MetroDad

Chaos Theory (China Ed.)

I get ideas for blog posts all the time.  Sadly, I always have them when I’m at a bar or on the toilet (which means I usually scribble some quick notes on a napkin or some toilet paper.)  Unfortunately, I have a horrible memory so I can never fully recall what it was I had to say about “Derrida’s theory on Elmo” or “Brett Favre’s moustache.” 

Right now, I’m still in China, a country where napkins and toilet paper seem to be in short supply.  I’m also suffering from some weird jet lag insomnia and I think I’m on the verge of an Imodium overdose.  Therefore, I’ve decided to just write everything down as soon as I think of it. 

I guess we’ll call it Chaos Theory: The China Edition.

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MARCO!  POLO!

Contrary to my last post, it seems that the Peanut has noticed my absence.  The other day I spoke to BossLady on the phone and she told me that whenever the two of them walk in the door, the Peanut runs around the apartment yelling “DADDY!  DADDY!  WHERE ARE YOU?”  After failing to find me, she then turns to the BossLady and asks, "Where dadddy, mommy?"

I’d blame it on all the sulfurous Chinese air that makes me feel as if someone ate a pound of asparagus and peed on my eyeballs.  However, since my paternal sappiness is already well-established, I’ll admit that hearing this brought a tear to my eye.

THINGS THAT I SHOULD HAVE PACKED IN MY SUITCASE

For someone who travels as much as I do, I am a horrifically bad packer.  I’ve flown to weddings without tuxedo pants.  I’ve  had to wear white tube socks with a suit.  And once, the lovely and beautiful BossLady had to make me cufflinks out of paper clips (MacGyver!) Now that I’m in the middle of China, I realize that bringing linen shirts when it’s below freezing outside probably wasn’t a good idea.  Some other things I probably should have packed?

1. More than two pairs of underwear.
2. Dark socks (yes, I did it again.)
3. Running sneakers that don’t smell like ass. 
4. Toilet paper
5.  A book weighing less than 20 pounds

HE AIN’T HEAVY, HE’S MY BROTHER

The 20 lb. book in question is Martin Amis’ “The War Against Cliché,” his collection of essays and literary criticism.  Despite its weight, the book is a surprisingly great read.  Amis’ brilliant wit and sheer intelligence are employed in ways rarely evident in his fiction. 

Do you ever sometimes wish you were friends with a celebrity so that you could just shake the shit out of them and smack them with a dose of reality?  I have this wish all the time (“Aarrgh, Britney!  What the fuck are you doing?”)  Anyway, I really wish Martin Amis and I were best pals so that one night when we were both completely smashed, I would have the balls to tell him to give up fiction.  If I were really drunk, I’d tell him to get those damn teeth fixed too. 

Does anyone else have these imaginary celebrity friendships or am I the only one?

iDORK

Aside from packing my suitcase better, it also probably would have been a good idea to update my ipod before leaving.  Spending 15 straight hours on a plane listening only to Camera Obscura and Ghostface Killah is getting kind of weird.  I don’t know whether I want to weep into my pillow or kill whitey!

iPOT

On the other hand, big ups to me for downloading the first season of “Weeds” onto the ipod.  Why didn’t anyone tell me how good this show is?   BossLady and I don’t get Showtime but we've both always had a little thing for Mary-Louise Parker.  In fact, when Billy Crudup dumped her while she was pregnant so he could date Claire Danes, BossLady was furious.  Recently we watched “M.I. III” and whenever he came on screen, I could hear BossLady muttering “asshole” under her breath. 

Besides, isn’t leaving Mary-Louise Parker for Claire Danes trading down?  Kind of like breaking up with Brad Pitt and ending up with Vince Vaughn?

And Jen?  I just read in the Herald Tribune that you might adopt a child from Africa?  If WE were friends, I’d channel my mother and tell you---“Jesus Christ! What is wrong with you? If Angelina Jolie jumped off the George Washington Bridge, would you?” 

All I know is that if Paris Hilton adopts one next, I think I’m going to kill myself.

iPOOP

I just spoke to the BossLady and she told me that Peanut pooped in the potty for the very first time!  And I missed it!  Thankfully, BossLady knew how totally bummed out I would be about missing this important milestone in our daughter’s life so she immediately grabbed the camera and took photos of the poop for me!

Is it any wonder that I married this woman? 

MY KINGDOM FOR SOME CARBONATED ASPARTAME!

At various points in my life, I’ve gone months without so much as a single alcoholic drink, a cigarette or any television.  But never during the course of the past 25 years have I gone so much as two days without a Diet Coke.  I’m now on Day 4 (or, as I keep saying to myself, DAY FUCKING 4!) 

