I’ve been interviewed. I can’t remember if that is the 5th or 6th sign of the apocalypse. It’s about my show, WordPlay, not about my failure as a man. So, technically, it doesn’t belong here. But I won’t tell if you don’t. Read it all in LAist.
Wake Up Call
January 30th, 2010So things have gotten pretty exciting in our bedroom these past few weeks. I don’t mean to brag, but we have gone back to doing something I thought we might never do again after “the birth;” setting the alarm. It is – and I don’t think I’m exaggerating here – the single most amazing feeling in the world.
Before becoming parents we were big time snoozers. The last thing we did before going to bed every night was math. “I need to be out the door by 8 so… showering by 7:15; out of bed by 7; we’ll snooze three times…set it for 6:21.” The answer was always 6:21 but we did the calculations every night nonetheless. It was our Goodnight Moon.
Then TB came along and for almost a year now (has it really been that long? Cue music) we have been going to bed confident that the incessant screaming of our hungry and scared child will wake us up in plenty of time for work. Surprisingly, it isn’t significantly more grating than morning radio. But there is no snooze button. Initially I thought pressing down on his fontenelle might work, but TW talked me out of trying.
And so it turns out one of the unintended benefits of having a baby is that we were broken of our snooze habit. Who knew we could actually get out of bed right after waking up? Our baby sleep trained us way before we sleep trained him. And he didn’t have to slog through the forced cockney cuteness of The Baby Whisperer.
Once again, he wins.
The Elements of Style
January 22nd, 2010I used to own this vest with peace symbols spray painted all over it. It was a pinstriped, six button affair – the kind of vest that used to come with sensible three piece suits – senselessly splattered with colored paint. I bought it on Telegraph Avenue in 1988 while visiting my older sister in Berkeley. It became my prized fashion accessory for years. When I was wearing ripped jeans, a t-shirt and the peace vest, I didn’t even need to check the mirror. How could I not look good? I had wavy, shoulder length brown hair and a penchant for wearing mismatched Converse Hi-Tops. In short, I had style.
In hindsight, it is possible that some people meant “style” as a polite euphemism. But still, I knew exactly what I liked and how I wanted to look. I could walk into a thrift store and spot my shirt on a rack in 5 minutes. My fashion inspiration came from rock stars, movie stars and my own imagination.
Now it comes from a mannequin at Banana Republic. I have been beaten down.
The fall from thrift store chic to showing up at a dinner party in the same striped shirt as four guys and one toddler is, as you’d imagine, a gradual process. more »
Finally, A Good Bedtime Story
January 14th, 2010Now this will make bedtime more interesting.
You know, I used to play the drums myself. Which isn’t really germane to this blog, but it still makes for a good story.
Not Just A River In Egypt
January 8th, 2010Now that the holiday season is over and TW’s vomiting has subsided, we are running out of reasons to postpone planning for the arrival of baby #2. It is coming in early May and, contrary to earlier reports, will not be coming with a penis. Baby #2, as most readers (i.e. my family and friends) know, is a girl. The Girl, to you.
We’ve been in a bit of denial about what the arrival of this kid is going to mean for our lives. Not that we’re not excited. After all, this is exactly what we wanted. And we do truly appreciate how lucky we are. But if you want to read inspirational stories about people thankful for how blessed they are, get a Chicken Soup for the Soul book. Or maybe read some
Ideally, we would have put off TG until TB was old enough to fend for himself for a bit longer, like a few weeks or months. (When is that? Around 2?) But it’s not like we don’t know how these things happen. We knew exactly what we were doing when TW got into that public Jacuzzi at the Ukrainian bath house.
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My Decade That Was
January 1st, 2010I began this decade pretty close to rock bottom. Not in an Intervention, selling my semen for grain alcohol and two half-smoked Kool Menthols kind of way. But rock bottom for a nice, upper-middle class Jewish kid from the San Fernando Valley.
I was at a New Year’s Eve party with all my closest friends from high school, sporadically employed and the only single person in the room. Starting the new millennium with a pity kiss on the cheek from my best friend’s wife was not what I had been led to believe partying like it was 1999 was all about.
As some of the wives tried to rally everyone for a rousing game of Trivial Pursuit, I nursed my 13th martini and was bitterly reminded of Einstein’s theory of relativity.
In high school they taught us about relativity through the example of a hypothetical man traveling at the speed of light for 10 years. When he stopped, he hadn’t aged a bit. His friends, on the other hand, were 10 years older.
It turns out this also happens if you move to Chicago.
