During a week in which I've mourned the loss of a close friend, gotten my ass kicked at work, and have been afflicted with every airborne virus at the Peanut's daycare center...THIS is just about the only thing that has brought a smile to my face.
Fucking hilarious.
As I've mentioned before, I hate text messaging because every time I'm forced to use it, I feel like a Japanese schoolgirl. All I need is a Picachu or a Hello Kitty knapsack and the transformation will be complete.
Screw that! I'm 37 years old. You want to send me a message? Pick up the phone and call me.
However, I've got an eclectic (ok...weird) set of friends. And most of them continue to text me because they know it annoys the crap out of me. As I was deleting the messages from my phone today, I uncovered some gems from the past year. Here are some of my favorites...
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"Hamptons in a blackout. Send booze."
"THC seems to have had an effect (e or a?)...empirical evidence confirmed by my wife (your behavior, not mine) She says you're 'cute'."
"You still up, old man? I'm around the corner."
"Why does my bathroom smell like Shea Stadium?"
"Can you bring me a Starbucks skim vanilla latte? No, I'm not gay."
"Dirka Dirka...call u later...mad busy sucking the fat out of people."
"Happy New Year from HK! Do you have any resolutions yet? Eat more foie gras has potential."
"Why do I spend every night of my life at Soho House? Don't answer."
"Still in 1st stage of childbirth. Wife is cursing like a fucking motherfucker! Normal?"
"The Eagle has landed. Born 8:07 pm. 7 lb. 13 oz. Scorpio. Year of the cock. Player at Large!"
"U want the shortribs. U need the shortribs."
"Do me a favor. Find out the name of the actor who plays Bunk on The Wire. He's in the bathroom stall next to me!"
"The butler didn't do it."
"Pendaison de cremaillere, bitch!"
"I like poo. Do you?"
"There are no Jewish girls in Wisconsin."
"Ninjas killed my family. Need money for karate lessons."
What's the most random text message that YOU ever received? An inquiring mind wants to know.
*By the way, the idea of posting my text messages came from the indomitable Sarah Brown, who if you're not reading already, you really should be. Have a nice weekend, everyone! Seacrest out!
Two of our best friends recently had their second child.
And since the birth of their first child preceded the Peanut's by almost a year, they have always somewhat served as our parenting guinea pigs. In many ways, they are like our Lewis & Clark, bravely traversing ahead of us on that great continental divide known as Parenthood and selflessly warning us of all the potential pitfalls that we may encounter along the way.
Actually, that might be overstating their importance. Sorry. THIS HEAT IS MAKING ME INSANE AND RUINING ALL MY METAPHORS!
On second thought, they're more like the best friends you call on a Saturday night to ask why your newborn child is filling up her Huggies with what looks like the remains of a Shamrock Shake.
Anyway...like us, our friends were very anxious parents on the first go-around. They read all the parenting books and took all the right classes. No baby-related purchases were made unless they had been researched on Consumer Reports and cross-referenced with the databases of the FDA, the CDC and CPSC. Heck, they even had professional safety experts come to their apartment and ensure that everything was 100% child-proof. It was their first child! Who could blame them?
But for kid #2? Ehh...not so much.
Seriously, we went over there last week and I swear that I saw their newborn baby sucking paper clips out of an electrical socket.
Now, I'm not saying that my friends don't care about their second child. It's just that I think we all eventually learn that much of the anxiety and stress we experienced with the birth of our first child may have been a tad bit out of proportion. That's ok. In reality, that's how it SHOULD be. Having a child for the first time is a major life-altering event and should be undertaken with only the utmost seriousness.
I hear stories all the time about parents obsessively sterilizing for hours and hours anything that came in contact with their first child! By the time the third one comes along, these same parents are licking the germs off the pacifier with their tongues and wiping them off with their shirt. Somehow, it's just not as big a deal anymore.
I've also noticed this phenomenon when it comes to naming one's children. Before the Peanut was born, I'm not kidding when I say that BossLady and I had a huge Excel file listing all of our preferred names by both gender and alphabetical order. We would spend HOURS lying in bed and trying to come up with those "special" names.
