Post Op

One side of the couch had become well worn. Nestled within the indent on the cushions was the prone body of young boy who, after just having being rendered tonsil-less, kept vigil in front of the TV hoping that the pain would subside. Lightening McQueen and Curious George kept him company. He wanted nobody else. His mom sat by his side during the week. His dad replaced her on the weekend. He hardly acknowledged their existence. They both encouraged the young boy to drink water. Or juice. Or chocolate milk. Anything. But even the allure of sugar was not strong enough to overcome the pain that came with moving the liquid past his throat. There were many tears and many sleepless nights. This was, without a doubt, the worst thing that had ever happened to the boy in his young life.

It all started so well. His father had bought him a book. It was a pleasant little story about a girl losing her tonsils. She received a snow cone maker, presents and copious amounts of ice cream. Her relentless optimism was contagious. The book not only soothed the boy, but it made him excited. His face lit up with joy when he learned that soon he too would be having an operation. This excitement remained while he was in the hospital waiting room. It was present when he drank his “happy juice”. It lingered until the minute when he woke up after the surgery, fuzzy and disoriented from the drugs that had put him to sleep. It was at that exact moment that the torture had begun.

To say it wasn’t easy would be underselling the next ten days. The narcotic prescribed to keep the boy’s pain at bay had a foul taste and combined with the fact that swallowing felt like a dagger of fire that was being doused with a bucket of razorblades, administering it was an impossible task. At some point the boy must have realized that the promise of all the ice cream you could eat was an empty one. The will to eat anything had vanished along with his tonsils. If he was mad at his parents, it did not show. His dad managed to coax him to eat a few bites of Jell-O, which was just enough to stave off dehydration. But even this was a struggle.

Realistically, the boy’s parents knew that his agony would end, and so too would end their servitude to a boy who was to weak and in too much pain to be anything more than an immobile fixture on the couch. But those ten days felt epic in length. Dark circles formed under all of their eyes. The boy’s mother spent most nights on the trundle bed in the boy’s room, sleeping fitfully.

Finally, the tenth day arrived and as promised, the boy was almost back to his usual state. Now came the task of de-programming the child, who had started to grow accustomed to a life of all the TV and all of the sweets one could consume. Slowly, steadily, he began to spend less time on the couch. And the recently vacated indent in the cushions started to return to normal.

The Double Down

In what stands as a stark contrast to the recent unveiling of healthy food, the fine folks at Kentucky Fried Chicken have revealed a new creation that they called the Double Down. It’s got two slices of cheese and bacon between two fried chicken breasts that are used in place of bread.

It’s like they've been reading This Is Why You’re Fat for menu ideas.

As gluttonous as this sounds (and it is disgustingly gluttonous) it’s a lot better than the notorious KFC Famous Bowls, which piled ingredient upon ingredient in a bid to see if they could cram everything on the menu into one item, regardless of taste, texture or caloric content.

The Double Down is being test marketed in select locations around the Midwest, so sadly I cannot give you a full review. For now I can only dream about it, and ponder why we have an obesity crisis in this country.

Crossing the Streams

I'm over at Hot Dads today, talking about when worlds collide. Here's a peek:

My life, for the most part, is compartmentalized. My friends are not a part of my working world and my online life does not cross into my real life. Some people know that I write as Daddy Geek Boy, but for the most part they don't pay attention. There are many others who only know me by my internet handle, but not in reality. However on occasion, there are times when the streams get crossed and one of my worlds bleeds into another.

Pudding, Peanut Butter and Whipped Cream

The combination of chocolate pudding, peanut butter and whipped cream is a dessert that was born out of a craving for a sundae, but the lack of proper ingredients to make it. It actually turned out to be a pretty good combination and is a snack I’ve come to enjoy quite often.

A couple of years ago my dad came to visit, and after a couple of cocktails we got hungry and I made him one. Ever since, he has become obsessed with the dessert. Periodically he will call me. I can hear people talking animatedly in the background and I can detect a bubbly nature to my dad’s voice. He is drunk dialing me.

He always begins these calls the same way: "Let me ask you a question,” he says boisterously.

“Sure Dad, what is it?”

“What was in that thing you made me?”

I list the ingredients and he says, “Okay, thanks” and hangs up to return to his party.

A few weeks ago I was at work, in a meeting. My cell phone rings. It’s my dad. I let it go to voicemail, but he immediately calls again. Thinking the worst, I usher myself out of the conference room and answer the call.

“Is everything alright?” I ask.

