MetroDad

Sleeping Commando!

Sorry I haven't updated the blog in awhile. The "real feel" temperature in NYC has been in the mid 90's over the past week and the MetroDad family has been without any A/C. The contractors working on the building's roof are behind schedule so the water cooler hasn't been turned on yet. Hence, we're not allowed to turn on the air conditioning until the end of the week. Since it's hard to write when sweat keeps hitting your keyboard, I apologize for being a little remiss in keeping up the blog.

If you happened to be roaming around in Tribeca and somehow walked into our apartment at any time over the past week, you'd think that we were the founding members of a new Asian-American urban nudist colony. The heat and humidity are so sweltering that, as soon as we all get home, we immediately take off our clothes and rush to take a cool shower. Yesterday found myself, BossLady, the Peanut and our French Bulldog all in the shower at the same time. Good clean family fun.

The Peanut handles the heat better than the rest of us. Being only 8 months old, she loves being naked all the time. Want to see her scream? Try putting a top over her head. For that one nano-second that she can't see, you'd think we were torturing her. But she's figured out that the heat means she gets to sleep in only her diapers so she's pretty thrilled about that. It's pretty likely that we'll never get her in pajamas again.

The BossLady and I aren't doing quite as well. The heat has exiled us from our bedroom and we're now sleeping on the floor of our living room with several fans pointing in our general direction. Last night, I even put a couple ice packs under my pillow. It's like some sort of freak urban camping experience. It fucking sucks. I can't even enjoy being next to my naked wife because skin-on-skin contact seems to raise the temperature another 10 degrees.

And you want to know the worst part of all this? There's nothing on TV! Last night's choices were "The Unauthorized Story of Mork & Mindy," "Fire Me, Please," and "The World According to Jim." You want to know what's worse than watching "The World According to Jim"? Watching "The World According to Jim" with sweat dripping down your ass!

See you in a few days!

The Dingo Ate My Baby!!!

You know, I've always believed that a nation's language revealed a lot about its citizens.  And of all the world's langauges, I love what the American version of English says about us as a people.   

Firstly, no other language embraces the world as English does.  We adopt and borrow words from different cultures, just as we adopt and borrow different ideas and trends.  Did you know that the word "ketchup" came to us via Eastern China (where it actually meant fish brine?)  Did you know that more Americans eat salsa than ketchup these days?  How cool is that?    

And show me another language that can use the word "dog" as a noun, a verb AND an adjective?  And then have completely different meanings for the words "hotdog" and "hot-dog"? 

Did you also know that no other language has the sheer volume of words as English?  Did you know that there are fewer than 100,000 words in the French langauge but, according to OED, there are over 900,000 words in the English langauge? (Yeah, baby!  U.S.A.!  U.S.A.!)

Anyway, as an amateur lexicographer, I've always been amazed at the number of words created to describe our individual fears.  For example, we have...

Anuptaphobia- Fear of staying single.
Automatonophobia- Fear of ventriloquist's dummies or wax statues
Paraskavedekatriaphobia- Fear of Friday the 13th
Pteronophobia- Fear of being tickled by feathers.
Spheksophobia- Fear of wasps (the animals, not the people)
Ichthyophobia- Fear of fish

Anyway, I bring all of this up because Best Life magazine just published the results of a poll they took regarding the Greatest Fear that Men have regarding their Preteen/Teenage Child.  Here were the results:

He/she will be killed or seriously injured in a car accident:    30%
He/she will abuse drugs or alcohol:    23%
He/she will not succeed in school:    19%
He/she will become sexually active too soon:    17%
He/she will be greatly affected if we get divorced:     4%
He/she will hate me:    3%
He/she may be gay:    2%
He/she will not practice safe sex:    2%

It's ironic to me that, since becoming a father, I've developed a whole new set of fears.  I've never really been one to fear anything in my life.  I'm not afraid of challenges or confrontations, and I'm always willing to try anything once.  But bringing a new life into the world certainly changes all that in a hurry.  As the Peanut gets older, I'm sure I'll be facing all of the above fears soon enough.  But right now, my little 7-month old girl needs the protection of her parents.  Because she's so helpless, I sometimes find myself thinking about all the possible fears that I have for her.  Some of them are absolutely inane like my fear that she'll be eaten by a dingo, my fear that she'll be kidnapped by a pack of ninjas or my fear that she'll grow up to be a stripper.

