The Picarella Family Report

Just Say Thanks

2011-12-01T11:31:00.000-08:00

Thanksgiving is a day to give thanks.

So when my wife’s aunt and uncle invited us to their home for Thanksgiving a second year in a row, we should’ve said thanks but no thanks. Instead, my wife agreed to go.

Then I felt guilty.

“But they had us over last year,” I said. “We should be inviting them over this year.”

I believe that if a friend treats you to coffee, you should treat him to coffee next time. I can’t see abusing another person’s giving nature. A gift must be returned.

“We’re in no position to host Thanksgiving this year,” my wife said. “And my aunt and uncle aren’t like that. A return gift isn’t necessary. Our thankfulness is plenty.”

Maybe my wife was right. Maybe the gift doesn’t have to be returned. Maybe saying thanks is enough.

As a result of that revelation, I spent the month of November saying thanks and not feeling in debt to anyone who gave me something or did something for me. If people performed such a kind gesture, I thanked them. That was it.

My mom, who writes thank-you letters for thank-you letters, thought I was nuts. Typically, we’d be spending Thanksgiving with her this year at her home in Northern California since we spent last year with my wife’s family in Southern California -- we alternate from year to year. But my mom made plans to be out of town this Thanksgiving, so we’ll be in the southland for 2011.

“You’re going over to her aunt and uncle’s again?” my mom said. “Michael, you should be having them over this year. You have to return the gift.”

“A return gift isn’t necessary, Mom,” I said with my new outlook on life. “Our thankfulness is plenty.”

I went on behaving with that mentality.

Last month, when my wife and I celebrated our 11th wedding anniversary, a friend from work bought us a present. This month, that same friend celebrated his wedding anniversary. I felt no obligation to return the gift. I just congratulated him on five years. (I never thought outsiders should give gifts to those celebrating their anniversary anyway.)

Then, last week, when I was running late for work one morning, my neighbor helped me out by taking my son to school. I thanked her, and I didn’t feel obligated to give her son a ride to school the next morning when she was running late for work. I just waved to her as I drove away.

A dinner out, thanks to my sister-in-law, went unreturned. All compliments went unreturned, though I sincerely thanked anyone with nice words.

The same behavior applied to casual greetings. If someone said to me, “Hi, how are you?” I didn’t feel obligated to say, “I’m well, how are you?” back. Not anymore. Now when anyone asked how I was, I’d say, “I’m well. Thanks.” And I’d move on.

“Thanks.” That was it. I felt no guilt to return the gift.

But then I felt guilty for not feeling guilty about returning the gift. Worse, my wife was getting complaints from friends and family saying I was ungrateful.

“But I said thanks.”

Everyone who had done something for me this month had cut me off. I was dead to them.

I thought maybe I could give return gifts to redeem myself. But either it was too late or I couldn’t financially afford to return the gifts.

“I told you,” my mom said when I called for advice. “You can’t accept anything else.”

That was it -- I wouldn’t accept anything else.

But no one was offering anything else.

So I say here and now, thanks to all my friends and family for just being there. I don’t need anything else. I’m thankful for what I have. I’m thankful for the people in my life, for my community, for the roof over my head, for the food on my table.

Wow, that’s what Thanksgiving is really all about, isn’t it? It’s about giving thanks for what we already have.

Thanks.

Now who’s gonna give the thanks back?

-November 2011

I Suck!

2011-12-01T10:34:00.000-08:00

If you can’t say something nice, don’t say it at all.

We’ve all heard that saying a million times, yet people say the darnedest things.

I’ve hated my curly hair since I was a kid. It’s nappy and grows all over the place. There’s not much I can do with it. I try to keep it short. But it grows fast -- and big.

When it’s long, people like to remind me to cut it. “Your hair’s getting nappy,” they say. When I cut it, other people tell me to let it grow.

“Yo gangsta,” they say mockingly in bad imitation. “Where’re yo Dickies pants and black Nike Cortez shoes?” I can’t win. How about I just become another person?

The other day, a co-worker asked me about the film school I spent so much money on and what it was like to be a failed director. Who says that kind of thing to your face? And how do you respond to that? Do you strike back? Or do you follow your conscience: If you can’t say something nice, don’t say it at all.

I wasn’t going to ignore this guy like I usually do when people say rude things. But I wasn’t going to attack him either. Instead, I decided to turn his negative comment into a positive.

“Okay,” I said, “so I’m a failed movie director -- true. But you have to fail early in life before you can succeed later. That’s what I’m doing right now.” My co-worker was quick to shoot that down with a quote from author F. Scott Fitzgerald: “There are no second acts in American lives.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald said it, which can only mean one thing: It must be true -- I’m doomed to be a failure.

But, thanks to an instant Internet search on my smart phone, I discovered that Raymond Chandler turned writer at age 45, Paul Gauguin was 43 when he became a painter, Martha Stewart was originally a caterer before becoming -- much later in life -- the superstar business magnate she is today, and Ray Croc was 52 years old, selling milkshake machines when he set out to build the McDonald’s brand.

My co-worker’s not-so-nice comments actually led me to something inspiring. I wondered where I could get more painful criticisms.

I turned to my good friends. We met at a coffee shop for some sandwiches and hard truths. I got a healthy serving of both.

Right away my friends told me to get a haircut. Then came the juicy stuff: At 35 years old, I’m not making enough money, my house is a shack, and I’m a terrible parent because I’m leaving my 8-year-old son an only child.

Well, my wife and I physically can’t have another kid. But that’s beside the point. Thanks to another quick Internet search on my smart phone, I discovered that my wife and I are really good parents for only having one child. The world has shown us many incredible only-children, including Franklin Roosevelt, Lance Armstrong, Frank Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Cary Grant and John Lennon. Those are just a few recognizable names.

“How else do I suck?” I asked my friends as I wolfed down my BLT. With my smart phone nearby, I was hungry for more truth. My friends dished it out. But they served more than I could chew. Even my phone choked.

In the end, I came to the conclusion that I just suck. I suck at my job. I suck as a dad. I suck as a husband. Sure, I’m lucky to have a great wife and a great kid. I live in a great area. But my friends convinced me that those great things are there to help me see how much I truly suck.

As the awareness of my suckiness sank in, I came to realize something cool. Without digging, I unearthed a positive aspect of sucking: If I suck at everything, then I don’t have to be good at anything.

So I took advantage of my suckiness. When the bill for our sandwiches arrived, I informed my good friends that they’d have to pay my portion. “Sorry,” I said. “I have no money. I know -- I suck.”

A few days later, my wife nagged me about my sucky driving. I pulled over and let her drive. My son said I wasn’t being fair. I told him, “I suck, don’t I? When we get home, you can clean your room.”

That brings me to a recent piece of sucky writing I shoved in front of my wife for an honest opinion. I wrote the piece, so I knew it sucked. And I knew I couldn’t fix it. Because I suck. But I showed my wife anyway, maybe just as one last proof to confirm that I do, in fact, suck.

“It’s really good,” she said. She didn’t say she was confused. She didn’t say it wasn’t funny. She didn’t even say I needed a haircut. She just said she really liked it.

Finally, someone had something good to say about me, something nice, which, really, could only mean one thing: My wife was lying.

-November 2011

Pre-Halloween Surprise

2011-11-14T22:45:00.000-08:00

Halloween is all about surprises -- scares, tricks, treats. This year’s surprise was Disneyland.

My 8-year-old son had no choice -- at birth, he was forced into our family. He wouldn’t get the news of going to Disneyland in advance like his friends got. No, he was going to find out upon arrival after a long, drawn-out production of a lie.

But here was the problem: Today’s kids are no dummies. When I was young, my parents could rely on my gullibility to trick me into believing anything. My son is far too skeptical for that, and so my set-up for the Disneyland surprise had to be even more elaborate than I envisioned.

Earlier this month, my wife ordered the Disneyland tickets online. Meanwhile, I outlined a script that she and I would follow in order to trick our son into the surprise. My spouse had long ago given in to my madness. Like most everything else I do, she just went along.

“Let’s just tell him now,” she said full of her own excitement.

“Can’t you just go along with me this one time?” I asked. It was Halloween time, after all, and Disneyland had to be a surprise.

We kept the secret for over a week. On the day before we were to go, we told the kid that, the next day, we’d have to go down to Orange County (where Disneyland lives) to help Grandpa (he lives in Orange County, too) run some errands. This was believable because we’d done it in the past.

The kid went right along with the story.

When he fell asleep that night, my computer called me from the other room. It seemed to know we were going to Disneyland, and it begged me to go online and check out the cool stuff planned for the Disney Halloween spooktacular. My wife wrote off the whole computer calling me thing as if I was making it up. Whatever.

Online, I saw how Disney dressed up the Haunted Mansion to look like the movie “Nightmare Before Christmas.” Space Mountain became haunted with a ghost that chases roller coaster riders through space. There’d be pumpkin carvers, a Halloween Tree (from the classic Ray Bradbury book of the same name), jack-o’-lanterns galore and trick-or-treating. Forget my son’s excitement -- I couldn’t wait.

On the day of the big surprise, we woke -- rather I woke and shook my wife awake -- ran into the kid’s room and woke him up, yelling, “Hurry up, get up, it’s time help Grandpa with all his errands!”

In the car, my wife and I recited the lines of my surprise script, telling our kid how we were all going to have to be patient because we had “a lot of boring shopping to do with Grandpa.” I told the boy that if he behaved well, we’d check out the Halloween store in the mall.

“Wouldn’t it be great,” I asked, veering off the script I’d written, “if they had a ‘Nightmare Before Christmas’ costume?”

My wife shot me a look, assuming I’d given away the surprise. No way -- our son had no clue.

“Check out that Disneyland billboard,” I said to my son about halfway into the drive. “Oh wow, it looks like they decorate for Halloween. I sure wish we could go.”

Again, my wife glared at me. Really? I knew what I was doing, even with my ad-libbing. Our son had no idea what was in store for him.

When we neared Disneyland, I really got into character, and I showed the world -- well, everyone in the car anyway -- that Al Pacino isn’t the only one with acting chops.

“Is this right?” I said, tapping the electronic gas gauge on my dash. “It says we need gas. I think I’m going to pull off here. Let me know if anyone sees a gas station.”

The kid totally bought my act. I took the exit before Disneyland so he wouldn’t get suspicious. I’d take back streets to the park.

“There’s a gas station,” the kid said when he saw one.

“Not Shell,” I said. “See if you can find a Chevron. I wanna put gas with Techron into my tank.”

When we got to the Disneyland parking garage, I was turning in an Oscar-worthy performance.

“What the heck?” I said. “I must’ve made a wrong turn somewhere. Where the heck are we?”

My wife turned toward our child in the back seat so she wouldn’t miss his excitement when he finally discovered where we were.

“Daddy,” he said, “we’re at Disneyland.” Now I turned around so I wouldn’t miss his excitement. But he wasn’t excited. He was annoyed.

“You gotta turn around, Dad,” he said. “There’s no Chevron in the Disneyland parking lot.”

Yup, Halloween is all about surprises. The surprise that day, however, was on my wife and me. Even as we were boarding our doom buggy in the Haunted Mansion ride, our kid was asking, “So we’re not helping Grandpa run errands today?”

Happy Halloween. Here’s to your Halloween surprise -- or lack thereof.

-October 2011

My Kid the Salesman

2011-11-14T22:01:00.000-08:00

My 8-year-old son is deep.

He said to his mother, who’s a middle school teacher, “Your students think eighth grade is next to ninth grade. I think third grade is next to college.”

He’s got something there. It’s quite profound. Or he just wants something from Mommy and knows his way to her teacherly heart.

Yup, our boy’s a salesman. Question is: Will he use his powers for good or evil?

My wife and I saw the full extent of the kid’s abilities when his teacher asked the class to sell magazine subscriptions to friends and family to raise funds for the school. My initial response: “I don’t want to ask anyone for money. No one we know has money right now, but they’ll feel guilty if we ask and they’ll fork over the cash, and I just don’t want that.”

Before I could finish saying my piece, my wife and son already had the address book out and phone in hand, eager to dial the family. I had to step up and lay down the law.

“Okay, who are we calling first?” I asked. Not much stepping up there. But I was able to at least lay down a few ground rules -- my wife and I came up with a list of family and friends our son could call. Everyone else in the address book was off limits.

The boy called my father-in-law first.

“Hello,” Grandpa said when he picked up.

“At my school,” the kid said without any greeting or introduction, “there’s this thing where you can buy subscriptions to magazines. Do you wanna buy one?”

One by one, family and friends came through. They were dropping their hard-earned cheese like it wasn’t all they had in their pockets to put food on the table. After a call to my brother, my son got back on the phone to other relatives, and my brother rang me up on my cell phone.

“I wish I could’ve done more,” he said, “but we just spent everything we have on the closing costs for this house.”

“You did plenty,” I said. “We appreciate it. And I know the school appreciates it, too.”

Boy, that school better appreciate it.

My wife got a similar call on her cell phone from a family friend. And so while she and I were thanking them graciously, our son was on our landline going through his list of contacts, selling subscriptions to each and every person he called.

My wife and I had only been away from our son for a minute -- two minutes tops. He had managed to go through the entire list of contacts, and then he dug into our address book and found other people he knew, people we told him were off limits, and he called them and made those sales as well.

“What are you doing?” I said when I caught him. “We told you to stick to the list.”

“But I just wanted to help the school more better,” he said.

“You should just wanna listen to Mommy and Daddy more better,” I told him. “Now you’re gonna have to call all those people who weren’t on the list and tell them the sale is canceled.”

My wife thought I was being a little harsh. But this time I actually got to lay down the law. The kid had gone too far.

So he called back those not on the list and canceled their orders.

Before going to school the next morning with his list of orders, our son told us, “If I made three more sales, I would’ve won a toy frog. But I don’t want you to think I’m addicted to prizes. I didn’t go into your address book so I could win the toy frog. I really just wanted the school to have more money.”

My wife and I weren’t buying. We sent the kid on his way.

When he returned home from school that afternoon, he told us how he handed over his orders and how the teacher congratulated him on a job well done.

“You did a great job,” I told him. “And I know you could’ve earned the toy frog if we kept your other sales, but more important is that rules are rules, and you have to obey the rules.”

“Oh, but I got the frog,” the kid said, pulling the toy frog out of his backpack.

“Did you steal that?” my wife and I asked when we saw the frog.

“No!” he said, hurt by the accusation. “I just asked for it nicely.”

The question, indeed: Will this kid use his powers for good or evil?

-September 2011

I Want a Reason

2011-11-14T16:26:00.000-08:00

It was just a routine check-up.

I’d had a pacemaker in my chest for a little more than a year due to a slow heart rate and frequent blackouts. While the technician assessed me and my pacemaker, I noticed her eyes growing diameters bigger. Then she informed me that there was a problem with my heart.

She asked me to lay down, told me to calm down, relax . . . then she shot out of the room to get a doctor.

I checked my watch. I was late for a previous engagement. When the technician finally returned without the doctor, I was up and asking if this was really necessary -- I had a seat at Al Pacino’s AFI Life Achievement Award ceremony in Hollywood.

“We might have to check you into the ER,” the technician told me.

“You don’t understand,” I told her. “I have to go to this Pacino thing. My mother-in-law got these tickets, and she’s waiting for me.”

My always-punctual, very disciplined mother-in-law had received two tickets to this event from a business friend, and she invited me to go with her because she knew I was a huge movie lover.

Lucky for my insurance company, my heart didn’t cut out that day, and my mother-in-law and I made it to the event on time.

But things don’t always work out so nicely. I think it’s safe to say that life, in general, doesn’t work out so nicely, not even for those of us who get to see Al Pacino in person.

My mother-in-law’s recent passing was unexpected. I’d like to believe there’s a good reason for it.

Maybe she accomplished what she needed to accomplish in life, and so she was finished here. She started out in a tiny house in East L.A. next to gypsies. From there she built a very successful banking career and helped raise a very happy family, happy even with her strict business-like regiment, which included grocery store lists organized by the aisle and frequent calls from the second-story landing for her husband. “RRRRROSSSSSS!” she’d lovingly yell on a regular basis, needing his immediate assistance.

My mother-in-law was a daughter, a sister, a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a banker, an expert witness, a teacher, a consultant . . . a fellow “Godfather” movie lover. She most recently worked as chief of staff to the western director of the FDIC and, even when she was diagnosed with lung cancer earlier this year, was preparing for her job to end, firing up her resume to do more. She wouldn’t just give up. She couldn’t. She knew tomorrow the sun would rise and so would her family, the family she so loved. So she had to keep going. She had more to do.

No, I don’t think my mother-in-law accomplished what she needed to accomplish. I don’t think that’s the reason for her premature death.

But maybe she passed because she was needed in Heaven to watch over her family from a higher place. She did like being high up in the ranks, and the higher-ups always liked her.

So she gets to the pearly gates and St. Peter checks out her resume, gives her a heck of an interview. His job relies on whom he lets in, so he’s nervous. What if, he wonders, God likes the throw pillows where they are? And can you see God, looking over the world, and then, from some second-story cloud he hears, “GAWWWWWWD!” That’d be St. Peter’s job. So St. Peter asks for my mother-in-law’s intentions.

“If I get in,” she responds, “I’ll make sure my family is safe.” And she’s up there right now, looking over us, making sure we stay safe.

That sounds like a nice scenario. I’d like to believe that that’s the reason for my mother-in-law’s untimely death, that she left to be even closer to us all. I think the whole family would like to believe that that’s the reason. But I just don’t think she would have it that way. I think she could keep all of us safe and in line just fine from down here.

No, I think the truth lies in a passage I came across in The Bible. I haven’t read much of The Bible, but I picked it up and found the book of Ecclesiastes where it says, “There is a righteous man who perishes in his righteousness, and there is a wicked man who prolongs his life in his evildoing.” In other words, any of us can go at any time, and there’s no reason for why and when, whether we’re good or bad.

The book offers this: “There is nothing better for people than to be happy and to do good while they live, that each of them may eat and drink, and find satisfaction in all their toil.”

My mother-in-law did just that. She loved her work. She loved her family. She loved her days on Earth. And she wanted the same for others. She really wanted the same for others. And I think that’s why she waited a few extra days to make her final exit last week -- to make sure she got what she wanted.

My father-in-law will tell you -- his wife always got what she wanted. She wouldn’t just give up. She couldn’t. Yup, when she left, she left on her own terms, satisfied, knowing that tomorrow the sun will rise.

And so will we.

-September 2011

How to Survive 'Back to School'

2011-11-14T15:06:00.000-08:00

Summer goes by too fast. Worse, stores prematurely advertise sales for “back to school” halfway through summer break, making summer fly by that much faster.

As a kid, I hated those sales telling me my summer fun was coming to an end. As a parent, I still hate those sales, reminding me that my kid is one year closer to becoming a teenager who hates my guts.

But no matter how much you hate the fact that school is starting, and no matter how much you remember despising your parents for making you go back to school when you were a kid, you still have to send your children to school, whether they beg to work from home or not.

“Yippie,” my 8-year-old son hollered when my wife and I gave him his back-to-school date this year. “I can’t wait to go back.”

Who is this kid? Certainly not yours. Your children will most likely refuse to go. They’ll threaten your life with the pudding spoons you pack in their lunches. Remember that this is normal behavior, and that your kids won’t actually attempt to make good on their threats. Then send them on their crying way.

I still hate first days back to school. You must bravely navigate through ferocious hordes that slam you out of their way into playground equipment, swing over your head from monkey bars to get in line for class before anyone else. These are the moms and dads. The kids are sometimes worse -- only sometimes, though.

Then there are crying kids who don’t want to leave moms and crying moms who don’t want their kids to leave. Don’t let these syrupy scenes deter you from getting to your child’s line for class on time. It’s survival of the fittest out there -- cut others down before they cut you down.

Once you survive finding your child’s class line, be prepared to deal with real life-and-death problems. Your child will complain that all his friends are in other classes. Parents whose children got the best teacher in school will tell you that your child’s new teacher is the “fun one,” which means they think your teacher can’t teach and that they’re lucky their child got a teacher who can.

Defuse such a problem by asking these parents what they did for summer break. When they tell you what they did, fabricate a vacation “you took” that makes their trip look like a Sunday outing. That’ll tick them off. Then go to the office and see if you can switch classes.

The office will most likely deny your request, and rightfully so. No teacher deserves oversized classes, not even the so-called best ones.

Better yet, skip the hassle of going to the office and instead tell other parents and your child that you heard the teacher your kid got is actually the best in the school. Make up a few wild statistics to prove it. Don’t worry, nobody’s gonna fact-check you, unless, of course, you’re speaking with a room mom -- room moms can and will find out everything about your school.

Picture taking on the first day of school is a must. I’m not a fan of school paparazzi, but my wife is. We’ve got two external hard drives full of pictures to prove it.

This year, I was sent alone to cover the first day of school. For those of you who find yourselves in the same predicament, use your cell phone’s camera to be more discreet. Infringe on poses other paparazzi parents set up with your kids and theirs, and snap away. Your absent spouse will revel in photos she thinks you set up. Accept this unjust praise.

Checking the backpacks after that first day of school is always painful. This year, my son brought home two reams of paper from his teacher. When this happens to you, don’t smile and assume you just received free printer paper. This is your homework -- you have to fill out that mountain of paperwork and return the next day.

Throughout that paperwork will be indicators that your children will be learning more this year than you learned in all of your grade school education. My son’s in third grade, and he’s going to be learning calculus and how to write a multi-source I-search paper. Don’t feel inferior to your kids. Just tell them they won’t need any of that useless knowledge when they get into the real world.

The bottom line is your kids are growing. You might tell yourselves that they’re still your babies. This reaction is normal. It just means you don’t want to be older. I call this, fittingly, the “I don’t want to be older” phenomenon.

My wife and I are in our mid to late 30s with one child, and we’re guilty of not wanting to be older. We don’t want time to fly. We don’t want our son to grow up and leave us for a life of his own. We want the baby we had when we were younger, the baby who needs us, who wants us.

And so there’s a solution: Have another kid and relive those grand days of youth.

Only problem is, in just a few years, summer break will be over and that baby will be going back to school.

-August 2011

Taking Ownership

2011-11-14T12:13:00.000-08:00

What age are your children when you let them use your computer? How about your iPhone to play games? And the DVR to record programs on TV -- when should your kids be allowed to use that?

How old are your kids before you let them use these electronic items unsupervised?

My wife and I have an 8-year-old boy. He’s used the computer and our phones many times. But each time we’re hovering over his every move -- we don’t want him accidentally deleting something important or messing everything up.

My step-dad told me that my wife and I are typical only-child parents, that we suffocate our kid, give him no room to grow and mature.

“He has to take ownership of his mistakes,” he told me. “It’s key to character building.”

Later my son asked if he could play a game on my iPhone while I washed the car. My first thoughts: What if he drops the phone when I’m not looking? What if he deletes something? What if he scrambles up the placement of my apps? Those took me hours to organize.

I could hear my step-dad’s voice from earlier, warning me to give my son responsibility, to let him take ownership if he makes a mistake.

I gave my boy my phone and told him to be careful. And I turned my back.

When I got the phone back, it actually looked okay. My son even asked me if the phone looked like it did when I gave it to him. I told him it did. Wow, maybe this experience was really teaching the kid to be responsible.

“Can I use the computer next?” he asked. My first thoughts: The iPhone is one thing. The computer has so many things he can screw up when I’m not looking, more important things like system preferences, our checkbook, and the order I have applications placed on my dock.

But there was my step-dad’s voice again, telling me to let the kid take ownership.

I got the kid set up on the computer and told him to be careful. And I turned my back.

When he was finished an hour or so later, I checked out the machine. What the heck? Nothing was totally destroyed.

So I taught him how to use the DVR, gave him full reign of our electronics in the house. I’m gonna get an award for being the best parent, teaching my kid responsibility so early on.

And then came the problems. My wife found 20 new “Words With Friends” games started with unknown people on her phone. We got over $30 in receipts from iTunes showing purchases neither of us had made for applications like “Icee Maker,” “Cake Decorator” and some werewolf hunter game that made no sense.

The DVR had no more space available to record. But the memory wasn’t taken up by cartoons or other kids shows. It was full of game shows like “Jeopardy,” “Wheel of Fortune” and “Family Feud.” That’s our son.

Then I found the real problem. I checked the computer and discovered missing application icons on the dock. Worse, the icons that were there were in the incorrect order.

My wife and I discussed taking away the kid’s electronics privileges. Obviously he couldn’t be trusted.

“I’m so sorry I messed everything up,” our son said, taking full ownership. “I didn’t know I was starting new ‘Words With Friends’ games with people you don’t know. And when I was playing this game on your phone, this ‘Icee Maker’ window kept popping up and I just pressed okay to try to get rid of it.”

In his defense, some of those free apps do allow tricky pop-up windows that could easily lead to accidental purchases. Even I’ve almost done that. As for the missing application icons on the computer dock and the rearrangement of the present icons, my wife wrecks that stuff all the time.

When I was a kid, my step-dad taught me how to work on cars. He didn’t just show and tell. He told me how to do the work and I did it. While working on a carburetor one time, I actually broke something very costly. I feared for my life.

But my step-dad wasn’t upset. The cost to replace the broken part wasn’t as valuable as the experience he was giving me, and the ownership he was teaching me to take.

Likewise, my wife and I didn’t take our son’s electronics privileges away. We pointed out the mistakes he’d made and showed him how to avoid them in the future. And we told him we weren’t upset about his mistakes. We taught him to own up, that not owning up was far worse than making the mistake.

Last week, FedEx showed up at our door with one of those Roomba vacuuming robots. Our son wasn’t taking ownership of that one. But my wife and I sure did. It cost us over $200 plus shipping and handling to own that thing.

And that’s the story of how our carpets came to be vacuumed automatically on a daily basis.

-August 2011

The Girl, The Date, The Dilemma

2011-11-14T11:02:00.000-08:00

It’d been a year since my son, now 8 years old, met The Girl. The Girl’s a year younger. This was their first play date since their first meeting.

“Do you remember her?” I asked my son.

“Yeah, Daddy,” he said in a show-offy tone. “Of course I remember her. Duh.”

“You met her last year,” I said. “At this park. Her dad and I went to school together in San Francisco.”

“I already know all that, Daddy,” my son said to me, annoyed that I was filling him in with details when he just told me he remembered her.

“Do you remember her name?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “Duh.”

I waited for him to say her name. When it was clear he had no intention of responding, I said, “So, what’s her name?”

My son blew me off, ran to the playground. The Girl followed.

“Evidently,” I told my friend, “knowing each other’s name isn’t grounds for being friends in the kid world.”

I called for my son.

“It’s okay,” my friend said, probably embarrassed to be a part of this scene.

“No,” I said. “He remembers her name.”

“It’s okay if he doesn’t.”

“Yeah, but I asked him a question and he just blew me off. That’s not okay.”

I called for my son again, this time using that fatherly voice that meant business. He’d come to me if he heard that voice.

My son just kept playing. I called again -- because I couldn’t back down now. Luckily my son came over -- I had no alternate strategy to show I held the power otherwise.

“Yeah?” he asked, as if I was inconveniencing him by calling him over.

“I asked you a question and you just ran off. That’s rude.”

“What was the question again? I forgot.”

“I asked if you remembered her name.”

“It’s really okay if he forgot,” my friend said, trying to end this whole thing.

“Yeah, Daddy,” my son said with pure teenager in his voice. “I have to do stuff.” Then he turned and ran back to the playground, my friend’s daughter in tow.