But as I look around at couples with multiple kids, I realize that even things like names become less and less important. With the first child, it's always, "Oh, Sweetie! You were named after my favorite relative, Grandma Eden, who lovingly raised me when I was a young child. I'll always have a special place in my heart for her and, when I look at you, I see her beautiful soul shining brightly inside of you."
By the 4th kid, it's like, "Your name? You were named after a fucking sandwich. Now, go get your brothers and sisters, Reuben!"
As for me? Heck, I've only been a parent for 21 months but I can already see that my over-protectiveness of my daughter is starting to wane a little bit and that my lax attitude is slowly manifesting itself in subtle ways. How?
Well, here's what I've noticed so far...
I think because the Peanut is turning into this walking, talking human being with her own strong sense of individuality and personality, I feel less inclined to be so neurotic or overprotective. After all, what good does it do to sterilize all her sippy cups when, two minutes later, she's outside shoveling mounds of dirt into her mouth like a geophagic member of a Zambian war tribe? Seems like a waste of time, doesn't it?
Heck, by next week, I'll probably just change her diapers when the poop starts leaking out the sides. Of course, I'll have to wait until she's done playing in traffic and juggling the steak knives...but that's cool, right?
Last week, BossLady had a date with one of her gay male friends. They met up after work, went shopping at Barneys, shared a salad for dinner, and then went to see a late showing of "The Devil Wears Prada."
At the same exact time, I was eating a sandwich over the kitchen sink in my underwear, drinking a glass of scotch, watching the Mets game, and training the dog to catch peanuts with his mouth.
This really couldn't have worked out better and there's a good
chance that, for the rest of my life, I will never again have to walk into a
shoe store or go to the ballet. I've told the BossLady that anytime she and John want to do this again, I'll pay for everything.
Why didn't I think of this sooner?
Thankfully, the Peanut has only crapped in the tub once. Unfortunately, I was giving her a bubble bath at the time and didn't notice anything until my hand reached under the suds and came up with a giant turd. I was kind of grossed out but the Peanut thought it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen.
In other news, who the hell dresses up like a St. Tropez hooker when they're bathing a child? Seriously, I haven't seen a suit like that since Shelly Hack wore one on The Pacific Princess. Or maybe it was Priscilla Barnes. Whatev.
I am positively head-over-heels in love with my daughter.
At the age of 21 months, the Peanut has me completely wrapped around her little finger. Whenever we're together, we spend most of our time being absolutely silly and laughing our heads off. We're just two goofy kids having the time of our lives. In fact, if you ever saw us together, you might actually overdose on all the cuteness. Seriously, it's fucking nauseating.
But despite our closeness, there's one thing that's always perturbed me about my relationship with the Peanut. It's something that's been evident since she was born and, thus far, shows no signs of abating. It's not a huge deal but, in a way, it sometimes makes me feel as if there's a large part of parenting that I'm completely missing out on. I'm reluctant to make a big deal about it but the fact of the matter is...
The Peanut is NOT a hugger.
Don't get me wrong. Whenever she sees other kids, she always runs to hug and kiss them. Whenever she comes home at the end of the day, she immediately throws her little arms open to warmly embrace our dog. And when it's time to go to bed, she always gives me and the BossLady a quick good night hug. But it's more like one of those quick man-hugs that you give when you run into one of your boys at a club. For the most part, she never really wants to hug us. She's either too busy or she's just too independent.
The ONLY times that she ever gives us one of those huge neck-grabbing bear hugs is when she's absolutey scared out of her Huggies. Unfortunately, the kid is pretty much fearless and doesn't scare easily. In fact, thus far, there are only two things that scare her enough for her to hug us...the ocean and the sound of the vacuum cleaner. For some reason, those things scare the crap out of her.
In the grand scheme of things, I know that we have a great relationship with the Peanut. I don't ever doubt her love for us and I know that her lack of hugging is due mostly to her fierce sense of independence. But we're her parents. We love her. We adore her. We'd die for her. Once in awhile, it would be nice if she would just run up to us and give us a big hug. You know. Just to let us know that she cares.
