DadCentric

Simple routines without all the fuss

So it may be a wee bit too early to tell, I may in fact be jinxing the whole thing by calling any sort of attention to it, but if the events of the last few weekends are any indicator, I may very well be on to some sort of father-son tradition kind of thing with my oldest boy. Not that it has to be just father-son, mom can join in too, and she has. And when the newborn son isn't so new anymore, he can get in on the fun as well. But for the moment, it's just me and the eldest.

It's not a particularly complicated tradition or anything. It doesn't involve trekking out to the badlands with three days worth of beef jerky stored away in our horse's saddlebags. There's no ceremonial garb involved and no animals have to be sacrificed. Nope, it's really nothing more complicated than a little ride on the city bus. See, a few weekends ago, we introduced Henry, our oldest to the joys of the bus, and it was a match made in heaven. Perhaps it's the fact that he can be transported at high speeds without having to wear a carseat. Maybe it's the community aspect. Maybe it's just the joy of getting to ride in a REALLY BIG THING. Whatever it was, he loved it, and ever since then, we constantly hear about how "Hemmy wanna ride the bussss."

So for the last few weekends, I've scooped the little guy up and taken the bus down the road to the grocery store. But not just any grocery store, it's the one with *GASP* a playground right outside! Of course, ask any kid about this magical destination, and they'll refer to it as the playground with the *yawn* grocery store inside. Whatever it is, it's a place where the kiddos can burn off some energy so that they'll be nice and docile for the grocery-purchasing experience yet to come. Once the kiddo's had his fill of the playground, we buy whatever we need for dinner that night and then catch the bus back home. We disembark, wave goodbye to the bus, and walk home so Dad can get dinner started.

As we waved goodbye to the bus last weekend, the little guy said "that was fun Daddy." Of course, I swelled up with that "holy crap, I'm getting at least one piece of this Dad gig right" feeling.

"You liked that, little boy?"

"Hemmy wanna ride the bus some more."

"Maybe next weekend?"

"Yeah."

Sappy perhaps, but I'll take it.

So what about you? Got any routines that you enjoy with your kiddos?

Dunkin' Donuts Coffee: The DadCentric Review

I am a working dad. I need my coffee. My morning cups are as vital to me as oxygen. But every so often I commit the cardinal sin of using up all of the coffee and forgetting to buy more. Which brings us to this review.

After microwaving the grind-flecked tepid remains of the pot that we'd brewed the day before yesterday, it became imperative that I make a run to the store to get some coffee (and salsa, and contact lens solution, all of which we were out of, none of which civilized beings can live without, although I'm pretty sure that in a pinch some kosher salt and tap water would fill in quite nicely for the $7.00 bottle of contact lens solution).

I picked up a bag of the Dunkin' Donuts House Blend, the Fabled Nectar of The Gods that we've all heard so much about. Now, I will admit to having a West Coast bias; Peet's crushes all, and God help me if they ever get to Starbucks' level, because I will be to their coffee what Chris Rock was to crack in New Jack City. But people I know from the Midwest and East Coast have raved about DD coffee to me for a while, so I figured I'd give it a shot. Plus it was only $4.99 a bag, so how bad could (FORESHADOWING) it be?

The taste test occurred this morning. I wasn't too encouraged when I opened the bag. The deep, near-black of well-roasted coffee (good coffee should be the color of topsoil) was absent; instead, the beans were a $100 Ikea computer desk light-brown. It had all the aroma of iocaine powder. I was worried. But my head was beginning to pound - I'd already been awake for fifteen minutes, and I was getting the CT's (caffeinum tremens - we talk about them in Group). No choice but to make a pot and hope for the best.

I tried to come with an apt description. "Tasted like a cup of Starbucks, if Starbucks made their coffee with lawn clippings instead of coffee beans" came to mind, as did "wet tires", "a pair of socks worn during rugby practice", "Duraflame log broth", "almost but not quite entirely unlike coffee", and "Death".  None seemed piquant enough. What did seem like a fitting description was the word I uttered upon taking my first sip: "Fuck."

Yes - it tasted like Fuck. Specifically this: put two people in a bathtub full of water, let them have sex in the water, and when they finish take your empty coffee pot, fill it up with the dirty fuck water, add some Coffeemate and Splenda, and voila, you'd have Dunkin' Donuts coffee.  "Wow!", your guests will say. "This tastes like fuck! Mind if I kick you in the throat for serving it to me?"

