Fueled by the awesome Imaginext toy line, a few progressive school friends and his geek dad, the Bean has been slowly getting into superheroes.
Unfortunately, he doesn't always get the facts straight.
These are the answers to the following questions, according to the Bean:
Spider-Man's true identity: "Peter Partner"
Batman's sidekick: "Robber"
He's green, he's angry, he wears purple pants: "The Incredible Naked Man"
Star Wars' main bad guy: "Black Skeleton"
...also known as: "Dark Vader"
The main robots from Star Wars: "Iron Man and R2D2"
One of Batman's main villains: "Freezer"
I've clearly got a lot of work ahead of me.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
The Main Cage
The blinking red light of doom on my Blackberry cut through the darkened room like a lighthouse. I peeled myself out of bed and trepidatiously checked it. It was from WonderWife™: Call me when you wake up re: your debit card.
These are not the words one wants to read upon first waking up when you’re on a guys’ weekend in Vegas.
I called my wife, who had spent the better part of the morning besieged with calls from the bank. My account had been frozen. She was given a run down of the problem—there were a few withdrawals made in Las Vegas, but the correct pin number was used.
“My husband is in Vegas right now, so I’m sure everything’s okay,” she told the bank rep. “You can unfreeze the account.”
“But there’s some suspicious activity on the account,” the bank rep replied. “An attempt was made to go over the limit and usually customers know the daily limit on the account. The transaction in question was from a machine called ‘the main cage.’”
“That was in a casino!” I interjected as WW™ told me the story.
“Sure it was,” she said slyly.
The bank rep told WW™ the amount I was trying to take out. I imagine her jaw hit the floor.
“Um, you better keep that freeze on the account,” she told him. “I don’t know what the hell is going on out there.”
As she was telling me this, I had already figured out the problem.
“Last night Sam left his ATM card at the hotel, so instead of him having to fight traffic all the way back up the Strip, I was attempting to float him a loan,” I explained.
“Uh huh,” she said.
Then there was a pause.
“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”
These are not the words one wants to read upon first waking up when you’re on a guys’ weekend in Vegas.
I called my wife, who had spent the better part of the morning besieged with calls from the bank. My account had been frozen. She was given a run down of the problem—there were a few withdrawals made in Las Vegas, but the correct pin number was used.
“My husband is in Vegas right now, so I’m sure everything’s okay,” she told the bank rep. “You can unfreeze the account.”
“But there’s some suspicious activity on the account,” the bank rep replied. “An attempt was made to go over the limit and usually customers know the daily limit on the account. The transaction in question was from a machine called ‘the main cage.’”
“That was in a casino!” I interjected as WW™ told me the story.
“Sure it was,” she said slyly.
The bank rep told WW™ the amount I was trying to take out. I imagine her jaw hit the floor.
“Um, you better keep that freeze on the account,” she told him. “I don’t know what the hell is going on out there.”
As she was telling me this, I had already figured out the problem.
“Last night Sam left his ATM card at the hotel, so instead of him having to fight traffic all the way back up the Strip, I was attempting to float him a loan,” I explained.
“Uh huh,” she said.
Then there was a pause.
“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”
Friday, February 18, 2011
Today There Are More Important Things Than Blogging
I’m not going to write a blog post today.
There are more pressing things at hand. Like driving through the desert to a neon-lit oasis where gambling is permitted, alcohol flows like wine and where the beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano.
I am embarking on what will likely the last bachelor party I’ll ever attend. One of my last single buddies is getting married, so my merry band of idiot friends and I are once again on our way to Vegas.
A few months ago, I asked the groom if there were any plans for a bachelor party. I was aghast when he said there were none and offered to help plan it. (I was made for organizing stuff like this—especially Vegas.) Now after a couple of months of internet research, phone calls, confirmation numbers, dinner reservations and emails, it’s finally here.
I used to go to Vegas every six to nine months.
It’s been three years since I was last there.
I absolutely love Vegas.
I love my buddy.
I can’t wait to celebrate.
And this is why there will be no blog post today.
There are more pressing things at hand. Like driving through the desert to a neon-lit oasis where gambling is permitted, alcohol flows like wine and where the beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano.
I am embarking on what will likely the last bachelor party I’ll ever attend. One of my last single buddies is getting married, so my merry band of idiot friends and I are once again on our way to Vegas.
A few months ago, I asked the groom if there were any plans for a bachelor party. I was aghast when he said there were none and offered to help plan it. (I was made for organizing stuff like this—especially Vegas.) Now after a couple of months of internet research, phone calls, confirmation numbers, dinner reservations and emails, it’s finally here.
I used to go to Vegas every six to nine months.
It’s been three years since I was last there.
I absolutely love Vegas.
I love my buddy.
I can’t wait to celebrate.
And this is why there will be no blog post today.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
She Goes to Extremes
“Pick me up, I want give you a hug,” Sprout said to me before I was out the door in the morning.