I could’ve let the whole thing end there. But there were principles at stake. My son stepped over a line. So I stepped over that line after him. My friend followed, not because he was supporting me, but because he’d look kind of awkward standing on the outskirts of the playground alone.

I took my kid by the hand and walked him to a nearby park bench, sat him down.

“I asked you a question twice and you ignored me. And then you were rude. That’s rude.”

“Sorry, Daddy,” my son said, no longer putting on the tough guy persona.

“You’ve been doing this a lot lately. You repeatedly misbehave around other people to try and show off or something, and then you just want it all to be okay afterward because you say you’re sorry. It’s good to say you’re sorry, but you have to start thinking before you act. Then you won’t have to say sorry.”

“Okay, Daddy, I’m sorry.”

“Now what was that girl’s name?” I asked. “Do you remember it?”

“No,” he said.

“Then why’d you lie and say you did?”

“I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not gonna get in trouble for forgetting someone’s name,” I said. I looked at my kid. He seemed to feel awful about the whole matter. So I dropped it. “Okay,” I said. “You can go play.”

My son rejoined The Girl at the playground. I rejoined my friend. We stood there, quiet for some time, watching our kids play. I finally said, “He was embarrassed that he forgot your daughter’s name. Silly, isn’t it?”

Then I asked, “What’s her name again?”

-July 2011

Infidelity

2011-08-19T10:37:00.000-07:00

I’m not a cheater. But I’ve had second thoughts.

I was born a Los Angeles Dodgers fan, wearing Dodger Blue not baby boy blue. My first baseball game was with my dad at Dodger Stadium. It was helmet night. I still have that helmet. My first real hot dog was a Dodger Dog. First time I heard a game on the radio, Vin Scully was calling it as nobody else can. And no organ sounds as sweet as the one at Dodger Stadium, with Nancy Bea Hefley at the keys punching in “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”

L.A. is my town -- Dodgertown, as the marketing campaign suggests. So when my in-laws invited my wife, 7-year-old son and me to an Angels game in Orange County, I said, “No thanks, I’m a Dodgers fan. I watch baseball at 1000 Elysian Park Avenue.”

But my son, now quite the baseball fan, wanted to go. “Please,” he begged.

“If I go,” I said, “I’m wearing Dodger Blue.” (The Dodgers weren’t even playing the Angels.) My father-in-law said, “You’ll be the only one not wearing Los Angeles Angel red.”

“Good,” I said. “They’ll know I’m not with them.”

And off we went to see the Anaheim Angels(there’s only one baseball team really in Los Angeles).

Right away I felt like I was at Disneyland. The entrance was more like an amusement park plaza -- themed, corporate and pristine. The inside halls were the same. Even the seats were too nice for a ballpark. The place was like a sitting room I had in my childhood home -- we weren’t allowed to sit on anything. My mom feared that use would wear down the beauty.

Angel Stadium might be nice, but it has no character, not like Dodger Stadium. And the fans are just like their park -- we might as well have been at an opera with these people. They were so tame I was surprised when I heard a fan finally criticize the umpire for missing calls, telling him to “check his cell.”

“I hate to say this, Daddy,” my son said by the end of the first inning, “but this place is way cooler than Dodger Stadium.”

I think the kid only said that because of the Disneyland-esque waterfall in the outfield and the fireworks that launched out of the rocks out there. Little boys like that stuff.

“Hey,” I said, “this place would be way cooler if it had a haunted mansion ride in the team store, but that has nothing to do with baseball.”

On my way to get a hot dog, I actually checked to see if the stores did have any rides. And by the way, those “Angel Dogs” can’t compete with the non-grilled Dodger Dogs, let alone the grilled Dodger Dogs.

By the start of the fifth inning, my wife had caught Angel fever, and she’s a Dodgers fan. My father-in-law, who grew up a Dodgers fan but who goes to Angels games because he now lives in Orange County, caved and bought an Angels ball cap. Even my sister-in-law, who’s one of the biggest Dodgers fans I know, took off her sweatshirt to reveal a bright red t-shirt underneath.

“Everyone wears red here,” she said. “Don’t worry, it’s not an Angels shirt.”

I suppose she has a right to wear an Angels shirt if she wanted to. The Dodgers franchise has left so many fans disenchanted. Bad trades (I’m still not over the Mike Piazza deal), bad ownership, bad fan behavior, falling attendance, and now this bankruptcy nonsense adds up to more than just bad times. Why can’t it just be like it once was? Thinking about it, maybe it never “was.” Maybe it’s all nostalgia -- better with time.

As I watched everyone enjoying the game, I realized I wasn’t having a good time. How ridiculous, I thought. I’m at a baseball game not having fun. Why should it matter that the Angels have a better park, with better parking and a great front plaza, with clean facilities and happy—not rowdy—fans? I should be happy that I don’t have to chain my son to my body to make sure he stays safe?

So I enjoyed the rest of the game. And we left at the very end of the game instead of after the 7th inning and still pulled out of the parking lot with ease. We got right onto the freeway (big difference). The next day, I proudly admitted to everyone I came across that my trip to Angel Stadium was a great treat.

Summer is now here. It’s the Fourth of July on Monday -- the Dodgers play the New York Mets in L.A. and the Angels play the Detroit Tigers in Anaheim. My wife asked which game I wanted to attend.

“I’ve never been a cheater,” I said. “But I’m having second thoughts.” My wife’s jaw dropped. “Second thoughts only for a second, though. Dodger Stadium it is!”

-July 2011

Death Coaster

2011-08-19T09:47:00.000-07:00

I’m what you call a roller coaster freak. If it promises to kill its riders, I wanna go on it.

However, I’m a family man -- I have a responsibility to live, and I can’t do things that threaten my life anymore. So of course when an old friend who made it big in the roller coaster-making industry asked if I wanted to be the first to ride his newest creation called Death Coaster, I said, “Heck yeah! I’m in.”

Back in our bachelor days, my friend always needed a place to crash. I called him The Crasher. I let him crash on my couch on a weekly basis. And I let him bring his friends over, too, and let them crash . . . and control my TV and use my shower and eat my food. The Crasher owed me big, though I never asked for anything.

Then, the other day, he called out of the blue and told me what he’d been up to the last 10 years -- building roller coasters. And he wanted to pay me back for all I’d done for him by letting me be the first to ride his new deadly roller coaster.

My wife said that I couldn’t die yet, that I still had to help raise our 7-year-old son. I could see her point.

On my approach to Death Coaster, I noticed workers still at work on the steel beast. For all I knew, there was missing track. I was so in.

At the coaster station, I bumped into other people waiting to go on the ride -- old friends from the old days, giving me a hard time because I was gonna get to go first. The Crasher said I’d be first to ride and he meant it. I was literally taking the maiden voyage. This thing hadn’t even been safety tested yet.

Now, these other riders were dressed as if they were testing the space shuttle, wearing boots and safety suits. I had on shorts, a T-shirt and sandals. My shirt had the words Oh Yeah! written across the front, which is what I said when I heard this coaster had 20 loops in a row. My sandals: Psyclones—those are some bad sandals.

The Crasher told me to put on close-toed shoes. I told him not to worry. “I got it,” I said coolly. I didn’t even take off my fighter pilot shades, nor did I accept a helmet to wear for when the coaster leaves the atmosphere on that first big hill.

I strapped into the coaster -- the only rider on this run. The others waiting to go next heckled me. “Don’t cry,” these hecklers called out, and “Hope you’re wearing a diaper.” I shrugged them off.

As the coaster climbed that first big hill, my man-ness began to dissolve. That thing just kept climbing and climbing into the clouds, and it was eventually gonna go down. I was a family man with a responsibility to live, with a 7-year-old son to help raise. What the heck was I doing?

That coaster took the life out of me. My Oh Yeah! shirt turned into an Oh No! shirt. My fighter pilot shades turned into Hello Kitty glasses. And my killer Psyclone sandals turned into Crocs.

When the coaster came to a stop, my face must’ve said it all. The hecklers in line laughed, hung me from the proverbial hook. I couldn’t respond. I had to make sure I survived first. I had. That fact alone helped bring on my victory face. That’s right, I thought, I did conquer Death Coaster. I destroyed that thing, killed it.

“Aren’t you gonna ride it backwards?” The Crasher asked me. I only barely survived that thing, I thought. Is this guy out of his mind? But I’m a man and men never say no. So I said, “I’m so in,” and got back into the coaster.

The hecklers razzed me some more. “You want us to get your mommy?” they shouted, and “Premium Pampers give you 12-hour protection with three layers of absorbency.”

Going up that first hill I tightened my safety harnesses so tight I couldn’t breathe. I was really going to miss my family, miss even my son’s teenage years.

The coaster took off backwards and I was dead by the first loop. My Oh No! shirt turned into an Oh, You Fool! shirt. My former fighter pilot shades were lost in space. And my sandals had become Cracker Jack toys. I really wished I had those three layers of Premium Pamper absorbency.

When it was all over, I realized I didn’t actually die. I got out of that coaster faster than you could drop twenty bucks at a movie theater.

The Crasher asked how I liked it. Those in line anticipated my response. Death Coaster was not safe at all. I couldn’t let anyone go on it. They wouldn’t survive. And then I heard the hecklers, poking at me for my reply.

“The coaster is awesome,” I finally said. “Next!” I called out.

-June 2011

Pulling Teeth

2011-07-28T23:18:00.000-07:00

My 7-year-old son’s teeth were loose. All he cared about was the money he’d get when the teeth came out.

“Money isn’t everything,” my wife and I told the kid. I felt his teeth -- they weren’t coming out any time soon. Thank God! The Tooth Fairy couldn’t afford a dollar, let alone two. The winged tooth-snatcher was off the hook for at least two months.

Three months later, our son’s teeth were ready to come out. Three months was more than enough time for the Tooth Fairy to round up some dough.

“What the heck is the Fairy gonna do?” I asked my wife after feeling my son’s looser than loose teeth.

“How should I know? With all the furlough days she’s getting this year, there’s no extra money, not even two bucks.”

“Mommy, Daddy,” our kid said. No way he overheard our conversation. “If the Tooth Fairy can’t afford to give me money for my teeth, can you give me money?”

My wife and I looked at each other. There was only one answer we could give the kid.

“Don’t you worry, you’ll get a dollar a tooth just like every other kid in the world.”

Our kid leaped for joy, ran to the bathroom and started yanking on his teeth.

“Slow down there, Indie 500,” I said, chasing him to the sink. “You don’t wanna damage your gums by—”

The kid had already pulled out a tooth.

“But it doesn’t hurt,” he said.

“But you could ruin your gums forev—”

There went the second tooth.

“That was easy,” the kid said. “Look, Mommy,” he yelled, running out into the living room with blood pouring from his mouth like a vampire who just preyed upon some helpless victim.

“Mrraaaahhhh!” my wife yelled when she saw the blood. She didn’t mind that it went all over the carpet like I was yelling about. She almost made it to the ER with the kid.

“I’m fine, Mommy,” our boy said. “I just pulled out my two front teeth.”

Meanwhile, I had the Resolve and a carpet brush trying to get the blood out of our white carpet. “Look what you did,” I said. “This’ll never come out.”

“Carpet isn’t everything,” our son said.

“No, but money is,” I replied. “And we can’t afford new carpet right now.”

That night our boy called various family members, including Grandpa and Grandma in Northern California, to tell them about his two front teeth.

“Oh boy,” Grandpa said over the phone. “Did you know the Tooth Fairy is giving out twenty-dollar bills and video games this year? She might even give you that baseball glove you really want.” Grandpa made sure our boy told us how gracious the Tooth Fairy was going to be that night, all the while laughing at what he thought was a “funny joke.”

“Ha ha,” I told Grandpa when I got on the phone. “So we’ll be expecting the Tooth Fairy from Sacramento tonight?”

“Oh no,” he said. “That Tooth Fairy passed the torch many years ago.”

Our son put his teeth in an envelope and shoved it under his pillow before saying good night.

“Can you believe the Tooth Fairy is giving away all that stuff this year?” our boy said as my wife and I tucked him in. “I hope she gives me a twenty-dollar bill. That’d be the best.” He was so excited.

My wife and I said good night to our boy, then trudged into our room to call it a night as well, unsure of what the Tooth Fairy would give our son for his two front teeth.

“It is what it is,” I said to my wife.

“But he wants that twenty bucks so bad.”

“Money isn’t everything,” I said.

“It certainly feels like it these days.”

The next morning, my wife and I heard our son moving. He was awake. We heard him go under his pillow and rip open the envelope he’d put his teeth in the night before. We waited to hear the disappointment.

There was no response that we could make out. We remained in bed and listened for clues. We heard him moving around the room: rustling paper, scissors at work, tape being pulled from his Scotch tape dispenser on his desk.

Then we heard tapping on our door, which was only slightly ajar.

“Mommy, Daddy,” his little voice crept in. He slipped into the room with his hands behind his back. He came to our bed and handed us a folded-up, taped-up piece of paper. My wife and I sat up, opened the paper. Inside it read, “I love you Mommy and Daddy. This is for all that you do for me.” Taped below his writing were the two dollars he’d received from the Tooth Fairy.

My wife and I smiled ear to ear. Our son gave us a smile of his own, a big hole in the front where teeth used to be.

-May 2011

Nothing for Mom

2011-07-28T22:48:00.000-07:00

A few days before Mother’s Day last year, my mom called and told me not to get her anything. She said she didn’t need anything, that she wanted my sister, my brother and me to save our money.

How could I not get my mom something for Mother’s Day?

“You don’t have to get me something to show your appreciation,” my mom told me. “You prove your appreciation every day.”

How kind of her.

But how kind would I be if I didn’t get my own mother something for Mother’s Day? I told my wife about my mom’s ridiculous request.

“You have to get her something,” my wife said. “You don’t want her to be sad, not on Mother’s Day.”

“But I can’t get her something,” I responded. “I don’t want her to be mad, not on Mother’s Day.”

I did the logical thing -- I flipped a coin. Heads -- I’d send a gift. Tails -- I wouldn’t send a gift. Heads it was. I sent a gift.

When my sister called to stress the importance of not buying Mom something, it was too late. My order had been shipped.

“She’s gonna freak,” my sister told me. “You have to cancel the order.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll call the company right now.”

Instead I talked to other family members about what I’d done.

“I bought my mom this for Mother’s Day,” I said, showing a picture of the gift. Everyone loved it and said my mom would love it, too.

“But my mom told me not to buy her anything this year,” I continued.

“You bought her something anyway,” a relative told me. “That’s awful, Michael.”

I tried to cancel the order. The lady on the phone was one of the most helpful customer service individuals I ever dealt with.

There was nothing this individual could do -- typical customer service.

My brother called, asked if I was sending Mom a gift, said he wasn’t. I told him I wasn’t either. My sister called to see if I cancelled my order. I said I cancelled it. My mom called to make sure I didn’t buy her a gift. I said, “Of course I didn’t, I wouldn’t go against your wishes, not on Mother’s Day.”

I was doomed.

Then I found the solution to my problem. I’d just say I knew someone at this store who owed me a favor who got me the gift and the shipping for free.

My sister thought it was a good save.

“But,” I said to her, “will you feel bad that I got Mom something and you didn’t?”

My sister assured me that she wouldn’t feel bad. That was a load off my mind.

“But Mom will feel bad that you’re the only one of her kids to get her a gift,” she said. “You know Mom, she’ll feel bad for those of us who didn’t get her something.”

I told my sister I’d fix the problem. I’d drive from Southern California to Northern California, where my mom lives, and grab the package off her doorstep before she got home on Saturday.

And that’s what I did. Five hours later, when I got to my mom’s house, I thought about how ridiculous this all was -- my mom didn’t want us kids to spend money, but here I spent gas money on a 10-hour round trip to pick up a gift I paid for and couldn’t return. As I walked up the driveway, I considered leaving the gift, turning around and going home. Better yet, I’d surprise my mom with the gift and a visit.

At the door, I saw my gift. And I saw two others -- one from my brother and one from my sister. Those rascals.

My mom loved all the presents, couldn’t stop talking about how appreciated she felt. She was not mad at all. She was happy. I’d go as far as to say that last Mother’s Day was one of my mom’s best. We kids did the right thing.

My mom just called. She told me not to get her anything for Mother’s Day this year, that she doesn’t need anything. She wants us kids to save our money.

And so, to the Internet stores I go.

-May 2011

Easter Bunny Hunters

2011-07-28T22:26:00.000-07:00

My 7-year-old son loves nature. He found a piece of hardened cement and asked me to look at his “shiny new rock.”

“This must be sedimentary rock,” I said, playing along.

“No,” the boy said, strapping on his junior scientist goggles. “It’s igneous.” He studied the cement more closely. “Daddy, do you think I’m a scientist because of how I discover enchanting stuff in nature?”

“Sure,” I said. Hey, if a piece of cement makes my son that happy, I have to go along.

Now the kid wants to discover everything in nature -- weeds, bugs, different shades of dirt. His latest challenge is to catch the Easter Bunny for scientific examination.

“Daddy,” he said, “did you ever catch the Easter Bunny when you were a scientist my age?”

“Sure,” I said, still going along.

“Don’t you think he’s out all week hiding eggs and don’t you think we can catch him?”

“Sure,” I said. Hey, if catching the Easter Bunny makes my son- Wait! What was I saying? Catch the Easter Bunny?

“Actually, son,” I backtracked, “the Easter Bunny can’t be caught. He’ll just disappear.”

“Disappear?” he exclaimed.

Then came my big mistake: “My brother and I caught him in a box and we saw him disappear.”

“You saw him disappear?” he said.

And so began our scientific adventure. We took out the leprechaun trap we used on St. Patrick’s Day (that’s another story) and painted over the green with pastel colors for Easter.

“Should we set the box up hot-dog style or apartment style?” my son asked. Evidently hot-dog style is the box laid out horizontally and apartment style is the box standing up vertically. We set it up apartment style near some bushes in the front yard. My son added a finishing touch -- along the side he wrote: The Bunny Catcher 101526.

“101526?” I asked curiously.

“I saw it on a TV at Walmart,” he said.

“You remembered the item number for a TV at Walmart?”

“Yeah, in case I ever needed a long number for one of my inventions.”

Next, my son and I hid behind a tree and watched the Bunny Catcher 101526 for activity.

“Daddy,” my son said, “I’m starting to feel like there’s no Easter Bunny. We’ve been here all this time and where is he?”

We’d only been waiting five minutes.

We went inside the house for an Oreo cookie break. My son was defeated.

“Erik at school said the Easter Bunny isn’t real.”

“Who’s Erik?” I asked.

“Remember, he’s the one who got his finger smashed in the door when I was in kindergarten?”

“Well there’s your answer right there,” I said. “Anyone who’d stick his finger into a closing door obviously doesn’t know much.”

“Yeah, well maybe he knows about the Easter Bunny.”

It was time to tell my son the truth.

“Okay,” I began. “My brother and I never caught the Easter Bunny, and we never saw him disappear.”

I continued, “The truth is, he can’t be caught or seen, just like the leprechaun can’t be caught or seen. But you and I put that gold in the leprechaun trap and when we flipped it over, the gold was gone. Just like on Easter our eggs will be hiding. That’s all the proof we need to know leprecauns and the Easter Bunny are real.”

My son’s smile returned. Then he said, “You know, Daddy, Easter isn’t just about the Bunny and eggs. It’s about Jesus rising out of the ground on Easter Sunday. His resurrection each year is our hope for an eternal life in God’s presence.”

“Eternal life in God’s presence?” I asked.

“I saw it on a card at Walmart,” he said. “Cookie break’s over, Daddy.” Then the kid strapped on his junior scientist goggles and grabbed a shovel. Now he wants to discover Christ rising out of the ground in our backyard on Easter Sunday.

-April 2011

The Earth Shakes, the Seas Rise

2011-07-28T22:02:00.001-07:00

My 7-year-old son has been in lots of trouble lately. Discipline doesn’t help.

I dropped a 30-pound box of garage junk from a high shelf into my eyeball. There’s a big red blotch on my eye that feels like a sharp wooden splinter.

Oh, and a close relative just got cancer. It’s Stage 3.

To make matters worse, I injured my back and I can barely stand. The pain medication has made me extremely anxious, hyper and insensitive.

So someone tried to “cheer me up” with, “Stop whining, it could be worse.”

The aftereffects of my pain medication kicked in and I said insensitively, “Oh, so because it’s not worse, because my family isn’t living on the street, because we still have our limbs, I can’t get upset?”

No response.

And just when I thought things couldn’t get worse than they were, they got worse.

“Mike,” my wife called from the other side of the house. “Can you do me a favor?”

I thought about my answer long and hard. Half a second later, I said, “No, I can’t.”

Some people say that if two individuals stare into each other’s eyes for eight seconds or more without moving, they’re going to either kiss or kill one another. My wife and I didn’t kiss. After our 8-second stare, she threw down the gauntlet, challenging me to prove that I care about her needs and not just my own. Of course, this dilemma was bound to come up. I’d done something long ago to cause it. At the alter, I said, “I do.”

“I care about your needs,” I said in my defense. “I just have nothing else to give right now. This medicine is making me nuts and I’m wiped out and I’m drained.”

Clearly I was dramatic, too.

I retreated from what was slowly becoming a death match. My son tried to help.

“Daddy, maybe you should just take a cool bath and cool off.”

When I told my son that wouldn’t work, he asked if he could take a bath. He likes to take long baths because his skin shrivels up. He says the wrinkles make him look older, and he wants to look older. I told him that “older” isn’t better. “Older” means more problems.

“Trust me,” I said. “Stay young. Take a short bath.”

My wife walked by and didn’t say a word -- the silent treatment. She called her parents and learned they both had the flu. She asked if they needed her help. Evidently they didn’t because my wife kept insisting that they did.

When she got off the phone, she asked if I was going to say sorry. Typical guy, I said, “Sorry for what?”

She didn’t say a word. She got back on the phone, this time with her sister, and she learned her sister was helping their parents with shopping and cooking while they were sick. My wife started crying.

“Why do you get to help and I don’t?” she asked her sister.

When that phone call ended, I went to my wife and said I was sorry for what I’d done. I asked if she was okay. Things were bad for my wife, too. I didn’t have to make matters worse.

And then matters got even worse. My wife reamed me for keeping our son in the bath too long -- he was all shriveled up. So, with my medicine making me more and more anxious and insensitive, I struck back at my wife, saying her parents didn’t want her help because her help always creates more work.

Ouch!

About an hour later, the house was quiet and still. My wife was in the bedroom avoiding me for what I’d said. I was in the living room avoiding responsibility for, coincidentally, what I’d said. Our son tried to help. He turned on the TV looking for something to cheer everyone up. He found news about the earthquakes and tsunamis in Japan. We all came together to watch.

Yes, things could be a lot worse. My wife and I never killed each other. We never were going to kill each other. We apologized and made up -- like we usually do. Japan’s epic problems made our simple domestic issues look like grains of sand, nothing to complain about.

A few days later, I cut my head open at work. While the doctor punched staples into my skull, I smiled, ignoring the pain. “Things could be a lot worse,” I said calmly.

Who am I kidding? I was furious. “God,” I yelled. “It just keeps getting better and better.”

Maybe we never learn.

-March 2011

Under 'Covers' Job

2011-07-27T10:08:00.000-07:00

I’m having one of those days. One more problem will put me over the edge. It’s so bad I’m just looking for a reason to explode.

My wife does it. She pulls the covers off me like she does every night.

Fact: Wives always steal the covers. Why do wives do that?

So I take the covers back. I really wanna yank the covers from my wife so hard that I fling her out of bed onto the floor. But she looks so sweet asleep, so peaceful.

I gently pull the covers back so as not to wake her.

She tugs the covers back to her side.

I won’t get mad. I slowly pull the covers back.

Tug.

I still won’t get mad. I pull the covers back to my side again.

Tug.

Okay, if she tugs them again-

Tug.

One more time and then I’ll really explode.

Tug.

Okay, this is the last time.

Tug.

Now she has no more chances.

Tug.

This is really her final-

Tug.

I’m not fooling around here.

Tug.

Try it again and see what happens.

Tug.

Keep it up.

Tug.

That’s it.

Tug.

Don’t-

Tug.

Idea: What if I make a covers holder? I’ll call it the Covers Holder. It’ll hold the covers on my side of the bed. Stupid, right? Not really, if you think about it. How much sleep is lost trying to regain the covers each night. Men all over the world would benefit from such a contraption to hold the covers on their side of the bed when their wives try to pull them to their side, and they’ll get the sleep they so desire and so deserve. Yup, beginning tonight, my wife will no longer get my covers.

I go to the garage. I’m stealthy (it’s 2 in the morning). I gather some hooks and hoops, ropes and rods, clamps and clasps, and a big screw, and I build a mock-up Covers Holder on my workbench.

Now I gotta move it inside. It’s an amazing piece of craftsmanship. It would make Sears proud to see how I used my tools tonight. It won’t fit through the door.

I take it apart and reassemble it in the bedroom without waking my wife.

It’s 4 a.m. I have the Covers Holder set. I get in bed and can’t sleep. I’m eager for my wife to give the covers a tug. My Covers Holder has got a tight grasp on the covers. The covers aren’t going anywhere.

It’s 5 a.m. I just fell asleep. She finally gives the covers a tug. The Covers Holder works great. It holds the covers no problem.

Problem: The covers are now strangling me. I can’t breathe. I feel my eyeballs bulging out of my head.

I yank the covers back to my side. My wife glides into the air. She lands on my stomach, knocks the wind out of me.

“Not now,” she says. “It’s too late.”

I can’t speak. I can’t breathe.

“What are you doing?” my wife asks as I gasp for air.

“I was trying (gasp) to (gasp) take the covers back (gasp) in the name of husbands (gasp) all over the world.”

“I don’t wanna talk right now,” she says.

“That’s because you have covers on your side of the bed,” I say in one breath, and then I suck in for the air I can’t seem to get.

“Oh my God, you’re still talking about the covers.” My wife is back to sleep as she finishes her sentence.

I try to fix my Covers Holder. I’m tightening the last screw. My wife yanks the covers to her side of the bed. My Covers Holder blows apart.

Ahhhhhhh!

Before I can sling the pieces of my contraption through the window, I hear a sound. It’s almost like chanting. It is chanting. It’s men around the world rooting me on to stand strong, not to give up.

I don’t give up. I get up. I turn on the lights. I bang away at my Covers Holder. I ignore my wife when she tells me to shhhhh.

I finally get my Covers Holder together and it works. It’s awesome. And now that it’s a success, I speak to husbands of the world to unite. Let’s kick this covers insurgence into high gear right now.

Question: How many wives out there are really going to let us attach this monstrous apparatus to the bed and keep it there?

-March 2011

Valen-mine Day

2011-03-01T12:59:00.000-08:00

Valentine’s Day is never about the guy in the relationship. It’s always about the girl. Flowers, heart-shaped jewelry, heart-shaped chocolate, flowery greetings, flowery dinners . . . Just look at the lines in grocery stores on Valentine’s Day -- no women, just men waiting to buy flowers that’ll die in a week, chocolate that’ll never be eaten, teddy bears that’ll just get donated, cards with glitter that’ll make an unruly mess . . . Men are expected to do for women, but what do women do for men?

This year, Valentine’s Day is taking a turn in my house. It’s going to be for me. That’s what I was thinking anyway, until my wife asked if we could go on a romantic weekend trip, which means we’re going no matter what. So much for the “for me” idea.

