A Hot Dad Alone

Over on Hot Dads today, I make like Macaulay Culkin. Only with much less slapstick violence.

An Open Letter to Arclight Cinemas

Dear Arclight Cinemas,

I’m just going to come right out and say it. I love you. I love you and I want the world to know.

You’re different than the other movie theaters. You make the experience of going to the movies better. You make it possible for a guy to still be a movie geek, even after he becomes a dad. There were two things that I had always heard about parenting—you get no sleep and you never go to the movies. For me, that last fact would have been a like a slow, crushing death. But you came into my life and made everything okay.

I love that you let me buy my tickets in advance, on line. This alone doesn’t make you special, for there are other theaters that do this too. But your genius is in your assigned seating. This means that I can stroll into the theater 5 minutes before a sold out show on the opening weekend of the summer’s biggest blockbuster and I will still have the perfect seat. I no longer have to spend an hour waiting in line to insure that I’m not going to be craning my neck in the front row. As you know, time is a precious commodity and though my wife has some patience with my geekiness, she would not stand to be a movie widow.

This alone would be reason enough for anyone to love you. But you’re not content to stop there. Inside your immense lobby you have a bar, so if I do have some extra time, I can hoist a cocktail with friends before the flick. I love your 21 plus screenings, where you can bring a drink in with you. Drinking a beer while watching a flick in a movie theater is bliss.

I love that you don’t play commercials and as a rule, only show three trailers before the movie, which is the perfect amount of cinematic foreplay. I love the real butter on your popcorn. I love your sausage baguette sandwiches and your caramel corn. I love your big comfy theater seats with enough room between the aisles for somebody to walk in front of you without having to stand up.

I know this sounds like some sort of commercial, but I assure you that this sentiment comes from the bottom of my heart. I wouldn’t pimp you out like that. You and I have a special thing going. You are movie-going perfection and it’s because of you that despite the craziness of my world, I can still do one of the things I love with you. Regularly.

Forever yours,
DGB

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And speaking of things that rule...be sure to head on over to Hot Dads today for another installment of "Ask the Hot Dads".

The Beginning

They sat next to each other on the airplane. She rested her head on his shoulder. He stroked her hair. Neither one spoke, though he knew that there was something she wanted to say. He had felt it all week, this heavy thing that lay between them and pushed down on his body as if he were wearing wet clothes. One night he had felt a cold tear dampen his chest as they lay together, falling asleep intertwined, as new lovers tend to do. He knew what she wanted to say, but he was afraid to hear it.

It had been four months since their introduction. In that time they unpacked all of their baggage and laid everything bare for examination and inspection. If it was a test, they had both passed. But he was scarred from his recent past. Having almost veered in the wrong direction, he had only just navigated back on course. He felt unsteady and vulnerable, not wanting to get lost again. As a result, he had uncharacteristically built a small wall around himself, just big enough so that some distance could be kept. He wasn’t sure how long or what it would take to knock it down, but most likely more time than they had invested so far.

It was evening and the inside of the plane was tranquil. Outside of the window the sky was inky black. The couple sat together in silence, ruminating about the week spent with his family. How beautiful and easy it was, like a scene from a movie.

When she could no longer bear the stillness, she looked up at him, eyes wet and red. “I have something I need to tell you. But I’m afraid.”

“I know,” he said quietly. He did know. Even though their time together had been brief, he could read her intuitively. He knew that these feelings had been welling up and he knew that he would need to confront them. He knew how she felt, but he wasn’t sure if he could trust his own feelings. He needed to hear it from her.

His heart beating faster, he whispered to her, “It’s okay. Tell me.”

It was quiet for a moment. He stroked her hair and gazed out the window, straining to see the clouds through the dark. She looked up at him.

“I love you,” she said.

He didn’t hesitate to answer. The words flowed freely from within him.

“I love you too,” he said. He meant it. The wall had come down.



Happy anniversary, Baby Doll.

Closing the Baby Shop, Part 2

Click over to HOT DADS today for part 2 of my epic journey to get neutered.

Get Off My Lawn

I can mark the exact moment that I became old.

