Enemy of the Germophobe #3 - Myself

"Have you been in the Germ Tent yet?  If not, you've got to check it out.  It's terrific."    This is how Grace and I were greeted as we stumbled upon County Government Day in the mall parking lot which was little more than a collection of fire trucks and other county vehicles open for inspection and, of course, the Germ Tent.  Umm, nice lady, clearly you don't know me very well.  I had indeed not yet been in the Germ Tent and, despite her pleasant demeanor,  this gal was not going to convince me to get within 100 feet of anything called the Germ Tent.  I've seen the trailers for Contagion, thank you very much.  The young lady (I'm assumimg she was a representative of the county, though it's possible she's just a really big fan of germs) must have recognized the horrified look on my face because she proceeded to explain that the Germ Tent was simply a tent with a black light that illustrated how many germs covered your hands.  I nodded, thanked her for the invitation, took Grace's surely germ covered hand and slowly backed away. 

However, after checking out the fire equipment and climbing through the bookmobile, my curiosity got the best of me.  Grace and I lathered up our hands with the special germ detecting lotion and plunged into the darkness of the Germ Tent.  I wish I could report that we were nearly germ free; instead, under the black lights, our hands looked like we had dipped them in white paint.  The scary thing is that I am a vigilant handwasher and we had recently washed them.  I'm going to blame the germ-fest on the five minutes we spent on the bookmobile (Shared kids' books in a warm, sealed bus?  More like the petri dishmobile.) because I don't want to think that I'm toting around that many germs on a regular basis.  After leaving the tent, another county worker helped us wash our hands at one of those foot-pump washing stations.  I scrubbed Grace's hands and evidently didn't spend enough time on mine because the worker reminded me that I should always wash my hands for thirty seconds.  Me?  Me?  You are going to lecture me on handwashing  protocols?  If you didn't look like you were struggling with the foot-pump causing a lame water output I would have washed my hands all day. Because that's what I do.

I proudly wear my germophobe title.  Recently, a discussion with friends, one of whom is a fellow phobe, turned to various anti-germ tactics.  I don't mean run of the mill stuff like lamenting that not all public restrooms have outswinging doors or how many layers of toilet paper create an adequate barrier between ass and toilet seat.  No, I'm talking next level stuff like the wisdom of attempting to turn the public restroom faucet on and off with your foot.  (For the record, I don't think that is worth the risk; I'm so clumsy that there is a 50/50 chance that I would fall in the floor attempting such a graceful move and that would be a hundred times worse than touching the faucet.)  So, this county lady doesn't know it, but I've got hand washing cred.

Obsessive hand washing is just the tip of the iceberg, though.  Recently, my germophobia/hypochondria reached a new low when I decided to boil my clean silverware.  Why did I boil my fresh-washed silverware, you ask?  The short answer is because I don't own an autoclave.  The long answer is that I don't have a dishwasher and after a couple days too long in the sink our silverware had a film on it that looked impervious to soap and water alone (in my warped, overcautious brain).  I scrubbed the silverware like always but, sitting there in the drying rack, it just didn't "look" clean.  So, of course, the next obvious step anyone would have taken would be to boil it until sterile.

Once you answer the question "Am I really going to boil my silverware?" in the affirmative a few more questions pop up.  How long does one stand over a roiling pot of silverware before determining it is "done"?  One minute?  Ten minutes?  They don't cover this info in Food Network Magazine or Hypochondriacs Illustrated.  Or, why are there no specific kitchen tools for removing silverware from a boiling cauldron?  It is far more likely that someone would get scalded by boiling water or stabbed with sharp knives as I remove them with regular tongs, than would be done in by eating with tainted silverware.  But I don't let common sense get in the way of a good obsession.  Sad to say that, lately I've had to look no further than my own hands and sink (not a hotel or bowling alley) to find an Enemy of the Germophobe.

They Can't Blow It Every Year, Right? Right?

I was going to do a Capitals' playoff breakdown, but, really, what is there to know?  The Caps are as puzzling as the enduring success of Jay Leno or the apparent appeal of Two and a Half Men.  In their first round series that starts tonight, the Caps may be pulverized, leaving Ted Leonsis and George McPhee to scrape the road kill off F Street.  Or...the team may wake up, be the team they are capable of being and march through the Eastern conference.  After all, the Caps have hovered a hair above a .500 winning percentage all season.  It's not a huge stretch to think they could win 16 of their next 28 games.

My optimism, as it usually is regarding the Capitals fortunes this time of year, is, if not insane, at least undeserved.  This team has broken my heart year after year.  Yet, each season I find something to cling to, something that I can point to that says, "This is the year."  This season there are actually two things that make me believe (however foolishly). 

The first is that for the first time in years the Caps come in with low expectations.  A Stanley Cup favorite in the preseason, the Caps stunk it up enough to slip in the seventh seed and draw the defending champs.  Despite what George McPhee thinks, anything this team wins is gravy.  Perhaps lowered expectations will remove pressure and help this team pull off upsets instead of choke jobs.