So my first impression of Dunkin' Donuts coffee was not a favorable one. I did tell a co-worker that I wasn't that impressed (I am a professional, and so did not tell her that it tasted like fuck, as I'm pretty sure that the company orientation manual advises against such language); she said that DD coffee tastes much better in the stores. It must pair well with polyhydrogenated vegetable oil, non-dairy whipped topping, and Pink Dye #5, I suppose.

Glad Tidings of the Season

Well, it looks like we're heading into crunch time if you are planning on celebrating anything festive next week.  That said, I thought I would provide some suggestions should you need to sit and relax- more than you do already.

By suggestions I mean beer.

Seasonal beers are a big hit with me, and if they aren't already a big part of your holiday season please note- they need to be.

Here are a few that will make everyone merrier (and possibly better looking):

Anchor Steam Christmas Ale is perhaps the greatest thing to ever come out of San Francisco, or California for that matter.  It is Christmas in a bottle (or glass).  If this is the only seasonal beer you ever drink you will be a better person for it.  I love it so much I want to take it behind the middle school and get it pregnant.  Fortunately, (for my wife) the mouth of the bottle is too small, otherwise that beer would be glowing like a Spears girl at her junior prom.

Pyramid Snow Cap packs a bit of a punch at 7% alcohol content.  It's a great way to accidentally get drunk at a Sonics game.  It too combines the wonders of the season and is worth stuffing in a stocking or two.

Samuel Smith's Winter Welcome used to disappoint me every year.  It wasn't because the beer was bad, far from it, but because the beer went bad.  It used to be shipped in clear glass bottles which, aside from Newcastle, seems to be a killer of good beer.  Light and beer are not friends.  If light tells you otherwise it is lying.  Last year Mr. Smith got smart and started bottling it in a darker bottle and I've had nothing but good taste since.  Really.  Besides, any beer that quotes Shakespeare (not his sister) on the label has got to be top notch.

Truth be told, there are more and more seasonal beers every year, and the three I mentioned are just 3 of the more popular options.  I would guess that I've had over 20 different types of winter brews over the years, and these are the few that I MUST have every December.

If you would like to check out a few more look no further than our own Mr. Big Dubya.  He also likes beer.

Now here's something that should have been done long ago:

A Small Saturday Incident

Our little one has a penchant for swishing her milk/water/juice around in her mouth for minutes on end before finally swallowing it.  That particular sound has always bugged the hell out of me and is up there with the old fingernails-on-a-chalkboard and the voice of our current President.  So, this morning, while sitting at my desk, she goes at it with a mouthful.  I tried to ignore it, but, the liquid swish was just grating on my nerves.

"Lu!  Swallow your milk!", I say.
"That's not milk, Daddy", she replies after swallowing the swishable contents.  "That's a Zone Bar."

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.

I Just Did The Grossest Thing In My Life

How many kids does it take to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop? One.

And when she got to the center, she got grossed out and didn't want it anymore,
so she wanted me to take it. Only I was driving, so I reach back, blind, and she gives me her gnarly, gnawed Tootsie Pop, and what do I do? That's right, I just pop it in my mouth in one smooth motion.

It doesn't cross my mind until I bite down on it how disgusting that is. It's not "can I have the rest of your Tater Tots?" It's, "Wait, don't throw that gum away." 

How does a parent find himself in this situation, and what does he do to get out of it? The world may never know.

La Fiesta is Coming! La Fiesta is Coming!

Just wanted to drop a little reminder for those of you that are loco local, that we are officially one (1) week away from the L.A./SoCal Blogger Party. 

First 50 guests get a free handshake from me.  Anyone after that only gets a nod, for a buck.

Nobody likes a square.  Just ask these guys:

Putting the "Pub" in Puberty

I can't believe I'm about to say this, but what the hell is the deal with all of the underage drunk girls?  Seriously?  I don't know, maybe it's the dad talking, but I'm not sure it's as cool as E! wants us to believe.

They are everywhere, and for some reason there isn't much of an outcry from our otherwise prudent society.  Sure, their antics make for great headlines and some decent side-boob shots, but the Lohans of the world aren't even old enough to get into bars- shouldn't that raise some concern?