Anyway, what I really want to know is whether you guys think it's bad that, every once in awhile, we not only turn the Dyson vacuum cleaner on full-blast for no apparent reason but also we try to take the Peanut to the beach as frequently as possible?
We're going to Hell, aren't we? Shit, I knew it!
In honor of the fact that the 2nd annual BlogHer conference starts in 5 days, I thought I'd re-post this entry from a year ago. It was originally written after the close of last year's conference.
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As many of you know, this past weekend marked the inaugural BlogHer conference, an event designed to provide an open forum in which to discuss the role of women within the larger blogging community, to examine the developing code of blogger ethics, and to discover how blogging is amplifying the voice of women worldwide. All worthy causes and it seemed the event was a phenomenal success. Female bloggers from around the world were able to not only coalesce as a group but also, as my friend Laid-Off Dad put it, "to name each other's knockers."
But all kidding aside, a small part of me was a little jealous that some of my favorite bloggers gathered in one place for a long weekend. I would have liked to meet some of the amazing female bloggers that I read on a regular basis. But aside from that, I think the fact that a group of women could multilaterally mobilize and organize such a prodigious event is truly a testament to the amazing organizational fortitude of women as a whole.
You think male bloggers could ever organize an event like this?
I think the planning of it would be so chaotic and comical that it would almost be worth it to try and organize one just to watch the fireworks. Personally, here's how I think a male blogging conference would work out...
The two aspects of planning BlogHim that would actually NOT be controversial are location and date. These are no brainers. Location? Vegas. Date? Super Bowl Weekend. Done. And whereas the women were able to double up and share rooms at one of the 24 hotels servicing the conference, I'm thinking that all the guys could chip in some dough so we could get the Rainman Suite at Caesars.
The women were organized enough to get corporate sponsors like Nokia, Red Herring, Technorati, Yahoo & Google. However, I'll bet that the guys would be happy with a couple free cases of Bud Light and the chicks from Hooters. Because as all guys know, corporate sponsors are for pussies! Screw The Man!
BlogHer featured an impressive array of symposiums, including "When Globalization is Good for Women," "Blogging for Business," "Mommy Blogging," and "Minority Female Bloggers." I don't even know how we would begin to organize an agenda for men. What would it include? "Blogging Apparel: Boxers or Briefs?" "BWI: Blogging While Intoxicated"? Or maybe "When Worlds Collide: Blogging & Internet Porn"?
What I really admire about BlogHer is that the women bloggers were all so supportive of one another. Unfortunately, there's no way that you could put several hundred male bloggers in a room together without some sort of competition starting. Because ladies, if you've ever wondered why your husband's business conferences always include a round of golf, it's because testosterone needs an outlet. Take away the golf aspect and you'll have a few hundred guys having a drinking contest or starting a food fight. Don't over think it and wonder why. It's just how we are.
Furthermore, you can't put that many men in a room together without a few dozen arguments starting. That's another indisputable fact. Men like to argue. It's nothing personal. We just like to do it. Women don't like to argue. They like to reach consensus. That's what I love about women.
But what I love about men is that we'll never shy away from a good argument. We can spend hours debating anything. Will Griffey make it to the Hall of Fame? Is Ashley Simpson hotter than Jessica? Could Batman kick Jet Li's ass? Ford or Chevy? Because men will argue about anything, it's hard to imagine exactly what the controversy would be at a male blogger conference. But make no mistake, there would be one.
At the end of BlogHer, it seems that on-line friendships ventured into the real world. Lifelong relationships were formed, heartfelt hugs were exchanged and tears flowed freely with laughter.
At BlogHim, I think guys would exchange e-mail addresses (so we could send each other funny photos) and possibly cell-phone numbers. But tears? Hugging? I don't think so. As guys know, there is still a lot of controversy surrounding the etiquette of the man-hug.. To be on the safe side, I think we'd all just high-five one another and go our separate ways. We'd say that we'd keep in touch but, within a few months, we'd find a business card in our wallet, look at it, wonder who the bozo was that gave it to you, and then chuck it in the trash.