But more seriously, what about the fears that I have about the Peanut's safety, her health, her education and the state of the world?   Really, this is just the tiny tip on top of the tip of the iceberg's tip.  The actual number of irrational fears that I have about raising a child is pretty much endless.  And in some sort of apparently misguided attempt to soothe my fears, the shrink says that these worries will pretty much last forever.  (Great!  That advice helps a lot. Can I have my fucking money back, please?)  I've surprisingly chilled out a little bit over the past few months.  But at the beginning of BossLady's pregnancy, I was a fucking lunatic.  I'm getting better so I assume that's just part of one's maturation as a parent.  I guess the sooner one accepts that the worrying will never go away, the sooner one can deal with the realities of watching your child grow up.  Every stage will bring a new set of fears.  Great! 

As the wise man once said, "we've got nothing to fear but fear itself." 

But then again, the wise man never had a daughter or met my friend KH.  My buddy KH, the father of 2 boys, recently dropped a pearl of wisdom on me.  He said, "You know.  When you have a son, you only have to worry about one penis.  But when you have a daughter, you have to worry about ALL of them." 

Thanks, dude!  But since my daughter is only 7-months old, for now, I've got enough to worry about. I'm going to put off my fears about her actually being old enough to date...for at least another year or two.

So what about you?  What fears (rational or not) do you have?  about your kids or anything else?  C'mon, Internet.  An inquiring mind wants to know. 

Dante's 10th Circle of Hell

In case I hadn't mentioned it, BossLady and I enrolled the Peanut in daycare about a month ago. And not entirely unsurprisingly, the Peanut is flourishing there. She's extremely well-socialized, sleeps great and has the happiest disposition one could ever hope for. The kid is literally all smiles, all the time. But of course, there's a downside. And right now, that downside is kicking my ass.

The problem, my friends, is that the Peanut has become a living repository for every airborne germ floating in the Tri-State Metropolitan region. Protected and immunized by her mother's breast milk, the Peanut instead throws viral bacteria around like used pacifiers. Seriously, I think someone needs to take a look at her. She's a living Petri dish. As much as it pains me to say this, I think her kisses might be laced with botulism.

The BossLady and I are caught up in this vicious cycle right now where we're alternating being sick. Her turn was last week. But then by Friday evening, she finally started feeling better. Over the weekend, we had dinner with friends, went out for brunch, saw Christo's Gates in Central Park, and had a beautifully romantic Valentine's dinner at our favorite restaurant. We came home, kissed the Peanut while she slept, and hit the sack...only to both wake up feeling like hell warmed over.

It's like a cruel joke, people. If it weren't so unbelievable, we probably wouldn't believe it ourselves. For the past 4 weeks, either BossLady or I have been sick. This hellish cycle is like Wagner's Nibelungen! We're in tortuous misery and we have no idea when it's going to end. Meanwhile, the Peanut just looks at us and smiles.

Now, I'm not one of those guys who turns into a whimpering baby when he gets sick. No, not me. Years of watching Dr. Marcus Welby, Dr. Doogie Howser and Dr. Mark Green have convinced me that I already know everything I need to know about modern medicine. Besides, it's a well-known fact that one need not ever go to a doctor now because WebMD is just as good. So when it comes to the common cold, I just self-medicate myself and create my own old wive's tales on how I can make myself feel better. How, you may ask? Well, my thought process usually goes something like this...

Well, alcohol kills bacteria, right? If so, then a good shot of scotch should help me feel better. It'll also probably help me get to sleep. Double bonus. Hmm..the Nyquil package says I should take 2 doses? Well, inductive reasoning states that if 2 doses are good, then 4 doses must be twice as good, right? Down the hatch! But ughh..this cough is killing me. I need to get all this phlegm out of my chest. Hmm...a cigarette would probably loosen that up. The smoke should be a natural expectorent and clear up my chest in no time. I'm a genius! Who needs doctors?

Unfortunately, I haven't been able to put my self-realized action plan into effect yet. So I'm still feeling like a stuffed-up turd. I won't complain but I am going to be in a seriously convalescent state for the next few days so you might not hear from me for a little while.

