DadCentric

"The Year of Living Biblically": The DadCentric Review

There's a bit of trepidation, reviewing a book that details a guy's year-long attempt to follow the Bible as literally as possible. First, I know shit-all about the Bible. I have an excuse - Dad's a semi-practicing Catholic, Mom's a semi-practicing Jew, neither of them made any attempt to bring religion into the house (I think the only time we ever discussed God was in regards to George Burns; we all felt that George made an excellent Almighty). Second, my opinion of the Bible was and remains this: it's about as valid as any other mythological text (Zeus v. Titans, The Great Green Arkleseizure). Third, if I were to attempt what A.J. Jacobs does in the book, I'd be out faster than Kramer dropped out of The Contest. I actually think I say  "Goddammit" more than I say the word "and". Who am I to judge him? (I think there's a Bible quote about glass houses. Or maybe I'm thinking of Billy Joel.)

The Year of Living Biblically is just that - A.J. Jacobs, conquerer of the Encyclopedia Britannica, devotes a year (actually, a year and 13 days) to obeying as many of the tenets of the Bible as legally possible (yes, he has a "slave"; no, he does not stone his mother for working on Saturday). The challenges are immediate, and some a bit odd - one of the first rules A.J. comes up against is the banning of clothes of "mixed fibers" (shatnez, in Hebrew, refers to combining natural fibers like wool and linen), and enlists a snatnez tester (a Shatner?) to inspect his duds and make sure they're up to Specs. He builds a hut - a sukkah - in the middle of his apartment and spends a week in it. He stops shaving, and his beard becomes a supporting character. And of course, on his quest he meets some fellow travelers, Biblical literalists - the people that those of us who hiss and recoil at the sight of a cross love to poke fun at - Amish, snake handlers, polygamists, and other dwellers on the Judeo-Christian fringe. Those readers looking to reinforce their opinion that the Good Book is an instruction manual for nutters will find ample fodder here. (I'll be honest - I was hoping for a little more snark from A.J., especially towards some of the more odious members of the religious right. But after all, being mean isn't very, well, Godly.)

Of course, it would be impossible to live the Bible for a year without having some sort of epiphany, and that's where the book ultimately succeeds. Is it possible to be completely honest with everyone you meet? (A.J. tries hard not to lie, resulting in one hilarious passage - an encounter with an old friend of his wife's - that wouldn't seem out of place on an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm.)  Are you truly a charitable person? Do you truly respect your elders? How should we talk to our kids about religion? And perhaps most important, are having faith in a higher purpose and looking for deeper meaning in life really such silly things? It's pretty easy to be cynical about religion - guilty as charged - and certainly it would have been easy to write a cynical book about the role of the Bible in today's world.  I won't ruin the ending - ok, he doesn't get crucified - but the final pages of the book (Month Twelve) provide some poignancy to a funny tale. The bottom line: good book, recommended for Bible-thumper and heathen/atheist alike, read it, amen.

Friday Fun: Special Saturday Edition: May Cause Abdominal Cramps

I could use a good laugh, what with my home turf - San Diego county - looking like the live action version of Cormac McCarthy's The Road. So I'm busy scouring the net for something funny. But first, a little lunch is in order.

Scare Tactics

Correct me if I'm wrong, but wasn't there a time, not so long ago, when Halloween was fun?  Once upon a time, it was a night to dress up in something silly or scary and travel house-to-house (or, for you city-dwellers, your apartment lobby) scaring up delicious chocolates and the occasional squirrel nut zippers.  As you got older, your trick-or-treating might have evolved into some merry mischief making involving eggs, toilet paper and shaving cream or possibly a water-filled fire extinguisher (I wouldn't know anything about any of that, of course...nope...not me...not in the slightest).  And, even older still, you found yourself doing the Time Warp, throwing toast and yelling, "You slut!" maybe while dressed as Dr. Frank N. Furter (again, not me - no, really, not me) at a midnight showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.

Fast-forward to today and you find yourself with kids of your own and, rather than embrace the fun that this night brings, you're terrified.  The news each day brings us more warnings and tips on how to keep our kids safe; the dangers of too much chocolate and baggy costumes; the need for designing routes and exit plans; and, most importantly, the danger the holiday holds for Fido and Mr. Whiskers.  These warnings from "experts" and do-gooders essentially suck the fun out of what should be a fun time.  Hell, there's even an ad on television about giving away Play-Doh instead of candy - don't these people know how horrible Play-Doh tastes?  Doh≠Dough - Doh!  There should be a warning about that!  Stupid Hasbro.