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Dress Up
December 26th, 2009When TB was born we got a lot of hand-me-down clothes, one of the many benefits of showing up late to the adulthood party. (Which, by the way, kind of lame party. I thought there’d be more cocktail weenies.) Besides being a great money saver, hand-me-down baby clothes give you interesting insight into your friends and family. Like, for example, I found out my sister finds baby boy tank tops much less skeevy than I do. I can’t put my finger on why; they just give me the willies. I feel they’re a slippery slope to baby mesh crop tops, which pave the road for this. But that is just me.
Infant fashion preferences aside, it’s amazing to have all these free clothes. We have bins of them, sorted by size, scattered throughout our house. TW is constantly shifting clothes from bins to TB’s drawers and back out to bins to be used for the next round of babies in our family. It’s exhausting to watch. I don’t know how she does it. And yet she still finds the time to remind me I should be helping. What a woman.
So we haven’t consciously picked out too many of the boy’s clothes. Which may be why, when we do buy him an outfit for a special occasion, we get a little too excited.
What with all the screaming and feces involved in a normal dressing session, “outfit” is way too strong a word for what I normally put TB in. I just grab two things in the same general color palette. On a good day one thing will be a shirt and the other, pants. But that doesn’t mean, given the time, I don’t enjoy dressing the kid up for my own amusement.
This weekend we’re flying back East for some general family visiting and a bar mitzvah. And if you don’t think we’ve had TB’s bar mitzvah outfit picked out for weeks, well, you haven’t been reading this post. Which would be odd. Why are you starting in the middle? What’s wrong with you? Commitment problems?
Not only did we buy TB a special outfit weeks ahead of time; we made him model it one afternoon. And as I dressed my 10-month-old son up like Little Lord Fauntleroy, I realized I’m now one step away from being a person who puts a sweater on a dog. And only a half step from that lady who puts a Santa hat on her cat.
The whole baby fashion industry relies on the fact that parents use their kids to amuse themselves. And especially in those first few months when your kid gives you nothing back but blank stares and bodily fluid, maybe that is a great service. Who knows how many baby shakings a well-placed argyle sweater vest has prevented?
To Give Or Not To Give
December 15th, 2009So Chanukah is here. Or Hanukkah. Or maybe even Hanukah. Who knows? Maybe there will finally be peace in the Middle East once we Jews agree among ourselves how to spell things. But my more immediate concern this holiday is what to get The Boy.
His doting grandparents, aunts and uncles have all been asking what he wants. He is 10 months old. So obviously I think he wants better waterproof headphones and an electronic drum set. The new kind with mesh pads. Really, he’d be happy with a gift certificate to Amazon.com.
But predictably, TW would not let me use our son as a conduit for my greed. She’s become rather adept at not letting me do things for myself while claiming they’re best for the boy. Like when I try to put him to bed at 4 in the afternoon on Sunday. “Look at that yawn, poor guy’s exhausted.” Maybe I’m not as subtle as I think.
Anyway, what did surprise me was that TW actually had non-joke answers. In an organized Google document. This is not because she is a presumptuous, greedy bitch but because she is a natural at this parenthood stuff. And she knew some people would want to get TB presents and that they’d be asking what he wanted and if we didn’t have answers they would begrudgingly sulk off to Target, aimlessly wander around for twenty minutes looking for something clever, give up and give us something that involved a loud, dancing monkey. As the aunt to 8 kids under 8 she is well aware how much better it is to be told what a kid wants.
Especially boys. TW is not a girly girl by any stretch. I think she’s been working on the same container of eye shadow since our wedding three years ago. And I mean that in a good way. But she is still a girl and understands little girl tastes. A doll, a set of beads, something you can take care of or control. Girl stuff. But nothing puts her in a bad mood quicker than the boy toy aisle. To her it is just a sea of pointless plastic crap that will probably just take someone’s eye out. Boy stuff.
I thought she was being dramatic until I volunteered to get the presents for my nephews on our last Target run. As a former boy myself, I thought I would “get” the boy toy aisle. I love all that crap: Star Wars figures, Nerf balls, B.B. guns. But, seriously, I think to handle the boy toy aisle these days you have to have spent a year in Japan and not be prone to seizures. My nephews wanted Bakugan which, from what I can gather, are action-figure warriors that tuck into spheres which then pop open and give the owner ADHD.
So TW was just trying to save people from what she knows can be a painful task by compiling a list of what we think our 10-month-old might want. A list intended solely for those who actually want to get something for a 10-month-old. Which I’m not 100% sure is me. I obviously will not deprive his grandparents of getting him presents on his first Hahnooka. I am not a monster. But do we really need to go through the motions of buying and wrapping gifts for a 10-month-old? And if so, are we sure he doesn’t really want those BOSE waterproof headphones?
Trash Day
December 10th, 2009We’ve been in our house 2½ years now. Which I admit is a long to time to actively not throw something away. One of the first things I did when we moved in was remove a valance hanging over the large window in our living room.