But today is Valentine's Day. And though I like to think that I'm a pretty tough guy, at heart I will always and forever be a hopeless romantic. So despite my current state of decrepitude, I want to wish my lovely wife, the BossLady, a very happy (and healthy) Valentine's Day. Thanks for saying "yes" four years ago, honey. You're my best friend, lover and soulmate. I look forward to watching the grass grow with you over the years.

And also, a special Valentine's Day wish to my little 18 week-old daughter, the Peanut. What can I say, kiddo. You've been hanging around for a little over 4 months now and you've captured my heart in ways that I never imagined. I think we're going to keep you. Seriously, you're the greatest little bundle of joy I could ever ask for. I know you didn't meant to inflict me with Legionnaire's Disease. I probably shouldn't have been kissing your face non-stop while boogers were flowing from your nose. But what can I say? I've always been a sucker for a pretty face. Ask your mama.

And from all of us to all of you...Happy Valentine's Day. May you celebrate this Hallmark-created holiday with grotesque displays of commercialism and indulgence like the rest of us.

There's no crying in baseball (or is there?)

Fatherhood has made me soft.

Don't get me wrong. Prior to the birth of my daughter, it's not like I was a stone-faced, cold-hearted neanderthal. And I certainly wasn't one of those beer-drinking, backwards baseball cap-wearing, date-raping frat boys. Nor was I ever one of those pseudo-tough, misogynistic, ego-driven wannabe playboys.

In fact, I've always been a fairly sensitive, deep thinking and self-aware kind of guy. I have a pretty high emotional I.Q. and generally have very healthy relationships with all those around me. And yes, I like gourmet food, fine clothing, and days at the spa. But make no mistake, people. I've always been a guy's guy, a real man's man. I've always worked hard, lived hard and played hard. I've always loved sports, thrived on competition and searched for adventure. I can eat a 32 oz. porterhouse in my sleep, wash it down with a bottle of scotch, smoke a pack of Marlboros, and wake up in the morning to play hoops all day. I drive fast, love classic Rock, and pee standing up. Hell, I can count the number of times I've cried in public on one hand...when I was at Shea Stadium and the Mets won the World Series in '86, while in the movie theater watching "The Champ", and during my 14 year-old cousin's funeral after he lost a long battle to leukemia. When I lost one of my best friends during 9/11, I cried everywhere and anywhere, all the time.

But now, my friends? I'm a withering willow of whimpering wussiness. Man, I cry at the drop of a hat now! I don't know what's come over me. I started crying tears of joy at the birth of my daughter 14 weeks ago and I haven't stopped since. It's not like I'm walking around and sobbing hysterically all the time. It's more like my eyes will immediately well up with tears if I hear anything even remotely sad or tragic in regards to children. For example, I can't even have cereal in the morning anymore because I can't stand looking at the missing kids on the side of the milk carton. Or when the BossLady tells me about the episode of Oprah highlighting the plethora of orphaned girls in China? Just hearing about that gets me all choked up and makes me want to jump on a plane and adopt all of them.

So, needless to say, hearing about the tsunami's effect on children is killing me! I'm using all my willpower not to have my paychecks sent to Save the Children via direct deposit. It's bad enough that every time I watch the news, I find myself grabbing my wallet and looking for the phone. But last night's televised Tsunami Aid was a major tearjerker. I think the broadcast was put together by the same people who produced "Rudy", "Hoosiers", and "Brian's Song." It was a good thing they showed live music in between all those human-interest sob stories. It gave me just enough time to choke on my Adam's apple, wipe my eyes with my sleeve and have another sip of scotch.

Anyway, what I'd like to know is...has fatherhood turned me into a blubbering wuss for good? or will my masculinity come back and I'll soon return to the days where I only tear up during a really good sports film? Please tell me, Internet. I need to know.

Adieu, Ma Jeunesse! (Farewell, Youth!)

Not to be overly sappy here but I have to admit that parenthood has made me a better person. When the Peanut looks up at me and smiles, all I want to do is save the world and convince everyone to have children. That's a natural feeling for most new parents, isn't it?

But the birth of the Peanut has also forced me to face the twin peaks of Responsibility AND Maturity. Simply put, I'm a father now. And being a father means that I have to be THE ADULT. Though I'm 36 years old, I've never really thought of myself as the adult. Despite all the responsibilities in my personal life, I've always considered myself more of an overgrown kid. But now that I'm a father, I need to "set an example for the children." I also need to avoid putting myself at any personal risk that would jeopardize my ability to take care of my daughter.

