MetroDad

The Parentionary

Once you have a child, it's inevitable that you will be drawn into many long and boring parenting conversations with both friends and complete strangers. 

However, after awhile, you'll begin to realize that parents rarely ever say what they actually mean.  Many of them use these weird passive-aggressive phrases to obscure their true thoughts. 

In the interest of science and my ongoing anthropological study of parenting, I've compiled some common parenting phrases and their hidden subtext.  I hope this proves to be especially useful for any of you newbies out there who haven't spent much time around other parents!

Parenting Phrase = True Meaning

What an adorable little newborn baby! = Holy shit, your kid is ugly!

I don't remember what life was like before the baby. = I used to have no life.

That's so great your child loves Chicken McNuggets. = Why don't you just feed your kid out of the dumpster?

Maybe we'll do a playdate next weekend? = Dude, can you please watch my kid next Saturday so I can get some free time to myself?  I'm begging you!

We're so tired by the end of the day. = We haven't had sex in ages!

She has your ears. = Man, that kid looks NOTHING like you.  Are you sure you're really the father?  I think you seriously need to consider taking a paternity test.

We're not sure when we're having another one.  = We're not sure we even WANT another kid.  The one we have right now is totally kicking our asses!  How the hell do people have more than one kid?

Wow, it looks like they're really hitting it off. = Crap, our kids seem to really like each other. Does this mean that you and I will have to spend time together?  I sure hope not.   

He sure does have a lot of energy! = Your kid is a hyperactive monster! He must drive you completely insane. I pity you.

Your outfit looks so comfortable. = Grungy sweatpants, a food-stained t-shirt, ponytail in a baseball cap?  You look like shit, woman!  Have you completely given up on personal hygiene already?

It must be so great having a nanny to help out. = How come you have a nanny when you don't even work?

It's nice that he has such a good appetite. = Your kid is a gluttonous slob who eats like a trucker.  Never in my entire life have I ever seen anyone inhale a pizza so quickly.  No wonder he looks like a sumo wrestler!

We missed the pitter patter of little feet. = The damn vasectomy didn't work!

Parenting was so much different when I was your age. = We didn't complain like you do. Stop whining. I worked 2 jobs, had 4 kids, and never had anyone to help me out. EVER!

That's such a cute age. = I remember when my kids used to like me.  Wait until they get older and hate your guts.

Looks like you could fit a whole soccer team in that car! = Since you have a minivan, can you drive my kids to the soccer game next week?

The school wasn't really a good fit for her. = She got kicked out.

Your daughter looks like a little China doll. = Your daughter is Asian.

I love your daughter's curly locks. = Your daughter is Black.

Your daughter has such a beautiful skintone. = Your daughter is Latino.

She's so exotic looking. = Your daughter is mixed-race.

Did I miss anything or leave any out?  Feel free to add your own. 

The Eight Types of Playground Parents

BossLady and I love taking the Peanut to different playgrounds all over New York City.  Not only do we like the fact that the physical diversity of them is so interesting but we also enjoy exposing the Peanut to different neighborhoods around the city.  Over the past two years, we've taken her to playgrounds from Chinatown to Harlem. 

But no matter where we go to in this city, we tend to find the same types of playground parents everywhere!

With that in mind, MetroDad presents "The Eight Types of Playground Parents," a detailed anthropological study of homos parentus.  Enjoy...

THE HOVERER
Species: Worrius Protectus
Signature Behavior: Standing within 12 inches of their child at all times!
Distinctive Markings: First aid kit fanny pack, anti-bacterial wipes, furrowed brow
Natural Enemies: Unsupervised children
Mating Call: "Wait for mommy! Don't climb that!"

The hoverer is usually a woman, most often the mother of an only child whom she protects like the last surviving member of the Hapsburg family.

She's the one who is constantly worried that her child might fall down at any given moment and it's her responsibility to make sure that NEVER happens!  When the kid is climbing the jungle gym, she puts her hand on his behind.  When he's going down the slide, she's always right there to catch him at the bottom.  If he's on the swing, someone must be standing both in front of him AND behind him at all times.