My grandmother ran a drapery business with her siblings when I was a kid. Well, business is a strong word. What do you call ten retired immigrants working on heavy, lead machinery in an unventilated garage? Let me rephrase: my grandmother ran a Polish shtetl sweatshop in her backyard when I was a kid. They would let me and my sister run around with magnets tied to sticks, picking up stray pins and needles for five cents apiece — because OSHA and the Department of Child Services have no jurisdiction over the shtetl.
My point is, I know what a valance is. And I know a horrendously ugly one when I see it because my grandmother made them. (And made me clothes out of the spare material, but that is a story for another time.) The thing had to go, is the point. And I was fairly impressed with myself for removing the 7-foot-long monstrosity with minimal structural damage to the wall.
Now what to do with it? In our apartment we could pretty much set anything out on the curb and it would disappear within 2 hours. Old chair? Broken TV? Half of a bookshelf? No problem. Slap a handwritten “FREE” sign on something and it would be gone. We called it the “magic curb.” I liked to imagine the neighborhood squirrels were decorating a clubhouse.
So I was surprised to learn L.A. County’s official trash policy: all trash must actually fit inside the trash bin. No matter, I put the valance out with the trash anyway. I figured, really, what are they going to do? Just leave it on the side of the street?
Yes. That is exactly what they will do. Motherfuckers. The squirrels would have killed for that valance. Probably would have used it to make a beanbag. Those crazy squirrels.
So I get back from work on trash day and see the valance lying on the street. And here is what I hate most about homeownership: this is now my fucking problem. No landlord to complain to, no magic curb, no anthropomorphic squirrels. Just me and TW and anyone we want to hire. So I dragged the valance into the garage and propped it up in the corner, its flowery pink material mocking me. And I figured I’d deal with it the following week. That was 2½ years ago. The valance has not moved. Every time I pull into the garage I briefly think someone’s grandmother is trying to build a fort in there. What I don’t think is, “Wow, I should deal with that.”
I am a very adaptable person that way. To a fault. My cubicle at work is decorated not with keepsakes I consciously set about, but things that have been set down and forgotten — by me or random passersby (or “co-workers,” as some people call them). Right now there is a 2008 cat calendar leaning against my monitor facing out to the aisle; a discarded Secret Santa gift…from last year. I believe it’s open to March (cat in a basket). I don’t so much create my environment as work around it. Then every once in a while I’m motivated enough to rip something down.
And so instead of dealing with the valance I took down a pair of accordion closet doors that somehow pissed me off. They didn’t even make it to the garage. I optimistically left them out by the trash cans thinking that if I passed by them every day I’d be more motivated to deal with them. Here’s how that plan went:
Day 1: Oh, man, I really need to deal with getting rid of those doors.
Day 2: Oh yeah, those doors.
Day 3: Hey, there are those doors that we keep by our trash cans.
As any rational adult might guess, this is an annoying quality in someone you are trying to build a home and family with. Especially since TW’s default response to most situations is worry. So her experience with the doors was probably more along these lines:
Day 1: Those doors look like they’re going to fall.
Day 2: Are those a fire hazard?
Day 3: I bet there are black widows living in there. If we don’t get rid of those today, we’re probably going to be arrested for child endangerment.
So with another kid on the way and our lives about to spiral even more out of control, I’m trying to be a bit more proactive. In fact, I just Googled “oversized trash pickup los angeles,” and guess what? There’s a simple online form. Who knew? I’m going to go fill that out right now. Look at me, shaping my world. And, here, as a public service, I’ll even save you the Google search. The Bureau of Sanitation Service Request Form. Happy trash day, everybody.
Changing
December 3rd, 2009I love our son. Very much. But seriously, what the fuck? I get that since he can now crawl, sit up and pull himself up, lying on his back for a diaper change is not a top priority. And it’s not like he ever loved getting his diaper changed in the first place. But sometime in the last couple months the dude has become a friggen Weeble Wobble. A screaming, clawing Weeble Wobble. Lay him down anywhere and he instantly flips over, sits up, then grabs the closest thing – usually my lip or eye socket – and tries to pull himself up.
This can be cute when you are just sitting him down on the floor to play. You try to put him down, he pops back up, you both have a good laugh. But things are always less cute when human feces is involved. So on the changing table I find it necessary to impose my will. I try distracting him with toys and songs. If I’m lucky, TW is around and not vomiting, so we can double team him. If I’m really lucky, I’m at work. But inevitably, one of us just has to hold him down and go for it. Which is when the screaming begins. It is exhausting. I get that he’s discovered some new skills, but can’t he give it a rest for 5 minutes? I shudder to think what’s going to happen when he discovers his penis.
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Here We Go Again
November 24th, 2009I’ve gotten surprisingly used to making oatmeal in the morning while my wife dry heaves and weeps in the bathroom.