That being said, I'm starting to realize that there are many things I've done in the past that can no longer happen again. Many of these vagaries can be attributed to the indiscretions of youth. But, off the top of my head, it's pretty safe to say that I'll never do the following again...

1. Spontaneously drive from Washington, DC to Graceland at 2:00 am in order to pay homage to The King.

2. Spontaneously drive from NYC to Philadelphia at 2:00 am in order to pay homage to Geno's Cheesesteaks.

3. Drive cross-country with only $75.00 in my wallet and a map of Motel 6 locations. (Did you know that you can write I.O.U.s at most of the nation's toll booths?)

4. Ski down the Italian Alps while absolutely drunk because you and your best friend decided it "wouldn't hurt to have a little early lunch and a few bottles of wine" on top of the mountain's peak at 10:00 am. It hurt.

5. Croon Frank Sinatra songs while standing on top of a car in Berkeley, CA at 3:00 am. Get thrown into a holding cell with one of my best friends. Spend the next 2 hours singing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot" and "We Shall Overcome" at the top of my lungs.

I'm sure that there are many other things that I won't be doing again now that I'm a father. And though a large part of that has to do with being a mature and responsible adult, an even larger part has to do with the fact that I need to be there for my daughter at all times...in every way, shape or form. I'm her protector and I can't take any careless risks that would prevent me from taking care of her.

I think a friend of mine said it best when we were skiing a few years ago; "when I look down a mountain now, I no longer see challenge or adventure. I see loss of income potential."

I don't miss the carefree, risk-filled days of my 20's. Like I'd always suspected, I can see how much more rewarding life is now that I'm in my 30's with a beautiful wife and child. Sure, waking up at 4:00 am to calm a fussy baby isn't a lot of fun. But when you've helped your infant daughter get through the night and she rewards you with a big smile? There are very few things in life as thrilling as that.

It's funny. Because although I don't miss those old days, it seems like they were just around the corner. But the reality is that I'm closer to being 40 than I am to being 25. Scary, eh? It's like the sign in the car says, "Objects in the mirror may appear closer than they are. Exercise caution."

Sound advice. But I want to hear from you, people. What will YOU never do again now that you're a parent and responsible for another human being?

Fatherhood & the Fraternity of Man

For the past few days, I've been struggling to find the words to express not only my sadness and empathy for all the Tsunami victims in Asia but also my utter joy and elation over becoming a father this past year. As the new year dawns, I'm having a hard time reconciling these opposing feelings so excuse me if this entry seems somewhat disjointed.

For those of you who have been reading this parenting blog, I don't think I have to tell you that having a baby girl this past year has changed my life. Aside from my wedding day, the Peanut's birth was the single greatest day of my life. I'm absolutely crazy in love with my little 13-week old daughter. She's absolutely wonderful and I love her more than I ever thought I was capable of. If it's even possible, I think I love her more every single day. I'd kill or die for her. And if anything ever happened to her, my grief would be greater than the depths of Hades.

They say that the tsunami's death toll will easily surpass 150,000 people. Of that, it's estimated that half of the casualties are children. Even more have become orphans.

Now I'm generally one of the more optimistic people you'll ever meet. I'm cynical as hell but I've got a fairly bright outlook on life and I try to live my life to the absolute fullest. When I was 17, a drunk taxi driver slammed into my tin-can Honda, sending me into a massive tailspin and completely totalling my car. The policemen investigating the scene told me that if the point of impact had been about a foot away, I would have been crushed to death. Instead, I walked away without a scratch.

When I was 21, I was held hostage at gunpoint by a lunatic who had gone off his meds. He had a small aresenal of weapons with him and was firing them randomly. Friends on both sides of me were shot. After 4 hours, I escaped by jumping out a window. After another 4 hours, a S.W.A.T. team came in and took the guy out. Again, I walked away without a scratch.

When I was 26, I was on a business trip in Sri Lanka. I'd been there a week and decided to leave a day earlier to head back to the U.S. The day after I left, bombs were detonated at both the airport and the hotel where I had been staying. Once more, I was lucky to be alive.

So needless to say, I'm generally not one who takes life for granted. It can all be taken away so quickly. Every day, I'm grateful for being alive and for having a wonderful wife and a beautiful, healthy baby girl. Life is fucking short, my friends. Live it up. Dance naked. Carpe Diem. And like the saying goes, "don't sweat the petty things. And don't pet the sweaty things."