The second factor is Coach Dale Hunter.  Go ahead, stop laughing.  I'll wait.  No, seriously, stop laughing.  Sure, some of his coaching moves and most of his press conferences make him seem borderline illiterate.  Sure, as he does little more than chew gum and sip water on the bench, he looks more bored than my wife at a baseball game.  (She just doesn't get the grand beauty of the game.)  Sure, Hunter may just be doing McPhee a favor by keeping the bench warm after Bruce Boudreau was fired.  But maybe he is stupid like a fox.  (That's how the saying goes, right?)  Hunter has elicited stronger play out of certain guys that have been scratched then worked hard to get back in the line-up.  His style of play, if executed properly, could thrive in the postseason.  Fans have no idea what Dale is doing behind the scenes to improve this team and change the culture of playoff ineptitude.  Maybe Dale Hunter, one of the most clutch players in Caps history, becomes the most clutch coach in Caps history.

I can dream, right?  A mountain of evidence and past history suggests that my optimism is misplaced.  The beauty, however, lies in the fact that anything is possible before the puck drops for Game 1.  And if the Caps are bounced early then I have the whole spring to join America the Stupid in sitting through Two and a Half Men reruns.

Bryan Hailey and the Pop of Doom

I learned a valuable lesson yesterday-always make the three-year-old pick up her own toys.  This is not a noble lesson borne of the need to instill discipline, recognize consequences or teach responsibility.  No, this was a lesson in self-preservation.  Had I forced the girl to pick up her own mess, the living room would have been clean and I would not be injured.

I wish I could report that I was wounded carrying out some sort of Herculean feat of strength like lifting every single one of her toys with one hand.  Or a daredevil move like parking her tricycle in the shed by riding it like a skateboard.  Even the cliched stepping on a Lego would have been acceptable.  Instead, I was felled by crayons and markers.  And felled isn't even accurate because I was actually already on the ground when my old-man body betrayed me. 

I was running late for work and the girl was so entranced by Pocoyo that she was ignoring my pleas to clean up.  Damn that mischievious little flappy-hat-wearing CGI munchkin.  Instead of turning off the tv  and playing the enforcer I decided to take the shortcut and pick up the stuff myself.  I was on all fours scooping up the mountain of crayons (because, of course, even though she only uses two colors at a time Grace has to dump out the entire box) when I reached to my left and heard what I will, from this day forward, call the "Pop of Doom".  A blinding pain shot through my left knee; the kind like when you fall on your butt bone and it hurts so bad you think for a moment that you are going to hurl.  I must have let out some kind of whimper as well, because Grace immediately asked me what happened and if I was okay.  For a few moments, I can assure you, I was not okay.  I had legitimate trouble getting off the floor.  Payback, I suppose, for years of ridiculing those silly "Help, I've fallen and I can't get up." commercials.  But being that I had neither a Life Alert necklace or anyone to cover my shift I pulled myself up and walked it off.  Seriously though, is the start my gradual age-related decay?  I have played ice hockey, worked on ladders, played high school football (Nevermind, you usually don't get hurt on the bench.) and handled huge sheets of plate glass daily.  And this is how I get injured? By rotating my torso fifteen degrees while kneeling?  Welcome to 37, I guess.

I felt okay for the first half of my shift, but halfway through I took a mis-step that brought a fresh stab of pain that almost dropped me to the floor.  (Ironically, this occurred while I was monitoring the well-being of a woman in the store who was either so drunk or so narcoleptic that she was basically passed out on her feet and constantly looked like she was about to crash into something.)  I spent the rest of my shift hoping for a Marty McFly hoverboard to appear from 2015 because putting any weight on the leg made the knee buckle and bark with pain.  Prior to my knee surgery five years ago,  I walked around for months with a torn meniscus (Thanks Misdiagnosing Orthopedists and Insurers Who Forced Me To Have Unnecessary Physical Therapy Before Approving An MRI!) and never had the type of pain I experienced last night.  Ice and rest helped a little overnight, but the pain, fortunately a little weaker, has returned today.  Funny enough, after a morning of running errands, what I really should do is elevate the leg, throw on the ice pack, turn on some Pocoyo and spend some quality time snuggling with the girl.  Just no coloring.

Yellow Rain

As any parent of a three-year-old knows, any venture out of the house requires a constant interrogation-"Do you have to go to the potty?"  "Are you sure you don't have to pee-pee?" "Why don't you try going to the bathroom?".  Grace is actually very good about telling us when she needs to find a bathroom so when all my pleas, threats and cajoling failed I rolled the dice and accepted the girl's assurances that she would alert me when it was time for a bathroom break.  You can see where this story is going.  Or flowing.

We breezed through our morning errands unscathed, but then I had the genius idea to enjoy the great weather with a picnic at the playground.  Not the playground directly across the street from our house, literally fifty yards from our bathroom.  No, that would be smart.  Instead, we stopped at a park across town.  A park delightfully free of those pesky public restrooms.  (I told you I'm a gambler!)  The picnic was going swimmingly - tasty food, running and jumping, raucous laughter - until I see that expression cross Grace's face.  That expression that wordlessly conveys, "Thanks Dad, you are a wonderful father who has made today so enjoyable that until just this moment I have been too distracted to monitor exactly how full my bladder really is!"  I wasn't mad at this turn of events, after all, accidents happen and I pretty much put us in a postion to fail.  I instantly started the mental calculations of getting back down the slide and how to keep the car seat dry on the way home. 