“Let me ask you a question,” he says.

“Dad, I’m in a meeting. I’ll call you later.”

The next day, he admitted to me that he was seeking the recipe for the dessert.

Two days later, I’m leaving my office and my cell phone rings again. It's him. I hear the chatter in the background and the now familiar tone in my father’s voice.

“Let me ask you a question,” he says.

“Dad, it’s pudding, peanut butter and whipped cream!”

He was amazed. “How did you know that was what I was going to ask?”

“I just had a feeling,” I said.

“Okay, thanks,” he says and hangs up the phone.

A minute later, the phone rings again.

“Now,” my dad begins, “How does this work? Do you put everything in a blender?”

“Dad, you’ve had this before. I made it for you.”

“Ah, I don’t really remember. I just remember that I liked it.”

"If you aren't in a shape to remember it, you're probably not in a shape to eat it," I scold.

Nonetheless, I run him through the recipe.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ve got it now. We're going out for the ingredients right now”

“Good luck,” I tell him and hang up the phone, knowing that this won't be the last time we have this conversation.

Just the Boys, Part 2

When you go to the fair, you eat. A lot. Surprisingly, this was not something that I had to teach my son. It was something instinctual. Or maybe it was the dozens upon dozens of food vendors lining the walkways of the fairgrounds. Either way, the boy made it clear that he was there to eat. Between cries of, "I'm hungry" we consumed a few things fried, a few things made with dough and some lemonade (lemonade and more lemonade).

We plotted a course to the midway and I loaded up on tickets for the rides. The fair was stocked with plenty of kid-sized versions of adult amusements—the Spider, the Mix Master, two roller coasters, swings, a house of mirrors and a haunted house. But the Bean only had eyes for the Ferris wheel.

This is a good time to remind you that I am not a fan of heights.

Once again, I manned up and took my son on the ride of his choice. When we were back on terra firma, I bought him the ice cream cone that he had so desperately wanted. He ate voraciously while my nerves settled. When the Bean was done, he tilted his ice cream covered face toward the sky and pointed at the one thing that I was hoping he would not notice—the chairlift.

“I want to ride that!” he exclaimed gleefully.

“I’m not sure we can ride that, buddy boy,” I said, trying to sound convincing. “I think it’s broken.”

“But there are other people riding on it.”

Crap, I thought to myself.

I tried to divert his attention away from the chairlift. We saw a 3-D movie, checked out the farm animals and watched a cow being milked. We strolled past the elementary school art show, saw the agriculture exhibit and peeped at a working bee hive. After we watched the elephants, the Bean yawned a few times and for a moment I thought that I might get out unscathed.

I was on the verge of suggesting that we head home when he once again pointed upwards and said, “Now can we ride that?”

I stared at the handful of non-refundable ride tickets that I had bought. The Bean had steadfastly refused to ride anything else. I took a deep breath and made a decision.


Love makes you do crazy things. And I love few things more than hanging out "just the boys."

Just the Boys

It was pretty obvious the kid missed me when I was out of town. Every time I called, the Bean picked up the phone and instead of saying "hello” he would ask, “Are you coming home Daddy?” It broke my heart every time that I had to tell him that I wasn’t yet. I promised that I would make it up to him when I got back.

Upon my return home, the Bean started asking to do something “just the boys.” As much as I ached to spend some one on one time, we had to navigate the annual onslaught of grandparental visits. Three weeks later, a free weekend was in sight and I decided that I was going to take the boy to the fair.

A few days before the trip, I broke the news that we were going to have an adventure.

“In two nighttime naps, we are going to do something just the boys,” I told him (because he measures the world in daytime and nighttime naps).

He asked me where we were going and I said it was going to be a surprise. (I love the element of surprise and often keen details about plans vague, much to the delighted frustration of those around me.)

He paused and asked, “Will there be ice cream there?”

“We’re not going to Disneyland, buddy,” The Bean associates eating ice cream with Disney. (Take that Mr. Mouse!)

It ultimately didn’t matter that we weren’t going to the Happiest Place on Earth, because he got really excited about the road trip. He started telling anyone who would listen, “I’m going on a trip gus the boys and I’m going to eat ice cream and it’s going to be chocolate.”

The amazing thing is that not once did he ask me where we were going. He was just excited at the idea of spending the day eating ice cream with his dad. He didn’t care where it was. Just that we did it together.