A romantic Valentine’s weekend trip should be nice, even for a guy. However, it never is. I can never have peace.

The cost of the hotel on Valentine’s weekend and the expensive dinners are enough to ruin any sense of mental calm. Then you’ve got the cost of a babysitter for the weekend, the cost of valet parking and the unfair cost of buy-one-dozen-and-only-get-a-half-dozen roses -- typical for this time of year.

Here’s the worst: For the past 10 years that my wife and I have been married, hotels have put us in rooms next to the ice machine. How romantic is that?

“I love you so—”

Ger-uggggggggg. (That’s the sound of an ice machine, which echoes through the room every 15 minutes throughout the night, usually accompanied with drunken or juvenile laughter.)

Nevertheless, there was no debate about going or not going on the trip this weekend. I just booked a room. I did it for my wife. But I set out to plan the trip with “me” in mind.

The first thing I did: I told the hotel clerk, “No ice maker!” Then I told the wife, “No flowers!” I said I’d get her some next week when they go back down to half the price. Then I told her that for every boutique store she dragged me through, we’d have to pay a visit to a brewery or something cool like that.

The Valentine’s Day card I picked out for my wife: no glitter, no flowery hearts and no flowery prose. It was straightforward: “I love you, Wife.” And that was it.

The trip was shaping up nicely. I got my in-laws to watch our 7-year-old for free. The clerk at the hotel was really nice. She gave me all kinds of discounts -- even a discount just for having unpleasant stays we’d had at other hotel chains.

And then reality came into view. I added up the costs. Wow, that became a small fortune really fast. I made the mistake of voicing my frustrations with my wife. By the time I realized my error, I’d already killed the excitement she had for the trip.

So I called the hotel clerk and cancelled my arrangements. I had a nice talk with her. She told me how husbands are always screwing up with their wives at this time of year, but said apologizing is what makes it Valentine’s Day. She asked if I still wanted to cancel the room -- this was a minion of Valentine’s Day to the death.

So I apologized to my wife, but it was really for her, not for me -- I truly felt bad about ruining Valentine’s Day. When she accepted my apology, I rebooked the room and got the trip back in order. I even bought some really expensive flowers, a new card that had glitter, flowery hearts and flowery prose, and I threw out my straightforward card and cancelled the walking tour of the missile site I really wanted to see while on the trip. Like old times, I even got the room next to the ice machine.

“I don’t get it,” my wife said to me. “These are all things that make you miserable. Why would I be happy if you’re in misery?”

“I’ll have one thing that makes me most happy,” I said.

“What, me?” she said with playful mockery in her voice.

“No,” I responded.

“No?” she exclaimed, unpleasantly surprised.

“I’ll have your happiness.” It was corny, but it was honest. And fitting for Valentine’s Day.

“I still don’t get why you wanted the room next to the ice maker,” she said.

“Well,” I responded, “by now I’d say we’re able to tune out the sound. Besides, the only other room is next to the elevators.”

-February 2011

The Shoes Are On Other Feet

2011-03-01T11:59:00.000-08:00

How do boys go through shoes so quickly? My 7-year-old went through two pairs in two months.

“More shoes?” my wife and I said to each other when we saw the shredded rubber our boy was wearing on his feet. We can’t afford to turn on our lights at night, let alone buy new shoes. In fact, the other evening I pulled up one of our solar-powered yard lights and hung it over the kitchen table so we could see our dinner. It was that bad.

“But he needs shoes,” my wife said.

“If we buy shoes,” I told her, “we can’t buy cheap ones.”

“But we’re spending too much money on the good ones,” she replied.

“Cheap shoes will force him to hate us,” I said. Then I told her about the pain and suffering I had to endure because of the cheap shoes my parents made me wear when I was about our kid’s age.

At first, I didn’t have to wear my cheapies to school because my mom and dad knew how bad the shoes were. But I had to wear them the rest of the time.

Now, everyone knows that the shoes you wear in grade school and how your peers respond to them factor into what colleges you’re able (or unable) to attend. That’s right. Kids are brutal, and they can shatter another kid’s confidence easily, thus affecting that kid’s entire life.

I had a friend who had to wear the same pair of cheap shoes every day for three years straight. His parents would stitch them up if they tore and wash them when they got dirty. The white laces never got as white as the rest of the shoe. Kids always made fun of him for that.

I certainly couldn’t complain to him about my cheap shoe situation. He had it just as bad, if not worse. But he gladly towed me in my Radio Flyer wagon with his bike while I grinded the soles of my shoes against the gritty asphalt to speed up the wearing-down process. He asked what I was doing. I said I was braking. I just had to get rid of those suckers.

I’d take off my shoes and use them for batting practice. I’d kick walls, let the dog chew on them. No mud puddle was left without ripples. But when my cheap shoes became a mess, my parents didn’t cave and buy me new “good” shoes like I’d planned (I assumed they’d believe the whole “You get what you pay for” bit and buy quality). No, they saw my friend’s newly washed sneakers and, a day later, I was wearing bright white shoes with mucky white laces.

My parents talked about never getting me the expensive shoes ever again. The cheap ones seemed to be holding up really well, they said.

I was doomed. The day would come when I’d have to wear those stinkers to school, and then everyone would poke fun.

“Those shoes aren’t so bad,” my friend told me.

“What do you know?” I said. “You’ve worn those same beat-up cheapies for three years.”

What a horrible thing to say. I lost a good friend because of it. He even went so far as to point out my cheap shoes to everyone we knew. They all laughed at me and put signs on my back. Yup, I was a grade-A dork.

I eventually apologized to my friend for the horrible thing I’d said to him about his shoes. I told him I deserved everything I got and would continue to get once I wore my cheap shoes to school. He graciously accepted my apology and wished me luck.

The years went by and, believe it or not, I survived grade school, even with cheap shoes.

“It was rough,” I told my wife. “But I was lucky -- very lucky -- to have had such a good friend by my side to take the taunts with me.”

As we discussed our son’s shoe situation, I imagined a reality where our kid wasn’t as lucky as I was. I didn’t want him taunted for the shoe choices his mother and I made.

So we bought him a brand new pair of really, really expensive shoes, the kind that would last forever. He test-drove them around the store. I couldn’t catch him. The shoes were that good. And really nice.

A month later, the shoes were trash.

So much for “You get what you pay for.”

-January 2011

Have Your Cake and Wear It, Too

2011-03-01T11:33:00.000-08:00

I love cake. So when I saw the table ad for chocolate cake at the restaurant, I knew I had to have a piece. My wife was against it. She didn’t want our 7-year-old son getting any ideas.

“If you get it,” she said, “then he’ll want it, too.”

“Want what?” our son asked. “What’s it?”

“It’s nothing,” my wife replied, doing her best not to give the kid any ideas.

“It’s just cake,” I said.

“Cake?” the boy said with increasing excitement. “I love cake. What cake? Chocolate cake?”

“The sugar’s gonna make him hyper,” my wife warned me. When the warning didn’t make me budge, she reminded me of the messes our kid made with cake in the past. My wife knows I hate mess.

“I can handle it,” I said. “It’s all under control.”

The waiter came by and, on cue, asked if we wanted dessert. My wife said no. I told her it was too late, that I’d already ordered.

Then I actually ordered.

Bystanders could see the storm clouds on the horizon when I asked for chocolate cake all around, even for the 7-year-old. They shot up out of their seats and ran, leaving full plates of food.

Out came the biggest . . . triple-decker . . . double fudge . . . towers of chocolate cake I’d ever seen. The cake came with shovels.

My wife’s piece intimidated her. She didn’t touch it. I studied my slice, looking for an approach route. My son jumped right in, no plan at all.

The face on the busboy was telling: Help! He could foresee cake everywhere. He eyed the kid, looking for compassion. He got no such gesture. He eyed the mom. The mom cried. He eyed the dad. I gave him a look of pure confidence. I think the poor guy ran for the time clock.

I slowed my eating during my approach into Quadrant 2 of the cake. That’s when I noticed the mess my son was making. I got scared. Real scared. I caught the busboy in his travels (he must’ve been denied clocking out), and I requested a few hundred napkins. He obliged.

I didn’t know where to begin. The mess started on the table surrounding the kid’s plate, then spread to the hands. The hands touched the face and the hands touched the shirt and the pants. From there, the mess made its way to the seat, then to the floor. It somehow managed to make its way to the ceiling, too.

Nobody at our table could move -- we were marooned, afraid of the mess as if it were a monster. In hindsight, it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. It was worse.

I left my cake unfinished and devised various strategies to get the kid out of the restaurant without tracking cake all over the place and, more importantly, without getting cake on me. But I couldn’t perfect anything. Making matters worse, the restaurant was pressuring us to leave to accommodate a line of people waiting for a table.

“You have to go,” the waiter said. The busboy grinned, happy to see me in peril -- misery loves company. I couldn’t pull myself together. Nothing was under my control. The mess was my fault and I had no exit strategy.

Then a plan came to me: Apologize to my wife for being dead wrong about the cake (maybe the first true apology in the history of husbands and wives) and apologize to the busboy for the mess.

The busboy took pity on me. He armed me with a stack of towels and offered me good luck. I welcomed his warmth with gratitude, and then I buckled down for the job I had to do. I wrapped my kid in towels and sprinted out the door.

The towels didn’t stop the mess from spreading. I got cake all over my hands and arms, all over my clothes. I made a chocolate cake path out of the restaurant and into the parking lot. The inside of my car was covered in double fudge. It looked like a cake had exploded in the back seat, and it might as well have.

When we got home, the mess continued onto the driveway and into the garage. It landed in the entryway, the hallway and in the bathroom. Even the dog, who was in his doghouse out back, found morsels of cake to eat.

My wife and I eventually got everything cleaned up and had our boy ready for bed at 11 p.m. -- two hours past his bedtime. The kid was so hyped up from cake he couldn’t sleep for another three hours.

Last night, we went to dinner. After eating, the waiter asked if we wanted cake. The cakes he showed us on a display plate looked so good. Yum.

“How about a cookie?” I said.

-January 2011

Healthy Holidays

2011-03-01T11:04:00.000-08:00

My son has toys, but he plays with cardboard boxes, scrap paper, wrapping paper tubes and recycled Christmas bows. If he were a toddler, I’d understand, but he’s 7.

“Imagination is healthy, Daddy,” my boy said to me while building a nondescript machine out of old juice boxes and Scotch tape. I couldn’t disagree with what he was saying, but with Christmas coming, my wife and I wanted to know if we should be buying him toys or digging through the trash to find him junk.

We asked him to make a list for Santa. He told us the best stuff is what he’s seen on TV. My wife and I simultaneously felt our bank account go negative.

If we had a normal kid, we’d be right to worry. That stuff advertised on TV is expensive. It’s all video game systems, remote controlled gadgets and popular TV show-themed toys. But we have our son, who plays with junk. He doesn’t want expensive name-brand toys. He wants the stuff you see for $19.99 plus shipping and handling, and not the toys either.

Our son likes the weird household items, like the boot and glove dryer he saw on TV a few days ago. The kid doesn’t even own boots or gloves.

“Maybe I should watch TV and see what other great stuff I can find,” my son suggested. “But all that TV wouldn’t be healthy, would it?” he asked. “I don’t want to be ruled by TV. Did you know American kids spend about 30 hours a week watching TV? When they’re 70, they’ll have spent up to 10 years of their lives watching TV. That’s bad.”

“Where’d you learn that?” I asked with surprise.

“TV,” he said. Then he had a thought. “Maybe TV isn’t so bad.”

So my son set out to watch TV in search of “good” gift ideas for his Santa list. I sat with him and saw some really cool things advertised, like an actual flying saucer, a mini duck shooting gallery and a pretty neat mini magician’s magic set.

My son, however, had eyes for the Bug Vac (“It’s lightweight, Daddy, and it removes bugs with no mess.”), the Bed MadeEZ wedge (“Daddy, it’s designed by housekeepers from around the country.”) and the Twin Draft Guard (“Our drafty doors and windows are forcing us to crank up the heat, Dad. The Twin Draft Guard blocks air leaks from both sides”).

My son’s list grew with odd items. He couldn’t get enough. But he wanted more. He sat in front of the TV for days, collecting the names of weird items for his list.

“Mommy, Daddy,” he said one day. “I’m 7 and I have a TV problem. I think I better quit.”

Seven-year-olds think everything is just that easy. One day, when our son came home from a friend’s house -- a house that’s double the size of ours -- he asked if we could upgrade. “Can we get a bigger house? Just use your Chase card.” And after riding roller coasters at Magic Mountain another time, he asked if we could build a roller coaster of our own in the backyard. “Why can’t we build one, Daddy?” he asked. “You have wood in the garage.”

Yup, everything was an easy fix. But quitting TV was the kid’s first lesson in “easier said than done.” I caught him watching TV only minutes after he said he was finished with the tube.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” he said. “I don’t have a problem anymore. I’m perfectly healthy.”

He was perfectly in denial.

Then he went nuts. He hummed TV show themes nonstop and recited commercials word for word. My wife and I drew the line when he imitated kid pop star Justin Bieber, who he’d seen perform on TV.

We told our son we missed his made-up machines. We missed his made-up games. His imagination died and he was addicted to TV. Even he knew it.

A few days later, the TV gave our boy a way out. It advertised an “As Seen On TV” website. So I hooked the kid up to the Internet, with hopes it’d get him off TV. It seemed to work. And everything he ever wanted was there, even WonderFile, the ingenious organizer that turns any space into a neatly organized workplace.

A few clicks and a few hours later, my son’s Santa list was complete, and he’d forgotten all about TV. To celebrate, he asked if we could go outside to play.

“I’m so glad I don’t need TV anymore,” my son said while tossing a football. “But playing outside in this cold air doesn’t seem really healthy. Can I go inside and go online?”

And just like that, my wife and I have a true kid of the 21st century.

-December 2010

Working It Out

2011-03-01T10:26:00.000-08:00

I’ve hit a dead end in this maze called life. I’m broke and it’s my fault.

I’ve worked really hard for many years, and I’ve sacrificed so much to get this far.

Okay, so I’m not doing so well. I work on a job-by-job basis -- freelance. At times, I make very little money. In the last two months, I’ve made no money at all. But I’m so close to where I want to be -- career-wise. Having no money, however, is a bit of a problem.

At 34 years of age, I’ve had to consider going back to the job I had when I was in high school.

First, I considered other options.

My wife and I had long ago cut frivolous spending. We don’t go anywhere fun. We don’t do anything fun. We don’t buy anything fun.

“What else can we cut?” my wife asked.

We sold the cars, leased two roller skates. Sold the house, rented someone’s closet. We’re wearing the same clothes since Tuesday . . . of last month.

“Mike,” my wife shouted. “What else can we cut?” she asked again.

I guess I was dreaming. I checked to make sure. Yup, I was wearing clean clothes and we still had our house and cars.

“There’s nothing else to cut,” I said.

So I made the decision to go backward, back to where I started, back to my first job -- manual labor with low, but steady pay.

While I filled out the online application, my 7-year-old son tried to keep me in high spirits. He talked about the wife he was going to get when he grows up.

“She’s gonna have blonde hair,” he said, “a pink shirt, blue jeans, and she’s gonna wanna play trucks with me all the time and have a family with me.” I wasn’t paying much attention to what my son was saying, but by the time I submitted my application, I knew I was making the right decision. My family’s well-being was more important than my career goals.

The next day, I got an interview for the job. I walked into the place I’d long since left and I couldn’t help but inhale those sights, sounds and smells that I knew all too well. I swore that I’d never go back, that I’d keep moving forward no matter what.

After leaving a decade ago, I occasionally had nightmares of being stuck there. I’d wake up in a panic, my wife assuring me I wasn’t back. I worked so hard for so many years, I sacrificed so much to get out of that place, to get to where I was in my career; I had $75,000 in student loans, and here I was, back at that place, asking for a job that had nothing to do with my college education!

Maybe I wouldn’t get it.

I got it.

My wife and son were thrilled. When I didn’t share their hoorays, my wife wondered why.

“I thought you wanted this job,” she said.

Wanted this job? My wife was only trying to make me feel good. She’s such a loving, caring wife.

What does she know about want? She gets to work the job she wants.

On my first day of work, I entered the building feeling like Tim Robbins’ character in “The Shawshank Redemption” as he encountered prison. I could almost hear the other employees chanting, “Fresh fish . . . fresh fish . . . fresh fish!” When I clocked in, it was like hearing my cell door slam home. On the outside I was a free man, working freelance toward my big dream, making good money. Inside, however, I’m an institutionalized man, going nowhere, making just enough to get by.

That first day was the toughest, no doubt about it. My feet were sore, my back was sore, and I was so thirsty I spent my first 15-minute break at the drinking fountain -- the entire 15 minutes. Worse, I only made a few dollars.

I knew right away I’d made a mistake. That night, friends and family tried to give me a boost.

“You weren’t going anywhere before anyway.”

“You gave your dream your best shot.”

“At least you have a job.”

Yes, at least I have a job. My family can eat again. My wife and I can pay our bills, and we no longer owe anyone any money. But, in that moment, it seemed like something inside me died.

I now have to work weekends again. I worked really hard for many years, and I sacrificed so much to have weekends off so I could spend them with my family. That’s all gone. When I said goodbye to my wife and son on Saturday morning before going to work, I felt like I was saying goodbye to weekends with my family altogether. And I was.

“It’s been a lot of fun,” I said to them in a minister-giving-last-rites kind of tone. “I enjoyed the time we had together and I’ll cherish it forever.” Before I got into my car to leave, my son presented me with a picture he drew of me at my new job.

“It’s for you, Daddy,” he said. “I’m so proud of you.”

And he was. My son’s display of love for me was like a shot of adrenaline to my heart and soul. I felt my wallowing dissipate. I felt hope again.

Each day since then, I’ve gone to work feeling good about the choice I made. Sure, with this move I’ve gone backward. But I was on the wrong path toward my goal. A dead end is a dead end, no forward movement there. I’m now in search of a new path. I’ll continue to work really hard for many more years if I have to, and I might have to sacrifice as I have in the past, but forward I will go.

Like my son, I too once imagined a girl I’d marry -- one along the same lines as my son’s with blonde hair, pink shirt, blue jeans, likes to play trucks with me all the time, wants to have a family. I didn’t get exactly what I imagined.

I did better. And I’m very grateful for that.

-December 2010

What's All This Hype?

2011-03-01T10:08:00.000-08:00

My 7-year-old son said, “She’s not his slave. That’s called womanizing.”

How does a 7-year-old know what “womanizing” is? My wife and I had been discussing a conversation I had with my brother who’d been bragging about how lucky he is to have a wife who cooks all the meals in the house. Indeed, my brother is lucky -- he can’t make toast. But my son decided to join in a conversation he had no business joining. He does that.

“That’s a problem,” my wife told me later.

“No it isn’t,” I said. “It just shows he’s smart -- he can speak with adults.”

My wife said I was in denial. I denied the accusation.

At school, our boy was getting in trouble for not minding his business, not staying in his seat and blurting out answers. We told him to mind his own business, stay in his seat and raise his hand and wait to be called on before answering any questions. And that was that. After all, the kid wasn’t trying to burn down the school. He was shouting out answers pertaining to the day’s lesson. Bad behavior could be a lot worse.

My wife said I was right. Then she had to think beyond that. “You think he has ADHD?” she asked.

“That’s something to consider,” I said, “if we were talking about someone else’s kid. But not our kid.”

To avoid an argument, I agreed that, as a precaution, we should look into ADHD. And then I went on with my day. I had no intention of looking into ADHD. There’s no way my son has ADHD. My wife and I didn’t do anything wrong as parents to give our kid ADHD. What was ADHD, anyway?

I looked it up online. ADHD is attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder. Symptoms include joining other people’s conversations, not being able to stay seated and blurting out answers. There it was right in front of me. My son had none of those problems.

My wife did her own research and, upon reading another bad report from our kid’s teacher about his hyper behavior in class, asked me to consider taking action.

“Okay, let’s settle this once and for all,” I said. I made an appointment with our son’s teacher. “I’m sick of teachers picking on our kid.”

At the meeting, the teacher talked about how much she adored our child, how he was the sweetest kid. Then she said she had to talk to him constantly about shouting out answers, minding his own business and settling down. She brought up a few other things that seemed to come right off the ADHD website I found, as if she was pushing us to think our kid had ADHD.

“Do you think he has ADHD?” my wife asked the teacher. She said she couldn’t give her opinion. Of course she couldn’t.

“That teacher just wants us to medicate our kid so she doesn’t have to do her job,” I told my wife after the meeting. “You wanna know what’s really going on here? All these signs we’re dissecting are really signs of our son’s leadership abilities. Think about it.”

I don’t think she thought about it. But in the days that followed, our son’s behavior in class improved. For the rest of the week, in fact, he got no bad reports. Maybe I was right. Maybe he was smarter than I thought, able to fix his behavior just like that.

Then we got the week’s end report saying our son had better behavior, but the teacher still had to give him visual cues to stop blurting out answers, to stay seated, etc. I can only assume that the teacher was putting in writing all the “facts” one would need to prove she did all she could to “help” our kid.

Facts or no facts, this was my son. I was concerned. I had to get real answers. I suggested to my wife that we take our son to see his doctor.

The doctor couldn’t tell us anything -- not yet, anyway. He gave us an evaluation to fill out and one for our son’s teacher to fill out.

Following the visit, we bought several books on ADHD, and each night, after long days at work and after putting our son to bed, my wife and I stayed up late reading our books and discussing our situation. We’ve barely slept in the last week.

We just got the teacher’s evaluation back and returned it to our son’s doctor. When we hear what the doctor has to say, I won’t be in denial. I’ll be ready to do whatever I have to do to help my son.

-November 2010

All's Welles

2011-03-01T09:19:00.000-08:00

My 7-year-old son and I listened to the famous Orson Welles “War of the Worlds” broadcast from Oct. 30, 1938, a radio treat that tricked many listeners into thinking Martians had actually landed on Earth and were taking over.

“It’s the end of the world!” people cried out at the time, calling police, fire and newspapers for information and help. I told my son that this single broadcast caused major panic across the country.

“Some people were so scared,” I said, “they packed up all their things and left town.”

“But if the Martians were taking over the entire world,” my son asked, “where were people gonna go?”

“People were just scared,” I said. “Some had to be taken to the hospital because they were in such shock.”

“Are you kidding me?” my son said in awe of the prank. “Can we do something like that to Mommy?”

“Well,” I said, “we don’t want to scare Mommy into to the hospital.”

The kid realized what he said. He felt bad for suggesting such a thing.

“But we can scare her into tomorrow!” I said. “After all, it’s Halloween time!”

Before my son and I could plan our Halloween prank for Mommy, sirens outside drew us to the windows for a peek. We saw several fire trucks and police vehicles whistling by. News vans were close behind. Our neighbors poured out into their driveways to see what was going on.

I ran to the TV, flipped on the news.

The phone rang. My wife. “Turn on the news.”

“It’s on.”

“Do you know what’s going on?”

“No,” I said. “What?”

“I don’t know what,” she said. “I’m around the corner. I saw police go into our neighborhood.”

Outside, just over the hill, helicopters circled, lights flashed. Black unmarked vehicles sped down my street toward the action.

The doorbell rang. My neighbor. “You see all the cops?” he asked when I answered the door. “Bill ‘Two Doors Down’ said Bob ‘Across The Street’ said the Martians are landing. I guess it’s the end of the world, don’t you think?”

Martians? How ridiculous. Was I supposed to believe that?

I planned for my family’s immediate evacuation -- just in case.

My wife walked in to find me packing.

“Martians?” my wife asked when I told her why I was evacuating. “How ridiculous. Am I supposed to believe that?”

My neighbor, unbeknownst to me, followed us into our bedroom and joined the conversation. “This better not be a joke,” he said. “We better be in real danger here. I mean, if we go to all this trouble to pack up all our stuff and vacate only to find that this Martian business is all a joke, I’ll be pretty peeved.”

As the day progressed, we learned this was no joke. Really.

I had all the essentials packed -- underwear, socks, toothbrush, DVD collection. My son packed his coloring books.

“Alright, we’re all set,” I said. “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” my wife said. “I haven’t packed anything.”

“I got your make-up and People magazine,” I said. “You’re good to go.”

As I made sure the air conditioning was off, the lights were on timers and the doors were locked, my wife shifted gears into small talk about work. My neighbor was still following us around the house.

“Can I go to the bathroom alone?” I asked him. “Shouldn’t you be evacuating, too?”

My wife got upset at me for giving the neighbor attention and not listening to her. “You never listen to me,” she said.

“You’re arguing,” our neighbor pointed out. “You guys don’t seem like the arguing type.”

“Sweetie, I’m sorry,” I said to my wife, ignoring my neighbor. “I just wanna make sure everything’s set before we run from the Martians.”

Then I noticed that a timer on one of the lights in my house was set for the wrong time.

“See,” I said. “If I didn’t check this, we woulda evacuated and the lights wouldn’t have gone on tonight. You want a burglar to think we’re not home?”

“It’s the end of the world, dummy,” she said. “Who cares about burglars? I had a terrible day at work, don’t you wanna hear about how it’s almost the end of my career?”

My wife meant business, so much so our neighbor had to evacuate when he heard the tone in her voice.

And though we soon after discovered that there were no Martians, that instead all the commotion over the hill was due to a small brush fire that was put out in less than 30 minutes, the moral of the story remains: Even the end of the world isn’t more important than what your wife is telling you. This, unlike Orson Welles’ “War of the Worlds,” is no joke.

-October 2010

L.A. Drivers Drive Me Crazy

2011-02-28T13:32:00.001-08:00

People in Southern California can’t drive. Except for me.

“That’s so arrogant,” my wife said when I told her that during a recent outing in the car.

“Yeah, Daddy,” my 7-year-old son added, “you’re being cocky.”

“There are three things L.A. drivers think,” I told my family. “They think they own the road. They think they can multitask while driving. And they think it’s okay to daydream. I just focus on protecting my precious cargo -- my family.”

“Awww,” my wife said sincerely. “That’s sweet.”

“So I watch how bad other drivers are driving,” I continued, “and I predict what stupid moves they’ll make. That way I avoid accidents they’re sure to cause.”

“See,” my wife said, “you ruin what you said about your precious cargo with arrogance.”

“Yeah,” my son said, “you’re still being cocky.”

“You’re not such a perfect driver,” my wife said to me.

“Yeah, Daddy,” my son added. “You’re not so perfect.”

“You’re right,” I said, “I made the mistake of getting on the road with these terrible drivers.”

“I bet you can’t finish this drive without complaining about other drivers,” my wife proposed.

“What would be the point of that?” I asked.

“The point,” she said, “is that every time we get in the car, you complain about how everyone is driving. It gets old.”

“Yeah, Daddy,” my son said. “You’re just cocky every time we get in the car.”

“If I took on this challenge,” I said, “your watching would make me make a mistake.”

“Then you’re not perfect,” my wife said.

“Yeah, Daddy,” my son said. “Then you’re not perfect.”

So I agreed to take the challenge.

Right away, I got in a line of traffic to merge onto another freeway. And I waited. Other drivers passed everyone in the back of the line and cut into the front. And my wife called me arrogant. Why were these motorists more important than everyone else in line? Of course, I couldn’t complain or I’d lose my wife’s little challenge. I made a face. My wife knew what I was thinking.

“Careful,” she warned me.

“Yeah, Daddy,” my son said. “Careful.”