What's that?  Oh, I didn't mention we were at the top of the tallest, curliest kids' slide I've ever been on?  Or how fun it was to watch thirteen gallons of urine leak through the top grate, rain down onto the first layer of curves then watch it slowly cascade around and around and around the remaining curves until it covered the entire slide?  Thirteen gallons might be an exaggeration, but there was SO MUCH PEE.  So much that I'm surprised the National Weather Service didn't immediately issue a flash flood warning.  So much that I am thinking about renting her out to the fire department. 

Fortunately, there were no other kids (or parents, more importantly) in the park.  After walking Grace back down the steps and convincing her it would not be more comfortable to ride in the carseat naked than to ride in wet clothes, I set out to clean up the mess.  Yes, my first instinct was to toss her in the car and peel rubber so no one would discover what a terrible father I am.  My conscience got the better of me, however, so I cleaned up the best I could with limited resources.  I was wearing two shirts so the oldest went to soak up the puddle at the top of the slide.   I could have used the second shirt as well, I suppose, but I think me walking around a park shirtless is more of a public disservice than leaving behind a piss-covered slide.  For the slide itself, I briefly considered sliding down myself to soak up as much pee as possible.  Instead comm on sense prevailed and I poured the remainder of a large cup of water down from the top and let it wash down what it could.  But I can assure you the urine to clean water ratio was woefully out of balance.

So, to the children who will play in that park today after school, I say- I'm sorry.  And you might want to wear a wetsuit.

The Meek May Inherit the Earth, But They Won't Win the Cup.

For weeks, my friends and I have spent way too much time attempting to figure out what exactly is wrong with the Washington Capitals.  We've studied the forecheck, broken down the power play, speculated on trades and otherwise engaged in the constant (but pointless) analysis only undertaken by  diehard  stupid fans.  Imagine if we'd spend our time and brainpower answering the important questions like "What is the solution in Syria?" or "What are the global ramifications of Snooki becoming a mother (shudder)?".

To prove how culturally out of touch I am, I submit for your consideration the list of rejected questions I thought of before the Snooki joke: "Who shot J.R.?", Where's the beef?", Whatchyu talkin' bout Willis?" and "Who really is the Boss?".  Sad, I know.

Unfortunately, our amateur hockey eyes have diagnosed many problems with the Caps-injuries, suspect coaching and the sad realization that unless you possess a flux capacitor and a stash of plutonium you have likely seen the best of Alexander Ovechkin.
The number one problem, however, is that the Caps are, collectively, a bunch of wimps.  Of course, I don't mean wimps as far as the real world is concerned.  Even the wussiest Capital is a hundred times tougher than I am.  These guys block 100-mph slapshots, take sticks to the face, get stitched up and still take their next shift.  But I'm not talking real world tough; I'm talking NHL tough.  I'm talking stick-up-for-your-linemate tough.  I'm talking crush-an-opponent's-spirit tough.  I'm talking rising-in-the-face-of-adversity tough.  Call it what you will-passion, grit, heart, intestinal fortitude-this team rarely possesses it.

General Manager George McPhee must shoulder much of the blame for this glaring organizational deficiency.  Several years ago when McPhee did not re-sign enforcer Donald Brashear he justified the move by stating that the Caps' power play would provide enough deterent to keep other teams from taking liberties against the Caps' star players.  This is a suspect theory at best, but when your power play short-circuits to the point you should think about declining penalties, then the theory is exposed as completely flawed.  It is not simply about having a goon, however.
McPhee has acquired a roster of softies.  Jeff Schultz, a 6'6" creme puff, and alleged grinder Joel Ward symbolize a roster that is overpaid and not at all rugged.  Despite having a coach, Dale Hunter, who was "nails" as a player, this team has refused to forecheck, lacks agressiveness and shows no killer instinct.
 
The latest, most damning evidence was the postgame comment after last week's Caps/Canes contest.  A Caps' player, hiding behind an anonymous quote, accused Carolina's Jeff Skinner of committing a dirty slew foot on Dmitri Orlov.  Are  you kidding me?  Man up and stand behind your comments.  Do you think any Boston Bruin would have requested anonymity?  Hell, any Bruin that retaliated (And they probably would have had to take a number.) would have to go on record to explain exactly when he decided to rip off Jeff Skinner's head and drink the blood from his skull.  The B's are beasts in a way the Caps can only dream.  The Bruins players have each other's back, don't shy away from anyone and brutally crush opponents under the treads of a relentless forecheck.  Unless the Capitals find a way to adapt their game, the only thing they'll be getting their names inscribed on this summer is the starter's log at the country club.  At least, my buddies and I will have plenty to talk about all offseason.

F*@k You, Santa Claus!

F*@k you, Santa Claus! Shouting this phrase in anger is surely the way to the Naughty List. However, in my defense, it was shouted not after great contemplation, but during a fit of pain. (Not my finest moment, but not as damning as the time I accidentally punched a bible.) And it wasn't the real(?) Santa that drew my ire. It was a murderous decorative wooden Santa that stabbed me in the arm.