Hoverers are sometimes known as "helicoptor parents."  They are so named because, like a helicopter, they hover closely overhead, rarely out of reach whether their children need them or not.  Although the umbilical cord may have been cut at birth, the Hoverer believes that her children could not possibly survive without her.

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THE EXECUTIVE DAD
Species: Blackberryus Irritatus
Signature Behavior: Text-messaging the office
Distinctive Markings: Blackberry, Bluetooth headset, Hermes tie
Natural Enemies: Hippies, SAHDs, and anyone not in the corporate rat race
Mating Call: "Hold on a sec, kiddo. Daddy's on a very important conference call."

You can always spot Executive Dad out of a crowd.  He's the one who looks most out of his element and speaks to his children the same way he speaks to secretaries, first-year analysts, paralegals, or interns. Playground sightings of Executive Dad are extremely rare.  Usually, he defers playground duties to the nanny.

Don't ask Executive Dad to change a diaper.  He's never done that his entire life.  He tends to know very little about his children.  In fact, when pressed, Executive Dad might admit that children were actually his wife's idea.  He would have been happy just driving a new Porsche or lowering his golf handicap!

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CRAZY PTA MOM
Species: Insanus Multitaskus
Signature Behavior: Regulating every single minute of her child's free time
Distinctive Markings: Google calendar on Treo, Violin, Tae Kwan Do outfit
Natural Enemies: Slacker moms
Mating Call: "If we're going to make it to Suzuki on time, we have to leave RIGHT NOW!"

On the surface, PTA mom looks very normal.  Sensibly dressed, practical, and completely genial.  However, upon closer inspection, you'll notice that PTA mom bears a strong resemblance to a strung-out crystal meth addict.  She is a blur of non-stop action!

When she's not lobbying parents in the playground to help with the latest bake sale fundraiser, she's organizing tupperware parties, running triathlons, and volunteering at the local hospital.  Her child's schedule is similarly regulated.  No child of hers is going to lollygag the day away in a sandbox! 

In the playground, PTA mom can often be heard instructing her children how to play properly.  However, this usually doesn't last long because it's often time to head out for the next activity.  Some biologists believe that natural PTA moms do not really exist and that the phenomenon is due to a narcotic addiction to Ritalin!

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HIPSTER DAD
Species: Nealus Pollackus
Signature Behavior: Reading Spin magazine while sitting in the swing set
Distinctive Markings: "Dead Kennedys" t-shirt, rocker shades, Seven jeans, Vans
Natural Enemies: The Wiggles, Elmo, Yuppie scum
Mating Call: "Let's blow this sappy joint, kiddo, and go home to spin some vinyl."

Every playground has a hipster dad.  Generally a man clinging to the last vestiges of his youth, he can often be seen wearing the same clothing as his children.  That's cool though because he's tight with his kids.  They don't "play" together per se.  They "hang."

Hipster Dad tends to be relatively self-consumed.  Whereas he believes that he is simply not allowing the presence of children in his life to alter his previously childless lifestyle, he generally fails to realize that he has himself become a cliche.  However, despite his failings, Hipster Dads are generally excellent parents who spend much time interacting with their children.

Hipster Dads are rarely seen in playgrounds.  However, they can often be found accompanying their children to used-record stores, alternative concerts, or Fellini film festivals.

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SOHO MOM
Species: Shabbius Chicus
Signature Behavior: Pretending to play in the sandbox
Distinctive Markings: Balenciaga hobo bag, Prada shades, shag haircut, Range Rover
Natural Enemies: Dirty children, uncooperative nannies, Mom jeans
Mating Call: "Mommy's going to Pilates now, honey, but Rosita will play with you."

Soho Mom is a sub-species of mother rarely seen outside of lower Manhattan.  She is recognizable by her meticulously-crafted ensembles that seem to display a casual insoucence but also belie her enormous wealth.  Sure, she's wearing jeans, a t-shirt and some low-tops. However, that outfit cost more than your monthly mortage payment!