As I inched closer to the merge, line cutters got closer to cutting me off directly. And then it happened: A lady in her Lexus must’ve thought she was more important than I was in my Ford and, without a signal, cut right in front of me. Then a man in a BMW with an “In Loving Memory” painting on his back window thought he was more important than Lexus Lady and nearly pushed her into a ravine, wedging his way in front of her. Lexus Lady slammed on her horn, waved her hands in the air, apparently screaming as if "In Loving Memory" Man tried to take her young. Didn’t she just cut me off the way he cut her off?
Again, I couldn’t complain. And I didn’t.

And I didn’t make any mistakes while driving. I’d soon prove my wife and son wrong.

Then I nearly rear-ended someone. I hit the brakes, slid into the next lane, almost sideswiped a truck. My wife and kid tried to plant their feet into the asphalt through the floorboard of the car.

“What are you doing?” my wife yelled. “You almost hit that car. Didn’t you see him brake? You almost got us killed . . .”

“I’m glad you’re upset,” I said, interrupting her tirade. “I’m glad you recognize bad driving and I’m glad you’re speaking out about it. Now you see why I do it.”

“So you almost got into an accident just to prove a point?” my wife asked me. “You almost got us killed just so you can be right?”

“Skid again, Daddy,” my son said with a huge smile. “You might be cocky, Daddy, but you are the best driver in the world.”

I could’ve let my family believe that I purposefully almost got into an accident to prove a point. I could’ve let them believe that I never take my mind off the road, that I was, in fact, a perfect driver -- the best in the world, as my son said. I could’ve easily done all that to fool my wife and kid.

And I did.

-October 2010

Wii Are Having a Party

2011-02-28T12:59:00.000-08:00

My 7-year-old son showed me how to open a bottle of Flinstones kids’ vitamins, then he said, “Look, Daddy, I can get past the child lock.”

Ahhhhh!

The boy assured me he’d never touch the vitamins again.

Okay, so that’s a good reason to have a nervous breakdown. But for me, even the smallest things get me worked up.

“There are supposed to be three ‘click’ pens in the jar near the kitchen phone,” I said to my wife, “not four. Where’d this extra one come from?”

More concerned about my behavior than the unexpected appearance of the fourth Bic Clic Stic, my wife sat me down, told me to stop stressing about the minute details of the house and asked if I needed a break.

“I just wanna know where that extra pen came from,” I said.

“Maybe you’re working too hard,” she said. “Maybe you should take some time for yourself, do something fun.”

I made the mistake of saying, “That’s a good idea.”

“We should have a party,” she suggested. “That’d be fun.”

Hosting a party would not be fun. It’d be work. It’d be a mess.

“I think we—”

“Wii! Good idea,” my wife said. “Let’s have a Nintendo Wii party, play video games all night.”

My head ached just thinking about it. Without even looking around, I knew what I was in for: shoes all over the house to pick up, loose mail on the counter to go through, no vacuum lines in the carpet. My son’s dump truck lunchbox is always parked all over the house, so I’d have to find that before a guest did. And I still had to find where that extra pen came from. What a nightmare.

“So, do you wanna have a Wii party?” my wife asked.

“Sure,” I said. “Great idea.” I couldn’t let her down.

Whenever we have people over, my wife likes to make something sweet to eat, something she’s never made before. This time it would be a double chocolate layer, triple fudge cake. My wife was excited to bake it. My son was drooling to eat it. I feared for my life like the victim in a horror movie -- my son and any kind of chocolate cake doesn’t mix. There’s mess on his hands, mess on his face, mess on his clothes and on the furniture . . . mess on me!

“What’s wrong?” my wife asked when she saw me stressing out.

This party was a terrible idea, that’s what was wrong.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I replied.

On the day of the party, I got up early and got working. That’s when I met a new version of my son -- Little Mr. Clean. He was cleaning dust off of the baseboards with a Q-tip, hunting for rogue fuzzes in the carpet with tweezers and demanding a few squirts of Febreze air freshener in every room of the house. He was just like his dad -- this kid was freakin’ nuts.

Once the house was clean, I got to work on the second most important part of the party: the snack table. This was fun. I taught my son a very important lesson: No party is complete without pub mix.

As the day progressed, I felt like the party planning hadn’t. We still had food to prepare, Wii game score cards to make . . . This party couldn’t get worse. Then the phone calls poured in. So-And-So was bringing So-And-So to the party, What’s-His-Name was bringing What’s-Her-Name, and Bill was bringing some friends from work.

Who the heck was Bill?

I gave up. I didn’t care if we didn’t have enough room for all these people. I didn’t care if we didn’t have enough food. And I didn’t care if we didn’t have enough time to finish our party preparations. This party was supposed to keep me from stressing. It was supposed to be fun. My head was throbbing.

So I quit. I sat on the couch and waited for our guests to arrive.

It was when the party was well under way that I realized my wife was right -- I shouldn’t have been stressing out about the minute details of the house. I’d worried for nothing. No, I should’ve been stressing out about my poor Wii game skills -- I got killed in every game.

After the party, I asked my son to use his newfound skills opening child-locked bottles and get me three Advil.

“Wait! Stop!” I said, physically stopping him in his tracks.

And that’s the story of how I almost really lost my mind . . . and my kid to Child Protective Services.

-September 2010

Playing God

2011-02-28T12:33:00.000-08:00

We people pick up our habits like we pick up souvenirs from the places we visit. I have a favorite beer even though I don’t drink beer. I picked up the taste from a friend who told me why it was the best. I was in no position to argue.

My favorite cars, my favorite food, my favorite sayings and the things I’m passionate about are all things I randomly collected from birth to now. So I suppose you could say we people are self-built.

My wife and I took our 7-year-old son to the park to play with friends the other day. We brought along our pet dog.

“Beagles are great family dogs,” said my son’s friend, who knew everything there was to know about canines, including the type of pet we owned. “My dog bible says that beagles are very playful, but not suited for apartment living.” Good thing we don’t live in an apartment.

This girl went on to explain the entire history of the beagle breed.

Another friend pointed to a plane passing by overhead.

“It’s a Southwest plane,” he shouted with great excitement. “A Boeing 737. The seats are really comfortable, but KLM Airlines is much roomier -- they have Boeing 747s.”

The kid told us the differences between various other airlines and plane types, including the fact that “the cabin in the Airbus A330 is the highest in its aircraft class.”
My wife and I were amazed by the knowledge these 7-year-olds possessed. I turned to my son -- he was scooping sand from the sandbox to the pavement for no particular reason.

“We have to find a super skill for our kid,” I told my wife. “What do you think it should be?”

“Don’t you think our son should decide?” she said.

“We’ve given him 7 years,” I replied.

“I thought you always said people are self-built.”

“We are,” I answered. “I’m just gonna start controlling what’s around him; influence him.”

“Oh, so you’re going to play God?”

“No,” I said. “I’m not creating our son. I’m just gonna give him some touches.”

After a long talk about how manipulating our boy was wrong, I told my wife I wouldn’t go through with my plans. Then I retired to our home office to think up a super skill I could teach the kid under the radar. Hmmm.

“Daddy,” my son called from outside the office. “Are you watching film noir again?”

That was it. I’d already started teaching the kid about cinema. Now I’d teach him everything about film like his friends know everything about dogs and planes. I’d show those fools who really had the super skill. Ah, ha ha ha!

While Mommy was gone, my son and I watched film after film, side by side with the accompanying scripts. We discussed story act breaks and character arcs, and we analyzed thematic meanings. Upon repeat viewings, we broke down lighting schemes and covered camera lens properties.

“But, Daddy, what is a ‘film movement’?” he asked when we got into the history of narrative film.

“You know, like French New Wave, German Expressionism, Italian Neo-Realism . . .”

“Oh,” he said. “So would the Hollywood ‘Golden Age of Cinema’ Studio System be considered a film movement? And is that separate from 70s Personal Cinema, like what spawned from the filmmakers who came up under Roger Coreman and American International Pictures?”

My son was on his way being “super.” But we still had a long way to go.

“What’s going on here?” Mommy asked when she caught us having a theoretical discussion about the introduction of sound to film.

“Mommy, did you know Charlie Chaplin was initially against ‘talkies’?” the boy said. “But me and Daddy understand why because the visual language of cinema went on a decline once sound came into the picture.”

Mommy would not be happy with me “playing God,” manipulating our boy like I did. It was curtains for me.

“Wow, how does he know all of that?” Mommy asked. And she stuck him on the phone with family and friends to show him off.

What had I done? I turned an innocent kid into a monster -- a freak. And my wife fed into it. Our boy was doomed. Those with super powers are always isolated, never understood, miserable.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” my boy said when he overheard me sulking to Mommy about how I messed up. “I don’t really love cinema anyway. I only got into it because I love you.”

I gave him a hug and the two of us went outside to play catch for the first time together. And that’s when I picked up a new habit -- baseball with my son.

-August 2010

How to Be Honest

2011-02-28T10:25:00.000-08:00

A friend told me how one of his co-workers was the most dishonest, angry, aggravating, unfair individual he’d ever met. When the two were together, however, you’d think they were best buds.

As a father, I feel I have a responsibility to teach my 6-year-old son about honesty. I don’t want him to become dishonest and two-faced like my friend there.

“If you don’t like someone,” I told the boy, “well, that’s okay. But that doesn’t mean you have to lie to his face and say he’s a great guy, then turn your back and call him a jerk.”

My son knew just what I was talking about -- he’s smarter than the average 6-year-old.

“You look old,” my son told Grandma after seeing her for the first time in several months.

“Why’d you say that to Grandma?” I asked him later.

“Because she looks old.”

“Well don’t tell her that,” I said.

“But I wanted to be honest.”

“It’s good to be honest,” I told the kid, “but it’s not good to be rude.”

“But if I told her she looks young,” he argued, “then I’d be dishonest. You told me to be honest.”

“If you said nothing,” I replied, “you could still be honest because you didn’t say anything at all. You have to think about people’s feelings, son. Would you want someone telling you that you looked old?”

“Yeah,” he said with excitement. “I wanna be bigger.”

I was getting nowhere. I switched tactics -- I stopped reasoning with the child and told him to do what I say: Tell the truth. Be nice. Or don’t say anything at all.

The next day, the boy got into trouble at day care. He told me that another kid started it.

“Remember what I said about honesty?” I asked him.

“Yeah,” he said.

“Then tell me what happened.”

“The other kid started it.”

“You may think you can lie to me,” I said, “but you can’t lie to God. God knows everything. God knows what you’re thinking. God knows if you’re lying. God knows everything. EV-E-RY-THING. So I’m going to ask you again -- what happened?”

My son couldn’t speak. He was in tears, begging for God’s forgiveness. He feared God’s disapproval. And so, in between sobs, he took a deep breath, and let the honesty pour out.

“The other kid started it,” he said. Then he asked, “Does God know times tables, too?”

I felt my innocent son slipping away from me at the hands of Dishonesty. I couldn’t allow this. I have a responsibility as a dad to raise a good citizen of the community.

I switched tactics -- I stopped reasoning with my boy and punished him for getting into trouble at day care and, more importantly, for lying to me.

“But, Daddy, how do you know if I was lying or not?” the kid asked while in a timeout.

“Like I said, God knows.”

“But how do you know?”

“Because God told me.”

“Okay, you just lied,” my son said, “because I didn’t see you talking to anyone.”

And he was right. I didn’t really talk to God. Here I was teaching my son about honesty and I was being dishonest. A hypocrite. I swore I’d never be that kind of parent. Where’d I go wrong?

But I had good intentions with my lie. It wasn’t an evil lie. That’s right -- the old white lie/black lie speech. I’d heard it a hundred times as a kid. So I regurgitated it back to my son, explaining the difference between the black lie he told to avoid responsibility and my white lie, which I used to get him to tell the truth.

My son knew just what I was talking about -- he’s smarter than the average 6-year-old.

“Okay, Daddy, you wanna know who really started the trouble at day care?” he said. “The other kid did -- for reals.” And my little prince continued to sell me what he thought to be a white lie.

So I punished him for bad behavior and for bad white lying. And I tabled the “honesty” lesson for another time . . . when the kid is older . . . when I can say I did all I could . . . when I can blame public schooling for his lack of truthfulness, and avoid any responsibility whatsoever for his dishonesty. It’ll honestly be the truth.

-June 2010

Parenting Magazines Are For Moms

2011-02-25T10:09:00.000-08:00

Parenting magazines have it all wrong.

Sure, they offer great tips, and stories one can relate to, and they showcase great products parents can purchase to make raising children easier and more affective. I know this. That’s why I bought a stack of parenting magazines the other day when I was feeling like a bad dad to my 6-year-old son.

But as I flipped through a few pages, I noticed the ridiculousness inside. About halfway through, I tossed it aside and grabbed another magazine. I found the same ridiculousness. The third publication was worse. There’s “ridiculous” and then there’s “really ridiculous.” Then you’ve got these parenting magazines.

“These parenting magazines are terrible,” I told my wife. “They’re totally, 100 percent, completely geared toward moms, not parents. Every single one of these articles in every single one of these magazines refers to me -- the reader -- as a mom.”

Dads aren’t moms, right, readers? We didn’t give birth to our kids. We don’t get postpartum depression. Our abs didn’t separate during our pregnancies. We were never pregnant!

“Oh, look,” I said to my wife, finally able to point out a dad in one of the magazines. “It’s a dad. He’s got the kids for a few hours and they’re covered in chocolate. He’s an emotional wreck and the house makes massive earthquake damage look like a little bit of debris in the streets. Turn the page and look: Mom’s back with the kids -- who are clean and happy -- and the house is immaculate. Life’s good again.”

My wife grabbed one of the magazines and thumbed through it, looking for some proof that the magazines aren’t all wrong.

“Here’s something,” she said. “A dad changing his kid’s diaper.”

I ripped the magazine out of her hands. “On a pool table? I’m not that irresponsible. I’d at least do it on the kitchen table.”

My wife perused further. “Here,” she said. “Happy dad. Happy kids. Very responsible parenting.”

I kid you not -- the headline for the article was: “Dads can also have fun with their kids.”

“WHAT?” I felt like Lou Ferrigno as the Hulk. In a flash of anger, I tore the magazine to shreds. “Oh, I guess moms think most dads can’t have fun with their kids.” My son came into the room right about the time I was Lou Ferrigno-ing the magazine.

“Oooo, can I rip up some, too, Daddy?”

“No,” I said. “And I don’t want you ripping up any other magazines either.”

“But I wanna be like Daddy,” he said.

“Not according to these magazines.”

My wife told me that dads don’t read parenting magazines, which is why they’re geared toward moms.

“Then they should be called Mother Magazine or Mommy Monthly,” I said. “The word ‘parent’ refers to moms and dads.”

“You can still benefit from the information.”

“I sure can,” I said. Then, skipping through a magazine that was still in one piece, pointing to examples, I added, “But I don’t want to ‘know what makes me feel pretty.’ I don’t want to make sure I ‘get a girls’ night out.’ Oh, look -- here’s a bit on ‘making memories with your child.’ I see Mommy in the picture. Where the heck is Daddy?”

“Yeah, Mommy,” my son said, “what about Daddies? Daddies are parents, too, you know.”

“Okay, okay,” I said to my son, “this isn’t your battle.”

“But I wanna complain, too, Daddy.” He grabbed a magazine and ripped it in half.

“No,” I yelled. I could see my picture in one of those parenting magazines -- a complaining dad and his copycat kid complaining, too. And the article: “Don’t let your husband negatively influence your child.” Now I was really feeling like a bad dad.

So I spent the next couple hours reading my remaining parenting magazine. Sure, I felt a bit feminine, especially when the articles kept referring to me as a woman. And I’ll admit I was afraid another man would catch me reading it and call me a “Mr. Mom.” But I learned a great deal.

Now I know what I must do to fit into that bathing suit by summer. I know what it takes to join those “Mommy and Me” clubs. I know which lipsticks last the longest for those busy Mommy-filled days. And I now know what to expect when menopause hits.

-April 2010

Easter Must Wait!

2011-02-25T09:34:00.000-08:00

My family took out our Easter stuff last weekend and I discovered that my Easter basket from childhood was missing.

“You threw it out last year,” my wife told me.

“That’s my Easter basket from childhood,” I said. “I would NEVER throw that out.”

My son found the Easter eggs in one of the boxes of decorations. He asked if he could hide them in the house for the “practice” Easter egg hunts we do the week before Easter every year.

“Sorry, son,” I said. “There will be no Easter until we find my Easter basket.”

I tore apart our Easter boxes, tossing decorations aside like wrapping paper torn off Christmas gifts, going through Easter grass strand by strand in search of my basket.

“What are you doing?” my wife asked.

“Life stops until I find my basket,” I said.

“I’m positive you threw it out.”

“I believe you,” I said. “But I didn’t throw it out.”

My son asked if we could use his Easter basket for the Easter egg hunt -- a good idea. My son is a real problem-solver. I told him no.

“Remember it broke?” my wife said. “That’s why you got rid of it.”

“If that basket is broken,” I said, “I’ll be furious.”

“It already broke and you were furious. And you threw it away.”

“Even if it broke, I’d try to fix it first.”

“You did try to fix it first,” she said. “And when you couldn’t fix it, you threw it away.”

“Even if I tried to throw it away, I would’ve stopped myself. I woulda buried it in the backyard and we’d be paying tribute to it now.”

“Daddy, I found my basket,” my son said, running up to me with his basket. “Can we do the-”

“We’re not looking for eggs with that thing,” I said, pointing to his cheap little basket. “We’re not looking for anything except my Easter basket from my childhood.”

My wife said she’d buy me a new basket.

“There is no new basket,” I said, “because if it’s new, then it’s not from my childhood. And if it’s not from my childhood, then it doesn’t have memories.”

There was that time my basket and I found the most eggs in the biggest Easter egg hunt my family ever had. It was in that basket that I received my Joe Montana rookie football card from the Easter Bunny one year. That basket had a great, timeless design. And it was durable, too. Yeah, it was durable.

“There’s no way that thing broke,” I told my wife. “That thing was durable.”

“Isn’t this the broken piece from your basket?” she asked, holding up a broken piece from my prized Easter basket.

“That is part of my basket,” I said. “Where’d you get that?”

“Now do you believe me that it broke and you threw it-”

“I told you I didn’t throw it out. We need to look harder.”

“Daddy, I hid the eggs,” my son said, handing me his empty Easter basket.

“I told you not to hide those eggs,” I said. “Now go find them.”

“But you’re supposed to be the hunter,” he cried.

I ripped apart my entire house. I couldn’t find my Easter basket. My wife followed me around with the broken piece of basket in hand, telling me I threw out the basket.

“I know you loved that basket,” my wife said, “but it’s gone. You were upset when it broke. You tried to fix it. You called your mom and asked where she bought it 30 years ago. You called Kmart, you looked online, but you couldn’t find it and you gave in and threw it out.”

I stopped.

“And I announced,” I said, “that we’d buy a new basket next year. I do remember that. And I was going to bury my childhood basket in the backyard but then you said to throw it away. So I threw it away. Then, later that night, I got up out of bed when everyone was asleep and dug it out of the trash and buried it in the backyard.”

“Daddy, I got all the eggs,” my son said, trudging up to me with his basket full of plastic eggs.

“Now go hide them for our hunt,” I told the boy. “I’ll be right back. I’m going digging.”

-April 2010

We Don't Want Your Money

2010-12-30T13:10:00.001-08:00

My aunt and uncle told my wife and me that they were putting us in their will. In the unfortunate case of their deaths, we’d get their entire estate.

“You guys will be set for life,” my uncle said.

We’d inherit three paid-off vehicles, enough savings to retire and a house that could fit three of our houses in the living room. Yes, we’d be set. But then again, we’d be miserable.

If my wife and I received such a fortune, we’d put it all into savings and invest. We’re responsible people, not materialistic. But at a certain point, we’d go mad for not having any fun with the money. You can’t take it with you.

So maybe we’d get a boat. It’d just be one boat, though. And a matching truck, too. It’s not that we’d want the matching truck. We’re not materialistic. But we’d need the truck to tow the boat. Matching it wouldn’t be an extra cost.

Then we’d get the three-car garage. Not that we’d want the three-car garage. We’re not materialistic. But we’d need the three-car garage to store the boat and the truck because the homeowners association wouldn’t allow the boat to sit in the street. We’d also need life jackets, boat wear, water skis . . . maybe one of those Evel Knievel ski jumps. And another truck and trailer to tow the ski jump.

One day we’d discover our savings is gone and our debts have doubled, and my wife and I would need second jobs. We’d be working more than breathing, our 6-year-old son would think the faculty at his school and at day care are his parents, and our boat would have two years of spider webs on the wheels. We’d be miserably in debt.

Today I’m already miserably in debt without all that capital my aunt and uncle are offering. So why do we need it? We don’t want it. So we’ll just have to give it away when the time comes, we thought.

Following a tragic accident I can’t bare to recall, my aunt and uncle’s estate became ours. And, despite our previous philosophy to give it away, my wife and I collected with the condition that we wouldn’t give in to any materialistic whims, even though we’re not materialistic -- we’re responsible people.

So we sold my aunt and uncle’s vehicles and house, and with the earnings and their savings we paid off our bills, our student loans and all the debts we owed. Life became comfortable. And then it got even better.

No longer did I spend entire weekends ruining things around the house in the name of “repair.” I could afford handymen to do the jobs correctly.

After long days of work, my family got to do what every other family across the country gets to do -- we went out for dinner.

My wife and I introduced our son to culture. We traveled, and not just on camping trips to the backyard.

Then, what I feared would happen, happened: Life became great thanks to money! My wife and I never argued about money anymore. We had time to spend together as a family. We could enroll our kid in different activities and sports.

None of this was materialistic. It was so we could raise a well-rounded child. Even the science lab we added on to our home was so our son could become more cultivated.

I recently took a day off work to open up the backyard so a crew could dig out a pool (our son was getting serious about swimming), and I caught the water company trying to shut off our water. It seems my wife and I forgot to pay the bill. Evidently, we also forgot to read our mail -- we’d received repeated notices that our water would be shut off as well as our phone, our gas and our Internet if we didn’t pay up.

“But we have automatic withdrawal,” my wife told me.

“Oh,” I said. “Then it must be a computer error.” And it was. The bank’s computer kept saying we had no money in our account.

And just like that, we were miserably in debt.

Luckily, I woke up. It was all a miserable nightmare. And to our good fortune, my aunt and uncle were alive and healthy. We still had water running through our pipes. The telephone had a dial tone. The gas was turned on. Our Internet was still connected. And we still had money in the bank -- all $10.27 of it.

-April 2010

Dog Gone

2010-12-30T12:41:00.000-08:00

“Daddy, something real bad happened,” my 6-year-old said when I picked him up from school last Thursday.

Like any other dad, I responded with, “What’d you do wrong?” I was fuming even though I hadn’t heard the news yet.

“It’s not me, Daddy,” he said. “It’s Jessica -- her dog ran away. And I’m so sorry for her.” You’d think my son had a dog that ran away. He was so emotional, very sad for Jessica.

“Oh, OK,” I said. “I hope she finds it.” And I went on with business as usual. Maybe I wasn’t sympathetic, but I must admit, I was just relieved my kid didn’t get into any trouble.

My son wanted compassion and he was going to get it. So he went to Mommy.

“Mommy, something real bad happened,” he said when my wife got home.

Like any other mom, she responded with, “Oh my God, what happened? Where does it hurt?” She was hysterical even though she could see our son was perfectly fine.

“No, Mommy,” he said. “It’s Jessica -- her dog ran away. And I’m so sorry for her.” You’d think my wife had a Coach purse that ran away. She was more emotional than our son, very sad for Jessica.

A few days later, our son announced better news -- Jessica’s dog evidently came home. My wife and kid were relieved. A high heel to my shin reminded me that I was relieved, too.

So the dog situation was over. And then came yesterday. My wife and I bumped into Jessica’s parents and my wife asked how their dog was doing back home.

“Dog?” they said. “We don’t have a dog.”

“But our son said Jessica told him her dog ran away.”

“She told us the same thing,” said Jessica’s mom. “She has an imaginary dog.”

My wife actually asked if they were sure they didn’t have a dog.

Jessica’s mom said she was sure. She continued: “Jessica came up with the whole dog thing to prove she’d make a great dog owner. She made ‘Missing’ signs when her dog went missing and we had to post them up all over town. We were afraid someone would actually bring us a stray dog.”

My wife and I didn’t have the hearts to tell our son that Jessica’s “missing” dog wasn’t real -- our boy was so attached to that dog.

“I saw you talking to Jessica’s parents,” our son said to us. “Did you ask about Jessica’s dog?”

“We did,” my wife said.

“Jessica is sure a great dog owner, don’t you think?” he asked us.

“Yes, she is,” my wife said.

“She was so worried about her dog, just like I was so worried . . . I could be a great dog owner, too, don’t you think? But I know you won’t let me have a dog, even though I’d love to have one.”

That’s when my wife and I discovered the plot these two 6-year-olds masterminded together. We don’t know if Jessica’s parents caved and bought their child a dog, but we sure weren’t going to give in to our child -- at least I wouldn’t without a fight.

“Dogs are a lot of work,” I said. “Are you willing to walk a dog every morning and every night?”

“Yeah,” the boy said.

“Are you willing to feed him all his meals?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you willing to clean up after him?”

“Yeah.”

All I needed was one no. “Are you willing to quiet him down in the middle of the night when he’s barking? Can you guarantee I won’t find one dog hair on my clothes or on the furniture? Are you gonna pay for all the medical bills associated with his health?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Yeah.”

“OK,” my wife said to him. “You can have a dog.”

“What?” my son said, pleasantly surprised.

“What?” I said surprised in a different way.

Since then, our son has been walking his brand-new imaginary dog around the house nonstop.

-March 2010

No More Theme Days

2010-12-30T11:35:00.000-08:00

I dropped my 6-year-old son off at school. Every other kid on the playground was dressed in Disney attire.

We saw two adorable little Disney princesses walk by us. Over on the jungle gym, several kids were wearing Mickey Mouse ears. Another kid had one of those silly Goofy hats on his head. There were even kids dressed like the old Mickey Mouse Club Mousketeers -- how nostalgic. How cute. My son was wearing a bloodied “Jaws” shirt.

“Oh no, Daddy, we forgot today’s Disney Day,” my son said, disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to participate.

“Sorry,” I said, “I didn’t get the note.” Though it’s very possible I missed the note since we get paper from the kid’s school in Costco-like quantities.

“Now I’m the only one without something Disney,” my son said. And he wasn’t exaggerating -- he was the only one. I felt bad. I didn’t want him to lose out because his Mommy and I didn’t know it was another theme day at school.

“You didn’t remember it was Disney Day?” my wife asked me when I called to tell her.

“I didn’t know.”

“I told you.”

“No you didn’t.”

I asked my son if he wanted to run home to change.

“No, it’s OK, Daddy.” He looked so sad.

I took him home and he got into his “Wall-E” shirt.

After I dropped him back off at school, the fury inside me grew. Every day -- well, at least almost every couple months -- there’s another theme day. And if there isn’t a theme day at school, there’s a theme day at the day care center after school.

These theme days range from Disney Day to 50s Day, Spirit Day to Crazy Tie Day. Coming soon to the day care center near me is Twins Day. My first thought: Why not Dodgers Day? We don’t live in Minnesota.

“No, not Minnesota Twins Day,” my wife said. Twins Day. Read the whole note.” The note said that we had to coordinate our kid’s wardrobe with another kid’s wardrobe -- as if they were twins.