It was an unseasonably warm evening a few nights ago and as I went outside to take out the garbage, a house on the next street caught my attention. Over the past year, this house was torn down to its foundation and rebuilt as a two story dwelling, which towered above the ranch-style houses that comprised the majority of my neighborhood. The sky was turning dark purple and a sliver of moon appeared in the sky. I could hear voices. It was the unmistakable, squeal-y sound of tweens. Just under their rapid-fire conversation, there was music. I believe it was the vaguely chipmunk-like tones of the brothers Jonas. The din emanated from an open window on the house’s second floor and wafted over the roofs of the dwellings on my street right on to my front porch. As I went back inside, I sincerely hoped that those kids weren’t going to be up playing that music all night.

The Answers You Seek

By now you guys know that I know a lot of stuff about nothing. Well, I'm using that non-knowledge for good. Today over at Hot Dads is the first instalment of our new feature, "Ask the Hot Dads". Stop by, you may learn something.

I'll be posting some new stuff here later this week. Promise.

Unwritten Rules of Etiquette

This morning, as I dug into a bowl of Jumbo Krispies, I told WonderWife™ an amusing anecdote about how a good friend of ours gave the number of our babysitter to another couple who just had a baby. Turns out we’ve already locked in said sitter for the same night so we can go on our first real date since Sprout was born (that’s nearly 9 months for those of you playing at home). As I was telling her this, WW™ got kind of red in the face and angrily spewed at me, “You don’t do that!”

“What?” I said, genuinely confused and wracking my brain for what I had done wrong.

“You don’t just pass out the number of a babysitter that was given to you by somebody else!”

“Well, don’t yell at me. I didn’t do it!”

But the messenger had already been shot. WW™ fumed for the rest of the morning and promised to call our friend and set him straight on the whole matter. Apparently, the number to a good babysitter is a more precious commodity than oil to Mad Max.

I, on the other hand, sat there dumbfounded as my Krispies sogged up. I know that I was not at fault, but the fervor and venom that erupted from WW™ made me feel like I had been. You wouldn’t like her when she’s angry. I’m really glad that I’m not my friend right about now.

So this got me thinking…what other unwritten and unspoken rules of parental etiquette don’t I know? What am I missing or potentially breaking? How do we, the clueless and uninitiated, navigate obstacles that we cannot see?

Closing the Baby Shop, Part 1

Hey everyone. Click on over to Hot Dads today for the first in a multi-part series about a very sensitive subject. Check it out.

Jumbo Krispies

WonderWife™ came home from running errands with a glint in her eye and placed a grocery bag on the counter. Inside was a box of Jumbo Krispies cereal. There was no question about the newness of this product, what with the giant banner screaming “new” in big bold yellow letters on the top fifth of the box.


Jumbo Krispies are exactly that…larger sized versions of the classic. The box is still adorned with good ol’ Snap, Crackle and Pop. However, modernization has given them sort of a demonic anime look that, frankly, makes me question if I can trust them. Jumbo Krispies are a result of the current multi-grain “health” bandwagon and because it’s just not breakfast without sugar, they are “lightly” sweetened with honey.

Jumbo Krispies have the appearance of regular Krispies if you were looking at them under a magnifying glass after they’ve been injected with Botox. They retain the classic shape, but don’t have the rough texture and therefore will not “talk” when introduced to milk, which is kind of a bummer. Can a cereal really be called “Krispie” if it doesn’t talk in milk? While pondering this existential question, I opened the box. The Jumbos have a lighter texture and aren’t as crunchy as their original cousins. But be warned, they will get gummy if they soak up too much milk, so they must be eaten quickly. I wonder if this trait makes them less of a candidate for Krispie Treat-dom, which is no doubt the best Krispie application. The closest taste I can approximate for the Jumbos is Cinnamon Toast Crunch. They actually walk that line of “lightly sweet” without being too much of one or the other.

All in all, Jumbo Krispies are pretty good. I like the multi-grain aspect to it, though original Krispies have never been considered a bad-for-you cereal (unless you dump spoonfuls of sugar on them, like I used to when I was a kid). They’re tasty and surprisingly filling. I just wish they didn’t get so soggy, so fast.

The All-Nighter(s)

It was an unusual trip in that I had to stay up all night for three nights in a row. Surprisingly, it wasn’t so bad. My mind was engaged and the time went quickly. It’s much easier to pull an all-nighter when you know there will be opportunity to sleep on the other side. When I was single (and younger) there was nothing to keep me awake after staying out all night. But kids are like an alarm clock without a snooze bar, so when I’m up late these days I’m constantly and unavoidably doing the sleep math—if I go home now, I’ll only be “this” tired. Knowing that I had opportunity to catch 7 hours this time left me stress free about whittling away the wee hours.