One wouldn't think that Christmas decorations would be so dangerous. I mean, sure, you get the occasional tree that topples or light strings that ignite, but rarely do decorations actually attack. This evil Santa is a flat wooden sign hanging from our front door. Santa has a wooden banner with very sharp points hanging below his feet. Most times the door swings, Santa and his banner swing. Every so often, or every time I use the door it seems, the far end of the banner digs into the door frame pushing the near end of the wooden banner directly into my path. If you are a big oaf like me and crash into the sign at this exact moment, the far end of the banner, pressed against the door frame, has nowhere to go leaving the near end to bore its way through your bicep. Hence the cut, the bruise, the flying expletive, the immediate landing on the Naughty List and the feeling of shame. At least I didn't say it in front of the girl. That would have garnered a few "Father of the Year" nominations. Had I channeled my rage into karate chopping Santa's smug, smiling beardface in two at that time I could have saved myself some trouble. Instead I waited until I ran into the damn thing three more times before removing it.

These repeated, coordinated attacks by wooden Santa may have left a lesser man to adopt a Bah Humbug mentality. I, however, despite the fact that I have been unfairly accused of being Scroog-ish the past couple years, have embraced this holiday season. After the 2011 I've had, who could blame me for being a little Humbug? But I've shoved all the grief, worry and turmoil aside long enough to enjoy the lead-up to Christmas. Not even the fat sonofabitch hanging from my door could bring me down.

Of course, Santa Karma got the last laugh anyway. Just after removing Jolly Ole' Saint Nick from the door, I left our three-year-old's largest gift half opened in the back of the car for her to see. After Grace asked, "What's in the box?", more times than Brad Pitt in Seven, my wife was forced to lie to her, making up something about recycling. It's like the opposite of those Best Buy commercials. Yep, somewhere wooden Santa is chuckling as he nominates me for Father and Husband of the Year.

Worst Saturday Ever.

Yesterday, I gave the eulogy at my father's funeral, a task I don't wish upon anyone. I suppose I had previously pondered what that day and moment might be like, however, I never expected I'd be living it so soon. At 59, Dennis Hailey left us far too early, but easily stayed long enough to leave an indelible mark on all who met him. As some who could not attend the funeral have requested, here is the eulogy I delivered:



I have thought about this moment before, but I hardly thought it would be occurring so soon. First, I'd like to thank everyone who came from near and far to celebrate Dad's life. It shows how many people my dad reached in his all too brief time with us.


It is impossible to sum up anyone's life in a page of text or a matter of minutes, so I'm not even going to try. Instead I'll focus on the theme that popped up most often while I was deciding what to write for today. The word that came to me over and over when thinking about Dad was service. Service to his country. Service to his employer. Service to his community. Service to his Parish. Service to his friends and neighbors. And, of course, service to his family. My Dad gave and gave and gave, rarely asking for anything in return.


Dad worked for the phone company in one capacity or another for 30 years. He started out racing through the streets of Washington DC and its suburbs collecting coins from pay phones. He progressed to installation which included spending time in growing federal buildings and the expanding Metro system. He especially got a kick out of working in the secure, secret clearance tunnels beneath the White House and Capitol. Eventually, he made his way to the Eastern Shore where his job titles continued to change as technology demanded it, leading to roles as cable splicer and fiber optics technician. And while Dad and his buddies may have been busted a time or two for lingering too long at their favorite lunch joint there is no doubt that the phone company is where dad honed the work ethic that was instilled by his father. The phone company also provided the stoic man I knew a place to find his voice as his shop's Union Steward. Dad took very seriously his role of representing fellow employees in grievance hearings.


Dad served his community in more ways than I can mention here, not only because he enjoyed it, but because he felt it his duty to help where possible. He worked with Habitat for Humanity, first as a volunteer worker than as a board member. He took great joy in watching people work towards fulfilling their dream of home ownership. Dad served on numerous fair housing boards and also volunteered at the Parish's homeless shelter because he felt a safe place to call home, even if only temporarily, was something that everyone deserved.


Dad also spent many hours working in this very building, donating his time and energy to his beloved St. Francis parish. Since his retirement from the phone company Dad spent most Mondays volunteering here, lending his knowledge and strong back to the maintenance team. The school PA system, the new parish center, the lights dangling above you right now and many other items on these grounds have Dennis Hailey's stamp on them. Dad was also a devoted member of the collection counting team and within the last couple of years found one of his new passions, the church's sister parish, La Merced, in Nicaragua. On two trips to Managua, which for Dad were part mission, part vacation, he had wonderful experiences that he truly treasured. He was very much looking forward to another volunteer venture this summer.


Dad was quick to help his friends and neighbors. He, at times, was sort of the neighborhood handyman dispensing advice and cleaning up messes for those who didn't know a wing nut from a coconut. He'd lend a hand hauling furniture or repairing electronic equipment or assisting with a science fair project. And usually all it would cost you was a beer and being the butt of some good-natured ribbing.


These have all been facts about my dad. Important pieces of his life, no doubt, but not what I will remember most. I'll remember the man who was a complete contradiction of terms. He was laid back, but hard working. He procrastinated on starting a project, but was a careful craftsman. He kept a sloppy work truck, kept many of his account records in his head and has a garage full of tape measures because whenever he couldn't find one he'd buy another, yet Dad was a stickler for details. Dad never missed an opportunity to needle me about rolling through a stop sign, wondering aloud when they started making yield signs with 8 sides. He relished pointing out that saying PIN number was redundant and I can promise you that if they get the Daily Times delivered in Heaven he checked yesterday's obituary for typos. These are the things I will remember.