“We have to find a kid in his class who just so happens to have the same clothes as his so the two of them could be twins?” I asked my wife. “How long is that gonna take?”

“No,” my wife said. “We have to go out and buy the same stuff.”

“What? How much disposable money do they think we have?”

“They’re just trying to get the kids to have spirit,” my wife said. “It’s for fun, so the kids can feel like they belong.”

“Shouldn’t they know they belong when their names are called during roll call?”

“You told me you were excited about Twins Day,” my wife said.

“No I didn’t. I didn’t even know about Twins Day.”

My wife continued to tell me why theme days were great. It all sounded really good, made sense.

I wasn’t having it.

“It’s OK, Mommy,” our son said. “I’m not sad. It’s not the most important thing in the world.” And he was serious. He really didn’t care to participate in theme days anymore.

“Are you sure?” my wife asked him. “Don’t just say that because Daddy says it.”

“I’m not just saying it,” he said. “Just because everyone else is doing it, doesn’t mean I wanna do it. But can I please get Valentine’s cards? All my friends are getting them.”

I forgot about regular holidays.

“What do you think, Daddy?” my wife asked me. “Can he?”

“Of course he can,” I said. “Valentine’s Day is a regular holiday. It’s on the calendar. I know when it’s coming. It’s not something that just sneaks up on us.”

Now my wife puts all of our son’s theme days on my calendar so I know when they’re coming. They won’t just sneak up on me.

-February 2010

Daddy Man vs. 6-Year-Old

2010-12-09T10:00:00.000-08:00

In 6-Year-Old’s bedroom.

DADDY MAN (DM): If you move, I’ll know. If you make a peep, I’ll know. If you blink . . . I’ll know.

6-YEAR-OLD (6-Y-O): How’ll you know if I blink if you can’t see me?

DM: Because I’m Daddy Man. Daddy Man doesn’t rest. Ever. Daddy Man knows. Watch, I’ll step out and step back in when you blink.

Daddy Man steps out.

Daddy Man steps back in.

DM: You blinked.

6-Y-O: Whoa, how’d you know?

DM: I told you, I’m Daddy Man. Daddy Man always knows. So no playing; no getting off the bed; no fooling around. You sit there. I’ll get you when your timeout is over.

6-Y-O: OK . . . Wait. Daddy? If I’m good in my timeout, can I get out early?

DM: No. But you can be good.

6-Y-O: OK . . . Wait. Daddy? Can I lay down on my bed and think about my bad behavior?

DM: No. You’re in timeout -- no lying down, no playing, no more talking, You sit there. I’ll get you when your timeout is over.

Daddy Man steps out.

Daddy Man steps back in.

DM: What was that noise?

6-Y-O: What noise?

DM: What do you mean, “What noise?” I just heard a noise. What was it?

6-Y-O: So you can’t see me?

DM: I told you, I’m Daddy Man, and Daddy Man doesn’t rest. Of course I can see you. I just wanna see if you’re gonna lie to me. Now what was that noise?

6-Y-O: I went into my toy box.

DM: Is that you’re final answer? Daddy Man always knows. If you’re lying, you better say now.

6-Y-O: That’s all I did, Daddy Man, I swear.

DM: No more going into your toy box. And no noise.

6-Y-O: What if I cough?

DM: It better be a real cough.

6-Y-O: How’ll you know if it’s not a real cough?

DM: You’ll know because you’ll be in another real timeout. Now quiet. I’ll get you when your timeout is over.

Daddy Man steps out.

6-Y-O: Daddy?

Daddy Man steps back in.

6-Y-O: I have to go potty.

DM: Hurry.

The 6-Year-Old steps out.

DM: What’s that noise?

The 6-Year-Old steps back in.

DM: What were you doing in there?

6-Y-O: I was cleaning the bathroom for you.

DM: I don’t want you to clean the bathroom for me. This is why you’re in trouble -- you don’t listen. Now listen: sit down, don’t move, don’t talk, don’t make noise. I’ll get you when your timeout is over.

Mommy steps in.

MOMMY: I thought you were working on your column.

DM: I’m trying to work on my column.

MOMMY: Well, I’m doing all the bills.

DM: Well, I’m not playing.

MOMMY: But I’m doing all the bills and you still have to work on your column. That means I have to do all the bills.

DM: I can’t even work on my column. I can’t even have peace and quiet. Ever. Daddy Man doesn’t rest.

6-Y-O: You can’t lie, Daddy. She’s Mommy Woman. She always knows, too.

DM: Fine. Daddy Man will take a timeout. Daddy Man will rest. Nobody get me until my timeout is over.

Daddy Man goes to his room.

-January 2010

I Forgot What I Was Worrying About

2010-12-09T09:24:00.000-08:00

I was worrying about something really important, but I forgot what it was.

Sometimes I worry about Item A as if it’s the end of the world, until Item B comes up. Then I forget about Item A, and Item B becomes the new end of the world -- as if Item A wasn’t anything to worry about in the first place. Then, once I resolve Item B, I go back to worrying about Item A, and Item A becomes the end of the world again.

But that’s not the case here. The case here is: I simply forgot what I was worrying about. And now I’m worrying about what I forgot because what if it was important?

I’m retracing my steps, hoping a little déjà vu will help me remember what I was worrying about. I bump into my 6-year-old son. I ask if I forgot to do anything for him. He says I’m supposed to make dinner.

“I can’t do that right now,” I reply. “I’m busy worrying about trying to remember what I was worrying about.”

My wife returns from a late night meeting and I feel relieved -- she usually helps me remember what I forget. I ask her, “Did you ask me to do something? I can’t remember.”

She’s crying. She says something about “worst day of her professional life.”

“No, that’s not it,” I tell her. Before I can get back to retracing my steps, my wife attacks me.

“I just told you I had a terrible day,” she says, “and all you care about is what you forgot? How about you forgot to think about your wife?”

My wife and I have an understanding that if we get into a tiff, we have to resolve the issue right then and right there -- we can’t walk away and let it boil.

So I drop everything. And I tell her we’ll argue soon.

Now back to retracing my steps.

“You broke our rule,” my wife says, following me around the house.

The problem: When I can’t remember something, I go mad and I do things that are out of character. I go even madder if I’m digging deep for something and I can’t pull anything up.

But somehow I’m sane enough to realize I’m being insensitive. I apologize to my wife and kid and tell my wife I’m ready to hear what happened at work.

I’m not catching a single word of her story. The more she talks, the more it bugs me that I can’t remember what I was worrying about.

Maybe I was worrying about writing thank-you letters for Christmas gifts I received. No, I have another six months before that’s a problem.

Maybe I was worrying about calling someone or meeting someone or paying someone. I go through my address book, looking for names, hoping that’ll refresh my memory. Who the heck is Benji Biffer? Why’s his contact information in my address book? Geez, my grandparents are still in my book? They passed away over five years ago.

“Dad, I’m so hungry,” my kid says.
“Mike, you’re ignoring us,” my wife says.

I try to tune out my family and think: I got home, put my bag here, was gonna turn on my computer, went to the bathroom instead, was thinking about the thing I was worrying about when I went to the bathroom. What if I flush the toilet? Maybe the sound will trigger the thoughts I had when I previously flushed.

Fffff-shhhhhh.

Nothing.

I had no engagements, no late bills, nothing to do for work. Did I miss a doctor’s appointment?

My kid: “Dad, we need dinner.”

My wife: “Daddy’s not making dinner.”

My thoughts: Maybe I was supposed to make dinner.

“Daaaaad!”

“Miiiike!”

“Ahhhh!” I scream. “Will you people leave me alone?” My wife and kid freeze out of fear.

I finally remember what I forgot! I wanted to get the mail.

I noticed my wife brought it in.

-January 2010

Playtime Bits from the ‘burbs

2010-11-23T20:27:00.000-08:00

A SIGN OF TOUGH TIMES? -- It’s easy during tough times such as these to derail emotionally, to get depressed, to lose focus due to overwhelming despair, to miss the things in life that really count. The other day, while driving south on Interstate 5 into Orange County, I drove past Disneyland and forgot to point out to my family, using my usual Disneyland Monorail announcer voice, the site of the majestic Matterhorn Mountain. After we went by, my wife asked if I was OK, if I was working too hard, if I was working too much. This was a telling sign, indeed, that playtime is needed in my life -- that or someone pulled a fast one on me and moved the mountain.

SPACED OUT -- My 6-year-old son -- a first-grader -- is learning more in school than I remember learning at his age. Thanks to the California Distinguished School he attends, he knows all the continents on the planet, he produces art that’s suitable for framing, and he can do math that I couldn’t do in high school. Before winter break, he and his classmates each had to do an oral presentation in front of the class where they were graded on eye contact, hand gestures, the use of visual aids and the memorization of at least four lines of dialogue. My son’s gonna be smarter than me within the year, which is fine. But I worry he doesn’t have a chance to be a kid, that academics are consuming his life. He assured me, however, that he gets plenty of time to play. A couple weeks ago while at recess, he said, he and some friends put a man into space.

SICK UNTIL FRIDAY -- My son and I were on a pedal boat. I felt motion sickness coming on. I told the kid we’d have to pedal back to shore, that I was feeling sick. The next day, my son said, like me, he got sick from the boat. He proved it with a few lung-shattering coughs and a sniffle. Then he told me he’d have to miss the first week back at school. He assured me, however, that he’d be better again on Friday afternoon -- just in time, miraculously, to play on the weekend.

5 -- My son made a friend while playing at the park. He brought the kid to me and said, “Look, Daddy, I have a new friend.” I said to the kid, “Hi, I’m Mike.” The kid said, “Hi, I’m 5.”

EVOLUTION OF A ROLLER COASTER RIDER -- As a young kid, I found riding roller coasters to be horrifying -- the train could fly off the track; the seat harness could break loose and I could fall out; the stilts that hold the track a million feet in the air could collapse and send me to my death. But then I became a teenager -- I became smarter than everyone else -- and I realized people were getting on and off without dying. I learned that roller coaster makers have safety codes and standards, and constant tests to ensure safety. And then I experienced enough life to realize that accidents do, in fact, happen. Shortcuts in the workplace take place hourly. Procrastination and the lack of communication are the differences between “The track is fine” and “There’s a large section of track missing at the bottom of the hill!” And that’s why, at age 33, riding roller coasters is horrifying again.

QUEUE PILEUP -- A new study reveals that when waiting in line to go on a ride, stepping on the heels of the people in front of you and practically spooning them doesn’t make you get on any faster.

RACE TO GET DRESSED -- Getting a 6-year-old dressed in a hurry can be a challenge. Mine often gets distracted and can turn the task into an all-day event. To avoid being late to a particular engagement, I made the chore of getting dressed into a game. “Whoever gets dressed first wins,” I said. And then came the rules: “OK, Daddy, if I get dressed first, then I’ll run into your room. If you get dressed first, then you run into my room. If I run into your room, I win. If you run into my room, you win. If we both win, we’ll crash into each other in the hallway . . . ” After his 15-minute breakdown of the rules, and after a few “pauses” in the game so I could help him turn his socks inside out and tie his shoes, we successfully became late.

-January 2010

New Year’s Resolved

2010-11-23T20:03:00.000-08:00

My wife made a New Year’s resolution to be a neater person on my behalf. For the New Year, I decided to be less anal-retentive on her behalf.

At a New Year’s party, we met a couple that mirrored us -- the girl was the anal-retentive one and the guy was the messy one.

“Opposites attract, don’t they?” the guy said.

“He’s always leaving the lights on in the house,” the girl told us.

“She’s always turning them off,” he said.

This guy was a total disaster -- a nightmare. And his wife seemed to have it all together -- a dream. However, it’s against the rules to turn on your own team. So I sided with the guy.

“Why would she turn off the lights if you had them on?” I asked.

My wife was quick to respond. “You always get mad when I leave the lights on,” she said to me. “You turn them off constantly.”

“I always ask if you need them on before I turn them off,” I said.

“That’s just your passive aggressive way of telling me you want them off,” she said.

My wife then confided in the guy. “Sometimes I’ll take something out of the microwave before the time is up and I’ll forget to hit ‘cancel,’ and he’ll ask if I need the remaining seconds on the dial before he clears it.”

The guy didn’t really respond -- just kind of chuckled. He was loyal to Team Man. His girl, however, turned on her team in an instant.

“The microwave is a killer,” she said. “He leaves seconds -- sometimes even minutes -- on our microwave all the time.”

“It’s not a big deal,” my wife said.

“What if you wanna see the clock?” the girl asked.

“Yeah,” I said to my wife. “What if I’m running late for something and I’m trying to see what time it is, and I go to the kitchen to check the time on the microwave and it says 12 seconds? Now I have to walk all the way over to the microwave, hit cancel and become late for sure.”

“How much later is that really gonna make you?” my wife asked.

“If I’m running late,” I said, “going to the microwave will make me later enough to ruin me.”

“You’re always wearing your watch anyway.”

“What if I forget to put on my watch?”

“You never forget your watch,” my wife said. “Don’t you remember -- you’re perfect?”

“I never said I was perfect. I just like things orderly and complete so life isn’t more difficult than it needs to be.”

The girl was nodding in agreement to everything I was saying. “One time,” she said, “I came home to find our bikes in the dining room.”

“Because they cluttered up the garage,” her guy said in his defense.

“The bikes were in the dining room?” I asked. I couldn’t believe what the guy had done. He couldn’t believe what I just did -- I switched sides against Team Man. He looked at me as if I’d turned communist. Then my wife made matters worse.

“If I did that,” my wife told the guy, “my husband would never let me live it down.”

We were in the final countdown to the New Year, and this guy was the only person in the place not smiling. He had remained loyal to me -- his fellow man -- all evening, even though we were opposing types. Then I crossed the line and left him standing alone.

I had to strike before he did. “It looks like you and my wife are both a mess,” I said to him.

“And you and my wife are both anal,” he replied.

“But, like you were saying earlier,” I said, “opposites attract. I think if my wife was as anal as I am -- so set in her own ways -- life would be pretty miserable. I think one anal person is enough”

The other couple agreed that if such were the case in their relationship, the result would be a miserable existence.

After everyone sang “Auld Lang Syne,” I asked my wife to cancel her New Year’s resolution to be neater. I told her to just be herself. She smiled and gave me a big hug.

Then she asked if I could keep my New Year’s resolution and still work on being less anal.

-January 2010

I Can't Make Decisions

2010-02-08T18:46:00.000-08:00

WIFE: So whaddaya want for dinner?

ME: Ummm—

WIFE: You wanna go out?

ME: Yeah. Sure.

WIFE: You decide. Where do you want to go?

ME: Ooooh, let’s go to Maria’s Italian Deli. They’ve got that really good manicotti. And cannoli. That sounds good.

WIFE: But we just had Italian food two nights ago. Where else would you want to go?

ME: Let’s go to Dave’s, then.

WIFE: That’s too fattening. What about Salt Creek Grill?

ME: That’s too expensive. What about BJ’s?

WIFE: We always go to BJ’s.

ME: Well, where do you wanna go then?

WIFE: It’s your decision.

ME: OK then. Everyone in the car. We’re going to Maria’s.

WIFE: I thought you didn’t wanna go to Maria’s.

ME: No, you didn’t wanna go to Maria’s.

WIFE: Can we go somewhere else? Anywhere but Italian food.

ME: OK, how about the Route 66 Grill?

WIFE: Isn’t that kinda like Dave’s?

ME: I guess it’s somewhat like Dave’s.

WIFE: How about Margarita’s?

ME: Is that where you wanna go?

WIFE: It’s your decision. Do you wanna go there?

ME: No, but if you wanna go there, then let’s go.

WIFE: No -- just pick where you wanna go.

ME: I did pick where I wanna go. You didn’t like it. And you didn’t like my second and third choices either. So you tell me where you wanna go.

WIFE: Are you mad at me?

ME: No, I’m just hungry, so choose where you wanna go, and let’s go.

WIFE: I’m sorry -- go ahead, you choose where you wanna go.

ME: OK, Maria’s.

WIFE: Maybe we should just eat at home.

ME: Fine.

WIFE: What do you wanna have?

ME: Spaghetti.

WIFE: But we just had Italian food two nights ago.

ME: How about meat loaf?

WIFE: Kinda fattening, don’t you think?

ME: Steak?

WIFE: Anything healthier?

ME: Pork chops?

WIFE: Hmmm—

ME: Chicken? Fish? Tacos—

WIFE: Which one do you want?

I went into the kitchen, got the cereal, the milk, bowls and spoons, and I put it on the table. I sat down, poured the cereal into a bowl, poured the milk, and I started eating. My wife and our son joined me.

WIFE: This was a good idea, sweetie. So whaddaya want for Christmas?

ME: I’ll shop for myself.

-December 2009

Bad Kid, Bad Parenting

2010-02-08T15:26:00.000-08:00

My wife and I were at the park with our 6-year-old son and saw a little boy wash his friend’s face with a mouthful of juice. Bad kid, bad parenting.

While at the mall, a little girl was screaming at her parents like she was challenging them to a death match -- and winning. Bad kid, bad parenting.

Our boy has been getting in trouble at school for giving random items flight in the classroom, mistaking listening for talking and telling white lies that he’d dragged through soot. Bad kid . . . who the heck’s teaching him all this?

We were embarrassed to hear some of the things our kid was doing. After all, we’re loving, caring, disciplining parents. What’s going on?

When I was young, I was afraid to even think about doing something that could imply anything less than stellar behavior. I feared my dad would kill me, and I never pushed my limits to see if he’d actually follow through.

My son, however, seems perfectly fine pushing his limits to see if I’ll destroy him for bad behavior as I often warn. The problem: I’m like the tough-talking, timid kid in a tussle at the bike racks after school, unable to back down because everyone’s watching but unable to strike.

“Push me one more time and I’ll kill you . . . I just dare you to do it again, cowboy . . . I’m giving you one more chance . . . Keep pushing me and see what happens . . . Now you’re really starting to make me really mad . . . You just pushed me again . . . You just don’t get it, do you?”

My wife and I can’t just kill our kid like I promised, but it’s practically the next step. We can’t take anything else away from him. He’s got nothing -- we took his toys (he’s bored with them anyway), we took away his TV privileges (not much of a punishment with most of today’s programming), we wouldn’t allow playing with others (he’s an only child, so he’s used to it), and Santa Claus wouldn’t visit this Christmas (which could actually help Mom and Dad in these tough financial times).

The kid has no problem taking a spanking. He doesn’t fight it. He just takes it.

“That shows he’s smart,” a friend told me. “He knows his punishment will eventually end and that his slate will be wiped clean. So all is well. That also shows he can take pain and suffering. That’s a leader if I ever saw one. You ever seen ‘Braveheart?’”

Others had similar responses to our kid’s bad behavior.

When I told a co-worker that my kid got reprimanded at school for tattling (kids can’t snitch unless it’s serious), the guy said my son would make a great reporter. “He broke the story first.”

When I told my step-dad that his grandson got in trouble for throwing toys, he said, “Maybe he’ll be a quarterback.”

When my wife told her friends that our son got in trouble for trying to kiss a girl in class, they said the kid was just mature.

Bossing his classmates around meant he had leadership skills. Not telling the truth meant he wasn’t a rat. Spitting and making faces meant he knew how to make an audience laugh. And stealing meant he was business savvy.

To deal with the matter, my wife and I set up a meeting with our son’s teacher. We feared the kid’s teacher wouldn’t let us off the hook like our family and friends so easily did.

And she didn’t. She told us our child’s behavior needed improvement, and she and the principal told us more tales of terror -- pure terror.

My wife and I conclude that we’re stuck with a child who has a behavior problem, who isn’t learning with the punishments we’re giving him. Bad kid, bad parenting.

“He’s only been bad for a couple months,” my mom said. “Learning doesn’t happen overnight. Give him time. He’ll be fine.”

My wife and I took comfort in that.

So maybe our kid won’t be better behaved tomorrow. We’re hoping for results by next week.

-December 2009

Family News in Brief -- November ’09

2010-02-08T14:58:00.000-08:00

FRIEND LOST OVER DINNER TAB FEUD
On Nov. 9, a family friend mailed my father an anonymous $70 check, enough to cover a dinner tab from 20 years earlier. The 1989 dinner, according to the family friend, was supposed to be his treat, not my father’s, but my father wouldn’t let him pay. “It was my idea to go to dinner in the first place,” the family friend said. “The fact that he would disguise a visit to the cashier as a trip to the restroom was low down.” Analysts said the kind gesture of paying the tab -- maybe an attempt to show affection for the fellow man -- clearly backfired when a feud over who’d pay for a few steak dinners at a neighborhood Sizzler turned into a war of silence that lasted two decades. “He’s a great friend,” my father said, “and I wanted to pay.” But now, after cashing an anonymous check he received in the mail for $70, my dad has suspicions. “If this is his idea of paying me back, I’ve got some news -- I’ll give it back to the bank.” Some feuds, sources said, may never end.

FOUR CORDLESS PHONES NOWHERE TO BE FOUND
My wife misplaced all four of our cordless phones earlier this month. While I searched for the phones, she called from work and asked if I could find her camera for an event she wanted to photograph that evening. “It’s in the office,” my wife said. I momentarily reported that it wasn’t in the office. “It’s in the laundry room,” she said. It wasn’t there either. At the time, I was speaking to my wife on the only phone I could find, which was plugged into the wall, and so each time I checked a spot for the camera, I had to set the phone down and search and come back. Sources said I looked like I was playing Red Rover by myself, going back and forth. Later that day, my wife discovered this story to be fiction, and a poor attempt on my part to encourage her to be more careful about where she places things like her camera and our cordless phones. Studies show that a husband trying to encourage his wife to change her habits would have more luck making it out of Chuck E. Cheese’s Pizza alive wearing a suit made of prize tickets.

TURKEY FINALLY SHOWS UP AFTER THANKSGIVING
A Thanksgiving turkey reported missing late Wednesday afternoon was found last night in a wash near the 27000 block of McBean Parkway. Authorities responded to my wife’s call on the eve before Thanksgiving about the missing bird. They searched our house for hours before extending the hunt into the surrounding neighborhoods. “That afternoon, I went to the refrigerator to get the turkey, and it was gone,” my wife said. “I’m not sure how it ended up across town in a wash.” The bird seemed OK upon discovery, but was covered in dirt and appeared thinner than when picked up at a Vons market earlier in the week. Conspiracy theorists suspect angry vegetarians bird-napped the turkey and, before carrying out some sick plan against “animal killers,” abandoned the Butterball in the wash. Others say the turkey’s soul, still present in the body while in our refrigerator, anticipated a shrewd handling of its death and up and made a run for it. No one, however, can be sure about what really happened, which is why we’re offering a reward to anyone who comes forward with information so that my family can be at peace. Please contact me at michael.picarella@gmail.com with any details.

FATHER-IN-LAW EXPLAINS HEARING LOSS
Early yesterday morning, while driving to the mall for Christmas shopping, my father-in-law realized that his deafness in his right ear might not have been the result of close gunfire while serving in the Navy during the Vietnam War. He now attributes his hearing loss to something much closer to home. “I’m usually driving when my wife and I go anywhere,” he said, “and she’s usually sitting on my starboard side, trying to improve my driving. Any husband knows how I really went deaf in my right ear.” Asked if his wife could comment on the matter, my father-in-law said she wasn’t available. That’s his story and he’s not letting her hear it.

-November 2009

Turkey Bits from the ‘burbs

2010-02-05T15:16:00.000-08:00

TURKEY TIME -- You know it’s Turkey Time when the air gets cold, the wind blows and the leaves color the ground yellow and orange. In the fall, it’s great fun to jump and roll around in the big piles of leaves. So I went to Walmart and, believe it or not, they didn’t have leaves for sale.

TURKEY DINNER AND A THOUSAND PUMPKIN PIES -- We were hosting Thanksgiving dinner. Our guests asked what they could bring. “Don’t bring anything,” we said. Every single guest apparently understood that to mean: Bring pumpkin pies. So we ended up with a thousand pumpkin pies! Luckily my wife and I had ice cream for the group because there was only enough pumpkin pie for me.

DEAD AS A TURKEY -- Thanksgiving is typically a time to gather with friends and family. My neighbor said he thought about staging his own funeral this year so that his family would come together.

TURKEY TV -- Nothing brings in the holiday season like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade. I’ve never been to the parade in person, but I watch it on TV every year. “You don’t watch it every year,” my wife said when I told someone I did. “Yes I do,” I replied. My wife said, “You only watch about five minutes of it and then you leave the room.” Maybe my wife’s right (don’t tell her I said that). But I would watch the whole parade if there wasn’t so much singing and dancing. And so many marching bands. And all that nonsensical banter from the commentators. And then there are all those commercials. And it’s such a long parade. And everything moves so slowly. I like the balloons.

TURKEY TOIL -- My 6-year-old son traced his hand on a big piece of construction paper and turned it into a picture of a turkey for Thanksgiving. While trying to hang it on the front of the refrigerator, the kid stomped his feet and cried, “I moved the grocery list and I moved Mommy’s recipes and I moved my old Halloween pictures -- my Thanksgiving art still won’t fit.” I told him, “Crying won’t help you solve the problem.” He replied, “I’m in first grade -- I don’t cry. I whine. So I’m whining.”

LITTLE TURKEY, LOTTA TURKEY, BIG TURKEY -- If I suggested a big turkey for Thanksgiving, my wife would say, “What are you saying -- that I’m big and need a big bird to fill my appetite?” So I suggested a small turkey. She said, “What are saying -- that I’m big and need a small bird so I don’t fill my appetite?” There was only one turkey in the room after that.

MY SON’S A TURKEY, TOO -- My wife and I watched “A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving” with our 6-year-old son. There’s a really funny sequence with Snoopy and Woodstock struggling to get into a garage to find a table and some chairs for a Thanksgiving feast. The automatic garage door sends Snoopy into the air and through a basketball hoop. My wife laughed so hard she rolled off the couch. Later in the sequence, a basketball bounces out of the garage with Snoopy attached. I laughed milk out of my nose. Next, Snoopy performs some fancy dribbling with the ball. Then he tosses the ball over to Woodstock so his little bird companion can show off, too. The ball flattens Woodstock. My wife and I burst into laughter and wouldn’t stop. “Why doesn’t he just get the table and chairs?” our son said, clearly annoyed. “He’s not making any progress.” Then the kid asked my wife to get off the floor and asked me to clean the milk off my face.

TURKEY FOR ‘THE BIRDS’ -- Each Thanksgiving, my bird comes with a healthy serving of “The Birds,” a helping of “North By Northwest” -- sometimes “Vertigo” -- and a side of “Rear Window.” Afterward, I like to treat myself to a little “Psycho.” Yup, it’s my own tradition to watch Alfred Hitchcock movies on Thanksgiving Day. “What do Hitchcock movies have to do with Thanksgiving?” people always ask me. “Thanksgiving is about giving thanks for what you have. It’s about family and friends. What do spies and evil schemes and murder have to do with that?” My answer: Absolutely nothing.

-November 2009

All Was Well . . . And Then . . .

2010-02-05T14:51:00.000-08:00

I woke up yesterday morning feeling great. All was well.

I sauntered into the kitchen, flipped on the light. The light worked.

I poured myself a big bowl of my favorite cereal. I went to the refrigerator. We had milk.

My cereal was very good. I didn’t rush it. I enjoyed it.

Then I got cleaned up and dressed for work. I finished getting ready right on time. I drove to the office. I made it there right on time.