It’s a bizarre thing to live against the flow of the natural rhythms of the world. After the first night, my body felt heavy and thick, as if I were walking on tub of oobleck. The night gives a calm, eerie stillness to the world that can be unsettling at first, but sort of liberating once you get used to it. I started thinking about what other people were up with me—the insomniacs watching infomercials or the young couples passionately sweating the night away. Where were the people going who were driving on the roads at 4am?

Thankfully, daylight savings time had passed so it was still dark when I got back to my hotel. I detest going to sleep after the sun has come up. Even in the party days of yore I always have, though I don’t know why. So each morning was a race to seal off my hotel room and drift to sleep before the first rays of light peeked around the gaps in the window shade. I imagined this is what a vampire must feel like.

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As I was packing up on my last morning, the phone rang. WonderWife™ was crying. A mechanical problem grounded her plane and the throngs of spring breakers made getting another flight to Florida impossible. Everyone was disappointed. The Bean didn’t get to take his plane ride, WW™ didn’t get to attend her grandma’s 85th birthday party and I didn’t get my weekend of solitude. Sprout remained indifferent to our plight, as long as somebody was feeding her mashed bananas and Cheerios every few hours. We collectively cursed the airlines and drunken college students.

With our plans now shattered, I decided that we couldn’t loaf around the house all weekend. We needed to do something as a family, something fun to keep us from wallowing in the thoughts of the weekend we were all supposed to be having.

I texted WW™, “How about we got to Disneyland this weekend?”

Since WW™ has still reeling from her less-than-pleasant experience to and from the airport, I wasn’t sure how she was going to take this suggestion. When she gets stressed, my wife gets tunnel vision and can usually only focus on one thing at a time. I braced my sleep-deprived body for her reaction. Theme parks were my thing. Would she see this as a selfish request?

The phone rang.

“You just made my day,” she said. “That is an excellent suggestion.”

Total Recall

I'm posting at Hot Dads today.

Click on over there and check out what I wrote on memory and...um...I forgot what I was going to say.

Wish You Were Here

The trouble with having a baby is that people always want to meet her. WonderWife’s™ grandparents are no exception. So plans were made for WW™ to fly back east and spend some time with them. Simultaneously, we learned that there was a big 85th birthday party being thrown for WW’s™ other grandmother and the kids’ presences were strongly requested. The end result is two back-to-back trips to the east cost for WW™ and the kids, while I stay home and work. While these trips were inauspicious for her, selfishly they were good for me. Or so I thought.

I am painfully aware of the sacrifice WW™ is making to visit her grandparents. To put it eloquently, her travel is going to suck. And while she is struggling to keep a pre-schooler and an infant occupied in a big metal tube for 5 hours straight only to land in order to deal with Florida drivers and extended family all weekend, I will have the house completely to myself.

I’ve been fantasizing about a weekend alone for long enough to worry why I’m not fantasizing about things like hot monkey sex with Eliza Dushku. I’ve dreamed about having no rules and no schedule, where I can sleep as late as I want, watch a marathon of Blu Rays with the sound turned up real loud, and not have to close the bathroom door when I’m doing some “thinking.” (I’m not sure why that last one is on the fantasy list, other than it’s something that I used to do when I was single and living alone.) So as bad as it makes me seem to admit it, the first time with the family gone is going to be paradise. It’s the second one, however, that gives me pause.

About a week after WW™ and the kids get home, they have to pack up and do it all over again. But this time they are going to be away for 10 days. 10 days all alone in the house. No kids. No wife. Just me. This is entirely too much time for me to spend with myself. I have been cohabitating with WW™ for way too long to properly subsist by myself for an extended period. I go stir crazy really easily. My friends aren’t going to be much help. Most of them have kids themselves, which means they’re locked down by the very schedule from which I’ve been temporarily set free. I’m going to lose my mind. I imagine by the end of the trip, I’ll be like a guy who’s spent too much time in a sensory deprivation tank.

To further amp up the situation, an unexpected and last minute business trip has taken me out of town for the days leading up to my family’s first trip. Later this week, I am literally going to be criss-crossing them in the air and coming home to an empty house. It doesn’t help that I had a more action-packed weekend than normal, having spent the last three nights staying out way too late and building up a nice sleep-deficit. All of this means that I didn’t get to spend enough time with WW™ before I left and wouldn’t see her, or the kids, for a week.