I will remember the dedicated husband who stood side by side with my mom for nearly 39 years honorably raising two boys who lacked nothing in their upbringing. I'll remember the man who worked overtime and took night classes so upon retirement he could open his own business that could simultaneously pay the bills and allow him the freedom to work when and how he wanted. Dad grew this business into something I don't even think he expected. Despite the fact that he never took my advice to make his electrical truck look "cool" by painting lightening bolts on the side of it, this one-man gang grew so popular that loyal customers would wait weeks or months for Dad's services instead of finding another electrician. I'll remember the family man who used the freedom of his retirement to visit far-flung relatives, lending a hand on projects large and small. I'll remember the hard worker who nearly single-handedly remodeled my first house because I was qualified to be nothing more than a gopher.


And I'll remember most distinctly the grandfather that adored his three grandchildren. He routinely joked that he couldn't wait to have grandkids so he could fill them with candy, wind them up and send them home to mom and dad. And while he fiercely protected his grandkids, his joke wasn't far from the truth as I think the grandkids had Grandpa wrapped securely around their fingers.


In fact, it was his most recent and last interaction with one of his grandchildren that perfectly illustrates for me the way my Dad lived for 59 years. Last Sunday, my wife and I both had to work so Mom and Dad were babysitting our daughter. Mom was a bit under the weather, so my Dad took Grace to a friend's birthday party. It didn't matter that he barely knew anybody attending the party. It didn't matter that he would have to single-handedly chase Grace around. He did it without hesitation because he knew it was important to us and that it would make Grace happy. Simple as that. He gave and asked nothing in return.


I could fill these pages with a hundred more stories or memories like this, but I don't have to because most of you wouldn't be here today if you didn't have your own. So I'll close with this:


My dad had two sayings that always stuck with me. One, which he often used to calm a family of hypochondriacs, was that, "I'll worry when there is something to worry about." The other was that, "When your number is up, your number is up." It didn't matter how careful or safe you tried to be, when it was your time to go, it was your time to go. Well, on Tuesday my dad's number was called. But the beauty of it is now he has nothing to worry about ever again because thanks to his faith and his contributions to this world, he has moved to the next to enjoy the eternal rest that he has earned.

"That's a Man, Baby"

For whatever reasons, perhaps getting older or maybe deciding what lessons I can teach my kid, I've been thinking a bit about knowledge and how it is acquired. Thinking experience is our greatest teacher I started compiling a list. Not a bucket list or a list of things that "make you a man" or even a list of things that I want to do. For instance, I've caught a fish, think it's pretty handy to know how to catch a fish, but I don't like to go fishing. Simply a list of things I think a guy my age ought to have learned or done by now. I haven't done them all, nor do I want to. Here's my incomplete list in no particular order, please add you own items if you'd like:

Learn how to throw a curveball.

Change the oil in your car.

Fire a gun.

Get in a fist fight. (One in which something, even if only your pride, is truly in peril.)

Grow something. (A garden. A tree. Your own special blend of hydroponic wonder grass. Sea Monkeys. Something.)

Set something on fire just to "see what happens".

Own a dog.

Surf.

Drive a stick shift.

Build something besides a mammoth sandwich.

Build a mammoth sandwich.

Sit in a major league ballpark on Opening Day.

To be continued...

Here We Go Again

It is not easy being a fan of the Washington Capitals. I've previously described it being similar to drinking until you're wearing beer goggles. You spend the entire regular season dancing with and buying drinks for this funny, great looking gal. Then you wake up in April and realize that instead of going home with Natalie Portman you went home with Natalie from The Facts of Life. (Dated '80's References for 1200, Alex!) While that statement might not be very kind to Mindy Cohn, it is an accurate assessment of how I feel about my beloved Caps. Last year's first round flameout against Montreal served as one more reminder that aside from a magical Godzilla-backed run in 1998 this franchise regularly performs below postseason expectations.

That brings us to this enigma of a regular season. This current Caps team really can't make up for last season's disaster until April when a new playoff tournament provides a new shot at the Cup. Unfortunately, reaching the postseason is no longer a lock for this team. With one hand covering my eyes and one hand hovering over the Panic Button let's review the good and bad of the season so far:

GOOD:
-The defense, with the growth of John Carlson and Karl Alzner, has been much improved. Mid-season addition Scott Hannan has helped solidify an area that has long been a weakness. Mike Green, while not scoring regularly, has been steady in both ends of the rink.
-The penalty killing unit, currently ranked second in the league(no that's not a typo) has improved drastically. A shift in strategy to a more aggressive pk has been Coach Boudreau's finest move all season.
-The three-headed monster of young goaltenders has been more than adequate. What could have been a weakness has been a strength. The perhaps unanticipated strong play of Braden Holtby along with the steadiness of Michael Neuvirth and Semyon Varlamov may make one of these three expendable at trade deadline time.