I happily scooped her up and twirled her in the air savoring the feeling of her little arms wrapped around my neck. It was a stark contrast to the previous night where Sprout threw a monumental tantrum that lasted for an hour and a half that ended with her sitting on the floor, back turned to me, refusing to even sit next to me on the couch.
Ah, such is life with Sprout. She is a study of extremes. Her attitude towards me is either hot or cold, and there’s no way to predict which version of her I will encounter at any given time. The speed at which her temperature can change is head-swimmingly astounding.
Once upon a time, when Sprout was in utero, the constant refrain I heard from others was how wonderful it was to be the dad of a girl. Stories were heaped upon me of little girls sharing a special bond with their daddies, filled with promises of a child who would relish every moment with her father. I was excited to be the dad of a girl, thinking that I would have at least 10-11 great years with my girl before she turned into a tween preoccupied with boys and Biebers.
Sprout was soon born, screaming herself purple and angry for having to move from the womb to the world.
I had the touch with Sprout, for about two weeks when she was a newborn. If I turned out the lights in my study and rocked her while “Three Little Birds” played, without fail she would settle. But this didn't last long and it was soon that Sprout wanted very little to do with me.
Sprout’s icy attitude towards me began to thaw around the two-year mark. Suddenly I would receive kisses and hugs and would hear the phrase, “I love you.” Each time electrified me in the way that only a parent could understand. But Sprout carefully played me like a concert pianist, always careful not to let me in too much. Now she often routinely refuses to give me a hug or a kiss—always at night. And forget about her ever letting me read a bedtime story.
Of course, all of this rejection only makes me want to try harder. Yes, at an early age Sprout has figured out what a lot of women don’t learn until much later—the more you push a man away, the more they want to chase. Even though I recognize that this is happening, I am compelled to try to break down the walls she’s put up between us in my fruitless pursuit of the idealized father/daughter relationship that I been told about so long ago.
I happily scooped her up and twirled her in the air savoring the feeling of her little arms wrapped around my neck. It was a stark contrast to the previous night where Sprout threw a monumental tantrum that lasted for an hour and a half that ended with her sitting on the floor, back turned to me, refusing to even sit next to me on the couch.
Ah, such is life with Sprout. She is a study of extremes. Her attitude towards me is either hot or cold, and there’s no way to predict which version of her I will encounter at any given time. The speed at which her temperature can change is head-swimmingly astounding.
Once upon a time, when Sprout was in utero, the constant refrain I heard from others was how wonderful it was to be the dad of a girl. Stories were heaped upon me of little girls sharing a special bond with their daddies, filled with promises of a child who would relish every moment with her father. I was excited to be the dad of a girl, thinking that I would have at least 10-11 great years with my girl before she turned into a tween preoccupied with boys and Biebers.
Sprout was soon born, screaming herself purple and angry for having to move from the womb to the world.
I had the touch with Sprout, for about two weeks when she was a newborn. If I turned out the lights in my study and rocked her while “Three Little Birds” played, without fail she would settle. But this didn't last long and it was soon that Sprout wanted very little to do with me.
Sprout’s icy attitude towards me began to thaw around the two-year mark. Suddenly I would receive kisses and hugs and would hear the phrase, “I love you.” Each time electrified me in the way that only a parent could understand. But Sprout carefully played me like a concert pianist, always careful not to let me in too much. Now she often routinely refuses to give me a hug or a kiss—always at night. And forget about her ever letting me read a bedtime story.
Of course, all of this rejection only makes me want to try harder. Yes, at an early age Sprout has figured out what a lot of women don’t learn until much later—the more you push a man away, the more they want to chase. Even though I recognize that this is happening, I am compelled to try to break down the walls she’s put up between us in my fruitless pursuit of the idealized father/daughter relationship that I been told about so long ago.
Monday, February 14, 2011
The Wit and Wisdom of the Bean: Valentine's Day Edition
A Valentine's Day "poem" from the Bean to his pre-school teacher:
"I love you. You should really believe that I love you. That is a special secret. If you're a clown, you'll get a special present--I'll throw a pie in your face. Clowns really like that."
"I love you. You should really believe that I love you. That is a special secret. If you're a clown, you'll get a special present--I'll throw a pie in your face. Clowns really like that."
Friday, February 11, 2011
Flashback Friday: Say What?
With the ease in which Sprout converses these days, it feels like she’s been talking forever. Of course anyone with the vaguest understanding of child development knows this isn’t actually the case. In fact it wasn’t long ago that when Sprout spoke, none of us could understand what she was saying. Except for the Bean.
The Bean had a miraculous gift for translating Sprout, and we would turn to him time and time again to help us understand what our little girl was saying.
We’d be sitting eating dinner when Sprout would pipe up. “Aggle flaggle.”
I would look at WonderWife™ and be met with the same curious, empty stare I was giving her.
“She wants a glass of milk,” the Bean would say.
“Aggle flagge!” Sprout would nod in agreement.
After a while, we didn’t even try to figure out what Sprout was saying. If the Bean was nearby, we’d automatically turn to him and he’d happily tell us what she said.