I know that there are worse problems to have. I know that me whining about being alone shouldn’t obscure the awful travel schedule of my wife. I know that I’m lucky to have a job at all, let alone one where I travel every once in a while. I know that WonderWife™ and I chose to move 3000 miles away from our families, therefore bringing this all on ourselves. I guess it’s a testament to our kids that our extended family actually wants to spend time with them. Most importantly, I’m glad that my family means so much to me that the thought of spending so much time away from them sends me into a catatonic state. But the plain fact is that staring down a month where I only get to spend a quarter of it with my family makes me kind of cranky—no matter how nice that first weekend alone is going to be.

Skittles Crazy Cores

It was the aisle of the Sav-On that yielded the latest new product find. Once again, Skittles has offered up something new…sort of.

Skittles Crazy Cores are billed as “two flavors in one”. The candy shell is one flavor and the inside is another. Each bag contains mango/peach, cherry/lemonade, strawberry/watermelon, melon/berry and blue raspberry/lemon.

I’m not really sure what is the point of two for one Skittles. I don’t know anyone who eats them one at a time, or who sorts them by color before eating. In my experience, handfuls are grabbed and chewed all at once. So the idea of getting two flavors per singular Skittle seems rather pointless. Instead of getting up to five flavors in your mouth at once, as you would with regular Skittles, you get ten. Actually, you get eight because I don’t think that strawberry/watermelon and melon/berry count as different flavors. Sure one is pink on the outside and green on the inside while the other is green on the outside and pink on the inside, but they both taste pretty much the same—watermelon-y.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with Skittles Crazy Cores. But there’s nothing exciting about them either. Not a single flavor combination stands out. And while they are tasty, as most Skittles are, in the end Skittles Crazy Cores are a rather harmless gimmick instead of an exciting new product.

Guess Who's Hot?

Incase you didn't know it, I'm a Hot Dad.

Yes, that's right. I'm contributing to the Hot Dads blog. My first post is up there today.

Be sure to check out all of the Hot Dad action.

Drop the Cat

The water was flowing from spout to tub. Clothes had been discarded. Teeth brushed. I was just about to plop the Bean into the bath when I turned around and saw him.

“Drop the cat! Drop the cat! Drop the cat NOW!”

The Bean was struggling to lift the cat into the tub. The cat, usually abnormally curious about the bath, was desperately clawing for freedom. It finally squirmed out of the Bean’s arms and fled the bathroom faster than a cheetah on amphetamines. My patience with the Bean's shenanigans had been slowly eroding over the evening. It was lecture time. I knelt down to the Bean’s level and demanded that he look me in the eye. I gave him parent speech #37 about needing to listen.

When I’m done, the Bean looked down sheepishly. He waited two beats, grabbed his penis, defiantly pointed it up at me and said, “Psssssssshhhhhh!”

I was angry, but I gotta say, the kid has excellent timing.

Fail

My infant daughter makes me feel inadequate. I’ve been doing this parenting thing for over three years, so I’d like to think that I’ve learned a thing or two. But this girl I’ve brought into the world is seriously messing with my esteem. It’s not that I couldn’t feed her. She broke the will of the nursing specialist, so what chance did I have? It’s that to Sprout, the world consists solely of my wife. Sure, I get courtesy smiles from her. But people she passes in the aisles of the supermarket get the same smiles. This makes parenting her somewhat difficult.

It didn’t seem like a big deal when WW™ wanted to take the Bean on an excursion, leaving me and Sprout to hang out for the afternoon. Things were perfectly pleasant for a half-hour, then the screaming started. At first, I was startled. These weren’t like any screams I have heard before. These were “there’s a dude in a hockey mask chasing me with a knife” screams. They were so loud that they sounded distorted, like when you yell into a microphone. I went through a checklist of what could have been wrong. Diaper? Dry. Hungry? Nope, she rejected food. Hurt? She didn’t appear to be. Black widow spider bit her when we were outside? Improbable.

I fought every urge to call WW™. I’m a grown man and a father, I could figure out how to soothe my daughter. I tried every trick in the book, including figuring out how to strap her into the mei tai by myself and taking her for a walk. After two hours of blood-curdling screams, I gave up, swallowed my pride and called reinforcements.

A half hour later WW™ was back home and almost immediately Sprout stopped crying. I was exhausted, defeated, angry, cranky and in desperate need of a trough of alcohol. I know that we will be out of the infant stage soon, but based on Sprout’s track record so far, this does not console me.