Disgusting, Yet Hilarious

I was driving with the Bean. I let go a particularly foul bit of gas. We soon approached a traffic jam. As we were stopped on the freeway, I hear from the back seat, "This traffic smells like eggs."

My Great Shame

I confess my great shame over at Hot Dads today.

"I don’t know how to build anything. I don’t know how to fix anything. I know nothing about cars. I really have no skills at all."

Table Scraps Volume #4: Comic Con

I was all set to blog about this year's trip to the San Diego Comic Con in the days that followed the event. But then I got the stomach flu and by the time I recovered, it felt like the time had passed to write about it. But isn't that what the feature known as Table Scraps is all about--me posting half-finished blog pieces about the recent past?

Arriving in San Diego was much easier than it was last year. In the lobby of the hotel, I spied a man in his 60's in a Hawaiian shirt. He had the distinct vibe of somebody who was there for the Con. We made some pleasant chit-chat in the elevator. I said this was my 9th con. He said this was his 40th. And that he was one of the original founders of the show. I shook his hand and told him it was an honor, and he disappeared into a sea of nerds dressed as Stormtroopers.

The first few hours of the first day were strangely quieter than in the past few years. But I knew that was about to change, as nearly 150,000 of my chubby, sweaty brethren all packed into the giant building.

Later that evening, I overheard somebody asking a guy dressed as Batman if the Padres were going to be playing that night. Batman replied, "I have no idea." Dude, what did you think the answer was going to be?

There are no pictures of this year's show. Correction, there are tons of pictures all over the internet, but none have been taken by me. Last year's scant photos were an aberration. I usually forget to bring a camera. But I feel okay about that. Most of the traffic on the convention floor is caused by people stopping to take pictures in the middle of a crowded hallway.

I was walking the floor with a comic book writer, who goes to about 5-6 of these shows a year and has lost all patience for convention floor photos, had a solution to the traffic problem. He would plow his way through the crowd, nearly bowling over anyone who got in his way while bellowing, "Move people! Let's move!" It was both effective and cathartic.

There were a few really cool innovations in the toy booths. But the coolest is the toy you play with your mind. Yes, there is a toy that you can play with your mind! Needless to say, I want one.

On the last day, I pulled out of convention floor traffic and parked myself against a wall in order to check my phone. Somebody came up to me and asked me what I was in line for. Although there were people also standing on either side of me, we were clearly not a line. For a moment, I pondered telling this guy that I was waiting for tickets to an advance screening of Avatar or to shake Stan Lee's hand. But I decided to let him off the hook and tell him that there was no line--just a wall. Someday karma will return the favor.

"By the way, why are we wearing bras on our heads?"

The internet is a buzz with people blogging, tweeting and updating their Facebook statuses about the untimely death of John Hughes. His movies were the voice of a generation in a way that I don’t think could even be possible anymore in today’s media landscape.

While news of John Hughes’ death is lugubrious, something extraordinary has come out of it. WonderWife™ and I were talking about his movies over breakfast and a few shocking facts were laid bare. She has never seen Pretty In Pink in it’s entirety. Nor has she seen Some Kind of Wonderful. Then she dropped the biggest bombshell: her favorite John Hughes movie, possibly one of her favorite movies ever, is…Weird Science!

I was aghast. This goes against everything that I thought I knew about my wife. How could I have been with this woman for over 8 years and not have known this?

Weird Science is one of John Hughes stupidest and most slapstick movies. I mean this in a totally loving way. It’s an awesome flick. Just ask any guy that grew up in the 80s. And that is why WW™’s love of this movie is so surprising to me. Growing up girls didn't like this movie. In mixed company it was always Breakfast Club or Ferris Bueller. Weird Science was the movie we put on when it was just the guys hanging out. On top of that, Weird Science has a unique sci-fi bent to it, which makes it even more unlikely that my wife likes it. WW™’s self-proclaimed favorite movie is You’ve Got Mail. When I first met her, she had two movies in her collection—The Truth About Cats & Dogs and My Life. It doesn’t seem possible that a staunch anti-geek like her could ever love a movie like Weird Science. Suddenly, I'm looking at her in an entirely new way.

I guess that when you protest something too loudly, you’re usually trying to hide the truth. John Hughes’ death is unfortunate, but in its wake I learned that there is in fact some geek blood coursing through the veins of my wife.

"Aren't You Impressed?"

Like most kids, when I was young I wanted to impress my parents with the skills I learned. "Look at me, I can use scissors!" or "Look I can draw a letter!" The goal was to get acknowledgment of the task and a little praise thrown in for good measure. Right now I'm having this weird role reversal with my mom, who is trying to impress me with the new things she's learning.