So unfortunately, I think the only way that a BlogHim conference could ever take shape is if some women organized it on our behalf and kept us in line. Since that's not likely to ever happen, I'll just take pride in the fact that so many women were able to organize something as cool as BlogHer. Like I said, there's a part of me that's very jealous that they all had this great opportunity to meet and come together. And though they did open the conference to men, I was surprised to see that so many men actually did attend. I was thinking about attending too...but then my balls dropped. (Seriously, fellas, what would compel you to attend a conference for women named BlogHer?)
Anyway, kudos to you women for having the wherewithal to pull off such an event. Guys, we've got to get our shit together and organize a similar event. Any volunteers?
Hello?
Anyone?
Bueller?
Awww....fuck it.
To all those attending BlogHer this weekend, have an excellent time. I expect full updates and detailed reports. And if any pillow fights or jello wrestling matches happen to break out, please be sure to send photos!
Do any of you remember the TV show from the 70's called "Zoom"? It was a PBS show produced by WGBH in Boston and it was the first television program hosted entirely by kids.
Anyone remember it? No? Damn, I'm getting old!
When I was a little boy, "Zoom" was one of my favorite TV shows. One episode, in particular, made a very memorable impression on me. In it, the "Zoom" kids went to visit a man who had built these incredible treehouses in the forest, all of them on different trees and connected with one another via an elaborate system of planks and walkways. It was the most amazing thing I'd ever seen and, from that day on, I became obsessed with treehouses.
Sadly, I never got my treehouse. Instead, I scoured the streets looking for people who had bought new appliances and were throwing the boxes away on the street. Back then, finding a refrigerator box was a huge score. I'd drag the box home, carve out some windows with an Exacto knife, paint the sides, and throw in my sleeping bag. Voila! Instant treehouse! Once finished, I would hole myself inside the box for days with my collection of comics, my baseball cards and my Encyclopedia Brown books. Ahhh...good times, my friends. Good times.
Anyway, in the latest of my "Only in New York" series, I've discovered that one of the latest trends in local parenting is to have a professional architect build your kid's treehouse. According to this NY Magazine article, some of these treehouses are going for prices well over $100,000!!!
Here are two examples of what you get for your money...
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How amazingly cool is that? Man, I'm 37 years old and I'd STILL love to have a treehouse like that. In fact, that one treehouse on the right looks bigger than my first apartment in Manhattan. And I'll bet it doesn't have crack whores living next door either!
Now, I know some of you are going to rant about the moral depravity involved in dropping that kind of dough on a fucking treehouse. After all, the disparity beween the rich and poor in this country is growing faster than Rush Limbaugh's rap sheet. The number of CEOs making over $20 million per year has increased exponentially over the past few years (even as the companies they managed went bankrupt) and more and more people are struggling like hamsters in a giant Habitrail just to maintain a middle-class standard of living. Our national and personal savings accounts are the lowest they've been in generations. Our health care system is an Orweillian nightmare. And the paltry amount of money spent on education in this country seems likely to ensure that future generations will probably be woefully unprepared to compete in the global marketplace.
Now, many of you know I don't like to discuss politics on this site. However, I will say that I'm generally in favor of capitalism. As Dennis Miller once said, all the other systems have worked out about as well as a Lee Greenwood booking in Baghdad. My only beef with the system is that it puts a bunch of crusty old rich guys on Capitol Hill in charge of determining how best to allocate resources so that we have better schools and social programs to help those who are less fortunate.
Besides, let's be honest. Who among us doesn't want to be rich? Who hasn't bought a lottery ticket when the jackpot is over $200 million? Who doesn't want to never worry about providing for one's family? Nobody should feel guilty about it. Trying to get rich is practically our national pastime.
It's heartening to see guys like Warren Buffet and Bill Gates give away the vast majority of their fortunes in order to improve the betterment of mankind. I hope they motivate other rich dudes to do the same thing. However, if they'd rather spend their money on treehouses that cost $100K? Well, God bless 'em. Who are we to tell anybody how to spend their own money? Sorry. It doesn't work like that, comrades!
Anyway, I'm babbling. I'd just like to end this by saying that if any uber-wealthy readers out there would like to buy my family a $100K treehouse, we'd be more than happy to accept your largess.
