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.

I'd Rather Have Coal In My Stocking.

Working in a book store has many great benefits including seeing at least one new book per day that I'd like to read. Of course, you must take the good with the bad. Here are nine current titles that scare the heck out of me:

Thank You and You're Welcome
A self improvement guide from Kanye West.

Little Book of Pandemics:50 of the World's Most Virulent Plagues and Infectious Diseases
A germophobic hypochondriac's worst nightmare. I'm wearing latex gloves while reading it.

Going Rogue
Duh.

Stealth Germs Inside Your Body
I always figured I was allergic to myself.

The Morning Show Murders
Mystery fiction from Al Roker. I understand the first victim was a dozen doughnuts.

Howard Dean's Prescription for Real Healthcare Reform
(Shiver)

New Dawn:Your Favorite Authors on Stephenie Meyer's Twilight Saga
Because not everybody was lucky enough to dream up glittery emo vampires.

The Manga Bible
Thanks, but I'll take my Scripture (not that I've been reading much of it lately) in something other than Japanese comic book style.

The Elf on the Shelf
Use the creepy elf doll to scare your kids straight for the holiday season.

You Betcha!

So, tonight I was able to read a bit of Sarah Palin's Going Rogue (on shelves Tuesday) and it is awesome. And by awesome, I mean so bad that it's good. Sort of like the Arnold Schwarzenegger classic Commando or a stinky fart. This opinion has nothing to do with political leanings or the book's content, it's all about the writing. It's true that I would rather discover that Glenn Beck is my illegitimate half-brother than spend an afternoon with Sarah Palin, but I might read her book cover to cover. The first paragraph alone is filled with enough cheese ("autumn bouquet", "small town America") to lure me in. I also need to say here, despite the fact that I don't personally care for Mrs. Palin, I hope we sell the shit out of this book. I also hope the publisher has contacted Revlon, because we are going to need more lipstick for this pig.

Movie Review Haiku

National Treasure 2:

Okay, As long as
You do not stop to ponder
How preposterous.

Whip It Good!

One of my birthday gifts was babysitting services provided by my in-laws so Amanda and I could hit the movies. With nothing "must-see" currently playing, we decided on the roller derby flick Whip It. While not the greatest movie ever, there is a lot to love: Ellen Page is adorable yet saucy, Kristen Wiig is funny as always, hot chicks in short shorts and roller skates, there are enough recognizable location shots in Austin to make me pine for a return trip there, a Daniel Stern sighting and a tiny, but funny homage to one of my favorite movies, Slapshot. All in all, not a bad way to spend two hours.

Enlarging the Lexicon.

My wife, Amanda, inadvertently helped me coin a phrase last week. Much to her chagrin, mostly because the phrase is crass and juvenile, I haven't stopped using it since. I was watching one of my favorite Food Network shows, Diners, Drive-thrus and Dumps, when apparently I made a sound like I was enjoying the idea of bacon-wrapped meatloaf a little too much. Amanda sarcastically asked me if I had popped a boner and I told her, "Yes, dear. A food boner."

So now I'm out to make "food boner" the preferred measuring stick(so to speak) for rating dishes. Male food critics of the world I implore you to drop the star system in favor of the Food Boner Index. Your sushi was fresh, delicious and perfectly rolled? How about three food boners out four? The food was okay, but the atmosphere was terrible? Perhaps this cafe only merits two food boners. Better yet, since I'm not terribly interested in counting boners, maybe we could make it all or nothing, pass/fail style. If the food and experience rock, you get a Food Boner. If the food and experience stink, you get a "Flaccid" next to your name in the write-up. Help me America, join in the crusade to make "Food Boner" so popular that it joins bling, green-collar and staycation as ridiculous additions to Webster's Dictionary.

And while on the subject of words, I'll hip you to another of my mini-crusades(you'd think I really have nothing important to do)-I want to bring Grass back as the preferred slang term for marijuana. Not pot, weed or dope-grass. As in "Pass the Grass." or the cheesy bumper sticker form decades past, "Ass, gas or grass, nobody rides for free."

Happy Birthday Grace

It seems impossible to me that my daughter is turning one today. To say the least, my life has changed immeasurably in the last year. As I watch her laying stretched out sleeping I can't believe how big she has become. Though she is neither talking or walking, she is far more toddler than baby. It's been awesome to watch her change, seemingly daily, as her temperament, attitude and personality develop. Sure, there have been big milestones and markers this year-rolling over, pulling herself up, recovering from her palate surgery. But I realized that I have measured this past year in many much smaller moments strung together to form our father/daughter bond- bouncing and a happy squeal when I get home from work, her crawling across the living room to knock over every stack of blocks that I build, a headbutt "kiss", her pointing out her head and Mommy's belly button, her grabbing her hairbrush attempting to comb her hair and mine. The past year has been everything people said it would be and more. It's been faster, more difficult, and most importantly, far better than I ever could have imagined. Thanks, Grace. I love you and Happy First Birthday.