I'm not going to pretend that I didn't partake when I was younger.  I spent many a weekend night with my friends in the Alpha Beta parking lot, standing around, listening to Guns and Roses and The Beastie Boys, waiting for the few girls that would hang out with us to pimp their goods in the face of the right horny shopper and score us twenty bucks worth of crappy beer and 2-liter bottles of wine coolers.  What else were we going to do, bowl?

We, however, were not on the national news every night, and we most definitely were not in bars.  I didn't get my fake ID until I was 20.  By the time Lindsay and friends turned twenty we had been following their clubbing lifeystyle for years. Years.

How are these ladies, and of course the hordes of hormones and cameras that follow them, getting into places that are designed by law to keep them out?  If the paparazzi was replaced by 60 Minutes the doors would be shut tight, but Andy Rooney isn't taking the bait.  Why, besides the fact that I'm pretty sure he's dead, wouldn't a respectable news guy/humorist want to expose this?  Because it's not news, and it's only slightly funny.

America loves underage drunk girls.

I must be getting old. Think I'll head down to Alpha Beta.

The Straight Line Between Shit & Tinker Toys

Like all men, ages 0-100, my youngest son is amazed by the magic and mystery that is the inner workings of the household toilet.  Let's face it, the thing is amazing.

The moment the bathroom door is opened he comes running like a cat to a can-opener.  Heaven forbid I should shut the door.  He'll knock until his knuckles are bloody (haven't actually tested this).  By the way, his grandparents are Jehovah's Witness.  I secretly think that his penchant for tenacious knocking makes them satisfied and proud.

When he does have a moment of alone time with the toilet, and I literally mean "moment", as in less than 2 seconds, he likes to test the buoyancy of various reachable items.

Today he tested Tinker Toys.

The piece picked for this occasion was about 6 inches long, slender and green, roughly the size of a thick straw.  It was made of wood.  Therefore, it floated.

It floated in a toilet recently vacated by our hero's older brother.  An unflushed and very used toilet.

There was no way in hell I was putting my hand in there for a stick.

I considered the situation and decided to go with the bathtub theory: if an object is bigger than the drain, then it is reasonable to assume that said object will not go down said drain.  Release water safely.

I flushed.  The water went down.  The kids my son dropped off at the pool went down.  I reached for the Tinker Toy in my moment of well-calculated triumph, and as I did, it too went down.

Inconceivable. 

My moment was gone, and in it's place stood a brief taste of the thrill that is flushing the unflushable.  It was near Nirvana, like Foo Fighters close.  It was a moment of shared awe and silence as I stood with my two boys and admired what we, together, had achieved.

Then the water came back.  A few of the kids returned.  The bowl started to fill with all the wonder you could hope to find in a backed-up toilet.  Everything came home but the thing we missed the most.  There was no stick.

Enter the plunger. Cue the splash of shit water into my open mouth.  Vomit, get on deck.

Unlike the family dog, I am not accustomed to beginning my quest for thirst quenching at the toilet's edge.  Rather, that is where I prefer to end my journeys.  Needless to say, a mouthful of toilet water is not as satisfying as Rover would have us believe.

I pushed forward and plunged like the wind, bringing back memories and things long buried and forgotten.  The Tinker Toy is no more.

Alas, poor stick, I knew him well.

Bingo lifts a leg on my childhood

So, I just finished eating a small bag of that always-nutritious, healthy snack alternative, Cracker Jack, and I must say, I'm appalled.  Appalled I tell ya.  The beauty...nay...the bliss...the rapture, even, of eating a box (yes, I said box - I'm old, leave me alone.  Young whippersnappers!) of Cracker Jack was the prize contained inside.  Sure, sure, the caramel-covered popcorn and peanuts was a medley of taste sensations - sweet and salty - that would have you scraping for more change to buy another.  What?  It's called CRACKer Jack for a reason after all.  But that's not the point.  The point is the prize.  Mini plastic magnifying glasses, tiny comic books or ones filled with silly jokes, tattoos and Schwartz rings.  That's why, when I finished my bag (after having placed the prize to the side to savor the thrill -- sort of like dessert for my dessert) I was so disappointed in what I found.  It wasn't a tattoo.  Nor was it a blurry plastic magnifying glass.  Nope, it was a freakin' ad for a movie in the form of a collectible trading card.  An ad.  For a movie.  Sigh.

239,740 childhood memories ruined and counting.