Soho Mom rebels against the wealthy society women of previous generations.  However, in reality, she is extremely similar.  In fact, cultural anthropologists believe the development of Soho mom is a testament to Darwin's theories of evolution.  Years ago, Soho mom might have worn white gloves and a pillbox hat. Now, she rocks boho-chic with the best of them!

At the playground, you'll rarely see Soho Mom playing with her children. Usually she can be seen giving instructions to her nanny while flipping through the latest issue of Vogue.  Soho Mom considers her children to be the ultimate accessory so you'll often see them dressed in similar styles.   

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THE "PETER PAN" DAD
Species: Dadus Immaturus
Signature Behavior: Being chased by every kid in the playground, hogging slide
Distinctive Markings: Cargo pants, food-stained t-shirt, baseball cap on backwards
Natural Enemies: Grown-ups
Mating Call: "Who wants to play tag?"

Peter Pan Dad loves playing with children because it allows him to unleash his inner child. His general immaturity makes him the ideal playmate.  In fact, like many children, he often throws a tantrum when told that it's time to leave the playground and go home.  Frequently, Peter Pan Dad's wife feels like she's raising a family of children by herself!

At the playground, Peter Pan Dad is easy to spot.  He's the Pied Piper, leading all the kids through a wide array of activities.  He's like an enthusiastic camp counselor on steroids!  The good thing about Peter Pan Dad is that he usually tires easily.  His unbridled impetuosity is usually no match for his prolonged age.  After several hours in the playground, Peter Pan Dad can usually be found passed out on a park bench.

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THE BOOKWORM MOM
Species: Spectator Literatus
Signature Behavior: Reading Emily Dickinson on a bench while her child goes unattended
Distinctive Markings: Horn-rimmed glasses, wool shawl, PBS tote bag
Natural Enemies: Ernest Hemingway, Norman Mailer, Christopher Hitchens
Mating Call: "I'm sorry, honey. Did you say something?"

Bookworm Mom's natural environment is the Upper West Side of Manhattan or any liberal arts college town.  You can recognize her because her head is always buried in a book or the latest issue of the The New Yorker.  Sometimes, she will have hummus stains on her sensible cardigan sweater.  She may or may not have ink marks on her mouth from chewing on pens. 

Usually employed as an editor or academic, Bookworm Mom enjoys bringing her child to the playground.  While young Atticus plays with other members of his peer group, Bookworm Mom likes to sit underneath a tree, pondering the latest literary review from Joyce Carol Oates or reading that fascinating essay in the New York Review of Books comparing Spinoza to Gottfried Leibniz.  Sometimes, she gets so lost in her thoughts that she forgets to feed Atticus or change his diaper. 

However, despite her absentmindedness, she's usually a very responsible parent.  Compared to most playground parents, she's hermetically harmless.  In fact, you might not even notice she's there.

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THE COACH DAD
Species: Homo Testosteronus
Signature Behavior: Threatening to beat up little kids
Distinctive Markings: Muscle tee, gym shorts, porn moustache
Natural Enemies: Civility, restraint, New Age parents
Mating Call: "I'll kick your ass!"

Coach Dad is like the Bobby Knight of parenting.  He's a bully, a lout, and a borderline psychotic.  Somewhere in his past, he was most likely a failed athlete or a wimp.  But make no mistake about it. Things are going to be different with his kid.

You'll often see Coach Dad berating his children at the playground for not throwing the ball far enough or for being afraid of going down the slide.  See, Coach Dad hates weakness of any kind.  No kid of his will be a spineless wimp!  Of course, this usually drives Coach Dad to insane extremes.  Frequently, he'll threaten young children who cut in front of his own progeny when going down the slide.  Other times, he'll even threaten their parents!

In his later years, Coach Dad can usually be found on the local news for beating up a Little League ref who had the audacity to call that third strike on his child.  Years of anger management classes usually do very little to temper Coach Dad.  Heart attacks, aneurysms, and road rage are the usual causes of death for Coach Dad. 