Listen, if you're reading this blog, it is generally assumed you are an intelligent person, even above-average as far as smarts are concerned (not we writers however - dumbest sumbitches to walk the earth - amazing we even remember how to breathe).  It is also assumed you have a wee bit of the sense that is common - you do not need Fire Marshall Bill to tell you how to keep your kids safe.  Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't believe you're sending your three-year-old outside by himself dressed like a ninja from head-to-toe with instructions to only visit houses where it looks like no one is home.  Of course you wouldn't.  So, why would you let some bubble-headed-bleach-blonde frighten you out of having a good time with your kids?  C'mon - dig out that clever costume, grab your kids and have some fun.  You might even get some Mary Janes or Pixy Stix for your trouble.

Kicked To The Curb

We've amassed a lot of shit in our house over the past 4 years.  First, there was the marriage-merger where my wife and I each pretty much brought everything we owned into the house in which we currently live.  So did my step-daughter.  So, we had 3 beds, 2 couches, 2 tables, something like 6 televisions, 9 closets worth of clothes, 7 guitars, 1 Marshall half-stack and a butt-load of other random shit that was mostly forgotten about until we got around to opening the garage full of boxes 3 months later.  Add to that the collateral material that comes along with having a baby and our household was in danger of being shutdown by the Fire Marshall.  We needed to downsize.

Over the past 4 years we've gradually been able to whittle our belongings down to something more manageable.  With the exception of one small garage sale a couple of years ago (which we will never do again), most everything was systematically given away to one of the most well-organized and reliable charities out there:  The Curb.  "The curb," you ask?  Well, have you ever tried it?

Let me explain to you how efficiently this has worked for us.  We have yet to have any item stay on the curb longer than 6 hours before it is snatched up.  Swear to God.  There's no accumulation of junk sitting around for days like you may think.  In a lot of cases, I can drag something across the yard, walk back to the front door, and, before even re-entering the house, turn around and wave goodbye to the happy recipients as they peel off with their color television, diaper pail, mattress, microwave and/or couch.  Oh...the couch.  That was a beauty right there...

I was finally able to sever the bond with my masculine, black leather couch and let her go after a couple of years of prodding by the wife (see photo above).  It clashed with everything else going on in the room and, quite frankly, we needed the space.  I mustered the will to drag it to the curb and gave it one last pat on the back for a job well done.  (Actually, by this point, it was a pretty easy decision.  Our kids had left the poor thing looking like a pigeon stoop and the taut leather cushions had been reduced to fluffy pillow-like surfaces leaving the couch looking less like a hipster piece and more like something a Nagel painting should be hanging over.)  Not an hour later, an ambulance pulls up, two [rubber glove clad] EMTs get out and stuff the thing in the back of the vehicle.  Yes, a fucking ambulance, people.  Quite frankly, I figured I'd have to arrange some sort of pick-up for the couch when I first put it out there.  That was a pleasant surprise, even though I hope the lads had no emergencies on the way back to the station.

So, you see?  It does work. Yes, I know there is money to be made on sites like Craigslist and eBay for such things.  Yes, garage sales are historically money makers too.  But, c'mon...perhaps we should put aside our desires to always make a buck off something and just give.  Give, I say!  Kick that shit to the curb.

This One Goes to Eleven

My daughter has no inside voice

I’m not talking about the inside voice that I hear in line at Starbucks…the one that commands me to “kill, kill, kill.”  I’m talking about the one all us parents know so well.  The one we beg our children to use in church or in restaurants.  The one that turns our excited, screaming kids into calm, polite young people.

The voice my daughter lacks.

It’s all well and good at home.  I have no problem with Cheeky narrating our lives at top volume.  “I go play now! Daddy and mommy eating, too! This music good dancing!  Hey, where did pillow go!?!” No problem…it’s all cute and good.  Sure, we’re probably breaking a dozen noise ordinances, but you can’t argue with the inherent cuteness of the whole thing.

In public…well, that’s a different matter.

This came into stark relief last week, as we were sitting in the Salt Lake City airport.  Cheeky was testing her scream, a staccato screech she’d unleash at short intervals with a mischievous grin on her face.  I held her tight, whispered in her ear, bribed her with promises of trips to Candyland, and considered (strongly) sticking a wad of napkins in her mouth. 

Then she declared--at a volume common among Diego and his animal friends—“Hey, where Mommy go!?!”

My mistake became immediately clear moments later, when my daughter loudly announced the answer to that question to the waiting passengers for Delta flight 1260. 

“Mommy is pooping!”

Yeah she is, sweety. And I think you daddy just did, too.

The Black Gate Opens

(Author's note: Many of you know that I live in Encinitas, a small surf town in north coastal San Diego county. If you've seen the news, you're no doubt aware that the county is in the middle of what will likely become the most devastating firestorm in the country's history. The story continues to unfold; as of 11:30 this morning my family and I are all OK.)