When I sat down at my desk, I got to my tasks. I finished everything I set out to do . . . right on time.

At lunchtime, I wrapped my teeth around some food. It was very good food. I had just the right amount to eat -- not too much, not too little. When it was time to go back to work, I was willing and able. And I finished everything I set out to do.

My wife called while I was at work. She said everything was well. She just wanted me to know that. I told her all was well with me, too. She told me all was also well with our 6-year-old son.

After work, I drove home. I made it.

That’s when I realized traffic didn’t stop me. There were no Sig-Alerts. There was no construction. The motorist on his cell phone wolfing down an animal style double-double from In-N-Out Burger and grooming his dog while piloting his car didn’t smash into me while I drove through that green light.

When I got home, my wife was watching TV. It wasn’t a reality show.

The mail in my mailbox was addressed to my wife and me -- not to my neighbors or to the people who lived in my house 20 years ago.

I decided to trim some trees on my property. Raccoons the size of small rhinoceroses had been using the trees as their gateway to my rooftop for tap dance parties that took place in the middle of the night. I dug out my rickety extension ladder, threw it up against the trees, and hacked the branches away from the house. My ladder didn’t collapse.

When I changed the oil in my car, the twigs I used as jack stands didn’t snap and send the underside of the vehicle into my face for a kiss.

The shower rained warm water on me when I went to clean up for dinner.

My wife had my favorite dinner hot and ready for me when I finished cleaning up.

My son spilled peas off his plate, and the vacuum with an over-stuffed pick-up bag still sucked up the mess when I ran it over the floor.

All was certainly well.

And then it kept going well.

“What kind of Friday the 13th is this?” I asked my wife.

I tried to make unfortunate things happen to me, but everything turned out well. I tripped over obstacles I placed in the middle of the floor for the very purpose of injuring myself. I couldn’t get hurt.

I tried to start an argument with my wife. She gave me a kiss.

I told my kid he could do whatever he wanted to do and that, no matter what he did, he wouldn’t get busted. He made an “I love you, Daddy” card.

For a columnist who uses daily events as source material, “all is well” is not so well at all. Stories without conflict are not stories. I have nothing to write about this week, as you can tell if you made it this far. In fact, the following gap is brought to you by that lack of something to write about:

“For some people,” my wife said, “Friday the 13th actually brings good luck.”

Wouldn’t you know? That’s just my luck.

-November 2009

Aesthetic . . . And Totally Worthless

2010-02-05T14:17:00.000-08:00

As part of a homeowners association, I’ve come to expect home exterior upkeep in the area, corresponding colors throughout the neighborhood and a lack of rogue vehicles on the street or on front lawns and porches for months at a time. In general, I’ve come to expect aesthetic bliss.

It’s clear most HOAs have property values in mind. My HOA is no exception. We’ve got these really expensive, fancy-looking cast iron mailboxes, which must add tremendous value to the homes since nobody seems to mind driving to the post office to drop off their outgoing mail. Why must they drop off mail at the post office when they have their own mailboxes? Good question.

The said expensive, fancy-looking boxes don’t allow for mail pickup. The mail carrier has no access to the inside. He can drop stuff in, but he can’t fit his hand inside to take stuff out -- the mail slot is far too narrow.

“You can hang your outgoing mail halfway out the slot,” a neighbor suggested.

“What about when it rains?” I asked.

OK, so Southern California doesn’t get much rain. But the problem extends beyond wet outgoing mail on wet days. Sometimes, when hanging my outgoing mail halfway out the slot, it falls back into the box. I can’t afford to have my mail slip back into the box. I live in a nice area, which means I’m paying my bills at the last minute. If my payments slip back into my box, my mail carrier doesn’t deliver my mail. As a result, I get late-charged.

“Why don’t you bring your outgoing mail to the post office or to one of the general boxes on the street?” asked a neighbor.

I refuse to spend time, gas and wear and tear on my vehicle to use another mailbox when I have a mailbox -- an expensive, fancy-looking one -- on my own property. No, I’d rather spend time, energy and wear and tear on my nerves complaining about it.

Perhaps you, too, have had similar problems where aesthetics have won out over function. I know of an entire city whose bus riders fell victim to this ridiculous phenomenon.

Citizens of the said city asked their city council to address the lack of bus shelters around town. People were tired of waiting at bus stops in the pouring rain. The city council dove right in. After all, three of the council members were incumbents in an upcoming race for seats on the next council.

“We must shelter our citizens,” was how the discussion began. The end was more like, “It doesn’t matter that the slats for a roof don’t shield our citizens from the rain. These shelters must beautify the city, unlike those eyesores in the San Fernando Valley.”

The said city council eventually installed the said worthless (practically roofless) bus shelters. Indeed, the shelters were worthless. But they were aesthetically pleasing and the premier shelters in the area.

I was shocked at this display of stupidity. As a father, I felt I had an obligation to teach my growing son the difference between good and bad, right and wrong, functional and “Who came up with this stupid idea?” So I stood up. I showed my son that you have to take action against stupidity.

I made a weatherproof strap with an “outgoing mail” sign on one end, which could dangle outside the box. I attached a binder clip on the other end of the strap to clamp onto my outgoing mail, which could sit inside my mailbox. When my mail carrier sees the sign, he knows I have outgoing mail. He can tug on the strap and pull the mail through the slot.

My outgoing mail now stays dry in wet weather, and I don’t have to hang my bills halfway out the slot and worry about them falling back into the box, out of my mail carrier’s reach.

So maybe I didn’t truly stand up against stupidity. Maybe I joined in. Maybe I didn’t teach my son anything worthwhile. But my invention is sure aesthetically pleasing and the premier outgoing mail system in the area.

-November 2009

Family News in Brief -- October ’09

2010-02-05T12:20:00.000-08:00

RECORD NUMBER OF GRAVEYARDS POP UP EVERYWHERE, HOMEOWNERS OUTRAGED
Dozens of new graveyards have been showing up in the area all month and homeowners are screaming, “Not in my backyard.” Several of these NIMBYists said they moved to the Santa Clarita Valley to get away from things like overdevelopment, overcrowding and graveyards. “Where did this cemetery come from?” asked one of my neighbors when he saw my Halloween gravestones. “Not in my back yard,” he said. The graveyard, incidentally, happens to be in my front yard, and it’s going away after tonight’s trick-or-treating celebration. However, someone stopped by the house yesterday and asked how much for a plot. Considering the hard financial climate of the day, I thought long and hard about suggesting a price.

WITCHING HOURS SCARES CONTINUE TO RISE
The Witching Hour, which is the haunting time that takes place during Halloween season, is continuing to take its toll on innocent people. Officials on Tuesday released figures showing that spooky witches, ghouls and goblins are the cause of more than 20 unsolicited scares in my house alone since the beginning of the season. “Just last week,” my wife said on Wednesday, “we had only 6 scares. Now that we’re in the home stretch to Halloween, scares have been around every corner.” Witching Hour experts suggest that numbers are expected to rise in years to come as my son, a 6-year-old, enters the prime age for scaring his parents. The scares, these sources added, will become progressively elaborate as the boy becomes older and more inventive, but will taper off during the teenage years when he wants nothing to do with his mom and dad. According to the individual behind the scares, “I’m not Mommy and Daddy’s son. I’m a scary ghoul. Rrrrraooooar!”

CANDY DISH GRABS HOLD OF KID, WON'T LET GO
“Daddy, we have a problem,” said my wife in an urgent phone call to work yesterday afternoon. It seems my 6-year-old son stuck his hand into one of those Halloween candy bowls with the motorized attacking zombie claws, was attacked by the claw, and then couldn’t shake the claw loose. “These mechanized candy bowls have become so routine that it’s easy to forget it’s not wise to let a motorized zombie claw clamp down on your hand,” said the general manager of the store that sells the spooky dish. “Bring it back to the store and we’ll give you a full refund.” Turns out, the guy couldn’t take the dish back with my son attached. So now my son’s going trick-or-treating tonight dressed as a trick-or-treater who got eaten by a candy bowl.

FUTURE SISTER-IN-LAW IN NEED OF HOLIDAY BOOST
After only a few months as my future sister-in-law, my younger brother’s wife-to-be made a move yesterday that could cost her a walk down the aisle. She told sources that she wanted to go to a college football game on Halloween Day. “I’m all for football games,” my brother said in a statement following the announcement, “but on Halloween? You’re supposed to be carving pumpkins, watching scary movies, haunting up the house for trick-or-treaters and basically getting ready for the big night.” Making matters worse, the girl said her favorite Thanksgiving was the one she had with lobster instead of turkey, and that getting a Christmas tree during the Christmas season was something she rarely did. “Holidays were never that big of a deal in my family,” she actually admitted. Sources claim that my family, including my siblings, my parents and my grandparents, are holiday extremists. But this girl, whom my brother plans to marry, is just plain crazy. My brother did the sane thing and signed her up for an extensive 6-month holiday boot camp. Officials said she’d be marrying material by Easter.

-October 2009

He Walks in the Night

2010-02-05T11:44:00.000-08:00

Don’t put your baby to sleep under silent conditions.

That’s what we were told when our son was born.

Numerous parents said, “If your baby gets used to complete silence when you put him down, he’ll never get to sleep -- even with the slightest bit of noise. Worse, he’ll wake up at the sound of a pin drop. Get your baby used to sleeping with noise, and he’ll sleep anytime anywhere.”

No problem.

And then my wife and I tried it.

The problem: Each night when we put the baby down to sleep, we were ready to go to sleep as well. We were new parents, and we were always tired, so making noise was a difficult task when all we wanted to do was sleep.

“Why don’t we leave the TV or the radio on?” my wife asked.

“Because I can’t sleep with noise,” I said. Even the music from the crib mobile kept me awake. “Does it really matter if it’s quiet or not?” I asked my wife.

Despite her answer, we did what everyone told us not to do and we put our newborn to sleep under silent conditions.

About two months later, we hosted a dinner for some friends and their newborn. When dessert was ready, the babies were ready for bed. So we put the kids down and headed back to the dining room for after-dinner conversation and sweets.

Our guests’ baby fell right to sleep -- even through our rowdy chatting and laughter. Our baby, on the other hand, was crying, giggling, laughing, trying to join in our discussion from his room.

“Have you been putting your baby to sleep under silent conditions?” the couple asked, busting us for disobeying a golden rule.
Guilty as charged, I said, “Of course not. He’s probably just hungry again.”

More food didn’t help. Rocking him to sleep didn’t work. And singing only made matters worse. Our baby just needed complete silence.

After that night, my wife and I decided we’d have to make it noisy when it came time for our son to sleep. He’d learn to nap under noisy conditions no matter how long it took.

Surprisingly, our efforts paid off in no time.

When the kid was 2, he slept soundly in his outdoor swing while I chain-sawed down a nearby tree. At 3, he slept through a grand slam at a near packed Dodger Stadium. At 6, I’m willing to bet a monster truck crashing through his bedroom and spinning donuts in the rubble wouldn’t wake him up.

But now we have another problem. Our son just doesn’t wake up, not even when he gets up.

One time he had a fever that required routine sips of medicine. One of those routine medicine sips came while he was asleep. My wife and I couldn’t get him up. We turned on the lights, screamed at him to wake up, and even stood him straight up on his feet and let go. He just stood there like a statue, sleeping, for 10 minutes while we funneled medicine down his throat.
“How does he sleep like that?” my wife and I asked each other.

We were forced to answer the question.

“Because we trained him to sleep anytime anywhere.” Evidently, he could sleep anyhow, too, even while in motion. We caught him walking in the night a few times.

At about 2 a.m. sometime last week, we had squirrels on the roof. I thought it was my son sleep-walking on the tiles, and I ran outside to rescue him before he fell off the house and got hurt. My neighbors said I should’ve checked his room before taking out my noisy extension ladder, some invasive floodlights and an ear drum-shattering megaphone.

Getting our kid up for school has become quite the problem. And getting him up after car rides where he falls asleep is also a problem. It’s all a problem.

My wife and I racked our brains to find a solution, and we eventually found one.

The plan?

It’s a simple revenge plot against those who told us not to put our kid to sleep under silent conditions.

-October 2009

Halloween Bits from the ‘burbs

2010-02-01T20:26:00.000-08:00

HALLOWEEN’S ALMOST HERE -- My 6-year-old son has seen “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” at least 3,000 times. That was just this month. After a recent viewing, he said, “Daddy, it’s Halloween time -- we better get ready for ‘tricks or treats.’” I said, “We have two weeks until ‘tricks or treats.’” He said, “Then we better hurry and get pumpkins and candy and our costumes and decorate the house -- ” I cut him off. “We have plenty of time, son.” So he asked, “Then can we watch ‘It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown’ again?” I said, “No, it’s Halloween time -- we better hurry and get pumpkins and candy and our costumes and decorate the house . . .”

COSTUME PARTY PANDEMONIUM -- Costume parties crawl with monsters, spill with ghoulish mischief and come to booming life with dozens of sugared-up kids thanks to non-attentive parents. One can’t escape the commotion, the caramel apple messes, the water-drenched kids bobbing for apples, the melted wax lips stuck to the floor and the runny milk chocolate on the furniture. The host of a recent party came to me toward the night’s end and said, “We’re gonna go now. Thanks for having us.” His wife grabbed him before he could run free. I thanked our hosts for a lovely evening, then dragged my family out the door before the kids held us captive.

SNAKE LADY GIVES A LICKING -- Mommy got into the Halloween spirit. She dug up some rubber snakes and ducked behind the couch until an opportune moment to pop out and scare our son. “Phhsssssss!” She and the snakes exploded from hiding. “Mommy,” our kid said, “you got spit on me. Yuck. Eeeuw. Gross.” For his response, Mommy licked him like the snake lady she was.

NO TOUCHING -- At the Halloween store, my boy knows not to touch anything. “That mask seems cool,” he said. “Daddy, can you touch it and tell me what it’s like?”

GRANDPA’S DEAD -- Grandpa found a bargain on 3 Musketeers candy -- his favorite Halloween treat. So he bought a couple bags for trick-or-treaters and a couple bags for himself. My wife said, “Grandpa’s in Heaven.” My son said, “When did he die?”

SCARE MOMMY -- I took my family through a haunted house. I didn’t think it’d be too scary. My wife and kid were so frightened they were actually in pain. When we got out, my son said to me, “I don’t ever wanna do that again! But when we get home, let’s scare Mommy.”

SPOOKY PLACE -- My son shut down his room to decorate it for Halloween. When he finished, he re-opened it for his mommy and daddy to experience. At the door we noticed an “Open” sign and another sign nearby with the letter “A” printed on it -- just like those health board rating signs in restaurant windows. Upon entry, my wife and I removed the “A” and shut the place down for extensive fake blood and green slime violations, among others. The place will remain closed until at least the four surrounding walls and the ceiling are found.

PUMPKIN PATCHED -- We got some pumpkins from the local patch. My son picked a large one. “Wow, you can carry it,” I marveled. He was so proud of his strength. To demonstrate, he carried the pumpkin to the car. Along the way, the pumpkin took a spill. And spill it did -- all over the ground. “Daddy, fix it,” he wept. “Wow, you destroyed it,” is all I could say. Again, he became so proud of his strength. To demonstrate, he smashed the pumpkin into several more pieces. That patched things up.

I’M A DUMMY -- I stuffed newspaper in my clothes, put on a monster mask, propped myself up in a chair near the front door and passed myself off as a Halloween dummy. Some friends came over for dinner and noticed my craftsmanship. “Wow, look at the dummy,” said the woman. “It looks so real.” The man disagreed. “It looks so fake. There’s newspaper sticking out of the sleeves.” Before I could scare the couple into a coma, the man gave me a good hard kick to test the dummy’s durability. Yup, a dummy for sure.

-October 2009

I Don't Wanna Hold Your Baby

2010-02-01T19:56:00.000-08:00

Your baby might be real cute, but I don’t wanna hold it. It’s not personal.

When I got a new car, I didn’t ask people if they wanted to drive it. When I got my wife, I didn’t ask people if they wanted to date her. The car and the wife are mine. And your car and your wife are yours.

If a friend asked me to drive his new car, I’d say, “No. What if I crash and destroy the thing? Worse, what if I fall in love with it?“

If a friend asked me to date his wife -- well, I’d say he was an idiot.

Getting back to where I began -- I don’t want to hold anyone’s newborn baby.

“It’s OK,” the mother always says. “You won’t drop her.”

“But I just don’t wanna hold her,” I say. “Why do you want me to hold her?”

Why do they want us to hold their kids? Are they tired of holding the little guys? Maybe they want a break? If I’m going to get any joy out of holding a kid, it’s going to be my own.

“But don’t you just wanna love them?” my wife asked when I told her I didn’t want to hold her friend’s new twins. “They’re so cute.”

“No, I don’t just wanna love them,” I said. “If you saw some stranger you thought was cute, would you just walk up to him and cuddle him? I don’t know those babies. I don’t even know the parents all that well.”

Just before my son was born, a family friend asked if I wanted to hold her newborn baby -- for practice.

“No thanks,” I said.

“But don’t you wanna know what it’s like to hold your baby?”

“Yeah, I do,” I said. “But that’s not my baby, that’s yours.”

“Here,” she insisted, “take him.” And she forced her baby into my arms.

Before she could let go, I put my hands behind my back.

“I’m not gonna take it,” I said. “Please don’t make me.”

“But you won’t drop him,” she said.

“If you try to give me that thing, I’m gonna drop it. So don’t give it to me.”

“But you won’t drop him, I promise.”

“No,” I said, “I’m telling you, I will drop it if you give it to me, I promise. I’ll do it on purpose.”

For some odd reason, she decided not to be my friend anymore. And when my son was born, she wouldn’t hold him -- even at my wife’s request -- which was fine with me. My wife, on the other hand, was worried.

“Why doesn’t she wanna hold him?”

“Why do you want her to hold him?” I asked. “What if she drops him? Worse, what if she wants to keep him?”

About two years later, the same lady had another kid. She was so thrilled that she even approached me with a friendly smile. And she asked if I wanted to hold her.

“You wanna feel what a baby girl feels like in your arms?”

I took the baby into my arms. I knew I wouldn’t drop her -- holding my son so many times had given me the confidence. But the worst thing happened -- I fell in love with the little darling and I wanted to keep her.

So my wife and I tried to have another kid, only we found we were unable to do so. Maybe it was karma after I’d refused to hold so many babies for so long. Or maybe it was meant to be because now I wouldn’t have to share the love I have for my son. Maybe it was just basic physiology.

Today, I have no real problem holding other people’s babies, though I don’t ask. I also have no problem with the reverse. For example: The other day, I asked my buddy if he wanted to hold my groceries. I asked him to hold them from the trunk of my car to the house.

“Your food might look real good,” he said, “but I don’t wanna hold it.”

-October 2009

Family News in Brief -- September ’09

2010-02-01T19:21:00.000-08:00

READERS THANKED
A newspaper column is nothing without its readership, and so I decided earlier this month to thank my readers for taking the time out of their busy days to read my work. “Thank you, everyone,” I said while in the presence of fans. “A newspaper column is nothing without its readership. I appreciate you taking the time out of your busy days to read my work.” Indeed, this columnist is honored to receive such kindness. And so now, in print, I’d like to give thanks to each and every single one of my readers. Henry, Joe, Isabel and Charlie at the barbershop, thanks again for reading. Like I said the other day, I appreciate you taking the time out of your busy days to read my work.

MOTORIZED TOOTHBRUSH TERRORIZES HOUSE
A motorized toothbrush has been tossed in the trash after going on an unstoppable tirade inside my 6-year-old son’s bathroom. At about 7 p.m. on Tuesday, the SpongeBob SquarePants toothbrush, 2 months old, was turned on for the nightly cleaning of my son’s teeth. That’s when it started and didn’t stop until I pulled out the batteries that powered the device. “What the heck is wrong with this piece of junk?” I said when I learned that pressing the off switch on the toothbrush wouldn’t shut it down. “Dang it, turn off, you piece of junk. Turn off. Turn off!” The whole incident in the bathroom was captured on video as my wife filmed the outburst for about four minutes on her phone. In the video, the toothbrush can be seen just going and going and going and not shutting off even when I tried smashing it against the bathroom counter. The toothbrush is currently being held in the trashcan near the side of my house. It faces total destruction on Monday when the trash man comes to empty our bins.

PROPOSED MAN CAVE SHOT DOWN
The wife of a close friend shot down plans for a man cave last night on grounds that my friend and his buddies shouldn’t be allowed to have that much fun. Local residents spoke out against the decision. “This is an outrage,” said Valencia man Ver E. Madd, who said he wished he could have a man cave in his home. “If only I had the space for such a great place. I’d never need to leave the house.” Stevenson Ranch man Nev Ergettingoverit said, “You’ve heard of homes with sewing rooms, and you’ve heard of homes with gardening sheds, but when have you ever heard of a home with an actual man cave? The incongruity of it is amazing.” Another local, Ang Ryman, was so upset with the ruling he couldn’t speak when it came time to voice his opinion on the matter. But his brother Hung said he would’ve enjoyed snacking on the man cave’s 10-year supply of jerky and beer nuts. The man cave plans included a full bar, a pool table, three flat screen TVs with full cable, a beat-up couch the Salvation Army wouldn’t even take, a juke box programmed to reject music by Sarah McLachlan, Brittany Spears, the Indigo Girls and other similar artists if anyone attempted to put such music in, a humidor stocked with the finest Cuban cigars, and live “men’s” entertainment every Friday and Saturday night. The site for the proposed man cave will instead be turned into a playroom for the kids. Wives were not contacted to comment for this story.

FOR THE RECORD
My father-in-law had nothing to do with the rip in my son’s stuffed bear as indicated in a story I wrote on Feb. 21 of this year. My father-in-law’s only involvement in the incident was the stitching he gave the bear when my son found out his favorite stuffed animal got hurt. Evidently, readers want the truth. For the record: Everything else I write is completely accurate.

-September 2009

Random Bits from the 'burbs

2010-02-01T19:04:00.000-08:00

ATM TROUBLES -- While waiting in line for the drive-up ATM, the woman a few cars ahead of me struggled from the driver’s seat of her vehicle to reach the buttons on the machine. So she stepped out of the car and accomplished the transaction on foot, accidentally bumping her door shut. The automatic door locks went into effect, locking all four doors and her baby inside. After failing to coach the baby into unlocking the door, the woman called someone on her cell phone, and within five minutes, a man in a blacked-out sedan came speeding into the parking lot, left arm extended out the window with a keyless-entry remote in hand, clicking away at the button. The woman’s doors unlocked, allowing access inside the car and access to the child. The man in the blacked-out sedan sped out of the parking lot as fast as he’d entered -- the woman’s embarrassed husband, no doubt.

FREE COUCH -- My 6-year-old son and I were on a walk to the park when we came across a couch someone had placed in front of their house at curbside, a sign on the couch indicating it was free for the taking. I stopped my son before he could sit down -- the couch was filthy. Nobody in his or her right mind would accept this free gift, let alone put it in their home as an actual piece of furniture. The couch sat on the street for about a week. Even the “Free” sign survived all seven days. One morning, while driving by, I noticed someone replaced the “Free” sign with a sign that read “$50.” Someone stole the couch within the hour.

ATTENTION, HILLARY -- I sometimes write about family friends in my column, prompting one friend, Hillary Agamata, to request I give her the “heads up” if I write about her. Since it’s such a small town, she didn’t want to find out about such news secondhand. This is to you, Hillary: I’m writing about you in my column today.

YOU SPEAK WINDOW? -- My family and I were wandering through the neighborhood strip mall when a kid, banging on the window from inside a store, seemed to be speaking to us. The boy was clearly telling us something important, and we stopped and tried to make it out. I couldn’t hear a word he was saying nor could I read what he was saying by his lip movements. I asked my wife if she could understand the kid. She said she doesn’t speak Window.

OUCH! -- BAM! My 6-year-old son banged his head on the roof of the car as he settled into his car seat. I asked if he was OK. He said he felt great -- in that instance he knew he’d grown taller since the previous day.

EXHAUSTED -- My wife and I finished some exhausting housework, then took a stroll down Town Center Drive to find a place to eat -- neither one of us wanted to cook. As we strolled, my wife told me how she’d hit her limit, that she was mentally and physically worn out, that she wouldn’t be able walk back to the car after dinner, that she might not make it through dinner without passing out in her plate of food. Just before she could fall flat on her face, she saw that “pearlized leather” Coach bag in the store window and regained energy to run inside and gawk.
MANNERS, PLEASE -- After returning home from the store, my 6-year-old son asked if he had good manners. I still can’t figure out what he wants.

GOOD REASON -- There’s a perfectly good explanation for the garage band down the street. I’m told someone will make up the explanation later.

MAGNETIC -- While eating dinner at a restaurant, my 6-year-old son held his knife and fork together and said that the two were magnetic. My wife and I played along, not wanting to discourage the use of his imagination. And then he showed us that his knife and fork were, in fact, magnetic, dangling the fork from the magnetized knife.

-September 2009

My 6-Year-Old Wants E.T. to Come Home

2010-02-01T15:09:00.000-08:00

MY SON: Hey, Daddy, why doesn’t E.T. come back to Earth?

ME: Because E.T. is from a movie.

MY SON: But Santa Claus is from a movie, and he comes back to our house every Christmas.

ME: Well, E.T. can’t come back to Earth because . . . Remember in the movie when he gets really sick and he turns all white?

MY SON: Yeah, I remember.

ME: Well, that’s because our planet got him really sick and made him turn all white. And that’s why, when his buddies came back to Earth to pick him up, they just landed, popped the spaceship doors open, yelled for E.T. to get in quick, and then they tore up out of here before they, too, got really sick and turned all white.

MY SON: Do you think E.T. is having fun in space? Do you think he plays games out there?

ME: Of course he plays games out there.

MY SON: What kind of games?

ME: The regular stuff. Soccer. Tag. Bocce ball.

MY SON: I could easily win E.T. in tag. He’s so slow.

ME: Well, you have legs -- you can run fast. E.T. doesn’t have legs -- he can’t run fast. And so since E.T. and his buddies all hobble along slowly, the game is even, and so it’s a lot of fun.

MY SON: Do E.T. people have bikes?

ME: I don’t think so because, like I said, they don’t have legs. So it’d be hard to peddle.

MY SON: Hey, Daddy, why can’t E.T. just buy a helmet at Walmart or someplace like that so he can come back to Earth and not get sick? Remember you said we’d need helmets if we went to space? Why can’t E.T. just wear a helmet when he comes here?

ME: Maybe he’s afraid to go to Walmart. Or maybe he just hasn’t come back to Earth because spaceship tickets are more expensive these days.

MY SON: When will spaceship tickets not be more expensive these days?

ME: Not for a long time. But even if spaceship tickets weren’t so expensive, maybe E.T. doesn’t want to come here again.
Maybe he wants to go somewhere else. When we go on vacation, we don’t always go to the same place.

MY SON: We always go to the same Disneyland.

ME: OK, but we’ve only been to New York once. That’s because it’s far away, and it costs a lot of money to go far away. So if we’re going to spend a lot of money to go somewhere far away, we usually like to go to different places. So when E.T. goes to spend a lot of money to go somewhere far away, maybe he also likes to go to different places.

MY SON: So we’re never going to New York again?

ME: No, we may go to New York again.

MY SON: So then E.T. may come here again? Do you think we’ll get to see him when he comes here again?

ME: I think we’ll be asleep if he comes here again. He likes to visit in the middle of the night when everyone’s asleep -- like in the movie. Remember?