China, what is up with that?  How can you pursue global hegemony when the only carbonated beverage here is warm Fanta in a dirty glass?  And how is it even possible that one can still get TAB here?  Wasn’t that abolished in the 70’s along with DDT and Agent Orange? 

SHUT UP AND PASS THE ANUS!

In China, people often say that when a pig is killed, not a single part goes to waste.  The skin is used for leather, the fat is used to make candles, the snout is ground up for medicinal purposes, and everything left over is eaten.  Obviously, this saying is meant to convey the stout resourcefulness of the Chinese people.  But whenever I mention this to the beautiful BossLady, she just laughs at me and says, “Oh yeah?  What about the penis?  Do they eat THAT?” 

Last night during dinner, I tried this strange-looking dish of food that I didn’t quite recognize but tasted pretty damn good nonetheless.  When I asked someone what I had just eaten, he replied, “pig's balls!”

Man, I gagged so hard that dried snout practically came out my nose!  (N.B. he really meant to say "pork balls," which apparently have nothing to do with a pig’s testicles.  On the flip side, my host told me that some people in China DO eat a pig’s balls!)

IF YOU THINK YOUR KID IS ONE IN A MILLION, THAT MEANS THERE ARE 1,400 JUST LIKE HER IN CHINA!

Being separated from the Peanut is tough enough.  But being here in China makes things exponentially more painful.  It’s not like I’m in Sweden and surrounded by little Aryan-looking babies who bear no resemblance to my daughter.  Here, I see little Chinese kids who have the same dark hair and features as the Peanut. 

Every time I see a little Chinese girl, I just want to pick her up, spin her around, and give her a wet willy.

Meanwhile, I'm completely annoying the crap out of everyone I meet in China.  In fact, I’m starting to recognize a pattern.  First, I ask people whether they’re married.  Then, I ask if they have children.  And then I sit back and wait patiently until they ask me whether I have a kid.  ME?  YES, I DO!  THANKS FOR ASKING!  DO YOU WANT TO HEAR ALL ABOUT HER?  GRAB A CHAIR AND POUR SOME TEA!

Before they even know what hit them, I’m telling them all about the Peanut.  Today, I even told a few people about Peanut pooping in the potty.  The ironic thing?  Most of them have no idea what the hell I'm babbling about.  Story of my life, right? 

Anyway, it's official.  My gushing about my daughter is now annoying the crap out of people on TWO continents!

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By the way...apologies to all of you who have sent me e-mails in the past week.  I'm having major e-mail issues.  I promise to reply when I return to civilization (especially MD reader Susan from AL who offered to send my favorite BBQ sauce.  That stuff is like crack cocaine to me.  More than once, BossLady has totally busted me drinking it right out of the jar.)

Also, I thought I'd either do another MetroDad Q & A or another mailbag edition so I'd have something to write on the 15-hour return flight home.  So place your questions in the comments section below and feel free to ask me anything. 

As always, the only limits are your own imagination!  Shoot away!

 

Around the World in 11 Days

I’m currently in my pajamas flying 35,000 feet above sea level.

Below me, all I can see are glacial sheets of white ice floating in the Arctic Ocean.  I practically shiver just looking out the window.  However, here in my fully-reclining airplane seat, it’s quite cozy.  I’m drinking Bordeaux, flipping through magazines, and watching “The Departed” on my own private video screen.  As I write this, a stewardess is asking me whether I want hot fudge or pineapple sauce on my Haagen Daaz Dulce de Leche ice cream sundae (FYI, the correct answer to this question is always “Yes!”)

Unfortunately, this is as good as it’s going to get.

Over the next 11 days, I’ll be traveling solo all over Asia for work.  I’ll visit 7 cities, log more than 40 hours in the air, and spend most of my time worrying about the safety of the 25-year old death traps I’ll be flying in (I swear some of these planes used to be operated by People’s Express back in the 80’s.) 

Along the way, I’ll fight sweltering crowds, try to navigate arbitrary flight schedules, argue with corrupt customs officials, berate cab drivers for ripping me off, and try to avoid having my luggage stolen by gangs of teenagers on mopeds. Glamorous, isn’t it? 

When I was younger, I loved traveling solo like this to far-off distant places.  I loved landing in a foreign country where I didn’t know a single person and didn’t speak the local language.  The farther off the beaten path, the more I enjoyed it.  Spending my vacation on a beach chair?  Going on a cruise?  Visiting museums in Europe?  Fuck that!  For the same price, I’d rather spend the week riding elephants in Sri Lanka, climbing Mt. Fuji, or exploring Outer Mongolia.  The world is a big place and I want to see as much of it as possible before I die.   