BAD:
-It's hard to believe that Alex Ovechkin and Nick Backstrom have been THIS off all season. I know plenty of players would love to have Ovi's 19 goals and thirtysome assists, but that is well below where the Caps captain should be at the all-star break. Is Ovechkin's production down because Backstrom is off and not setting him up well? Or are Backstrom's numbers down because Ovechkin's not finishing like in previous seasons? It doesn't really matter if they get it kick started by April.
-Both players would have much better offensive numbers if the Caps' power play could get rolling. Once as feared as any in the league, this year's PP unit is riding near the middle of the pack. With so many one goal losses on the ledger, the Caps' record would be much improved if the power play could find the back of the net more often.
-The worst of the "BAD" , and what I believe continues to be this team's fatal flaw, is their lack of heart. Overall, this team's personality is soft. Desire and hustle show themselves randomly, missing from shift to shift, period to period, game to game. Teams built to win the Cup -see this season's faves the Bruins, Flyers, Penguins-are tough with an unwavering desire to forecheck, win the corners and grind out victories. My all-time favorite hockey quote from Philly's former captain Bobby Clarke, "We take the shortest route to the puck and arrive in ill humor.", has never applied to this current crop of Capitals. Sadly, I'm not sure this thought has ever occurred to many of them.

So where does that leave us? I must admit I'm being a little hypocritical with this post. After last year's meltdown I said I would be fine seeing the Caps head into the playoffs as a fifth or sixth seed, not saddled with expectations borne of a terrific regular season. The Caps are in the fifth spot and playing well enough that they should make the playoffs. However, I worry because they haven't shown many signs that a breakout or special playoff run are looming. I'd love to be wrong. History says I may be. Last season, the Blackhawks lost nine straight games during the regular season yet got hot and won the Cup. The young New York Islanders went out earlier than expected in the 1979 playoffs, had a shaky, doubt-filled 1980 regular season yet won the first of four straight Stanley Cups that spring. I don't think these Caps have it in them. Oh, how I'd love to be wrong.

Mall Toddler Play Area:Enemy of the Paranoid Father

I have been reluctant to take Grace to the toddler play area at the mall, however, I have recently been outvoted by, well, everyone else who has a vote including the G herself. I was hoping she would, upon being plopped at the entrance, give me a look that said, "Seriously? What is this garbage? Let's get the hell out of here Daddy." Instead, she did what any normal kid would (and should) do-promptly forgot about me and went running.

Why have I been reluctant? Because in this play area there are things she can CRASH into. Things she can FALL off of. Things she can get STUCK in.

Then the germophobe takes the wheel of my brain sending it careening into such negative thoughts like 'I wonder how many kids have already touched that lever today?' or 'How often do you suppose they sanitize this equipment?'. Of course, there's always at least one kid who's hacking more than Val Kilmer in Tombstone. Wonder what ailment he's launching in little spittle bombers waiting to drop their atomic disease all over everyone else?

Also, Grace, as many young learners do, loves to observe and follow the bigger kids. I think it is awesome that she is not intimidated by them and most of the bigger kids have no problem with Grace tagging along. Yet there are often a few that dangerously run and jump with little regard for anyone else. Not coincidentally, these are often the kids with the parents who can't seem to pull their eyes away from their book or texting. I don't want to see these kids accidentally play Scott Stevens making my Grace an unwitting Eric Lindros . But it is fun watching Grace follow the bigger kids, though she is about a half step behind them. By the time she enters the tunnel they are out the other end. By the time she arrives at a piece of equipment they are off to the next. Still, she trudges on, happy to be part of the group. Today, I got a little emotional watching her play, knowing that our baby is long gone; she's now a tiny person ready to engage this world head-on.

While it is true that I exaggerate (sort of) my anxiety levels for laughs, it brought me joy to watch Grace run, climb and play carefree, completely unburdened by fear or worry. It is my great wish for her that this will always be true.

Goin' Back In Time.

If you had tickets for two round trip rides in a time machine, where would you go? For the sake of the experiment, exclude visiting friends or relatives who have passed because I think that would be an obvious choice for most of us. My first stop would be sometime during the Second Continental Congress when breaking free from England was debated and chosen as a course of action. My second choice may be a bit silly and frivolous because I would be blowing an opportunity to see a time/culture vastly different than ours. However, I would love to have attended the Miracle on Ice at Lake Placid in 1980. Where would your time passport be stamped?

Gaffigan Was Right.

Perhaps I was bleary-eyed because I was shopping late at night. Perhaps the Wal-mart freezer door was fogged with condensation. Whatever the case, I recently misread the label on my Lean Pockets box. It doesn't say "Surprisingly Delicious", but in fact reads "Satisfyingly Delicious" which is far less accurate than the former. Despite the fact that I eat Lean Pockets regularly, there really is little delicious about meat type-product blended with cheese-type product stuffed into bread-type product. And the only thing that Lean Pockets satisfy is the FDA's apparently low requirements to be called "food" and be sold in your grocer's freezers.

For a funny take on Hot Pockets check out Jim Gaffigan's stand-up bit about them.

If You Click It More Than Once, You're Playing With It.

I don't make it a habit to know what others are doing in public restrooms; I'm a silently stare at the wall above the urinal kind of guy. Rarer still would be me commenting on what others do in a public restroom, but yesterday I heard something that brought questions to mind. While at the urinal, I heard the distinct click-clacks and beeps of the gentleman in the stall beside me firing off some text messages. I assume he was texting. I suppose he could be some sort of cyborg with a robot appendage that clicked and beeped as he pleasured himself (which, given the volume of unwrapped magazines we find in the bookstore bathroom, appears to be an all too frequent occurrence.) For my sanity's sake I will assume he was merely texting.