MY SON: The guys with the keys weren’t asleep.

ME: That’s because they were looking for E.T. Remember?

MY SON: Then why can’t we go looking for E.T., too?

ME: Well, E.T. is really sneaky. Those guys with the keys couldn’t even catch him?

MY SON: Yeah, I remember. But Elliot caught him because he had Reece’s Pieces candies. So can we go to the store and get Reece’s Pieces candies?

ME: They don’t make those candies anymore.

MY SON: But we saw them at the store last week. Remember?

ME: Yeah, I guess I do remember . . . Look, in the sky.

MY SON: Where?

ME: There.

MY SON: There?

ME: That light shooting across the sky.

MY SON: Huh?

ME: It’s E.T.’s spaceship flying away.

MY SON: No.

ME: Yeah.

MY SON: We missed him?

ME: Yeah.

MY SON: Oh no.

ME: Oh well.

MY SON: Oh no.

ME: OK . . . Now let’s do something else.

-September 2009

Wife Uses 'Bad Memory' for Her Benefit

2010-02-01T14:37:00.000-08:00

My wife says I forget things she tells me, but I don’t remember.

She often tells me these “things” when I’m working on something -- in deep concentration. Days later, when she accuses me of forgetting what “we discussed,” I tell her I most likely didn’t hear what she said because I was busy. She asks why, then, did I respond if I didn’t hear.

“Did I say ‘Uh huh’ or something generic like that?” I ask. “Because if I had any kind of response like that, then chances are I wasn’t really listening.”

My wife then tells me I didn’t say “Uh huh” or something generic like that, and she reenacts, word for word, beat by beat, how I responded to what she said.

None of the scenes she’s acted out have ever been accurate.

I’ve therefore come to the conclusion that my wife is playing with my mind.

Yesterday she busted me for forgetting to do something she supposedly asked me to do on Monday. I know for a fact she never asked me to do anything. And I told her so.

“I know for a fact you never asked me to do anything,” I said.

“Whose memory are you gonna trust?” she asked. “Mine or yours?”

I admit I don’t have “Rain Man” memory. But when I know something, I know it for sure. And I know I’m sure about this latest accusation -- my wife never asked me to do anything on Monday.

But I tried to recall the incident anyway. I racked my brain. I replayed in my head the start of the week in its entirety.

Nowhere could I see my wife approaching me and asking for anything.

It’s common knowledge: Wives are manipulative. I know my wife is using my “bad memory” for her personal gain. In reality, she forgot to ask me to do the thing she wanted me to do on Monday. But since she already accused me of forgetting, she couldn’t back down. So instead she took a stronger stance against my mental faculties to justify her actions.

Mind thy head, the sign says above the low overhang. I always do. And I take great care of the contents within my head. Example: When my wife and I got married, I stored the date in my memory so I wouldn’t forget. And when I got home, I put the date in the calendar on my computer with a reminder that’d pop up onscreen and on my cell phone every year, a week before the day, so I’d remember to buy a gift and say, “Happy anniversary, babe.”

If someone asks me to do something, I always remember to write it down on a Post-It note. If I don’t get to the requested task, it’s not because I forgot, but rather because I didn’t have the time to read the more than 800 notes I have posted around my house, in my car and on my person.

I’m the proud owner of many famous movie quotes, which I store neatly -- in alphabetical order -- in my memory. Name a movie, and I can probably recite at least a few lines from it. Do I get credit for this unbelievably incredible skill? Of course not. My wife seems to think that movie quotes are trivial and space wasters, and that it’s because I have such an overflow of movie quotes in my brain that I don’t have room to store what she says.

I wondered if other husbands ever had to deal with this issue of their memories during their marriage tenures.

My mother-in-law said her husband wouldn’t remember.

My mom said my step-dad forgets everything.

I certainly wouldn’t forget if my wife abused my mind. My memory is much better than that.

But I’ll be darned if I can bring to mind yesterday’s conversation regarding the thing I allegedly forgot to do. I just know that whatever it was my wife thinks she told me, I didn’t forget it.

Now where was I?

-September 2009

Family News in Brief -- August ’09

2009-09-03T22:29:00.000-07:00

GENERIC SCHOOL SUPPLIES FOUND IN KID'S BAG
On Sun., Aug. 2 at the local Target store, I allegedly purchased generic glue sticks and generic scissors for my 6-year-old son instead of the name brands his school insisted my wife and I buy for him by the time first grade started on Aug. 12. The list of school supplies that officials sent home clearly advised against generic brands. “I didn’t buy anything generic,” I said on the first day of school when I was brought into the principal’s office to explain the generic products found in my boy’s backpack. “I do request that someone come forward to give me legal assistance.” School officials eventually found the name brand supplies buried in my boy’s bag. Investigators suspect my son put his generic home supplies in his backpack in addition to the name brand supplies my wife and I bought and packed for him. I was released shortly after my detainment.

FIRST GRADE CLASSROOM OFFERS BIG THRILLS
There will be plenty of thrills in my 6-year-old son’s first grade class this year, with bulletin boards unlike those in kindergarten, a newly designed alphabet on the wall, a supply holder for each kid’s desk and even a new teacher. My son, who helped his mom (a teacher) set up her classroom during summer break, understands the work that goes into building a successful learning area, and he decided to say something to his teacher about her class. “The classroom looked really nice and I didn’t want to hold in the words and just think about it, so I told my teacher,” he said. “And then she said, ‘Thank you, kind sir.’” My son then learned that his first grade classroom was located next to the “big kids” playground, where he found out he’d get to play this year. He asked his teacher if learning could take place out there with the fresh air instead of inside her stuffy classroom.

SOCCER PRACTICE OFF TO ROLLING STOP
Every soccer team’s priority in preseason is to finish with the understanding that you can’t kick the ball into the wrong goal. Earlier this month, my 6-year-old son and his fellow teammates hit the soccer field running in various directions. “A cat ran onto the field, and we all chased it and tried to pet it,” my son said following his first day of practice. According to my boy’s coach, putting your hands on any animal that meanders onto the field is worse than putting your hands on the soccer ball during play. Once the cat left the field, team members were asked to come up with team names. Suggestions flew at the coach from all directions until my son blurted out the name The Soccers, which led to a moment of confusion and silence, followed by blatant disregard and a storm of good ideas. When practice ended, my son showed his mom how sweaty he’d become, wiping his head all over her arm.

‘BEING COOL' SACRIFICED IN HEROIC DISPLAY OF GOOD CHOICE MAKING
Yesterday, my 6-year-old son risked his social standing at school when he committed an act of good choice making in the name of Kelso’s Choices, a group of actions to choose from when faced with small problems on the playground. Bystanders said that Kelso, a fictitious do-gooder frog, would’ve been proud. “An older kid called the Picarella kid an idiot, and Picarella just ignored the older kid,” said second-grader Billy. “That’s the first choice on the Kelso’s Choices chart. Then, when the older kid kept picking on him, the Picarella kid tried talking it out, which is another Kelso’s Choice. That’s when Picarella tattled.” My son has yet to comment on the matter, but later in the day, his classmates said he upheld his “cool” social standing when he chased a frog, not unlike Kelso, threatening to turn it into a science project in the name of good fun.

-August 2009

Boy Talks All the Time

2009-09-03T22:09:00.001-07:00

PICARELLA HOUSEHOLD -- My son started talking when he was about 2 years old, and now, at age 6, he continues to talk and talk and talk -- even in his sleep -- because, he said, God made him that way.

Sources suggest the trait comes from the parents.

“He gets it from me,” my wife said in a statement yesterday. “I talked a lot as a kid.”

According to my mom, however, any kind of parent can have any kind of kid. She knows, she said, because I was a quiet kid and my younger brother never shut up.

“I’m not worried about where he gets it so much as I’m worried it’s gonna hurt him in the future,” I told bystanders moments after a lengthy game of Shhhhh with my son on his first day of school last week. “Is my son gonna be the kid that other kids constantly pick on? Will he be unable to focus on his studies when he gets to college? Will he have a hard time getting a job later on in life because the interviewer never gets a chance to ask the first question because my son is too busy talking about how he’s doing, what he did earlier that day, how long it took him to get to the interview, what happened in the parking lot, the details of the elevator ride up to the interview and what it was like waiting in the reception area for the interview?”

Past classmates reported that my son’s talking never bothered them before. According to many of them, my kid is actually entertaining.

“He talks a lot, but at least he doesn’t have bad breath,” said former kindergartener Joey, who spent considerable time with my boy on the school playground last year. “He used to talk a lot about eating vegetables so he could grow faster and be able to ride ‘The Mummy’ at Universal Studios. He also talked a lot about polishing his toy car and making it really shiny like a mirror. And then he talked a lot about planet Mars and how you have to wear a helmet there -- but not a bike helmet.”

That was kindergarten, though. My boy’s now a first-grader, and according to reports, kids must learn not to speak for the sole sake of making noise by the first grade or they run the risk of falling behind in school.

My wife’s friend said her younger brother read about an incident online where a woman brought her daughter to the doctor for a chronic cough and found out, through a random conversation, that talkative children -- not hers -- struggle in school because they’re talking and not listening, and thus not learning.

“When hearing this,” said my wife’s friend, who wishes to remain anonymous, “my brother told his little boy that talking -- at home and in the classroom -- would be off limits during the really important school years.”

After careful deliberation, my wife and I decided to seek out other advice.

“Should we discourage his need to talk all the time?” my wife asked area parents on the first day of school last week. “Should we just politely ask others to ignore his noise? Or should we talk our kid’s ear off and see how he likes it?”

Nobody had an answer. But my wife and I noticed our boy’s silence as we discussed the matter.

“We actually caught him not talking for a change,” my wife said. “We think it was because he was nervous on the first day of school, and that he was just afraid to talk. So my husband and I took him aside and asked him how he felt about being quiet. He said he liked it. We asked him to keep it up.”

Sources announced yesterday that, for the past two weeks, in the face of multiple opportunities for our kid to talk, he’s remained practically speechless.

It’s now believed that the kid is stonewalling everyone, his parents included.

According to reports, however, kids must learn to speak up by the first grade or they run the risk of falling behind in school.

-August 2009

Smugglin' Ain't Easy

2009-09-03T21:30:00.000-07:00

My 6-year-old son and I are in the car out in front of the house. I open a bag of chocolate chip cookies -- one of our favorite treats, second only to M&Ms. I let the sweet aroma fill the car.

ME: You want some of these delicious cookies?

MY SON: Yeah!

ME: Then you gotta help me sneak ‘em into the house without Mommy catching us. You help me do that, and you can have three whole cookies. How’s that sound?

MY SON: You gotta be kidding, right, Daddy? Whaddaya think I am -- a baggage handler? What’d I do for you on Halloween, when I handed over those Milky Way bars? What was that -- a game of Candyland or somethin’?

ME: No kid of mine is gonna talk to me like that. I don’t have to give you any cookies at all. I could’ve had Grandpa call Mommy on the phone to distract her while I snuck these cookies inside.

MY SON: So why didn’t you? And who are you calling a kid? I’m 6 years old. I’ll be 6-and-a-half in a few months.

ME: Oh, so you’re a big shot now, huh? You think you can make it in the big world all by yourself?

MY SON: You kidding, right?

ME: OK, big shot. You’re so big. There’s a bag of M&Ms I’ve got stashed in my desk. Pure milk chocolate. I want you to sneak these cookies into the house all by yourself, and if you’re as big of a big shot as you say you are, get these cookies into my bottom desk drawer without Mommy catching you. You do that, and that bag of M&Ms in my desk is yours. Do you know how to handle Mommy?

MY SON: Sure. But it’s gonna cost you more than a bag of M&Ms and three cookies. Sneaking sweets into the house is no duck walk anymore. Mommy’s like the Navy. She’s got EC 2s with satellite tracking. She sees everything. And that’s ‘cause she’s serious about eating healthy. So I want the M&Ms and I also want half the cookies in that bag -- not just three.

ME: You’ve got guts making demands like that.

MY SON: In this world, Daddy, you gotta have guts. When you got guts, you get the power. And when you got the power, you get the sweets. Me? I just want what’s coming to me.

ME: And what’s coming to you, son?

MY SON: The world, Daddy, and all the cookies and candy in it.

I close the bag of cookies and drop it into my son’s lap. I step out of the car.

ME: Meet me in your room in 10 minutes. That’s when you’ll get your M&Ms and your cookies. But if Mommy catches you, you won’t see another treat ‘til high school.

MY SON: I’m scared.

I leave the kid in the car and wander into the house. He isn’t far behind with the cookies.

MY WIFE: Where’s our son?

ME: I dunno.

The kid enters, cookies in his hands.

MY WIFE: Where’d you get those cookies?

I wonder what the kid is up to, cookies out in the open. His idea of smuggling is different than mine.

MY SON: Daddy gave me the cookies.

I can’t figure the kid’s strategy, but he’s got me fooled for sure.

MY SON: Daddy wanted me to sneak these into the house. He also has a big bag of M&Ms in his desk.

And this is the nightmare I have, just before I decide not to buy cookies at the store. I pick up a gallon of milk and a book of stamps -- the only items I’m supposed to get -- and I head home.

-August 2009

Love Hurts

2009-09-03T21:15:00.000-07:00

Life was good.

And then my wife wanted to rearrange the living room furniture.

“We can’t rearrange anything in this place,” I told my wife. “It’s too small in here to do anything.”

You see, we have one of those step-saver homes -- the ones newlyweds were gobbling up a few years ago when the housing market was booming. (A step-saver home, for those not familiar, is a home that allows you to save steps due to its extreme compactness -- an advantage, according to our real estate agent.) So, due to the size of our house and the size of our furniture, there was really only one way to arrange everything.

My wife wasn’t happy with my response. She wanted to see other layouts, even though I was certain nothing else would work. The bigger problem: I’d be the one doing the rearranging. I’d be the one wasting my time. I’d be the one depleting my energy. I’d be the one injuring myself throughout the project.

It was a done deal. I wasn’t going to rearrange anything. My wife was sad, but I wouldn’t have to suffer royally. Life went on.

And then my 6-year-old son said, “If you wanna make a girl happy, Daddy, you have to move furniture.” Apparently, in the third “Ice Age” movie, which my boy recently saw during summer school, an animated squirrel moves a bunch of rocks (the squirrel’s furniture) to impress a female squirrel. Now, thanks to my son and “Ice Age 3,” I never make my wife happy because “I never move furniture for her.”

If my wife thought I was that much of a sucker to fall for a line like that, she was fairly accurate in her assessment of me.

“OK, where do you want everything?”

She pointed at a piece of furniture, and I moved that piece to where she pointed next. Right away I discovered how out of shape I was, huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf with emphysema, even though I was only moving a table lamp.

When I got to the small sofa, the real pain came. I pulled something major in my back. Making matters worse, I was right -- the new furniture layout didn’t work at all. I didn’t need this.

“It’s too crowded in the corner,” I said. My wife was bummed, but she agreed. I smiled, pleased that I was right. Then my wife pointed again, and in an instant, as if I were a remote-controlled car that my wife operated, I was moving the desired piece of furniture to the desired new place in the room.

During the process, I smashed my finger flat between the couch and a wall, giving new meaning to the phrase, “Nothing lasts forever,” only to discover that the latest arrangement was worse than the previous arrangement. I would have to move the furniture again. I really didn’t need this.

While making the next move, injuring myself again, I decided that I’d have to like the furniture layout no matter what it looked like -- I didn’t want to move everything again.

As I predicted, the new arrangement was dreadful, unlivable. Our living room made coach class on today’s airlines look inviting and spacious.

“Wow, it looks great, very roomy,” I said. Then I collapsed onto the sofa for a breather.

My wife wasn’t happy with the room. I knew right away she wanted me to move the furniture again. I just didn’t need this.

“You were right,” my wife said. “We can’t rearrange anything in this place. It’s too small in here to do anything.”

So I moved everything back to the way I originally had it. When I was finished, I felt like I had altitude sickness from all the movement I’m not used to. I most definitely didn’t need this.

While on the floor catching my breath, I noticed my wife staring at me. It took me a few minutes to see she was smiling. She was happy.

And the moral: If you wanna make a girl happy, move furniture for her.

-August 2009

Ill Behavior

2009-09-03T20:54:00.000-07:00

My 5-year-old son woke up feeling a bit warm. Mommy checked his temperature. It was 104. So to the doctor we went.

“Yup,” the doctor said, “he’s sick.” I knew this. My wife knew this. “No playing, get some rest, stay home.”

My wife added, “That means you have to stay in bed.”

The kid looked at Mommy, looked at the doctor. “I don’t need rest,” he said. “I’m not sick. In fact, I feel great. Look, I’m not sniffling. Look at me play.” He jumped up and down in the doctor’s office, took a few laps around the exam chair, all the while dragging himself as if pulling dead weight three times his own.

At home, we gave our boy some medicine and then sent him to his room to rest.

“It’s not fair,” he said as he plopped onto his bed and threw the covers over his body, still wearing his shoes. “Why do I have to rest? The doctor is wrong. He’s to blame for this. I want a second opinion.”

After a 10-minute nap, our son got up to use the bathroom. We asked how he was feeling. He said he felt better than perfect. We checked his temperature and it was at least back to normal.

“Well,” my wife said, “you still need rest.”

“But, Mom,” the boy insisted, “I feel fine. What good is rest gonna do me? If you’ll just let me show you, you’ll see I’m not sick. How about we go to the store? Don’t we need groceries? I know we need asparagus. I’ll push the cart.”

My wife told him to stop negotiating and return to his bed.

“This is ship,” the kid said. Only my wife and I believe he said the curse word that sounds very similar to “ship.”

“Did you just say a swear word?” we asked him.

The kid went into a panic. He knew he’d be in big trouble if he used a swear word. He got two days hard time for saying the “F” word -- fart.

“I don’t swear,” he said, trying to be as smooth as possible, “I swow.” Yup, he said swow, which is, I guess, his made-up verb for “wow.”

“Did you get a new hairdo, Mommy?” the boy asked. “It’s really beautiful. And I love your shirt, Daddy. You look tough.”

I thanked him for the compliment and patted him on the head.

My wife wasn’t buying the boy’s charm, and the kid knew it.

“OK,” he said with his head in his lap. “I did wrong. I know that now, and I’m a new man. But I’ll go take a timeout anyway. I’ll think about what I did.” He plodded back to his room, shut the door behind him and took a timeout.

When my wife and I peeked in on him, he was slumped on the bed, quiet, thinking. He caught us looking in.

“Why bother checking on me?” he groaned. “What’s the point? Why should I even go on living?”

By this time, the kid was looking really ill again. His fever came back. He was coughing nonstop. Sniffling. His eyes sagged to match his sagging mouth, sagging posture. My wife and I had planned a big birthday bowling party for the following day, but with our son sick, we’d have to cancel it.

“We’re gonna have to cancel your party,” we said.

The boy tried to refute this, but found he couldn’t fight it any longer.

“I knew it’d come to this,” he finally said. “And I know there’s nothing I can do about it, even though I’m not really sick. But it’s OK, Mom and Dad. I’ve lived a good life. Now I’m ready for the end, even if I’m not really sick. Go ahead, finish me off.”

He fell asleep and woke up the next morning feeling better -- for real. We didn’t have to cancel his party after all. And we all had a great time.

When we got home, the kid crashed, exhausted.

“What’s wrong?” we asked. “Didn’t you like your party? Didn’t you like your gifts? Don’t you wanna play with all the stuff you got today?”

He looked at my wife, looked at me. Then he went to his room, plopped onto his bed and threw the covers over his body, still wearing his shoes. “I can’t play anything,” he said. “I need rest. I’m really sick.” And then he passed out.

-August 2009

Family News in Brief -- July ’09

2009-09-03T20:19:00.000-07:00

PICNIC ANTS TERRIFY SON
A picnic with my family on the Fourth of July turned into a feast for a family of ants. My 5-year-old son said he was badly injured. “Those ants ate my feet and my legs and my belly and my hair,” he said. “And my ears and my back and pretty much everything else.” The kid was rushed to the bathroom where Mommy opened up the medicine cabinet and administered operation: Band-Aid resuscitation. “There were no physical injuries,” Mommy said, “other than he just felt hurt without the Band-Aids.” Meanwhile, the ants crawled over nearly every inch of the picnic and were moving in on the Boston cream pie. I hosed the army of ants off the plastic-ware and safely moved our stuff back into the house, where the 5-year-old was threatening never to leave his ant-free room again. “The only time ants are dangerous,” I told my son in my here-I-come-to-save-the-day way, “is when they’re exposed to radioactive rays and they grow to the size of a building and eat people for lunch.” Apparently, I made matters worse.

ACUPUNCTURIST FINDS PROBLEM
My wife, who’s grappled with severe anxiety for many years, heard that acupuncture is a good stress reliever, and so she decided earlier this month, while on vacation, to give the Chinese medicine a shot. She said she learned a great deal about her body during her one-hour visit. “My stress, evidently, is related to liver issues and digestion issues,” she reported when she got back home. “Wow,” I said, “the doctor found that out awfully quick?” My wife had seen several doctors in the past and underwent rigorous examination, including blood tests, heart tests and extensive therapy. No doctor or specialist could find a problem or a solution to her ailment. “So what did this acupuncturist do to figure this out?” I asked. “He looked at my tongue,” she said.

WE'RE EATING CEREAL THREE TIMES A DAY
Cereal box contests reportedly pay off, and last month my family began a steady diet of cereal for breakfast, lunch and dinner, playing all the contests on the boxes so that maybe we could win our summer vacation. My wife and I were skeptical about the contests at first. “One day,” I told sources, “while eating a bowl of Wheaties, staring at the contest on the box, I asked my wife, ‘Does anyone really win these contests?’ My wife said she didn’t know anyone who’d ever won anything from a cereal box contest. I didn’t know anyone either. So, throughout the month of July, we decided to find out for sure.” My wife and I surveyed family and friends to see if they or anyone they knew had ever won anything from a cereal box contest. We also surveyed strangers, took out ads in various newspapers calling for past winners, and we even contacted some cereal companies. “Aside from some specifics about past winners that the cereal companies provided us,” I said, “we really had no solid proof. We needed a more credible source.” So I checked the Internet. After reviewing various Twitter posts, Facebook pages and random blogs, I can now say for certain, cereal box contests are for real.

HEALTHY MEALS HELP YOU GROW
About eight months ago, my 5-year-old son took up healthy eating. My wife and I had told him that if he ate healthy, he’d grow up big and strong. “He ate broccoli, peas, green beans no problem,” my wife said in a recent statement. “And he rarely drank soda or ate too many sweets -- he was determined to grow up big and strong.” Yesterday, my wife and I were introduced to a friend’s newborn baby, and we couldn’t help but reminisce. “Remember when ours was that small?” my wife asked me. “Yeah,” I responded. “I wish he wouldn’t grow.” So our son announced, “If you don’t want me to grow anymore, then just give me sweets.” And that was the end of his healthy eating.

-July 2009

I Must Set the Record Straight

2009-09-03T07:55:00.000-07:00

For the record: My wife gets to watch much more TV than I do. And I’m fine with that because there’s not much on TV I really need to see. I like to go to the movies. I’m a movie-going kind of guy.

I saw three movies in the theater last year. I guess I’m too busy giving my wife and 5-year-old son the care they deserve.

My family subscribes to Netflix, where you can rent DVDs online and have them mailed to your house the next day. We rent two DVDs at a time -- one for me/my son, and one for my wife.

For the record: When I receive a movie in the mail, I watch it that night when everyone in the house is asleep, or, if it’s a movie for my son, I watch it with him when Mommy is out with friends. I mail the disk back the next day.

My wife’s DVDs sit on top of our TV for months at a time before she watches them. I just can’t see the harm in renting two movies for myself when I have the chance. My wife thinks I’m unfair.

She, unlike me, watches her shows during the prime times of the day. And what does she watch? Oprah. Reality TV. Entertainment news. I’m sorry, but I’d rather take a fastball to the groin. And I think my son feels the same way.

Thursday night, I asked my wife to get off the phone with her best friend so she and I could finish the conversation we’d started several hours previous. We couldn’t agree on which TV programs to delete off our DVR so we could have the space to record a cartoon our boy really wanted to see. We had six hours before dawn, when his program was to begin, so we needed to make a decision before going to bed.

I suggested my wife watch a few of her shows that night -- like I unselfishly do -- so she could then delete them and have space for our kid’s program.

“I don’t think so,” she said without any thought. “Let’s just delete your movies and be done with it.”

“But I’d really like to keep my movies because, unfortunately, I can’t tape them -- our VCR doesn’t record anymore. Not only that, but none of the movies I have on the DVR are available for purchase on video, nor will they ever be on TV again.”

For the record: My wife leads me 10 to 1 in magazine subscriptions. I think it’s clear who makes the compromises in the family.

“Sweetie,” I asked my wife lovingly when she abandoned the conversation to phone a friend, “can you please come back and finish arguing with me?”

She ignored me.

“He doesn’t even let me watch my shows when I’m watching them,” she said as if I weren’t there. “He talks the entire time.”

“I’m usually trying to quiet down our son so he doesn’t disturb you,” I said. “I apologize.”

“He’s just a TV snob,” she said to her friend. “He just wants to watch his stupid film noir.”

For the record: The quotes above were taken directly from Thursday night’s transcripts of our debate. Notice the name-calling on my wife’s part and her hostility toward the terrific, ground-moving film noir movies I like to watch? I, on the other hand, would never give my wife an unfavorable name. And, before this article, I never once criticized the shows she watches.

My wife eventually went to bed that Thursday night. And my son eventually woke up the next morning to watch the cartoon that had aired earlier. I’d recorded it on the DVR.

For the record: I had nothing to do with the mysterious loss of shows my wife had previously saved, allowing space to record our son’s cartoon.

Even if I was responsible, I wouldn’t feel at all guilty because of all the unfairness I’m usually dealt -- as described in detail above.

Note to reader: Please disregard any retractions from my wife. She’ll likely say my facts in this story are incorrect. And that’s a lie.

-July 2009

No Playing, You Might Get Hurt

2009-09-02T17:02:00.000-07:00

Parents, be advised: playgrounds are dangerous.

I’m the father of a 5-year-old boy who loves playing at the playground. But my wife and I had to look for alternative ways to have fun because a local kid allegedly fell off the monkey bars at a nearby park and broke his arm. Now the playground is under public scrutiny and, we’re told, off limits.

“Can we go to a different park?” my son begged.

“I don’t think so,” I said, wanting to follow the rules. “Since all playground equipment is pretty much the same, I have to assume that all parks with playgrounds are dangerous.”

The said park is said to have been around for nearly 20 years. In that time, according to neighbors, nobody has been seriously injured. But now we know -- the place is really a death trap.

“We don’t need a playground to have fun,” I told my kid. “We’ll make our own fun.” We played bocce ball, rode bikes, tossed a baseball back and forth . . . my boy was having fun, and then he asked how much longer until we could have some real fun.

“Sorry, son,” I said, “but we just can’t play at the park until people say it’s safe.”

I asked some super parents what they were doing while authorities looked into the playground situation. They said they hadn’t bothered bringing their kids to the park in years.

“We stick the kids in front of the TV or have them play video games,” one parent told me. “It’s more educational.”

So my wife and I looked into it. We got one of those Leap Frog learning game units. Our boy became an instant fan. And the games were, indeed, educational.

“Look,” I said to my wife. “He’s having fun. And learning at the same time!” We gave each other a high-five.