Alternatively, we'll also take any empty refrigerator boxes you might have.
(By the way, on the off chance that there are any "older" readers out there who, like me, fondly remember the TV show "Zoom," then check this out.)
When I was a little kid, we used to sell lemonade on the sidewalk. The going rate was about $0.25 per cup.
In junior high, we used to walk around Sheep's Meadow in Central Park and sell bottles of water for $1.00.
Now, I know having a kid these days is different from previous generations. Kids (especially those that grow up in the city) are so mature and cosmopolitan at such a young age that it continues to astound me. It's particularly fascinating to be dining at a restaurant, only to hear a 5-year old kid at the next table ask whether the frisee salad comes with portabella or porcini mushrooms and whether it's possible to substitute cantalet for the aged reggiano.
But now? I think I've seen everything...
Only in New York. Only in Park Slope.
I fucking love guacamole.
If I'm at a party and someone's got some good guacamole, I will just sit there by myself and dip chip after chip into the bowl. If nobody's watching me, I'll scoop the guacamole onto a chip and just lick it off. I won't even eat the chip. I'll just keep dipping the same chip into the guacamole repeatedly. (Totally gross, right? I'm like a double dipper to the nth degree.)
Because let's face it. Chips are really just vehicles for your guacamole. They're dry, salty and taste like crap on their own. If guacamole didn't exist, I'd never eat another chip in my entire life.
Why am I talking about this? Because in the familial relationship metaphor of inter-generational dynamics, BossLady and I are the chips and Peanut is the guacamole.
Whenever we're around my parents, BossLady and I might as well not even exist. The Peanut is my parent's first grandchild and to say that they are "fawning" is to insult fawns everywhere. Peanut is their life. Their weekly schedules, their vacations, their daily conversations...all of it is at the mercy of a little 20-month-old girl.
Yesterday, we had a family dinner with my folks and MetroBro to celebrate BossLady's birthday. Though my wife's birthday is always cause for celebration, I think we've officially reached the point where my parents would celebrate Idi Amin's birthday if it meant they got to spend time with their granddaughter.
At one point, I looked up to see my father physically wrest Peanut away from the BossLady so he could carry her. Didn't even say a word. He just grabbed her out of BossLady's arms like the Lindbergh baby. I know he didn't mean to be rude. He just loves carrying the Peanut around. If it were up to him, the Peanut's feet would never touch the ground and the two of them would spend their days reenacting the marsupial relationship between Angelina Jolie and young Maddox.
During dinner, as usual, all attention is focused on the Peanut. Sometimes when I'm speaking, I can actually see my mother's mind working as she pretends to listen to what I'm saying. Although she may be looking directly at me, I know that, in her head, she's thinking, "I love my granddaughter so much. I wonder what she's doing this very nanosecond. She's so cute! Where is she? What is my son saying? When will he be done talking? I just want to see my granddaughter. I love her so much."
Like many people, I've found that my parents are far better grandparents than they were parents. Particularly in the case of my father, he seems to be atoning for various past sins and transgressions. He's already much more involved in the Peanut's life than he ever really was in my own. It's almost as if he's getting a fresh start.
Having been severely abused by his own parents, my father ran away from home at a very young age. He never had parenting role models to admire or emulate. Because he was abused by his family, he's always had problems dealing with emotional issues and has a very dysfunctional way of dealing with expressions of love and affection. My relationship with him when I was younger was always tumultuous and conflicted. Parenting was NOT a subject that I imagine he spent much time thinking about.
In several ways, having the Peanut has changed the dynamics of the relationship between me and my parents. Like everything in my life now, my primary concern is my daughter's well-being. And because I never had any grandparents of my own, I'm glad that the Peanut does. I'm glad that she gets all this doting attention. I love the fact that she has so many people who love her as much as I do.
So if it means biting my tongue as my father grabs the Peanut from me? Or sitting silently as my mother ignores me? Or going to family reunions and feeling like the Invisible Man?
Well, that's just fine for me. I'll just be here in the corner eating some guacamole with my fingers.