As I look around the blogosphere, I see a lot of posts about New Year's resolutions. Or about the kids opening their Christmas presents. And maybe fatherhood has made me a little more emotional than usual but I'm surprised more parents with children aren't viewing the tragedy in Asia and realizing just how fortunate they are. My heart goes out to all the victims. Being a new father, I'm filled with sadness at the destructiveness the tsunami has wreaked on thousands of families. I can't stop thinking about the children.

One of my best friends narrowly escaped death this past week. He and his girlfriend were supposed to be in Phuket, Thailand for vacation. They go there several times a year and always stay at the same hotel. But this year, at the last minute, they ended up changing their itinerary to Indonesia. Fortunately, when the tsunami struck, they were on the other side of the Sumatra and were unaffected. However, the hotel that they were going to stay at in Thailand was decimated. The guests who were staying in their room were killed by the tsunami.

He wrote me the following e-mail that I received two days ago...

"I wish you all a healthy and happy New Year. Please realize how lucky we all are and so fortunate to have our families, our friends and our homes. Not forgetting these blessings will be my resolution this year and I will take more time to be thankful for everything I have. It could be gone from one minute to another so we have to appreciate what we’ve been given."

I think that's the best New Year's resolution I've heard yet. So I pass it on to all of you and wish you and your families all the best for the coming year. May we all realize how lucky and fortunate we are. And in the coming year, let's remember to help those less fortunate than us.

As the ancient philospher Seneca once said, "Dum inter homines sumus, colamus humanitatem"
(As long as we are among humans, let us always be humane.)

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Bright Lights, Big City

You never had a real Christmas tree when you were a kid. Your childhood memories are filled with images of yourself as young boy, lugging from the basement the artificial tree that you had to beg your parents to buy. Every year, you put the tree up by yourself and solemnly trim it with your own decorations. And though there are never any presents under the tree, you figure that Santa is just waiting until the last possible moment. So on Christmas morning, you eagerly awaken and run to the tree that you erected by yourself in anticipation of this very moment. Underneath the tree, you find an envelope with your name on it. Imagining what kind of toy would fit in an envelope, you tear it open excitedly, only to discover a signed check from your parents. And though you're only 8 years old, you're not angry. You're just disappointed because you know your parents don't really understand what Christmas means to a young boy. But right there and then, you swear quietly to yourself that things will be much different when you have your own child.

It's over 25 years later. You're married to the BossLady and you have your own family now. Together, the two of you have a beautiful 10-week old daughter who melts your hearts with her smile. You remember your pledge to make Christmas a special event for your child so you decide to find her the greatest and grandest Christmas tree possible.

But you live in New York City. It's not like anywhere else in the country. And though you've lived all over the country, you still have antiquated notions of how your fellow citizens live. In your mind's eye, you have visions of people driving into the forest with their pick-up trucks and chopping down their own fir trees. You picture families in minivans, heading out to the local tree farm with Grandma while drinking apple cider and singing Christmas carols.

But things are different here in New York City. Here, you and your lovely wife head over to a nearby street corner, where a bunch of trees are lined up on the sidewalk. The annual tree lots are set up all over the city by enterprising Canadians or hustling New Yorkers. Starting in November, the sellers camp out in parked trucks 24 hours/day and sell trees around the clock to disgruntled New Yorkers desperate for some Christmas cheer. You wonder to yourself who the hell would camp out around the clock for a whole month in order to sell Christmas trees. But then you realize that the more important question is who the fuck would pay $20/foot for a Christmas tree? Like everything else in the big city, Christmas don't come cheap.

It's bad enough that you have to buy your tree on a street corner in front of a nail salon. But then you remember that buying a tree on the streets of New York is like conducting an undercover drug deal. No price is ever final until the cash and merchandise have exchanged hands. The cynic in you secretly hopes that the requisite Christmas tree haggling is some sort of historical homage to Jesus' days in downtown Jerusalem. But you know that you're not that lucky. So you go up to the gum-chewing, flannel-wearing, goatee-sporting, wanna-be-Green Day-looking, Canadian punk and start your negotiations. ("Yo, I'll give you $120 for the Douglas or $100 for the Balsam. What about those Noble firs? Got any of those? I'll pay double. $200? Fuck you! I can get 'em down the street for half that!")