It's funny though.  Back then, the biggest concerns I had about taking a long solo trip like this one were (1) who was going to tape “Dawson’s Creek” for me, (2) how would I get the scores of Mets games, and (3) were my plants going to die.

Now, that I’m married and have a child?  Holy shit, I worry about everything!

In my mind (which is highly influenced by television and pop culture,) I can't help but think about all the possible things that could happen to me.  I worry about my plane getting hijacked by terrorists dressed up in Elvis masks. I worry that the plane will crash in Siberia and I’ll have to eat my fellow passengers in order to survive.    

Shit, I even worry about snakes on the motherfucking plane!

And after watching “24” two nights ago, I can now also add to my list of worries the fear that I’ll be tortured and held hostage by the Chinese government for two years! 

(Speaking of “24,” isn’t it amazing how this show continues to appeal to both conservative Republicans AND liberal Democrats?  Over the past year, I’ve heard both Dick Cheney and Barbara Streisand reference the show during speeches!  This show has more cross-over appeal than the illegitimate love child of Barack Obama and John McCain.   

By the way, could it be possible that Jack Bauer is a bigger bad-ass than ever?  BossLady and I had Thai food delivered last night to coincide with the season premiere.  The first 15 minutes were so gory that by the time Jack ate that dude’s neck, I was already choking on my pad thai.

One more thing…Does anyone besides me think that Kal "Kumar" Penn playing a Middle-Eastern character is the worst casting since David Carradine played Kwai Chang Caine in "Kung Fu?"  Although it is fun to yell, "No matter what, dude, we are NOT ending this night without White Castle in our stomachs!" every time Kal Penn shows up onscreen trying to speak Farsi, there's something about casting an Indian dude in the role that ruffles my race feathers the wrong way.)

Shit.  What was I talking about again?  Oh yeah, my fears and worries about traveling and being away from my beautiful wife and lovely daughter.  Actually, upon further consideration, I'm not that worried.  I think maybe the malaria medication is having a weird reaction with all the scotch. 

To tell you the truth, my only semi-real fear is that the Peanut isn’t going to remember me when I get back.  The kid’s memory seems to reset itself every two weeks.  If you’re not around her constantly, she either forgets all about you or, even worse, she just pretends not to know you.  Man, if after all this traveling, I returned home only to discover that the Peanut not only didn’t miss me but also had forgotten all about me, that would just fucking kill me. 

Unless of course the Chinese or those motherfucking snakes don't get to me first! 

Housebreaking 101: Dogs & Babies Need Not Apply

You know how television commercials always show parents waking up by slowly stretching out their arms and luxuriantly getting out of bed while the warm bask of the morning sun envelops them?  As they put on their imported Turkish bathrobes and enter their enormous kitchens, they're greeted by the aromatic pleasures of freshly-brewed coffee and some buttery croissants.  In the background, you can frequently hear the dulcet sounds of a cooing baby. 

Needless to say, BossLady and I don't wake up like that.

These days, we've been waking up to the sounds of a two-year-old girl screaming at the top of her lungs, "Mommy!  Daddy!  Come 'ere!  Come 'ere NOW!" 

And the aromatic smell with which we're awakened?  Lately, it's the pleasurable aroma of a pile of steaming hot dog shit. 

Yeah...just like on TV, man.

I don't know what's gotten into MetroDog lately.  Maybe he's getting older.  Maybe he's dealing with some personal issues.  However, for some reason, he just can't seem to make it through the night anymore.  He's only five years old so it's hard to imagine he's getting incontinent.  In dog years, he and I are about the same age.  Shit, if I can make it through the night, why can't he?

When we first got MetroDog, we had a tough time housebreaking him.  It's not like we had a backyard where he could roam around.  Learning how to poop on a New York City curb is fucking tough.  Cars, fire engines, and dump trucks are rumbling by and dozens of people are watching your every move.  For a few months, BossLady and I would take MetroDog out every morning and would end up walking around for hours before he finally pooped.

Finally, a dog trainer suggested that whenever we walked outside the building, we should just insert a paper matchstick up his butt (the dog's butt, not the trainer's.)  The act of anally pushing out the match would force the poop out of MetroDog and train him to go in the same location every day. 

Man, have you ever tried to stick a match up a dog's butt?  It is not fucking easy.  The first few times we tried it, the fire kept going out before he would poop. 