Personally, I'm reluctant to admit it but, aside from Coach Dad, I'm probably a cross between all of these types of parents.  Anyway, did I leave out any playground stereotypes here?  Are these types of parents only indigenous to Manhattan? What about where you live?  And what playground parent stereotype are YOU?

MetroDad Ipsa Loquitur

Disclaimer: When I was twelve, I was forced to study Latin in school.  The "powers that be" thought it was an excellent means of teaching both vocabulary and etymology to young nerds like myself.  Thankfully, my Latin teacher was a young woman with a funny sense of humor so we always used to play games where we'd modify or make up our own Latin phrases.  It was all very "Dead Poets Society." 

Anyway, this random post is in her honor.  Wherever you are, Ms. Allison, thanks for making 7th grade a little more bearable!

DOMINO VOBISCUM ("The pizza guy is here!")

It's almost axiomatic to state that, when dealing with a toddler, you have to pick and choose your battles.  Do you want to fight over what she's going to wear?  Over when she's going to take a bath?  Or over how long before she has to go to bed? 

Personally, I battle with the Peanut over ALL those issues.  So when it comes to feeding her, I often feel like taking the path of least resistance.  These days, BossLady and I don't care WHAT she eats...as long as she eats it without complaining! 

Unfortunately, in the real world, this means that I'm alternately feeding my daughter a steady diet of pizza, mac-and-cheese, and cupcakes.  It just hit me today that I actually can't remember the last time she ate a vegetable or a single piece of fruit.  Seriously!  Am I a bad father?

And more importantly, do you think it's possible for 2.5 year-olds from Tribeca to get scurvy? 

IDIOS AMIGOS ("My friends and I are idiots.")

Sometimes I look at myself and my friends, and I'm simply amazed.  We're all in our late 30's and, on the surface, we're all successful productive members of society with children and mortgages.  So how come we're still all so juvenile? 

Last Saturday, a buddy and I took our kids up to a park in the South Bronx for a little picnic.  While drinking his apple juice, my buddy's kid accidentally burped so loudly that the Peanut started laughing her ass off.  So, for the next 15 minutes, my buddy and I ingested a liter of Diet Coke and regaled the kids with some non-stop belching.  Things really got crazy when we started farting on the kids' hands.  All four of us were laughing so hard that we had tears streaming down our faces!

I didn't think anything of it until we got home and the Peanut ratted me out.  When the BossLady asked the Peanut how our day was, my little daughter immediately yelled out, "Daddy burped and tooted on my hand!"

Needless to say, I felt like the biggest 3-year-old in history.  Mature, eh?  

CARNE DIEM ("Seize the Meat!")

Up until recently, I've always done a modified version of the Atkins diet.  I would literally eat 3-4 steaks per week.  Over the past few months, I've been eating so much steak that it got to the point where my favorite waiter from the steakhouse around the corner didn't even have to ask me what I wanted.  We'd just make eye contact across the room and he'd know what to bring me.  Embarrassing but true. 

However, I've finally reached a point where I decided that life wasn't worth living if I couldn't eat bagels, pizza, sushi, or my buddy Rocco's homemade gnocchi.  So now I'm doing a modified version of the Zone Diet.  The only problem?  BossLady has decided that SHE wants to try Atkins. So while I'm sitting there picking at my frisee salad with goat cheese, she's chomping down on some scrumptious short ribs. 

Man, if there's one thing I miss about my youth, it's the ability to eat everything I wanted and still not gain a single ounce of fat.  Now, I have to constantly watch what I eat AND work out like a madman.  Anyone know where the heck my metabolism went?  I'm thinking about issuing an Amber Alert for it. 

QUIP PRO QUO (to be filed under "Overheard in New York")

Tuesday evening was one of those gorgeous May nights that were made for baseball so, at the last minute, I decided to head out to Shea Stadium by myself for the Mets-Cubs game.

I love going to Shea.  It truly attracts almost every single type of person that you could ever imagine: tough homeboys, butch lesbians, young families, Asian nerds, spicy boriquas, WASP bankers, Italian goombas...you name it.  Sometimes, people-watching at Shea is more entertaining than the game itself. 