Poor kid. It was the first in what would become a long list of ways in which he’d be helping his little sister through life. But WW™ and I were grateful that the Bean spoke fluent Sprout.
The Bean had a miraculous gift for translating Sprout, and we would turn to him time and time again to help us understand what our little girl was saying.
We’d be sitting eating dinner when Sprout would pipe up. “Aggle flaggle.”
I would look at WonderWife™ and be met with the same curious, empty stare I was giving her.
“She wants a glass of milk,” the Bean would say.
“Aggle flagge!” Sprout would nod in agreement.
After a while, we didn’t even try to figure out what Sprout was saying. If the Bean was nearby, we’d automatically turn to him and he’d happily tell us what she said.
Poor kid. It was the first in what would become a long list of ways in which he’d be helping his little sister through life. But WW™ and I were grateful that the Bean spoke fluent Sprout.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Improvement
Although looking at me from the outside it was hard to notice, last year I sort of fell apart. Professionally it was a chaotic time of transition that consumed me. As a result, I lost some of my focus on other things. And while my life is far from being a Lifetime movie of the week, I haven't liked feeling scattered and remote.
These are normally the kind of thoughts that pop up around the New Year, when resolutions are made. But seeing as we are long past the time when most of these promises have been abandoned, it feels like a safer time to instill some change.
My Health
The first step was joining a gym. However, the more crucial step of the plan is to actually go to said gym. This is the part where I usually have a problem. I have no difficulty putting money down to enter a gym, but I can't stand working out. I believe that there is such a thing as a runner’s high for some people, but I have never been one of them. To me, exercise is neither cathartic nor enjoyable. It’s painful, sweaty, hard work and I am, by nature, a lazy man. But seeing that I’m staring down the barrel of 40 and that I have an appetite for bacon and booze, I need the gym. So far, I’ve gone three times in the week and a half since I joined. It’s a good start, but I’m not celebrating yet.
My Blog
I have lost a bit of my writing mojo, as evidenced by my one post a week schedule here. Like my body, my brain needs exercise too and writing gives me that work out. Unlike the gym, I enjoy writing. I actually thrive on the outlet. But when work got busy, I fell out of the habit of writing regularly. It’s not even writer’s block. I have pages worth of ideas and observations. But lately it’s seemed like effort to get them into post-worthy shape. As much as I care about my readers, the real reason I write this blog is to keep a record of my kids’ lives. So I need to push myself to get over this hill for them.
My Marriage
I need to be a better husband. Though I am not quite sure how to do this. It feels like my and WonderWife's™ role as parents has overtaken our roles as a couple. Things aren't bad between us. But they could be better. I know that if I try, WW™ and I can find ourselves again despite all of the diapers and laundry and floors strewn with toys.
My Kids
While I think I’m a good dad (and hope that my kids agree), I want to be better. I need to be more patient. I need to be more present. I want to make sure that the time I spend with them is quality. I want to be more creative and more fun with them. I want to give them everything they need, and more.
There. I’ve laid it all out for the world to read. Now it’s up to me to be accountable. Right now I feel energized. This is attainable. It’s just going to require a little work.
These are normally the kind of thoughts that pop up around the New Year, when resolutions are made. But seeing as we are long past the time when most of these promises have been abandoned, it feels like a safer time to instill some change.
My Health
The first step was joining a gym. However, the more crucial step of the plan is to actually go to said gym. This is the part where I usually have a problem. I have no difficulty putting money down to enter a gym, but I can't stand working out. I believe that there is such a thing as a runner’s high for some people, but I have never been one of them. To me, exercise is neither cathartic nor enjoyable. It’s painful, sweaty, hard work and I am, by nature, a lazy man. But seeing that I’m staring down the barrel of 40 and that I have an appetite for bacon and booze, I need the gym. So far, I’ve gone three times in the week and a half since I joined. It’s a good start, but I’m not celebrating yet.
My Blog
I have lost a bit of my writing mojo, as evidenced by my one post a week schedule here. Like my body, my brain needs exercise too and writing gives me that work out. Unlike the gym, I enjoy writing. I actually thrive on the outlet. But when work got busy, I fell out of the habit of writing regularly. It’s not even writer’s block. I have pages worth of ideas and observations. But lately it’s seemed like effort to get them into post-worthy shape. As much as I care about my readers, the real reason I write this blog is to keep a record of my kids’ lives. So I need to push myself to get over this hill for them.
My Marriage
I need to be a better husband. Though I am not quite sure how to do this. It feels like my and WonderWife's™ role as parents has overtaken our roles as a couple. Things aren't bad between us. But they could be better. I know that if I try, WW™ and I can find ourselves again despite all of the diapers and laundry and floors strewn with toys.
My Kids
While I think I’m a good dad (and hope that my kids agree), I want to be better. I need to be more patient. I need to be more present. I want to make sure that the time I spend with them is quality. I want to be more creative and more fun with them. I want to give them everything they need, and more.
There. I’ve laid it all out for the world to read. Now it’s up to me to be accountable. Right now I feel energized. This is attainable. It’s just going to require a little work.
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