(Chill out, PETA people. That was a joke!)

Actually, that little Dog Whisperer trick totally ended up working.  And to this day, whenever I'm feeling a little constipated, BossLady will just hold up a match stick and start laughing.  Yep, works for humans too!

When it comes to the Peanut, BossLady and I are taking a fairly low-key approach to toilet training.  Basically, that means we're leaving it up to Sesame Street (as usual.)  Between "Elmo's Potty Time" DVD and the "Ernie's Too Big for Diapers" book, we figure we're covered.

The Peanut's only two so we don't want to start pressuring her.  However, our low-key approach seems to be having an effect and it appears we're getting her closer to being potty trained.  Or at least potty-aware.  Just last week, we were chilling out and eating dim sum in Chinatown with a bunch of friends when the Peanut ran up to me, pointed at her butt, and yelled, "POOP, Daddy, POOP!  Let's go!"

Unfortunately, her yelling "POOP" didn't mean she was READY to poop but rather that she already HAD pooped.  But that's cool.  Baby steps, man.  Baby steps.  That's what I keep telling myself. 

One inadvertent and highly entertaining repercussion of toilet training the Peanut is that she is now completely obsessed with watching both BossLady and I go to the bathroom.  It's not like we encourage it but, any time that one of us enters the bathroom, the Peanut is right there with us.  Most of the time, she just likes to watch us do our business.  However, sometimes if we're sitting on the toilet, she likes to lift one of our cheeks out of the way or spread our legs open so she can peer into the toilet bowl and get a better view.  Not really my cup of tea but what can you do?  Kids are natural scientists in certain ways.

You should see how unbelievably happy she becomes whenever she sees a piece of crap in there.  It's like Christmas and her birthday wrapped up in one.  Her face lights up and she actually squeals with sheer delight.  Sometimes if nothing comes out, I almost feel like I'm letting her down.  How crazy is that? 

But hey---if it makes my lovely daughter happy, I'll push a little harder in the hope that I can at least squeeze out a little turd.  We'll do anything for our kids, right? 

Anyway I recently decided that, in the grand scheme of toilet training, I'm going to defer all future lessons to the BossLady and start closing the door when I go to the bathroom.  I think, in this instance, Daddy's involvement is only confusing the issue. 

Why do I say this? 

Because yesterday I asked the Peanut if she had to go to the potty.  She enthusiastically said, "Yes, Daddy.  I go pee-pee!"  Bridling with excitement, we both ran to the bathroom, where the Peanut immediately pulled down her pants and tried to pee...standing up!

You know...just when I think I have this parenting thing down pat, something comes up and bites me in the ass.  But really, isn't that half the fun of it all? 

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Apparently, someone decided that it’s National Delurking Week. In other words, if you read any blogs regularly but don’t comment on them, now's the time to come out of the woods and say hello.  So to all you lurkers, feel free to make your presence known and let me know you're out there. 

Normally I'm not a big fan of this group-think blog mentality but I figure as long as nobody uses the word "blogosphere," we're cool.

The Smell of Fear

Like many of my fellow citizens, I love living in Manhattan.  However, ever since 9/11, there's been an unspoken fear in all of us that we continue to remain a target for all those who abhor and detest that which our nation stands for. 

Right now, that unspoken fear is being realized again. 

It's 9:30 am and I'm at my office in midtown Manhattan.  An unusually toxic gas smell is pervading the entire city.  People from the financial district to Harlem to Jersey City are all reporting a strange natural gas odor.  NYPD sirens are blaring as the police, fire marshalls, the Coast Guard, and ConEd all speed around the city and try to locate the source.  Macy's has been evacuated.  Train services have been suspended.  Some office buildings are being evacuated.  And the Mayor just went on the air announcing that the city has no idea where the smell is coming from.  Great!

I'm fairly sure that this will turn out to be an innocuous gas leak from somewhere.  And while I'm generally not one to panic, things are different when you have a helpless little 2-year-old daughter.  Obviously, my only thoughts are about her.  I just got off the phone with her daycare center.  They've turned off the ducts allowing air into the center and the building manager has assured me that everything is alright.  If anything, the Peanut is probably safer than I am. 

But God damn, is there anything scarier than being a parent? 

 

The Holiday Wrap-Up

(1) Aside from the fact that I will never get used to seeing Christmas lights on Palm trees, being in Palm Beach for the holidays was like celebrating the minute differences between the median and the mean. 

