be sure, we may have some disagreements (these typically involve the ethics of shopping at WalMart, or the current state of affairs in Iraq, or who would win in a fight - a new BSG Centurion or an Imperial Stormtrooper), but look at all of the daddyblogs out there and you'll be extremely hard pressed to find the cattiness and vitriol present on many of the mommyblogs. Hell, the guys on this site alone rip on a lot of people and lampoon a variety of topics, but the comments section has been refreshingly free of bitchy comments (though I'm sure that'll change once Pierre reads Whiff's take on George Lucas below - MetroDad is a HUGE Jar Jar Binks fan).

Now, normally this would be the part where one might say "We're all parents and we're all in this together and we should all be nice to each other and let's all hold hands and sing Kumbayah". Please. One of my favorite sites is Trainwrecks, and frankly there are few things more amusing to me than reading a snide blog post, wading through the return-fire comments, and then reading the inevitable mea culpa from the offending martyred blogger. It's unintentional comedy on a Grey's Anatomy scale. I'm by no means calling for us to all get along; just wondering why it's the moms that seem to call down the airstrikes.

So, readers, what's your take? Are dadbloggers more civil than mommybloggers? And if so, why?

George Lucas Can Blow Me

Apparently, George Lucas has nixed the idea of making a 4th Indiana Jones movie.  I, for one, am pissed.  According to the interview, he didn't like the screenplay even though Spielberg was on board and praising it as the best one since the original back in '81.  Yes, yes, I know Spielberg kind of jumped the JAWS a decade ago and probably shouldn't be the benchmark for great movie making any longer, but, c'mon George!  Rumor had it that Harrison Ford was in.  The O.G.!  You're passing on this?  His mug alone has made you more money than God.  It's a no-brainer. 

The screenplay had to have been better than those shitty-assed Star Wars cereal box turds you put whored out over the past few years.  Based on those gems, I'm wondering whether you've lost the capacity to deem something worthy of film making or not.  Jar-Jar Binks.  Yeah, you're fucking genius, George.

I don't care how old Ford is now.  I'd watch him crack that whip from a walker if that's what you gave us.  I think this is a monumental mistake and I feel robbed.   And for that I say, blow me.

Lucas' Obsessions O' The Week for Fri., Nov. 3

Because there's nothing quite as fascinating as what my two-year-son is currently fawning over, I bring you the first in a recurring series. These are the kid's current fixations.

ON THE TUBE: Little Einsteins. As a proud Horrible Parent (today, for example, I taught my kid to say "Jagshemash!" and "My name-a Borat!"), I routinely place the boy in front of the TV while I do important things. I want him to be smart, so that he doesn't end up getting stuck in Iraq (ha! Just kidding! Because if history tells us anything, it's that governments always draw from the ranks of the intelligentsia and the social elite when they need to build up the infantry. Why, just look at the number of sons and daughters of Congressmen who are currently on the front lines in Iraq and Afghanistan!). Thus I'm glad he watches Little Einsteins. Each episode features classical music. So it must be good for the kids.

ON THE IPOD: Farmer Jason, "Rockin' In The Forest". The kid likes his rock. The other evening we were sitting at the dinner table, and the Violent Femmes' "Blister In The Sun" came on. "Do you like this song?", I asked Lucas. "Yeah! It's MY SONG!", he yelled. I replied, "It's about touching your pee-pee." "Oh", he said. "It's your song, Daddy." (True story, ask the wife.) He also seems to enjoy Farmer Jason's new release, entitled "Rockin' In The Forest". While there are no overt references to self-abuse, there are songs about skunks and trees. Jason is the Jason from Jason and The Scorchers, who I enjoyed back in college. Which makes him cooler than Dan Zanes, who used to be in the Del Fuegos. Or Del Amitri. Or Los Lobos. I forget which. It's a good album; fun for the kids, and easy on adult ears.

IN THE TOYCHEST: The cheap black vinyl football we picked up during our last Old Navy run. A tip: go to Old Navy, pick out a bunch of clothes for your kid, don't buy them, wait three weeks, then go back and buy the stuff after they've knocked 50% off the original price. Yesterday marked a milestone - the kid actually caught a pass! Held out both hands and by God caught it! I immediately made plans to move to Odessa, Texas. Tonight we spent more time tossing that black vinyl football. Next week we go to Two-A-Days.

FROM THE LIBRARY: The Littlest Pumpkin, by R.A. Herman. This is about a verti-girthally challenge pumpkin who gets passed over by all of the kids looking for that perfect jack-o-lantern. The theme is very similar to that found in the Foster Farms Chicken commercials - death-worshipping main characters long to be eviscerated and/or eaten. SPOILER ALERT: the Littlest Pumpkin gets his wish, as a bunch of mice end up carving him up for their Halloween party. The moral of the story seems to be that if you are small, people will find you worthless, but you'll be prized by vermin. As Halloween was three days ago, I'm confident he'll be bored with this book by the end of November.