After negotiating for your tree, you then haul it several blocks down the street to your apartment building. But the amazing thing is that, during these several blocks, the tree actually grows disproportionately. So after dragging it up to your apartment, you find that it's too tall for your Manhattan abode. You trim the top of the tree with a Peter Luger's steak knife while standing on your couch and having the dog pee on your leg. Meanwhile, the needles have scattered all over your apartment and your cashmere sweater is covered in sap.

You put up all the lights and decorations only to realize that your tree looks like a Jersey stripper wearing a bikini. In order to make this thing look good, you're going to need to cover it up a lot more. But you're too tired to head over to K-Mart so you go back over to the street corner where you bought the tree and you bargain for some more Christmas lights. You end up paying $20 for lights that you could have gotten for $4. You feel like you're on a bad episode of "The Apprentice."

You and the BossLady spend hours decorating the tree lovingly and with determination. Like you, her past Christmas memories are better off left in the past. So the two of you are are a formidable team. And moments later when you flick on the lights, the tree looks amazing. You're actually stunned by its absolute beauty. And in that one shining moment, you achieve redemption for all your past Christmas memores. You know that things really are different now. So as you and the BossLady stand silently in the dark and look at the fruits of your labor, you start feeling the Christmas spirit swell in your heart. And though your little 10-week old daughter can't truly appreciate it, you and the BossLady both bask in the glow of the lights and know that, like everything else to follow, you did it all for your little Peanut.

But in a way, you did it for yourself too.

(MetroDad, Johnny Walker and Phillip Morris would like to apologize for the lack of humor, sarcasm and caustic wit that this site has been known for. Stay tuned tomorrow when we return to our regularly scheduled programming of poop stories, breast-feeding jokes and parenting rants.)

A Remembrance of Thanksgivings Past

Having grown up as a child of immigrant parents, I always eagerly anticipated celebrating the holidays like most of my classmates. Not that I knew how they actually celebrated the holidays but my perceptions were based on all the novels I'd read or films that I'd seen. In my mind, everyone was celebrating Hallmark-type family holidays except us.

Especially not us. And especially not on Thanksgiving. I do give my mother credit one year for giving into her child's desires and attempting to give me and my brother the Thanksgiving that we always wanted. I was about 6 and had been begging for a real turkey with all the trimmings. My mother, either in a fit of sympathy or a desire to end this whining once and for all, somehow decided that the best way to cook a turkey was to boil it. Needless to say, it was completely inedible. Of all the possible ways to cook a turkey, I think it's pretty safe to say that boiling it is definitely not the way to go. And I'm no gourmet chef but I'm pretty sure you're supposed to remove the feathers first.

Family lore has yet to decide whether she really was that bad of a cook or perhaps, in a move of cunning genius, she was feigning ignorance to ensure that she would never be asked to cook on Thanksgiving again. Either way, her cooking skills led us to decide to have Thanksgiving catered the following year. Apparently, my father had a good year at work and, in his usual manner, decided he could solve all our problems by throwing money at them. This worked out semi-ok. We actually had a real turkey with chestnut stuffing, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie. On the surface, everything was great. But the sad thing was that all this food was prepared for only the four of us in my immediate family. And my parents not being great conversationialists, we mostly ate the meal in an awkward silence as complete strangers served us our meal. I think I spent most of Thanksgiving dinner under the kitchen table talking to one of the busboys. And I don't even speak Spanish.

After that Thanksgiving, we pretty much gave up. The holiday became just an excuse to have a week off from school in November. We celebrated the holiday by taking short vacations or ordering in some Chinese food (because they're the only ones open on major holidays). My brother and I usually ate quickly and retreated into our rooms to read together. And soon after, it became apparent that we might as well just give up on Thanksgiving. It wasn't really working out for us.

Now, I don't know if any of you have friends of Korean ancestry. But let me tell you something. Koreans hold grudges like elephants. If you cross one of them, they'll put a Fatwah on your ass faster than you can say Salman Rushdie. And family members are no exception to this rule. So growing up, my brother and I pretty much never had any interaction with relatives on either side of the family. Everyone was estranged from everyone! I bring this up only because my next Thanksgiving memory occured in my late 20's. By this time, we had renewed the annual dinner and our parents informed us that a few people would be joining us this year. Naturally, we asked who specifically would be joining us. Imagine our surprise when we learned that it would be my father's brother and two cousins WHOM WE NEVER EVEN KNEW EXISTED! Not only did we not know of their existence but it turned out that they lived about 20 minutes away from us and had been living there all of our lives. Since we were so used to the family dysfunction, this didn't really faze me or my brother. We were curious and looking forward to meeting these newly-discovered blood relatives.