(2) Half the time, we got great weather.  Half the time, it was overcast and crappy.  On the flight down, Peanut was a nightmare.  On the way home, she was an angel.  Sometimes she'd let me sleep late.  Other times, she'd wake me up by smacking my head with a book at 7:00 am.  Half the time, she was charming the pants off everyone in the Sun Belt.  The other half, she was terrorizing the world around her.  Aahh...to be two years old and control everything in your entire universe.  THAT'S power, my friends.      

(3) The Peanut now refers to my parents as Babba and Nana.  Since their entire existence currently revolves around golf and their granddaughter, this was possibly the greatest thing to happen to them since Calloway (or as they say in Korean, "Carroray") invented the Big Bertha driver.

(4) Although the Peanut is in that awesome phase where she can generally repeat anything you say to her, for some reason she cannot pronounce the word "Uncle."  So, one night at dinner, BossLady leaned over to the Peanut and said, "Can you call him Tio?"  Of course the name stuck.  So my pale-faced Korean-American brother is now referred to as Tio.  The irony of this is fantastic since my brother has always greeted out-of-town visitors by saying, "Bienvenido a Nuevo York!  Habla Espanol?" 

(5) Holiday Thumbs Up:  "Dreamgirls," David Foster Wallace's "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again," Matthew Kneale's "Small Crimes in an Age of Abundance,"  Claire Messud's "The Emperor's Children," NAS' "Hip Hop Is Dead," and the complete DVD set of Aaron Sorkin's "Sports Night." 

(6) Holiday Thumbs Down: Ali Smith's "The Accidental."  Not sure whether this was an exercise in mastubatory self-indulgence or an experiment in post-modern literature.  However, the book has no plot, no ending, and I just wanted to smack every character in the head with a mallet.  NY Giants head coach Tom Coughlin could also use some mallet smacking. 

(7)  BossLady and I have always been very romantic with our Christmas gifts to one another.  Since we both grew up in immigrant homes where personal gifts were never exchanged, we tend to overcompensate.  In past years, we'd spend months searching for those special gifts that would truly capture and express our love for one another.  However, this year, we decided that nothing really says "I love you" like a bad-ass motherfucking giant HD plasma television and a home theater system that can shake the shit out of your neighbor!  Boo ya! 

(Since our current television is 20 years old, weighs 800 lbs, and is partly made out of wood, I'm like a kid in a candy store.  I may never read another book again!)

(8) The Peanut received a fantastic toy kitchen that I think might actually be bigger than our real kitchen.  Her obsession with kitchens has been growing exponentially and we are utterly perplexed by it.  Our own kitchen is used so infrequently that I actually store my ski boots and goggles in the oven.  However, I will say that having your daughter sit you down so that she can cook you an imaginary pizza while asking you if you would like some milk is quite possibly the funnest thing to do in the world.  The best part?  Last night, after our fake meal, she spent 20 minutes pretending to wash the dishes. 

(9) Since we have the world's greatest babysitter, she offered to spend New Year's Eve overnight at our place with the Peanut so that BossLady and I could go out for the evening.  Since we had no idea whether this opportunity would ever happen again, BossLady and I booked a hotel room and decided we were going to party all night like those crazy college kids.  We ended up grabbing some pizza for dinner and joining some friends at a truly great 80's-themed New Year's Eve party being held at a private club.  The theme was "Enchantment Under The Sea" (anyone remember the reference?) and I'm not sure which was better:  seeing all the incredible costumes (big props to our waiter Billy Idol and the two gay guys dressed up in the original Wham! costumes) or playing Name That Tune after every song and singing every single word to every single song by New Order, The Cure, Tom Tom Club, Run DMC, and Depeche Mode !

(10)  I'm 38 years old and it's clear that I don't bounce back like I used to.  After dragging myself out of the hotel at 2:00 pm and going straight to McDonalds, I spent the rest of New Year's Day in my bathrobe making canine figurines out of Play-Do and watching  "Bear in the Big Blue House" with the Peanut.  I was so hungover that I could barely understand what Treelo and Tutter were talking about.  And the whole thing with their friend Shadow scared the crap out of me.  She's so existentially frightening, it's like she's a Kafka character. 

I ended up putting the Peanut to bed early and then tried to watch the movie "Layer Cake" but I couldn't understand the Cockney accents so I dragged my sorry ass to bed and swore that I'd never drink again. 

Of course, it's now three days later and I'm feeling MUCH better.  In fact, I'm feeling so much better that I'm off to a local bar where Greg, Tony, LOD and I are going to get drunk and rub Liz's pregnant belly while feeding her french fries and ice cream!

What's up with all of you?