So, the question is- Do you multi-task by making and taking calls and/or text messages while in the john? Because if I am forced to use a public restroom for a sit-down, and believe me that occurs only in the most dire circumstance, I can assure you that I'm not lingering to send out some LOLs. The germophobe and technophobe in me can't think of anything that couldn't wait until I was finished. Does this make me an old fuddy-duddy? Has "instant" messaging become so pervasive that there is no sanctuary from communication? Or have I simply missed the boat and not realized he was texting on the newest social networking platform Shitter Twitter?

Paging Dr. Kevorkian

I'm not generally in favor of euthanasia, however, I think it is time the Super Bowl Halftime Spectacular be put out of its misery. Like most things surrounding the game, the halftime show has grown bloated and meaningless. Don't get me wrong, I like The Who, but last night's CSI theme song medley was boring and hardly surprising or spectacular. Maybe some Woodstock-era broads enjoyed getting a peek at Pete Townsend's old man paunch every time his shirt flipped up; I can assure you I did not. Like the last five or six performances, last night's was unnecessary, yet hardly the nadir of halftime spectaculars.

Though many would probably point to the Janet Jackson NipSlip as the low point, I think it was actually three years prior. The 2001 "Kings of Rock and Pop" disaster featuring Aerosmith, NSync, Britney Spears, Mary J Blige, Nelly and others was the blunt force trauma that rendered our patient a vegetable. Overdone, overstuffed and poorly lip-synched, this garbage made me want to pluck out my eyeballs and use them as earplugs. Since then there have been a few hand squeezes (U2 after 9/11, Paul McCartney) giving false hope that our halftime show might recover. Mostly, however, we've been subjected to great but safe (old) performers giving lackluster (tired) performances beefed up by too many fireworks and too little freshness. I say unless the Elvis, Michael Jackson, Tupac Reunion Tour is debuting next February at Cowboys Stadium, it is time to pull the plug and let the Super Bowl Halftime Spectacular exhale its last breath.

Don't Judge a Book By It's Cover-or How I Inadvertently Taught My 15-month-old Daughter Where Bacon Comes From

After spending months helping maintain the kid's book department, I should have known better. Maybe, just maybe, it would be best to pre-read the entire book myself before unleashing it on my fifteen-month-old daughter. Sometimes kids books have messages that, while not necessarily objectionable, just aren't lessons I want to teach my girl. Or sometimes the problem is more obvious, like the book about a worm that, unfortunately, looks like a giant penis leaping from every page.

While combing the clearance section (yes, part of the problem is that I'm a cheapskate), I came across Animals on the Farm. Cute animals on the cover, Grace loves animals, let's plunk down two bucks and hit the road. The book went on the shelf at home and wasn't thought of again until Grace picked it out for me to read to her.

I really love story time with Grace, so I'm really getting into it as we comb each page, reading about and looking at pictures of the different topics- "The Animals in Our Lives", "Noisy Birds in the Barnyard", "The Other Birds on the Farm", "Visiting the Rabbits", and "The Peaceful Cow". Then she flips to this page:

Now, I'm no prude and I'm certainly no red-paint-throwing vegan PETA member. In fact, I'm quite delighted to reside at the top of the food chain. However, I'm not ready to explain to Grace that the pork chop she had for dinner last night was, according to the handy diagram above, sliced off the top of a cute little piggy. Especially not with Piglet and her piggy bank staring me down from the dresser top. Obviously, Grace can't yet read and I omitted the crucial info, but I suppose it does beg the more serious question of when to have these types of conversations with your young children. Perhaps I'll tackle that question another time; right now I'm more worried about this how this little misstep is affecting my Father of the Year chances.

"Hump" Day

With the expansion of cable "news" and the explosion of reality TV, it comes as no surprise that there are more humps than ever on TV today. You know, humps, one level worse than a clown, but not quite as bad as the overused term douchebag. You could sub in any number of words- asshat, dick, putz- but I like hump because it sounds like chump only a bit dirtier. Besides douchebag should be reserved for the truly obvious shitheads few people care for like Kanye, Limbaugh, The Situation, Dr. Phil, the cast of CBS's NFL Today and anyone who as ever been annointed a villian on Survivor. See, douchebags are those you would like, if ever granted the opportunity, to punch in the face. Humps are generally those celebs or pseudo-celebs that you wish would simply disappear. However, if their show is strong enough in other aspects, it's sometimes possible for humps to be tolerable despite their humpiness. That's why I've broken my list into two categories-Humps I Wish Would Go Away and Humps I Can Live With. Please feel free to dispute or add to the list as you see fit.

Humps I Wish Would Go Away:

Jay Leno, Talk Show Host/Backstabber- Leno's new show may have been at a new time and in a new studio, but it had the same bright colors and shiny lights designed to distract viewers from noting the same unfunny delivery that sucked at 11:30. Submarining Conan was just the icing on this hump cake.

Al Roker, Weatherman - Mostly humpy with an 80% chance of unfunny.

Chris Berman, ESPN Blowhard - Wish we could go back, back, back, back to a time before he relied solely on his catchphrases and tired schtick.

George Lopez, Comedian?- Como se dice "awful disaster of a late night show"? Makes Magic Johnson look like a talk show savant.