Well, it became clear from the start that though we shared the same genetic code, our cousins were much different from us. We were all in our 20's then but that was pretty much where the similarities ended. Somehow, our cousins had become born-again Christians. They were newly bathed in the Glory of God and could not have been more different from me and my brother. While they were good-hearted people, we couldn't get them to open up or talk about ANY other subject besides church. Finally, my brother and I gave up and we started drowning ourselves in one of God's better creations...double scotches.

It was around this time that my brother and I decided to start our own annnual Thanksgiving celebration. We decided to have small post-Thanksgiving dinner parties at our apartment for any of our friends who were free to come by. And since there are more than a few dysfunctional families living in Manhattan, we'd usually end up having about 6-8 friends come over every year. Everyone brought over a bottle of wine or booze, and we'd just hang out and party until the wee hours of the morning. And like they say, friends are the family you choose. So for my brother and I, these were fun-filled festive Thanksgivings that we'll always cherish.

But now, life has changed. I have the greatest partner in life, the BossLady, and every day I realize how lucky we are to have found one another. Together, we're raising a beautiful, healthy 7-week old daughter who can melt the Devil's soul with her smile. And finally, after 36 years, I'm realizing that Thanksgiving isn''t about the turkey, the Pilgrims or a 4-day weekend. It's about taking time to realize all the things we really need to be thankful for. And with a loving wife and a new baby daughter, I realize every day just how much I have to be thankful for. By understanding this, I've learned that every day is Thanksgiving (just with less turkey and Pepto Bismol)

So from myself, the BossLady and the Peanut...Happy Thanksgiving, Internet! What are YOU thankful for?

Human Sacrifice!

No. Not that kind of human sacrifice, you sick fuck! I'm talking about the heartfelt sacrifices that parents make for the unboundless love of their child, not sacrificing female virgins or making little effigies out of fish bones in voodoo rituals. (And for all you weirdos out there who are finding this entry because you're googling "sacrifice female virgins fish bones", please wipe off the black lipstick and leave now!) Anyway, as usual, I digress.

The thought of sacrificing for your child has been on my mind a lot today. According to this past week's NY magazine, the national average cost of raising a child to the age of 18 is $323,975. Since the cost of living index in Manhattan is approximately 3.2 times the national average, the child-raising cost for us could easily reach the $1 million mark. Holy Bling Bling, Batman! Are you fucking kidding me?

$1 million!!! That figure is so staggering and unrealistic that it would be absolutely comedic if it weren't so fucking terrifying. It reminds me of that old saying about Congressional funding, "a billion here, a billion there. Pretty soon, it starts to add up to real money."

Anyway...as I was telling my foodtaster the other day, it's quickly become quite evident to me and the BossLady that some changes are going to have to be made in our household's status quo. The birth of our young heiress is going to force us to seriously alter our lifestyle. No more bathing ourselves in champagne. No more caviar for the dog. And definitely, no more drunken games of "pin the tail on the servant." (I swear I think I saw a tear in the chauffeur's eye. He used to love that game.)

But seriously...I'm so in love with the Peanut that I'd sacrifice everything for her. And although there was one moment last night where I looked in her crib and saw a Porsche and a ski cabin, I would do anything for this girl. The question is HOW! How are BossLady and I going to make the lifestyle changes that will enable the Peanut to reach the age of 18? without dressing her in burlap sacks and mittens made out of old socks?

Well, for starters, we searched around the apartment last night and discovered that we had a kitchen! It's small but there seems to be one device that allows us to keep food cool, and another device that enables us to warm it up. Fucking ingenious! Next thing you know, they'll invent a machine that will wash and dry clothes!