Yes, she is pregnant…again. And in a bad way. Here is our new morning routine. The Boy wakes up between 6:30 and 7. (Or rather, starts crying between 6:30 and 7; when he actually wakes up is unknown and, if I may be frank, inconsequential.) I get up to fix his bottle and feed him. TW gets up, tries to put down some food and makes a sudden dash for the guest bathroom off of the kitchen. This has become our designated vomitorium. I feed TB while playing music and talking; trying to drown out the soul-shaking heaves of his mother.
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Bad Call
November 16th, 2009Get the Flash Player to see the wordTube Media Player.As anyone who has had the misfortune of talking to me knows, I produce a quarterly storytelling show called WordPlay. Comedy writers come and read their true stories while a DJ (the wonderful Chris Simental) spins a live soundtrack. I put myself in every show. I’m that self-involved. I often read something that started out as a post here. So now you can watch the video andread the post. Did you just wet yourself? I did.
Obviously, I should not have called the meter maid a “mean person.” That was a bad idea. For many reasons. Not the least of which– we were parked in a red bus zone. It’s pretty hard to take the “pro” position on that one. I didn’t see her until it was too late. She had already started punching up the ticket. But I jumped out anyway for a last ditch desperation play: “I’m sorry, I can move. I just had to feed my baby.” I did not think for one second about using my infant son as a prop for sympathy, making this possibly the first real parenting reflex I’ve ever had. I’m afraid this doesn’t bode well for TB if someone starts shooting at me while I’m holding him.
My wife parked in the red bus zone so she could quickly hop out and buy an Ergo – the latest in baby carrying technology. I know that doesn’t sound like an emergency purchase, but you haven’t seen our son. At 7 months, TB is pushing the weight limit on the more popular Baby Bjorn and has already exceeded the weight limit on the other baby carrier we own – TW. The boy is in the 90th percentile for weight and height. His mom is in the 30th percentile and has chronic back problems. Good one, universe.
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A Fine Line
October 31st, 2009“I love you.” The words echo through our house. “I love you.” “Hug me.” “Red nose.” I live in a fucking minefield of talking baby toys. All on hairpin triggers – god forbid the kid breathes and his toy doesn’t shriek some platitude at him. I’m not sure how this benefits a child; the expectation that everything talks to him or giggles or sings when he touches it. Personally I think it’s setting him up for some big disappointments. And possibly prison time. “I wanted to see what sound she’d make” is not the best legal defense.
When my sister had her first baby 7 years ago, I thought it was pretty funny to buy really loud gifts. A monkey that played the bongos; Chicken Dance Elmo. (I was also partial to animals dressed as other animals, but that’s an obsession I’m not ready to explore.) I’m still not sure what was more priceless, the look from my niece or the look from my brother-in-law.
Being one of the last of my friends and family to have kids, I’m just now realizing that I was kind of an asshole.
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Milestones
October 15th, 2009The Boy is about to crawl. It’s imminent. There is a buzz in our house. The biggest milestone a baby can reach short of talking. Sure he’s figured out how to roll over and he puts his foot in his mouth, but those are milestones the same way the “Best OP’er” award I won at camp for always wearing OP shorts was an actual award. I feel like they pad the developmental milestones a bit to give new parents something to compete over during playdates. “Does your baby notice his hands? Congratulations! You’re winning!” I mean, if your kid happens to follow the list, great. But checking off “stares at faces” is about as fulfilling as checking off “put on pants” from your to-do list. (Though, I did never get to that one today.)
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The Parent Trap
October 7th, 2009Mommy and Me groups: productive outlet for parental support or fear-mongering brainwash
OK, it’s unfair to single out Mommy and Me groups. Really it’s the whole parenting “industry” to blame. Or thank. I can’t quite figure it out. Because I do appreciate some information. What the hell do I know about being a parent? After diving into a few chapters of Taking Charge of Your Fertility back when we were trying to get pregnant, I realized I barely understood where babies come from, let alone how to raise them.
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Sing, Sing a Song
October 1st, 2009“Looks like Mommy forgot to turn the TV off again.”
One of the most underrated things about having kids: it opens up a whole new channel through which you can be passive aggressive.
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Ready or Not
February 6th, 2009The Wife was still in her hospital bed as I wheeled her to the post-partum room. It was the first private, quiet moment we’d had since the birth of our son an hour before. And the last we would share for quite some time. There was so much I could have said. So much I wanted to say. So it’s unclear why I went with, “That was the grossest thing I’ve ever seen.”
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Man of the House
January 1st, 2009It was my first real project as a homeowner: replacing an existing motion detector light. And I was excited to reinvent myself as a man who fixes things around the house. It would be a welcome change from being the manchild who sticks inappropriate things down the garbage disposal.
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