Then we noticed something strange in our home. My wife and I found it difficult to walk down the halls without incurring an injury, and we couldn’t hear each other speaking unless we screamed. This was because our kid was more hyper than ever, with more bounce in his step than a Titleist golf ball when bounced off the garage floor at 70 miles an hour, and with a noise level that compared to the demolition of a Las Vegas casino.

“I bet it’s the game unit!” my wife yelled to me one afternoon in the kitchen.

We looked online to see if that was the case. Sure enough, we learned that, according to experts, video games are major sources behind juvenile violence. Luckily, our kid hadn’t joined any vicious gangs or killed anyone -- yet.

“What’re we gonna do now?” my son asked. “We can’t play at the park or on anything that’s taller than a park bench. And now I can’t play video games.”

We set up the model train set, drove toy cars, played board games. It was a lot of fun.

“Now I know why they call them ‘bored’ games,” my son said. Evidently, my wife and I were the only ones having the fun. Our kid was antsy.

A neighbor told us that maybe our son had ADHD. My wife and I couldn’t believe he could get ADHD overnight. We didn’t believe it for one second.

It took us less than five minutes to get to the pediatrician’s office. And then it happened. While crossing the parking lot to the doctor’s office, I stepped over a curb the wrong way and twisted my ankle.

“Yeow!” I yelled. “Stupid curb! That’s dangerous.”

“The curb’s not dangerous,” my wife said. “You weren’t looking where you were going.”

She was right. Then it occurred to me that maybe the park wasn’t dangerous either. It also occurred to me that my son only became hyper after the playgrounds became off-limits.

“I bet he’s hyper because we’re keeping him cooped up,” I said to my wife as I nursed my ankle in the parking lot. “He just wants to run around and play. That’s what kids do.”

We had a serious dilemma. We had a kid who wanted to let loose on some playground equipment, and we had authorities telling us that playgrounds were too dangerous.

So my wife and I made a decision. We told our kid, “Life’s dangerous, be careful.” And we enjoyed playtime at the park -- right after the doctor wrapped my ankle.

-July 2009

It’s Swim-dependence Day!

2009-09-02T16:24:00.000-07:00

If the sun’s shining, my 5-year-old boy wants to swim.

“Why can’t we go to the pool?” he sulks when his mom and I tell him it’s too cold for swimming. The wind picks up and 50 degrees suddenly feels like 10 degrees. But the sun is shining. “Look,” the kid pleads, “the sun’s out. See how burning and hot that thing looks?”

Yup, our kid loves to swim.

It’s the Fourth of July, and the boy asks to spend the entire day at our community pool. My wife and I think it’s a fun, convenient, affordable idea.

“We’ll avoid all that holiday traffic,” I say to my wife.

“We won’t have to pay high gas prices to drive anywhere,” she adds.

“So can we go?” asks the kid.

“Maybe we can even eat lunch at the pool,” I offer. “I can barbecue hamburgers on the grill they have there.”

“Maybe we can even eat dinner there,” suggests my wife. “Steak or chicken maybe.”

“Yeah,” the kid says, jumping up and down in excitement. “So can we go?”

“I bet we can even get a view of the fireworks from the pool,” I say.

“That’ll save us on entry fees anywhere else,” my wife says.

“So we can go,” the kid says, still jumping up and down.

“Can we do breakfast there?” asks my wife.

“I don’t think you can barbecue eggs or pancakes,” I say. “But right after we eat breakfast at home, we can head over.”

“Yay!” yells the kid. “We’re going to the pool all . . . day . . . long!”

“Then again,” my wife says, “if he’s in the water too long, he’ll shrivel up like a prune.”

“And,” I add, “if he’s in the water too late, his lips will turn blue like a ghost.”

“Ahhh, man,” the kid says with a frown. “So does that mean we can’t go?”

“I really don’t wanna be in the sun too long,” my wife says to me. “I’ll burn. Even with sunscreen.”

“And I really don’t wanna be in the water too long,” I say, “I’ll get sea sick. Even with Dramamine.”

“But I wanna go,” the kid says. “Can we please go?”

“If he’s in the water too long,” my wife says, “his eyes will turn red.”

“Well,” I say, “if I’m fetching his sinkable toys at the bottom of the pool too long, my eyes will turn red.”

“So we’re not going to the pool,” the kid says. “Just admit it.”

“I bet the pool’s gonna be really crowded anyway,” my wife says. “It’s the Fourth of July.”

“How about we go to the beach?” I suggest.

“Yeah, the beach,” says the kid, jumping up and down again. “I can swim at the beach.”

“I bet the beach will be really crowded, too,” my wife says. “It’s the 4th of July.”

“Yeah, and the beach is messy,” I say. “Sand in the car, sand in the house, sand in the bath . . . ”

“And there’s the whole getting burnt, getting sea sick, getting red eyes, shriveling up and lips turning blue,” says my wife.

“ . . . sand in the bed, sand in the ears, sand in the clothes, in the washer, in the dryer.”

“But why can’t we just go to the pool, Mommy and Daddy?” the kid asks, the frown back on his face. “Look at my skin,” he pleads. “See how burning and hot it looks?”

My wife and I finally realize we’ve done a horrible thing to our son. We built up his hopes and dreams of swimming, and we were about to let him down by telling him we couldn’t go.

“OK,” I say. “We’ll go to the pool.”

“Yay!” the kid yells.

We get to the pool, and, of all days, it’s closed for maintenance.

Our son isn’t nuts about swimming in the bathtub all day long.

-July 2009

Family News in Brief -- June ’09

2009-09-02T15:24:00.000-07:00

SON FALLS DOWN SLIDE, HURTS TEETH
Earlier this month, my 5-year-old son was racing a friend down the slide at a local playground when he stumbled over the ledge and took a head dive down the sloping chute, injuring his two front teeth and his upper lip. My boy took the necessary precautions the following day at school. “I told all my friends not to squeeze my teeth because they hurt,” he said. Apparently our schools are filled with renegade kids who are squeezing each other’s teeth. Local law enforcers weren’t available to comment on the teeth-squeezing epidemic in the area.

PROBLEMS CALLED OUT
Two weeks ago, I decided to speak my mind about some major problems we citizens are exposed to every day. I first pointed my rampage at various restaurant chain managers. “There are a few hamburger joints that expect you to dip your French fries into tiny ketchup cups the size of soda caps,” I said in a statement yesterday. “There are also a few taco joints that give you a similar cup to fill with salsa for chip dipping. You can’t even fit enough fry or chip into these cups to get a taste of the dip. Nobody’s saving resources by using tiny cups. It just forces customers to use more cups and make more mess.” Also on my problem hit list were those water-saver flushers. “If I blew my nose and dropped more than one tissue into the bowl with these water-saver flushers, I’d end up plugging up the toilet,” I told a local plumber offering me one of the units. “Before you know it, I have to flush the toilet again and again to get the paper down, and I end up using more water than if I had a flusher with the power to suck up two oak trees at the same time.” Among many other problems I brought up this month, I surveyed several people about problematic elevator behavior. “Why is it that when you’re in an elevator, you must stop talking?” I asked various elevator riders. “On many occasions, I’ve been in mid-conversation before getting into an elevator, and I’ve had to stop talking because of this unspoken elevator code. It’s very inconvenient.” Here’s an unrelated but similar problem: Why is it OK to stare a stranger’s baby in the face and say, “How cute,” but it’s not OK to do the same to the stranger without getting slapped with a lawsuit or an open hand? These and other grievances are not being addressed at all. According to numerous reports, people are sick and tired of complainers.

KID DOESN'T NEED BATH
Late afternoon on Sat., June 13 in the Sacramento home belonging to my parents, my 5-year-old son announced that he didn’t need a bath, even though he’d spent the better part of the day playing in the sand box at a nearby park. Sweltering weather conditions gave my wife reason to believe our kid got dirtier and sweatier than usual while playing, and that he was more in need of a bath than ever. “You’re all sweaty,” my wife said to the boy when he put up a fight. “No,” he snapped, “I sweated when we were at the park. I’m not sweaty now.” My wife replied, “You deserved a reward for good behavior when we were at the park. You don’t deserve anything but a timeout now.” And while the water in the tub turned dirty brown and sandy when our child got in, he didn’t really need a bath.

A FAMILY MAN REFLECTS ON FATHER'S DAY
Father’s Day is a great day to sit in your favorite chair wearing your favorite pajamas and reflect. I did plenty of reflecting this year with a close friend who plans to get married and start a family very soon. “Some of the years go by really fast,” I warned my friend. He nodded his head as if he’d heard this before, and as if he believed it. “But some of the afternoons last an eternity.” My friend nodded his head and decided not to talk to me about marriage and kids anymore.

-June 2009

Our 5-Year-Old Son Is Bald

2009-09-02T14:46:00.000-07:00

“Your kid has no hair.”

“Looks like someone got his ears raised.”

“That’s a great haircut. It really is. It’s a great haircut for the Army. When are you signing him up?”

“Do you like your hair like that, sweetheart?”

“Why did you do that to the kid’s hair? You should’ve kept it long like he had it last year.”

“I hated his hair when it was long.”

“Look how big he is. He’s not a baby anymore. He’s so grown up. What the heck did you do to his hair?”

“At least it’s not blocking his eyes anymore.”

“Our son really wants to cut his hair like that. But we just don’t like it that short. That kind of cut is not for us. But it’s cool for you guys.”

“Why’d you do that to the kid’s head? What’s the matter with you?”

“We cut our son’s hair like that last year. He loved it. Did your son have lice, too?”

“Someone got into a fight with the lawnmower.”

“Did you try to cut your own hair, little guy?”

“Did your parents try to cut your hair or something?”

“I hope you didn’t pay for that haircut.”

“That cut looks cute on him.”

“You’re more gutsy than I am.”

“What do his friends think of his new haircut?”

“Oh my God! Where’s your hair? Holy mackerel!”

“Hair went bye-bye. All gone. Hee hee.”

“It looks great. It really does. It’s short. But it looks great. I liked his hair before. But I like his hair now, too. It’s pretty short though. But it looks great. It really does. I wouldn’t lie to you. It looks great.”

“That haircut is terrible. Why’d you do that? Why didn’t you leave it the way you had it? That looks terrible on him. It really does. I wouldn’t lie to you. It looks terrible.”

“Look, it’s Mr. Clean.”

“Well, at least it’s a low-maintenance haircut.”

“How much maintenance was the boy’s hair before?”

“You like that hair, kid? You think it looks cool? Your friends like it? How ‘bout Mom and Dad? Get used to it. You’re gonna have it for a long time.”

“I bet that head’s gonna get real cold when it’s cold outside.”

“That’s the perfect haircut for the hot weather coming this summer.”

Previously, my wife and I took our son to the barbershop to get him a haircut. The barber asked what blade to use on the kid’s head. The barber couldn’t remember. My wife couldn’t remember.

I remembered what blade we usually use. I have an excellent memory. So I said, “He gets the No. 2 blade.”

Both the barber and my wife said they felt the No. 2 blade would cut his hair too short.

“No,” I said, “I’m 100 percent certain that we used a No. 2 blade last time.”

So off went the hair. My wife gasped.

“Oh my God,” she said, “it’s too short. What are we gonna do?”

“It’s only hair,” I said. “It’ll grow back. Go ahead,” I said to the barber, “continue. Nobody’ll even notice the difference.”

-June 2009

Losers Are Winners

2009-09-02T11:00:00.000-07:00

My 5-year-old son recently asked if he could be a loser.

Let me back up a bit.

About a month ago, my wife decided to walk in a community run. She was very excited to participate -- as long as she could drag me along.

“It’s only three miles,” my wife pleaded. “It’s good exercise, it’s for a good cause, it’s shorter than some of our weekend walks . . . It’s not a pyramid scheme.”

She didn’t need to sell the idea to me. We’re married -- I had no choice but to participate. So I figured, if I’m going to be stuck doing this run, then my son is going to have to do it, too.

I told the kid, “It’s good exercise, it’s for a good cause . . . It’s a good way to learn about hard work, which is something you must know now that you’re becoming a big boy.” I told him that if he walked the entire three miles with Mommy and Daddy, he’d earn a Slurpee at 7-Eleven.

“What’s a Slurpee?” my son asked me.

“What’s a Slurpee?” I repeated after projecting the mouthful of soda I’d planned on swallowing before I heard the kid’s absurd question. “Are you American?”

“Slurpees aren’t healthy,” my wife told the child. “That’s what they are.”

“Yummy,” he replied. “Can I get one?” My son’s only been on Earth five years and he already knows that the best things in life are bad for you.

We showed up at the starting line ready to go.

We were 20 minutes late.

We took to the trails anyway. As we walked, I explained to my son that good things like Slurpees come at a cost.

“You have to work hard for the things you want in life,” I said. “You have to be able to put up with pain. You have to fail. And when you fail, you have to keep trying and trying and trying.”

“What’s ‘fail’ mean?” my son asked.

“It means to lose,” I said.

“But I don’t wanna lose. I wanna win.”

“Well, you have to lose before you can win.”

“Ohhhhh,” my son said. “Then can I be a loser?”

My wife explained that winning or losing wasn’t the point of the run that day. She talked about the benefits of exercise.

“When your muscles hurt,” my wife told our son, “and your legs are sore and you’re really, really tired, then you know you’re getting a good workout. And working out is good for your health, and it helps you become strong like Superman.”

“Ohhhhh,” my son said. “Then I must be really stronger because I’m really, really sleepy right now.”

After walking two miles, my son experienced true exhaustion. And pain. His feet hurt. His legs hurt. His whole body hurt.

“This is the worst day of my entire life,” the boy said.

My wife and I were thrilled to hear that.

“That means you’re getting a good workout,” my wife said.

“That means you’re learning something really important,” I said. “You’re learning that life sucks. And it’s when life sucks that you become strong, and that’s when you earn what you’re fighting for -- in this case the Slurpee you really want.”

Even though my son thought we’d never finish the run, we eventually did. And then my wife and I took him to 7-Eleven to get him that Slurpee we’d promised.

“Can I get candy instead?” he asked when he saw the candy selection. I didn’t hear him -- I was busy getting him that Slurpee we’d promised.

“He wants candy instead,” my wife said when I plopped the Slurpee and a few bucks down on the counter.

“What?” I asked in disbelief. When reality finally sunk in, I pointed fingers.

“This is all your fault,” I said to my boy. “Had you not turned on me with this candy nonsense, I’d be sneaking and enjoying sips of this refreshing Slurpee behind Mommy’s back by now.”

“It’s not his fault,” my wife said.

“You’re right,” I said. “This is all your fault. Had I not made that stupid deal with you to eat healthier, I’d be enjoying this refreshing Slurpee right in front of you by now.”

My son broke the brief silence following my outburst with, “You’re learning that life sucks, Daddy. But you’re earning what you’re fighting for -- to get more healthy like you really want.”

-June 2009

White Men Can't Dance

2009-09-02T09:46:00.000-07:00

I’m in the sixth grade. It’s a birthday party. Someone put together a bad “80s music” mix tape that blasts through a HiFi stereo system. She comes to me with the sweetest smile, one that’s loaded down with innocence. She’s wearing that incredible dress she wore for her yearbook picture. Wow.

She begs me to dance -- only she doesn’t say a word. Her innocent smile says it all. She wants me to invite her to the dance floor.

Fat chance. As they say, “white men can’t dance,” and that’s certainly the case for me when it comes dancing to anything but slow songs.

I hate dancing. I don’t get it. Basketball: make the most baskets. Baseball: hit the ball. Boxing: knock the other guy down. Dancing: bounce, jump, wiggle . . . make a fool of yourself to impress a girl.

I come to the dance floor with what good dancers call the “white man’s overbite,” and I have no moves, except for left foot in, left foot out, right foot in, right foot out. It’s far from cool.

A slow song plays. That’s when I ask her to dance. I understand this kind of dancing. It’s intimate. It’s romantic. The two of us can talk without screaming at each other.

“I didn’t come here for the music,” I finally say in her ear. “I came here for you.”

It works. We step out back for some privacy, away from our friends, away from party chaperones. We share a glass of punch and I try to make my move toward steady dating. The wind rises and she shivers. Before I know it, we’re back inside the heated house, and all eyes are on me and my terrible dance moves again.

I have no technique. I have no rhythm. I have no business dancing. I must be a sight. I try to imitate better dancers. I might as well be imitating an Olympic ice skater’s routine -- The closest I’ve been to ice skates is six feet from the TV screen during the “Snoopy On Ice” advertisements.

My shirt soaks up the sweat on my back. The cotton sticks to my skin. Massive amounts of sixth grader cologne and perfume makes my head ache. My feet hurt. I’m tired. I still haven’t asked the girl out. The Beastie Boys sing that I gotta fight for my right to party. I’m fighting for my right not to get kicked out of the party.

All this grief because, two months prior, my sixth-grade teacher treated our class to square dance lessons in the cafeteria. We learned to promenade and step like thunder, do-si-do and swing right under. Square dancing was a lesson in culture, to be educational, healthy and fun. This was a horrible idea.

But had it not been for the square dancing, I never would’ve gotten so close to the girl dancing to my right. Had it not been for our closeness, she never would’ve invited me to the party. Had I not gone to the party, the two of us never would’ve “danced.” And had we not “danced,” I never would’ve asked her to go steady later that night -- I would’ve feared humiliation. I figured, since I already felt humiliated by my dance moves, things couldn’t get any worse. So I took a shot and asked her out. And it paid off.

That girl was my first steady girlfriend. And everything I gained from that relationship helped me make better choices toward a second relationship, and ditto toward the relationship after that, which led me toward the choosing of the woman I now call my wife.

I’m a 32-year-old man. It’s an engagement party for a friend. Someone put together a bad “80s music” playlist on their iPod that blasts through a 5.1 digital surround sound system. My wife comes to me with the sweetest smile, one that’s loaded down with innocence. She’s wearing that incredible dress she wore for her baby shower. Wow.

She begs me to dance -- she comes right out and asks, because married women don’t hold anything back.

I’ve been married almost 10 years. I’ve been a dad for six. My wife and I are officially domesticated.

So how is it that I still have to dance to impress a girl?

-June 2009

Memorial Daze

2009-09-01T16:24:00.000-07:00

I have warm memories of Memorial Day weekends past.

During a recent phone call with my dad, he said he had some memories, too -- none of them warm.

He recalled the days when he and my mom were still married and hosted Memorial Day gatherings at our house. The two of them would rise before the sun did on the Saturday morning of Memorial Day weekend and prepare.

My mom spent the morning in the kitchen cooking massive amounts of food that never seemed to fit into our two refrigerators. She spent the afternoon up until the party cleaning what us kids thought was an already immaculate house. It wasn’t just a job, she’d say, but a family adventure.

My dad did the yard work, cleaned the pool and set up the dining arrangements out back. He was also in charge of commanding us kids to keep quiet. “I can’t concentrate on my work,” he’d scream as he mowed the lawn.

According to my dad, our guests never had to do anything but show up, eat and relax.

“But when we went to their houses,” he said, “we were expected to bring a salad or a dessert, a set of bowls of some sort or an ice cream maker or extra dishes or a small table for the kids -- we’d stuff the trunk of the car. I used to wonder why we were going to their houses when I was bringing half of my house and doing half the work.”

My dad said family gatherings became more and more of a nuisance as the years passed.

“I had an aunt who had to cut everything in half,” he said. “She’d cut the cannoli in half, cheeses in half, a piece of salami in half -- she’d even cut halves of sandwiches in half. She’d come over, we’d have everything prepared, and she’d go into the refrigerator, pull out the food and start cutting it in half.”

I don’t remember that. But I do recall games of Marco Polo in the pool with all my cousins, competing in our annual family badminton tournament, and playing pin the tail on my kid brother.

I also remember one particular Memorial Day barbeque at our house when one of my aunts spent the better part of the afternoon throwing coins into the pool for us kids to fetch. By nightfall, we’d filled three empty pickle jars with the money we gathered. My dad recalled that particular incident, but, as before, not as fondly as I did.

What I don’t remember, he said, was just before everyone went home, one of my uncles emptied our pickle jars of coins back into the pool. My dad spent the rest of the evening at my uncle’s throat. My uncle spent the rest of the evening fetching the coins out of the pool.

“You don’t remember how bad it was,” my dad told me. “You were too young.” He remembered the steaks that burned, the pool floatation devices that flattened and the screaming youngsters who didn’t want to go home.

What is past is prologue, unless we choose to remember the things we don’t want to repeat. My father said he “experienced” all those Memorial Day gatherings so that I might avoid them when it came time for me to serve my tour of suburban dad duty. I’ve always tried to make my dad proud.

This Saturday, my wife, 5-year-old son and I are hosting a barbeque for friends. We did everything so that our guests don’t have to do anything but show up, eat and relax. On Sunday, we’re going to a family barbecue at someone else’s house. My wife said we only have to make a salad and bring dessert. And we have to bring some dishes and our big fruit bowl. And toys for the kids. And charcoal for the barbecue. And our barbecue.

While I may have failed to learn from family men like my father, who fell during the Memorial Day gatherings of their time, I will never forget the real heroes who died for this country to protect our right to freely repeat Memorial Day weekend blunders.

-May 2009

They Must Match

2009-09-01T15:51:00.000-07:00

My wife and I lost our washing machine last month. It died. We were forced to get a new one promptly.

We bought the really expensive front loader. It’s worth the cost, though, because it saves us money in the long run. At least that’s what my wife and the salesman told me.

As much as I didn’t want to buy the more expensive washing machine, I’ve come to believe it’s actually worth it. This thing washes bigger loads, uses less water, and it’s quiet. Though it may have a problem. It doesn’t vibrate across the garage floor like our previous machine. But as long as it washes the clothes, I’m not going to complain.

“You were right,” I said to my wife. “I’m glad we bought the front loader.”

“Now we need a new dryer,” she said.

“WHAT?” I said. “We can’t even afford to make payments on the first payment toward the washing machine, and you want to buy a dryer?”

“But now we have a washing machine and a dryer that don’t match.”

“What do you mean they don’t match?” I asked.

“They’re different brands.”

“We’ll get over it,” I said.

“I’m not going to argue with you,” my wife replied. And she ended the conversation.

She continued the conversation when she was able to broadside me with the support of her friends.

“You wouldn’t use a Sony TV with a Panasonic DVD player, would you?” asked one of my wife’s friends.

“As a matter of fact, I would,” said I.

“But the picture is better if the machines are compatible,” said another friend. “They must match.”

“No,” I said, “what makes the picture better, and basically possible, is the cable you use between the DVD player and the TV, which allows the two machines to be compatible -- no matter what the brand.” I didn’t budge.

Initially, I was winning the war against worthless spending. However, I was losing the war against sleeping on the couch. So when I got my wife alone, I attempted to make peace with her.

“Look,” I said, “when we can afford to buy a new dryer, then we’ll get one.”

“It’s not about the dryer anymore,” she said. “When you want something, we always get it. When I want something, you tell me we can’t afford it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “But what have I bought that we couldn’t afford? A night out at the movies is a lot different than a dryer. But listen. Let’s not fight. You’re right in saying that I often get what I want, even if it’s something as small and as cheap as a nice night out at the movies with my lovely wife, where we both benefit. The next time you want something, you got it.”

“It’s not like I’m asking to get the dryer now,” my wife said. “I’m just saying we should start saving for it.”

“You’re right again,” I said. “You’re totally right. Let’s start a dryer fund right now. In fact, I was going to ask if we could re-buy ‘The Godfather’ trilogy on Blu-ray. Instead, let’s wait to buy it. Better still, we’ll put the money I was gonna spend on the trilogy toward the dryer.”

“See, why do you need to re-buy ‘The Godfather’ on Blu-ray?” my wife asked. “You already have it on DVD.”

“Because,” I said in my defense. (Did I really need to explain why I needed the Blu-ray version of the greatest trilogy ever made?)

“Because why?” my wife asked. (I guess I really did have to explain.)

“Because it has all new special features, it was retransferred and looks more glorious than ever, and Blu-ray has more resolution and lasts a lot longer than DVD.”

“How much does the set cost?” my wife asked.

“About 60 bucks.”

“Why don’t you buy the movies one at a time?”

“Because it’s basically one film,” I said. “You can’t break up a trilogy like that. It’s like a pair of socks -- they go together.”

Enter my wife’s supportive friends. “See, they must match!”

-May 2009

Spanking Doesn’t Work

2009-08-31T21:50:00.000-07:00

I had to spank my 5-year-old son last weekend for bad behavior. He asked me, “Is that it?”

I don’t like the idea of hitting my son. But I know it has to be done in certain circumstances, especially when timeouts aren’t working.

I now understand the saying, “This is gonna hurt me more than it’s gonna hurt you.” Without a doubt, it really hurt me to want to hurt my son. But I know he’ll experience more pain if he’s not disciplined.

My plan was to spank the kid just hard enough to sting, but not hard enough to bruise. I gave him a gentle spanking, but with enough force to make him think twice before doing something bad again. When my spanking failed to startle the boy, I took it up a notch, delivering a swat that I knew would sting.

I hit him harder than I intended. I felt horribly guilty. I asked if he was OK. He laughed. I gave him a timeout.

While my son was in his room thinking about his bad behavior, I decided to do some spank tests on myself. I smacked my bottom a few times to see what kind of pain I was delivering. My son was right to laugh. I felt no pain at all. So I applied a little more power. Still nothing.

I hit my hand, thinking that’d be more effective. Again, I felt no pain. I did it harder. I’ve had breath hurt worse. I guess our elders used wooden spoons, rulers and belts for a reason.

So I went to the kitchen, got a wooden spoon, and I practiced a few smacks on my left hand. Still, I felt no pain. I turned up the heat and, finally, I felt a little sting. But it wasn’t enough to scare my kid into being good. I wound up and swung that wooden spoon again, this time like Barry Bonds swung a bat during the steroid years -- WHAP!

My hand lit up like a bright red “Eat at Joe’s” diner sign, and it throbbed like Sylvester the Cat’s hand when it got caught in a mousetrap while trying to snatch Tweety Bird from his cage.

“Yeeeeeeowwwww!” I yelled.

I took a second swing, but with a little less power -- WHOP!

“Yeeeeeeowwwww!” I yelled once more. By this time, I was developing bruises on my hand. So I switched to hitting my right hand. A few swats later, my right hand was bruised up, and I still couldn’t deliver a painful smack that wouldn’t leave marks.

I had to switch targets again. I took the wooden spoon and swung it at my behind.

“What are you doing?” my wife asked when she walked in on the scene. I froze while in mid-swing at my butt.

Our son yelled from his room, “He’s spanking himself to see how hard he has to spank me so it hurts me just a little bit but not a lot.”

“You’re supposed to be thinking about your bad behavior,” I yelled back to the kid, “not talking.”

When I explained to my wife that I had to spank our child, she asked if it was necessary.

“It was necessary,” I said. “The timeouts aren’t working anymore.”

Our boy chimed in from his room again, “Then why am I still in timeout?”

That question lead to an argument between my son and my wife. And that argument resulted in my wife spanking our boy. WHAP! WHOP!

“Is that it?” the kid asked Mommy when she was finished.

My wife said she was afraid to hit our child any harder for fear she’d leave marks and be reported for abuse.

“You’re not gonna be reported for abuse,” I said.

“I just want to be sure that if we hit him any harder, we won’t bruise him,” she said.

So she asked if I could continue banging myself around until I found the perfect spanking intensity for our son.

Now I can’t walk.

-May 2009