With the recent discovery of the kitchen, the BossLady and I have decided that we need to cook at home more often. Our problem is that, living in NYC, we're surrounded by amazingly cheap food from every region of the world. And all this food can be delivered to your doorstep piping hot in less than 30 minutes! Where else in the world can you do that? Only in NY, baby! Only in NY. Anyway, sacrificing delivery wouldn't be that much of an issue if it weren't for one other problem....the BossLady and I can't cook!!! Well actually, we can both prepare special-occasion meals but we don't know how to prepare everyday food. So like young cubs being thrown into the wild for the first time, we're now forced to fend for ourselves in our newly-discovered kitchen. And just to let you know how things are going so far, over the past few days, we've had the following dinners:

1. Grilled cheese sandwiches
2. Frozen dumplings (twice)
3. Cereal
4. Frozen burrito
5. Microwave buffalo wings
5. Cookies, potato chips and ice cream

But BossLady and I love the Peanut so we're going to have to learn to feed ourselves somtime soon. The ironic thing is that we have a huge collection of cookbooks and tons of recipes clipped from newspaper articles and magazines. Unfortunately, I don't think we're going to have time to prepare the roasted squab with the ragout of chanterelles and shallots anytime soon. No, we're a little busy for that right now.

What I really need is a cookbook for new parents. So I'm throwing out a million dollar idea here for anyone who wants to show some intiative. Create a book of receipes where all the meals can be prepared using only one hand. The meals need to be prepared out of whatever leftovers or frozen foods that are readily available without any advance preparation. No timers can be used because they're hard to hear over a baby's screams. Oh yeah...and all the meals need to take less than 15 minutes to be completed. Can anyone help us? Please? Before the BossLady and I become diabetic or collapse from anaphylactic shock!

(In lieu of suggestive recipes, we'll also welcome donations to "The Help Raise a Child to 18 Fund". All checks should be made out to "Manhattan Porsche")

And many more...

Dear Peanut,

Today we had two milestones. You are officially one month old and I celebrated my 36th birthday. With you joining me and mommy in our lives, I can truly say that this is the happiest time of my life. It's hard to believe that you've only been with us for such a short time!

It was a beautiful Fall day in New York today so we took you out for a long walk downtown. You love being in your stroller. Once you're bundled in, you fall asleep immediately. If we stop walking for even a minute, you open one eye and give us the Korean Death Stare to let us know we better keep moving. Though you're only one month old, it's already clear who's going to be running the show. You truly are Daddy's little girl.

You're such a healthy baby. You look much older than your age and sometimes your mother and I swear that you're going to get up any second and start walking. Like all members of our family, you're a true foodie. Though you've yet to experience the joys of sushi or a great steak, you suck down breast milk like the well is going to run dry. Subsequently, you then make me and your mother laugh hysterically by burping and farting like a truck driver. Sometimes, you're so hungry that you don't even bother waking up to eat.

You love sitting in your swing and staring out into space. You like it when Diego comes up to you and licks your ears. You love being held and listening to 80's music. You love taking baths but you hate getting out of the tub. You hate being swaddled. We could wrap you tighter than a Cuban cigar and you'd still find a way to get out. You also love your grandmas. Sometimes when you're crying and your mother and I can't console you, we'll hand you off to one of your grandmas and you'll stop crying immediately. Your mother and I can't figure out how this works. Maybe it's some sort of grandmother pheromone.

Peanut, I don't want to appear biased or swell your head but you truly are a beautiful baby. Your mother and I spend hours staring at you in amazement. The general consensus is that you resemble me but I'm always amazed at how you have the same exact beautiful lips as your mother. Recently, you're using those lips by learning how to smile. It's funny because you usually prefer frowning. Sometimes you look like a grumpy old man. But once that smile comes out, your mother and I just melt. Your smile is the most life-affirming thing we've ever experienced and give us a greater meaning to our lives than we'd ever known existed.

Everyone told us before you were born that our love for you would be unlike anything we'd ever experienced. And though we heard this a million times, we didn't truly understand it until you came into our lives. In fact, I don't think there's any way to ever understand it until you someday have a child of your own. Your mother and I love you with all our hearts, Peanut. We love you so much we could cry. You are the world to us. And I hope you always know how much we love you (even when you're a teenager and we're the bane of your existence).

Anyway, Peanut....we're pretty new at this parenting thing and we're sure to make some mistakes along the way. We apologize in advance. But don't worry. We'll get through it all together. Because with you in our lives, we've come to appreciate that true happiness is not the destination but the journey. Your mother and I are cherishing every minute of it so far and are looking forward to the rest of the trip.

Happy birthday to us, Peanut! Thanks for being the greatest gift a father could ever ask for!