Sitting by myself in the stands, I overheard the following comments:

"Why can't I get another hot dog? It's not like it's going to make me any fatter!"---fat kid to his mother

"Get that goddamn pink shit away from me!"---tough drunk guy to the cotton candy vendor

"C'mon! My freaking grandma pitches better than that...and she's been dead for 20 years!---heckler

You gotta love New York baseball fans.  They're truly like no other fans around the country.  Anyway, BossLady and I are headed out to Shea tonight for the Subway Series against the Yankees.  Hopefully, my Mets will sweep those crosstown posers.  (You feeling me, Chag and Hank?)

CAVEAT EMPTY ("Beware of returning empty-handed.")

Quick question---Do other men occasionally buy clothes for their wives?  Sometimes if I'm out by myself and I see a cool shirt or a funky dress that would look great on the BossLady, I'll get it for her.  I mentioned this to a buddy of mine last week and he thought it was the weirdest thing that he'd ever heard of.  Is it?  I can't be the only guy who does this, right?  Seriously?

DICTUM FACTUM ("When it's all said and done")

The Peanut is at an age now where I am simply amazed at the things that come out of her mouth.  Often times, she'll be so excited that she speaks in total gibberish.  Other times, she elucidates thoughts so clearly, I feel like I'm speaking to a 40-year-old.  It's downright freaky I tell you.  Herewith are some recent pearls that have come out of the Peanut's mouth.

"Go away, daddy. I need to be alone right now."

"Are you going to the office, daddy?  Bring home my computer, ok?"

"We're going to the restaurant?  Can I get some edamame and miso soup, please?"

Two seconds later, she'll revert to being a babbling toddler again.  Like nothing ever happened!  It's the strangest thing. Sometimes, I half-expect her to turn to us and say, "Ok, guys. I'm going out for a drive. See you later. Don't wait up!" 

Man, it really is true what they say about having kids---the days may be long but the years sure do go by fast.  

Mother's Day 2007: Ex Post Facto

It's a well-established fact that you dearly love your wife and mother. 

However, your daughter is only 2 1/2 years old and your only sibling has decided to spend the weekend partying with friends in Vegas.  Therefore, the entire Mother's Day holiday falls squarely on your broad shoulders.   

Ignoring your pleas to sleep in until noon, your daughter instead chooses to wake up at 6:30 am. Determined to let your wife sleep in, you drag yourself out of bed to make waffles for your daughter.  After an hour of throwing play-dough at each other while watching "The Sound of Music," you decide to go out and walk the dog.  The only problem is that your daughter insists on pushing her baby doll in her stroller; so a normally 5-minute walk around the block ends up taking you 45 minutes.

You drop the dog off and then go out again to buy your wife some coffee and breakfast.  Then, it's over to the flower store to buy some lilies.  After that, you run over to Kinkos to print out some Mother's Day photos and make a homemade card.  In the store, your daughter knocks over two store displays and gets her fingers stuck in some packing tape. You decide to pick her and everything else up and go back home.  By the time you enter your building, you look like an overloaded yuppie Sherpa carrying Ivanka Trump's wardrobe up Mt. Everest.

However, it's all worth it when, at 10:00, you and your daughter jump into bed and wake up your beautiful wife.  While changing your daughter's diaper, you tried to explain the concept of Mother's Day to her.  Somewhere in your tiredness, you must have made a comparison to birthdays.  Now, your daughter is cheerfully singing, "happy birthday to you" to your wife.  You both laugh at her silliness.

Because you love your wife, you announce to her that the entire day is hers for the taking.  Never missing the opportunity to take you up on your offer, she cheerfully announces that you will all be going to Target.  Although you too are a fan of the giant discount store located in nearby NJ, the last time you and your wife were there together, it cost you over $250 and took over three hours.  You never knew how much stuff there was that you never knew you needed!