The fires started yesterday, and spread almost instantaneously, the shrieking Santa Ana winds driving the flames, the flames cutting black swathes through the heart of the county. Last night's winds were like nothing I'd experienced since moving here some 20 years ago. Lying in bed, listening to them batter the house and bow the massive palms in our front yard, my mind traveled back to my childhood summers, when similar Midwest blows were often the harbingers of tornadoes. Somewhere around 1:30 a.m., I knew that this firestorm would be infinitely worse than the one we lived through four years ago to the day. I could taste the smoke, even though we'd shut all of the windows.

I was out of bed at six, and the enormity of it was apparent: Poway, Rancho Bernardo, Ramona, all were evacuating, some 200,000 people fleeing the encroaching flames, according to the news. I stepped outside. Overhead and to the north, blue sky tinged with orange, a dawn like any other. To the south, a picture of Hell, so close that it seemed I could walk a few hundred yards and I'd be shaking hands with the Ferryman. The sky was onyx, the sun - what one could see of it - was blood red, the smell...I imagine a blacksmith's forge has a similar odor. Or a crematorium.  The rational part of my mind quickly stepped in: we are safe, from the fires at least, in our house across from the ocean.  The flames are miles away. They can't reach here. But the irrational crept in, a whisper of fear...if the flames jump the freeway, we're backed up against the sea. We have no place to go.

Watching the images of burning homes and despairing firefighters, I scarely noticed him settle down on the couch next to me.

"Daddy?', he asked. "Is that a fire?" I put my arm around him. "Yeah, it is, but it's far away," I reassured him. "It's far away and it won't come here." We watched the news in silence for a couple of minutes. On the screen, an image of a herd of hapless cows, silhouetted against the conflagration.

"Daddy? The fire is scary. Can we watch something else?" "Sure. How about Handy Manny?" I gave him a squeeze, and in that moment fervently hoped that a hug and his favorite cartoon would be enough to keep his fears at bay, while outside the blackened sky continued to roil and shed ash like tears.   

Big Contest Winner Announcement!

So our first contest was a big success. I'm too lazy to put in a link; just scroll down a bit...a little more...yeah, there ya go, that's the spot. We challenged you, dear readers, to tell us the ONE thing that every girl needs to know and why. We got some great responses (and my heartfelt thanks to you all for your restraint - not one of you said "Never match wits with a Sicilian when death is on the line!"). Here were some of the good ones.

"The one thing every girl needs to know:  That regardless of what society thinks, there is no limit to what she can accomplish, simply because she is a girl. Why she needs to know it:  Because everywhere in our society, the message is the complete opposite."  - JayMonster

"The one thing every girl should know is how to change a tire.  Back when I was delivering pizza in a college town, there were THREE separate occasions when I stopped to help groups of college girls on roadtrips who each got a flat and were at a loss for what to do.  On two of those occasions it was past midnight and they would have had to pay a hefty fee and/or wait a long time for a tow truck.  Only one girl seemed to even know what I was talking about when I asked them where their jack and lug wrench were. Teaching your daughter basic car maintenance skills like this not only gives them self confidence and teaches them a skill they can use when they need, but may also prevent them from being hoodwinked by dishonest mechanics - I'm glad my wife didn't fall for the guy who told her that her air filter needed vacuuming ($10 charge) or that her car wouldn't operate correctly if they didn't put nitrogen in the tires instead of regular air (who knows how much they wanted to charge for that)." - Ross (EDITOR'S NOTE: Totally agree with Ross on the value of knowing basic car maintenance. I asked my mechanic about the nitrogen in the tires scam. According to him, not only does it make no difference in how the car operates, you run the risk of your car blowing up like the Hindenburg if you run over a nail. That's why I took his recommendation and put helium in my tires. It was $20 a tire, but my guy says that it'll give me 30% better gas mileage, and will lighten the car so that it will jump over ravines and State Troopers just like the General Lee.)

"When the boy who is captain of your elementary school flag football team wants to keep you out of the game, you have the right to play. Even if you're not very good. In third grade, winning is not everything." - landismom

"Every girl needs to learn independence.  I want her to learn how to take care of herself and not have to depend on others for what she wants.  I have seen my fair share of helicopter parents and with cell phones and email it is way to easy to fall into that trap of always seeking out help and guidance.  I want her to make her own decisions and not always feel the need to check in with Mom and Dad.  How do you teach this?  Don't be afraid to let them fail.  Failure teaches resilience and independence.  We can't always win, there will be tears, but it will ultimately be worth it." - Jay B.