Glenn Beck, The Thomas Paine of Today (serious eye roll) - This Teabagger deserves some credit-he's Pied Pipered his listeners and viewers into purchasing everything he publishes likely making him a wealthy man in the process.

Humps I Can Live With:

Guy Fieri, Food Network Host - From his style (spiky highlights, wristbands, sunglasses on the back of his neck) to his catchphrases (You're the Mayor of Flavortown, off the hook) to the way he pronounces his name (FIERI!) it's a wonder he's not on the other half of the list. But as long as he keeps showing me places I can order bacon-wrapped meatloaf we're gonna be just fine.

Joe Scarborough, MSNBC Host - He's not real polished and enjoys talking over guests and co-hosts alike. He also has what may be the most balanced, intellectually honest cable news program on the air.

Chris Hardwick, Nerdist/TV Host - He's smarmy, sarcastic and funny as hell.

Mike & Mike in the Morning - One is a neurotic, hypochondriac geek. The other is a fat dope. It's like looking in a double mirror every morning. Also like me, neither Mike is nearly as funny as he thinks he is. They do, however, have great sports guests and solid analysis. Beats Sportscenter anyday.

Richard Dawson, Hump I Can Live With Emeritus - Creepy kissing bandit and overtanned symbol of 70's sexist cheese. Survey says: greatest game show host/panelist ever.

Movie Review Haiku: G.I. Joe

Had to see how bad,
Knowing is half the battle,
Won't waste time again.

Genies, Fistfuls of Applesauce and 'O' Captain, My Captain

Diaper Genie I need only one wish granted- Please start working again. Do you have an expiration date I was unaware of? Should I have purchased the extended warranty? Has 15 months of subduing funk finally brought you to your knees? My little Stinkerbell can fill a diaper with a load strong enough to stop a freight train, but usually the Diaper Genie contains it with no problem. Not anymore. The other day, not long after changing Grace, I returned to her bedroom only to be nearly flattened by the stink. I immediately searched the room for the gangrenous, rotten-broccoli-eating ferret that someone had obviously unleashed in our house. My search turned up neither a rotting ferret, nor a year old, sulphur dipped hunk of Gouda so I turned my extra large sniffer towards the next obvious suspect. Mr. Genie you have served us well, however, I feel it is time for an honorable discharge. So, I'm off to rub another lamp, but before I go here are a few other random notes from Grace Land and beyond:

-Most folks use utensils to eat their applesauce. Not my G. Though she's perfectly capable of using a spoon (ok perfectly may be a stretch, but her manual dexterity is pretty good) for other soft foods, applesauce gets the finger treatment. Never mind that from the moment she scoops the applesauce up it is a race to get her fist to her mouth before all the sauce squeezes from between her knuckles.

-I'm finding Grace really is a fan of slapstick comedy. I often let her "knock me down" or bowl me over with the slightest of taps. She loves my exaggerated reaction and runs over to whack me again. Tonight, Amanda accidentally squirted Grace in the face with water from one of her bath toys. Grace laughed heartily and continued to do so every time we squirted her chest, arms and face again. Maybe I'll get her a seltzer bottle for her birthday. Honestly, I think she might howl with laughter if we smacked her in the face with a pie.

- I was happy to see that the Washington Capitals named Alex Ovechkin captain. Ovie is the heart and engine of that team; giving the C to any other player would have seemed disingenuous.

Finally, though I hate all things Redskin, I feel bad for Jim Zorn. He may have been a disaster as head coach, but he was far classier than those around him. Zorn kept his head up and mouth shut while wee little Napoleon Snyder tried to humiliate him out of town. Congrats, Jim. It may not have ended the way you like, but at least you get to walk away with your dignity and several million severance dollars.

Cool Music Video.

This video was made by an artist, Big Vizion, who was a high school classmate of mine. He's played a lot of shows in and around Maryland, but I think he could be headed for even bigger success.
"Oh My Lord" video

Just Do Her. And Her. And Her.

Many questions have been asked and debated regarding the Tiger Woods marital situation. Are his "transgressions", as he calls them, news? Does Tiger deserve less privacy simply because he is a highly-paid product endorser? Will his endorsers stand by him? How will his golf game be affected? Has he given new meaning to "playing in a foursome"? All these questions might make great fodder for sports talk radio, but I'm generally uninterested. I don't buy Gillette products because Tiger plugs them, I prefer my newscast to be filled with news not TMZ infotainment and I couldn't care less whether Tiger and his wife stay together or not. I do, however, have one thing to say to Tiger, who has said that he was "dismayed" by the media reaction- The one sure way to not have to discuss your infidelity in public is to not cheat on your wife.

I don't care if Tiger Woods, David Letterman,the governor of South Carolina or my neighbor down the street want to bang cocktail waitresses all across the globe, I just don't think they should do it while married. I'm tired of hearing guys excuse infidelity because It's biological. I'm innately programmed to spread my seed to further the species. Look, if Tiger wants to dump his multicultural, supercompetitive, ultrafocused DNA in/on/near strip club hostesses then he shouldn't have gotten married. I don't begrudge a billionaire superstar wanting to take advantage of some of the "perks" of fame and fortune, but nobody forced him to make a vow. I mean, how awful for him to be stuck with one gorgeous blond Swedish nanny for the rest of his life. America weeps for him.