Damn You, Victoria!

I've decided that Victoria's Secret must not like men very much. I know that sounds somewhat irrational given that the retailer provides great joy to men who date/marry Victoria's Secret shoppers and provides great "catalogs" for those men that don't. But how else can you explain the BioFit Seven Way Bra ? I was walking through the mall recently when the V.S. window sign advertising the BioFit scared the hell out of me. Apparently, this technological marvel has straps that can be fastened in seven different configurations. There's the Standard, the CrissCross, the Crossback, the ZigZag, the Loopty-Loo, the Flying V and the Cloverleaf. For decades, men have been confounded by ordinary bra straps and clasps, now we have to wrestle something that I need an engineering degree to decipher? Hopefully, the packaging includes a diagram and instructions for removal.

As a married man I know there is a narrow window between "Let's fool around," and "Nevermind, I wonder who's on Letterman,". I can't be wasting crucial seconds staring at blueprints. If Amanda purchases one of these things I may be in real trouble. I'm going to have to dispatch some Bothan spies to steal the plans to this thing or the Rebellion in my pants is going to be short-lived. Of course, even with instructions I'd still need my ham hands to cooperate. I'm not exactly operating with a surgeon's finesse. I'd hoped that as I aged I'd get smoother and more confident, kinda like the Dos Equis Most Interesting Man in the World, but now this bra threatens to make that a "one step forward, two steps back" proposition. Thanks, Victoria's Secret.

Rejected Halloween Costume #2

Amanda has vetoed another Halloween costume for the girl: Grace and I wearing matching white suits. Ah, just as well, she's too young to say "Da plane, Da plane." anyway.

"There was nothing normal about that."

My daughter Grace had surgery five weeks ago to repair a partial cleft of her soft palate. The surgery was successful thanks to the fine docs and staff at Johns Hopkins. While sitting around Grace's room after the surgery I was thinking about how I would describe the whole process. I thought about Tom Petty's lyric, "the waiting is the hardest part". And the waiting was tough-the anxious anticipation in the preceding days, the nervousness during the actual surgery and the boredom in the room after the surgery -but it turns out the waiting was not nearly the hardest part. In the evening following the surgery Grace sent a worrisome father's heart rate skyrocketing, giving me the biggest scare of my life.

As I said, the surgery was a success; we simply had to stay overnight until Grace recuperated enough to start feeding properly. Around dinnertime, Grace, who was acting pretty happy, if a little off from the anesthesia and her big day, decided to throw up. Blood. A lot of blood. One moment she's sitting in her hospital crib looking around. One cough later she's pouring out a coffee colored Niagra Falls. Sissy Spacek had less blood poured on her in Carrie. I don't know how Grace's digestive system housed that much blood. And, of course, her little body decided to do this while the nurse was out of the room.

I have genuinely feared for my safety a handful of times in my life, but I've never been as scared as I was at that instant. In that way that time slows and you can think a thousand things in a millisecond, I was instantly afraid for her, wondered what the hell was going on and felt incredibly helpless. As Amanda ran to Grace's side, I punched the nurse call button and, in what I can only imagine was a squeaky Peter Brady croak, yelled to them to please send someone because my daughter was vomiting blood everywhere. Grace, who has grown into big girl, suddenly looked impossibly tiny sitting in a blood covered hospital gown.

Our nurse responded immediately and calmly explained that this occurence was normal post-surgery and that since the blood was not bright red (fresh) we shouldn't be concerned. (I should say here that this was one of the instances that made the Hopkins experience great. The nurse was in no way condascending or dismissive when she explained all this. She understood our concern and anxiety, but her calm kept us calm. Because in my mind all I could think was that this was anything but normal.) So, since the blood looked like barbecue sauce and not bright red Hollywood blood the sutures were probably intact and the blood Grace threw up was old blood that had drained down her throat during and since the surgery. A visit from the Plastics resident confirmed this and set us somewhat at ease. Although, the resident also used the word normal and I maintain there was nothing normal about what I witnessed.

Hopefully, I'll never again experience that combination of fear and helplessness. The good news was that The Puking, though it scared Amanda and I, made Grace feel a whole bunch better. Grace has a check-up next week to see how she is healing. Hopefully, that day I'll hear the word normal and believe it.