Sage advice, to be sure. But there can be only one winner, and we'll sending a copy of The Daring Book for Girls to Arwen, who offers up the following:

"This is a tough one but I think I have the answer. Originally I thought it was that every little girl needs to know how to open a beer bottle with a key (or any flat metal thing). But I realize we are talking about girls and young adults. The reason I feel this way is because it is not a strength move, it is a finesse. The finesse of leveraging the metal against the bottle cap. Female anatomy tends to have more problems developing big strong muscles so to learn how to finesse is critical in many ways. So then I thought about other ways girls can physically finesse and I thought 'Of course': Every girl needs to learn how to roll a kayak. Girls develop hips for three reasons (numbered by importance):
1. roll a kayak
2. block at soccer
3. birth babies later on in life
Rolling a kayak is not about strength, it is about a hip snap. Using something that comes naturally to us (our hips) to do something that would seem really hard (roll a big piece of plastic that is on top of you and you are attached to it while you are below water) is a very empowering thing to learn. The movement of snapping your hips and keeping your head down and rolling up is really quite cool and very impressive."

That? Awesome.

Friday Funny: Dignified

More of this here.

The Daring Book for Girls: The DadCentric Review

It occurs to me that on or about November 9 of this year, I will be the proud owner of a baby girl. This is somewhat disconcerting. My wife and every other female that I've ever come into contact with will confirm this: I know shit-all about females. (Well, that's not entirely true; I know that all females like Grey's Anatomy, and yet they all hate Meredith Grey. It makes no sense.)

We gave a hearty thumbs-up to The Dangerous Book for Boys a while back, and now, just in time for me, comes its sister volume (Damn- that was Gene Shalit Clever!), The Daring Book for Girls. Andrea J. Buchanan and Miriam Peskowitz take inspiration from Conn and Hal Iggulden; the book's stellar design mirrors its predecessor, and offers the same sort of lore that (presumably - again, it's me here) all little girls require. There are chapters on pressing flowers, putting up one's hair with a pencil, proper sari-tying, jumping rope (regular and double-dutch), and, of course, boys (who "can be excellent friends. In general, they like to do things, and that makes them rather fun").

And yes, the book is daring, in the sense that what we often think of as "girly" isn't necessarily so. For starters, the cover is blue. Number One on the book's list of Essential Gear for girls? A Swiss Army knife.  A treatise on basketball is the book's second chapter. Want to learn how to do a karate chop? Turn to page 81. There are essays on famous women spies, places to see in Africa, how to maintain a toolkit, reading tide charts. Clearly this book will not be on Insitut Villa Pierrefeu's required reading list. Which would be a shame, because Buchanan and Peskowitz certainly give girls of all ages (and their occasionally clueless dads) a fun, inspirational and inspired guidebook.

(As Whit indicates in his previous review, we're lucky to get these books sent to us for free. Well, turns out I received two copies of The Daring Book for Girls. So what I thought I'd is, I'll give one away to a lucky DadCentric reader. But you gotta earn it. Email me (petcobra@gmail.com) and tell me the one thing that every girl needs to know and why. I'll post the winning answer this Friday.)

Colic Solved: The DadCentric Book Review

When Dr. Bryan Vartabedian contacted me about the possibility of reviewing his book, Colic Solved, for this site, I only heard one thing, free shit and I said "bring it."

Then I realized, damn, this is a book about colic.  Suddenly the excitement subsided.  Still, my youngest had dealt with something along the lines of colic, and while it wasn't near the severity that others faced, it was hard as hell for us.  Why not, I thought, maybe this book can actually help people.  If I'm about anything, besides money and questionable morals, it's helping people.  And watercolors.  I'm about money, questionable morals, watercolors, and helping people.  I read the book.

The first thing I noticed when I opened the cover was that Bryan had signed it.  This increased the resale value exponentially.  Hello eBay.  Hello retirement. 

Perhaps you're thinking I'm being a bit facetious, and that may be, but don't mistake it for disrespect.  You see, a) I just drank 4 bottles of pumpkin beer, and b) Dr. Vartabedian created a book that is, despite the seriousness entailed, an easy, enjoyable read.  I was afraid I was getting a text book, and while the information presented could be construed as such, the antidotes and the author's own experience make the book relatable.  Hell, how many baby books have you seen that quote James Bond and Dirty Harry?

In addition, the good doctor included a note which I didn't notice anywhere in the book- I'm guessing because he just made it up, and that was his claim that if every couple in America read Colic Solved that post-partum sex would increase 47%.  I'm sure he was joking, but you know, he's on to something.  Less crying from baby equals more quality time for mom and dad.  Hint, hint.  Nudge, nudge.

Colic, or the numerous conditions that modern medicine lumps together under that banner, is a serious and difficult matter for children and parents.  The bottom line is that Dr. Vartabedian has written a book that can help them.  I wish it had been available for us.  We were lucky enough to move forward into less crying and relatively better sleep by toying with formulas.  That won't do it for a lot of babies.  It's nice to know that you have other options.

If you're in this situation and not getting the results you want from you medical provider, I would recommend picking up a copy of Colic Solved.  I'm not even in the situation and I found it informative and interesting.  Not only that, but I read it on a plane and the flight attendant assumed I was looking for help.  She gave me a free drink.  That helped.