My mom recently decided to buy an iPhone. From what I can deduct, the only reason why she's buying an iPhone is because her best friend just bought one. Tech savvy my mother is not. In fact, my parents have never really been into technology. Growing up, they resisted getting a computer for the longest time, even though I begged and begged. I think my dad was actually afraid of them. My parents thought that all I wanted to do with a computer was play video games. Truth be told, gaming was a huge part of why I wanted a computer. But I also wanted to learn how to use one. This was the 80's and home computers were just coming into fashion and I dreamt of owning an Apple IIe. I wanted to be like Matthew Broderick in War Games (except for the whole almost starting World War III thing.) My parents finally relented and got me a computer. They had little to no interest in it themselves.

My parents have attempted to keep up with technology, but they're not good with it. There is always something "wrong" with their computer or their TV isn't programmed properly. My mom getting an iPhone is like somebody getting a state of the art computer only to use it as an expensive typewriter. She is not wired to use it for the internet. She uses her cell phone to store a few pictures of the grandkids and to call my sister 18 times a day.

Now that my mom has the iPhone, she is keen to show off what she is learning. Her speech is peppered with, "Aren't you impressed? I downloaded Fandango." or "Aren't you impressed? I learned how to type on it."

Truthfully, I'm not that impressed. My mom had already learned to send a text message or two and iPhones are notoriously easy to use. Most people know how to do what she's doing. But like a parent who needs to encourage a child who's saying, "look at me!", I have to muster up enthusiasm and praise her for a job well done.

"Yes mom, I'm impressed."

Offsprung Has Me Reeling

Early on in my life as a parent, WonderWife™ bought me the book Alternadad. Though I was a dad, I'm not one who most would call "Alterna". Nonetheless, I felt that the tome's author, Neal Pollack, was a kindred spirit. I immediately began cyber-stalking him. This is how I came to find Offsprung.

Offsprung is an online parenting community started by Neal as an outgrowth of his book. The site contains columns written by some fantastic writers and a bulletin board where people talk about everything from parenting advice to politics to the random songs on their iPods. It's where "Daddy Geek Boy" was born before I began blogging. In short, it's a fantastic community filled with witty people who, over the years, I have come to call my friends.

Why am I telling you all of this?

Today, Offsprung is re-launching with a shiny new format. Somehow the new management thinks that I might have something to contribute and has asked me to write a movie blog for them. The blog is called "Reeling" and my first post is up today. It involves a whole mess of anthropomorphic animals.

So click on over to Offsprung, play around and check out my new blog. It's my internet home away from home and a community that has saved my sanity one too many times.

Terror At 90 Feet!

As we drove towards the pier, it was the Ferris wheel that caught the Bean’s attention.

"Can we ride that?” he asked enthusiastically.

We looked up. The Ferris wheel spun lackadaisically in the sun, it’s peak offering majestic views of the surrounding beach.

“I’m not going on that thing,” scoffed my dad. My parents were visiting for the weekend, which is why we were at the pier in the first place.

“Don’t look at me,” offered my mom.

WonderWife™ was certainly out of the equation. I knew this, having learned before we got married that her threshold for amusement park rides does not stretch much beyond Fantasyland.

That left me. Except that I’m afraid of heights.

“Sure buddy,” I replied to the Bean. “We can ride that.”

One of the things that is really important to me about being a parent is working to put aside my personal fears for the sake of my kids. Fears are learned behaviors. Kids are largely blank slates until we impose our phobias on them. My dad is afraid of heights, therefore I too learned from him to be afraid. I don’t want my kids to know about my fears. They should not inherit from me the sweaty palms and rapid heartbeat that goes along with the thought of riding a chair-lift or a Ferris wheel. I had no choice. My son wanted to ride the Ferris wheel and the rest of my family was too chicken to take him. It was up to me.

We strode up to the ride, waited in line and boarded the compartment. All the while my family stood on the boardwalk, watching and thinking to themselves, “thank God it isn’t me going up there.” The wheel began to turn.

A Ferris wheel is one of the worst kinds of heights—a leisurely ride nine stories up in an open-air compartment. As we began to rise, I instinctually put my arm around the Bean. He probably thought it was a sign of affection. But the truth was, for the next 10 minutes, he was my security blanket.

Eons passed before we were back on the ground. The Bean loved every minute of his ride. And not for one moment did he realize that I was terrified the entire time.