The Target venture goes relatively smoothly...except for the fact that your daughter sits in a puddle of soda and soaks herself completely.  Thankfully, you're at Target so you can pick a new outfit out for her.  While you select an adorable floral print dress, your daughter chooses a Little Mermaid Ariel bathing suit, replete with an attached tutu.  An argument ensues and you get a brief glimpse of what life will be like during her teenage years!

Afterwards, you decide to take advantage of the fact that you are in NJ by going to not ONE but TWO different Asian food markets. One is Japanese. The other is Korean. Both are completely packed with your fellow Asians. Apparently, nothing says "Happy Mother's Day" like kimchi and fried gyoza.

You then head to one of your favorite secret NYC-area spots, a private non-profit nature preserve with over 65 acres of wildlife trails.  For two hours, you hike through the forests and marvel at the sheer beauty of the gorgeous day.  Unfortunately, 20 minutes into your hike, your daughter gets scared by a squirrel and insists that you carry her for the rest of the time. By the time you finish hiking, your back is sore and you feel like Larry Bird in the '92 NBA playoffs. 

Somehow, your daughter has managed to cover herself completely in dirt.  Her pockets are filled with acorns. And when you take off her diaper, you're not entirely suprised to find twigs in there.  You wipe her down with some wipes and put on her new dress from Target.

Back in the car, you entertain your daughter by singing "So Long, Farewell" while your beautiful wife wraps presents and writes out cards for your father (birthday) and for your mother (mother's day.)  You drive 20 miles to an amazing Japanese restaurant where you all enjoy a multi-generational family gathering.  Your daughter behaves surprisingly well, except for the moment when she leaves the table and decides to lie down by the hostess stand to take a quick nap. 

Finally, you drive back to Manhattan.  You drop off the groceries.  You return the car to the garage.  You go walk the dog again.  When you get back home, you assume your daughter will already be asleep.  Instead, she is racing her Hot Wheels cars all around the apartment.  The dress that she hated from Target?  She now refuses to take off and is insisting that everyone watch some more "Sound of Music" before she'll go to bed.  Too tired to put up a fight, you acquiesce. 

Soon after, your wife also goes to bed.  You turn on the TV to watch highlights of the Mets game. You think about the day's events and you decide to write a blog entry.  While writing it, you realize that although your day was completely exhausting, you come to understand that these are the types of days that you will cherish forever.  You remember how lucky you are to have such a fantastic wife who is an even better mother.  You remember how your daughter will never be two years old again and that this really is a great age to be her father.  You think about your own mother and are grateful not only for everything she's ever done for you but also for the person that she's helped you become.

In the end, you realize that this was the greatest Mother's Day you've ever had...even though you're not a mom.  Maybe it's not such a Hallmark holiday after all.

Happy Mother's Day, BossLady!  Look, we made a toddler!  Holy crap!

Hope all you mothers out there had a great Mother's Day as well!

A MetroDad Scare!

I'm generally not a big fan of doctors.

Sure, I have a team of top-notch Manhattan dermatologists working on retainer to preserve the luxuriant hair on my head that nourishes my sense of self-worth.  And yeah, it's true that my wife and I spend so much money on our allergist that he named his last boat after us.  But, in general, I tend to avoid all doctors like the plague, the IRS, and crazy ex-girlfriends.

Now, despite the fact that I have an executive desk-jockey lifestyle, I tend to only monitor my health by either checking WebMD or rifling through old issues of Men's Health when I'm on the toilet.

(By the way, anyone ever read the teaser headlines on today's health magazines? Is it me or are they written for a new generation of psychosomatics?  "Toothpaste: The Silent Killer!" or "Why Popcorn Will Kill You!")

However, this past weekend, I had a scare that has frightened me into the loving arms of modern medicine. 

Over the course of my Asia trip, I hadn't been feeling that great. I had some pains in my chest that usually went away after I popped some aspirin or some Pepcid AC.  I figured I'd get myself thoroughly checked out when I returned.  I arrived home on Thursday night and made an appointment to see my doctor on Monday.

However, on Saturday morning, the chest pains were so severe that I started freaking out.  I'll level with you, my friends.  I thought this was The Big One!  My whole life started flashing before my very eyes. I was like an Asian Redd Foxx, grasping at my chest and telling Lamont that "this is it!"

BossLady and I immediately jumped in a taxi and headed to the nearest emergency room.  Unfortunately, the closest hospital is basically a Chinatown clinic.  Nothing seemed to be working. The staff literally had a hard time locating a functioning thermometer.  And more importantly, none of the staff seemed to be in any hurry.  It was like I was inconveniencing them because they hadn't finished their morning coffee or had a chance to work on the daily word jumble.  I thought I was going to die before the asshats figured out how to spell "pumpkin!"

On a side note, I just finished reading an interesting article in The New Yorker deconstructing the state of modern criminal forensics.  Basically, the piece discussed how the prevailing popularity of the C.S.I. television series has drastically altered the weight that real-life judges and juries place on forensic evidence.  However, the true reality is that forensic science is, at best, still a VERY primitive field that rarely produces definitive results (the sole exception being some types of DNA testing.)

Likewise, my general view of hospitals and medicine is predicated on hours of watching ER, House, Grey's Anatomy, St.Elsewhere, and Doogie Howser.  In fact, my prototypical doctor is none other than Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy, the brilliant and caring physician who could always immediately cure anything from alien clap to Vulcan blue balls! 

From television, I've come to believe that doctors are beautiful godlike figures who come down from Mount Stethoscope to cure our afflictions with their Hippocratic magic and absolute professionalism. 

Friends, I don't know if you've been in the ER lately but nothing could be further from the truth!

After being thrown in a gown made out of tissue paper and a Wonder Bread twist, I was summarily ignored for 8 hours.  Finally, despite not having any discussions with a REAL doctor, the ER staff alerted me that I was going to be admitted overnight. No explanations. No further testing. No nothing!

Since we were all in a sheer panic, my parents called a family friend who is one of the top diagnosticians in Manhattan.  He immediately called me and told me to discharge myself immediately.  I believe his exact words were, "You live in a city that has 2 or 3 of the best hospitals in the entire country.  You're having chest pains.  What the fuck are you waiting for?  A tunnel with some light at the end of it?  Get your ass up to Mt. Sinai immediately!"

By the time I got uptown, the ER staff had already been alerted to my arrival.  I was immediately given a new EKG.  Blood was drawn and sent to the lab. And arrangements were made for a full cardio-pulmonary cat scan.

For three whole days, I was poked, prodded, scanned, and examined.  The good news is that my pains don't seem to have been cardiac-related.  The bad news is that they can't figure out what's causing them.  Nor can they figure out what's causing the release of certain enzymes in my blood.  Not the most reassuring news but not the worst thing to hear either. 

Today, I'm generally feeling better. I'm a little weak from all the blood that's been drawn from me and I'm exhausted from being woken up every 3 hours.  However, I'm gladder than hell to be back home with BossLady and the Peanut. 

Those of you who have been coming here for awhile know that I'm pretty much a "carpe diem" kind of guy. I have an enthusiastic love of life and I don't want to leave this world anytime soon.  However, when you're hooked up to an EKG and your wife and daughter are sitting by your hospital bedside, you tend to remember that life is a gift more fleeting than the career of the Pussy Cat Dolls. 

And you realize that you can't truly enjoy the ride when warning lights keep flashing on the dashboard. 

So hopefully, it'll turn out that the raw blowfish I had in a Hong Kong sushi bar is playing games with my nervous system.  Or maybe I'm just allergic to lychee martinis.  Either way, I remain confident that my doctors will figure it all out sooner or later. 

I'll bet their last boat on it.

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I'll keep you posted on my status but thanks for all the e-mails concerning my absence.  I love the fact that you all treat me like the old lady who lives next door.  If you don't see her for awhile, you knock on her door to make sure she's not trapped under something heavy or hasn't been attacked by the cats.  Y'all are good people, yo!  I also promise to answer as many mailbag questions as I can this week.  Some of them had me laughing my ass off...proving once again that my readers are the coolest, nicest, weirdest, smartest, and geekiest people around.  God bless!