Instructions for Use

Pink Eye Ointment

Directions for use:
Tilt child's head back into your lap. Gently pull down bottom eyelid to form a small pocket beneath the eye. Apply thin strip of ointment onto finger and rub into inner fold of the eyelid. Ointment will spread to eye as child blinks. Repeat as instructed by doctor.

Question:

How the hell do you get past step one? Either they had some really docile, ever-trusting children during the testing phase of this, or there's a tranquilizer dart missing from the package. As a matter of fact, the minute she realizes that I'm trying to stick something inside her eyes, step one becomes obsolete.

Revised Directions:
Tilt child's head back into your lap. Attempt to pull child's eyelid down. Place child's body into scissor leg lock. Hold down child's arms while clutching child's body against your own. Reattempt to pull child's eyelid down. Grow an additional arm and use the hand on that third arm to rub the ointment into child's eye. If third arm is not available, settle for wasting rubbing ointment onto child's closed eyelids and hoping for the best.

Food Allergies

Yesterday I went to Five Guys Burgers and Fries for the first time. This fast food baptism was so life altering that I shared it on Facebook. People wondered why it took me so long. Well, a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...

[caption id="attachment_3498" align="alignnone" width="604"] And people call me dramatic[/caption]

I first realized my stomach and  I were different back in kindergarten when, upon seeing the contents of my lunchbox, my teacher took me to the office to call my grandmother. She assumed that I was somehow responsible for the tastycakes and canned soda. "What did you send him to lunch with, Mrs. Allen?"
"Let me think. A fatback and egg sandwich, one of those apple pies he likes, some cheetos and a soda."
"Nevermind. Sorry to bother you."

Everyone else was eating PBJ or Oscar Mayer. Everyday at lunch was like show and tell for me.
Me: And this is a scrapple sandwich.
Stunned Onlookers: Oooh, Aaah. What's scrapple?
Me: I think it's like a hamburger
(It isn't. It most certainly, horrifyingly, is not!)

By high school I was notorious for eating what my best friend dubbed "heart attack sandwiches." I don't know if my grandmother was just trying to get rid of leftovers or was dealing with 'Dory from Nemo' short term memory loss, but it was all too common to get an egg, fatback, bacon, and smoked sausage sandwich on toast with jelly, miracle whip and ketchup. My stomach didn't flinch at the challenge.

By college, however, I think I put too many miles on my stomach and voided the warranty. My cafeteria sucked so bad in college that many nights I'd walk in and right back out of the cafeteria. If someone turns down "lasagna" in favor of a 33 cent can of potted meat, then that should tell you something. It wasn't long before I got married and had my own place, but as faithful readers know, those were the poverty years.

$20 a month for groceries to feed two people translates into ramen noodles and hot dogs. Eat that twice a day for two years and you're lucky if you still have a stomach. My problem was that I didn't have a throat. You know me...I always have to develop the rare illnesses. One day I was walking to lunch when I burped. The food from the day before came up. Not the night before...the day before.

I'd been having this pain in my chest and throat for a while, but assumed it was indigestion. My primary care doctor at the time was an idiot, so I scheduled my own appointment with a gastroenterologist. At the time I worked for a health insurance company, so I knew that I didn't need a referral to see a specialist. The gastroenterologist, however, disagreed. She was offended that I scheduled an endoscopy (tube down your throat with a camera) on my own, and made it her point to chew me out as they were prepping me for it.

Just as I was trying to return fire, this [lady] says, "I don't have time for this crap" and turns on the anesthesia. I have to give it to her, there are hundreds of people who wish they could shut me up so easily. I woke up and she was gone. She called a few days later to apologize and said that I was right to come in. I had some form of esophagitis that she'd never seen before. Something was triggering the muscles in my throat to relax for several hours and also causing the sphincter leading to my stomach to tighten up. In a nutshell, the food I was eating was just sitting in my throat with nowhere to go for hours or even a day at a time. If you haven't guessed already, that hurt likes hell.

The closest allergy appointment was a year out, so I basically had to do a rotating fast and figure out what caused it on my own. I gave up sodas, fast food, processed snacks, fried food, and meat. It would've been easier to go cold turkey from heroin. Overnight I went from speaking fast food menus like a second language to sitting at my desk at work eating a bag of raw broccoli florets for lunch.

I went from never cooking to making EVERYTHING from scratch. I even made my own salad dressing and breakfast cereal. It was hell. After six months, all of my symptoms were gone. As crazy as this sounds, I canceled the allergy appointment. I felt so much better with the new diet that I was afraid that I would stop if I found out the specific trigger. I slowly reintroduced meat back into my diet, but most of that other stuff didn't make the cut. After eight years, I still don't know exactly what triggers it. The sheer pain associated with it keeps me out of places like Five Guys too often. Considering how good that burger was yesterday, I can't say that's necessarily a bad thing.

The Eyes Have It

Dear Reader,

Perhaps you can help me settle an ongoing internal debate. Which is the strongest display of love for one's child:

A) Drinking from the polluted wasteland that is a backwash-filled cup of water
B) Intentionally exposing oneself to pinkeye

We just left McDonald's, which is a place I loathe with a passion. After calling the doctor 18 times this morning with no answer, I decided to just hop in the car and drive downtown to her office. As I was looking for a parking space, I finally got through and they basically told me that pinkeye isn't an emergency and that they'd schedule an appointment for later. We went to McDonald's to have whatever the opposite of a victory breakfast is.

It was there that my daughter offered me some of her water. Offered is a euphemism for Ike Turnered. Just like you can't refuse Ike's gracious offering of cake, you can't successfully turn down my daughter's water. She offered it to me for 3 straight minutes. "Water? Water? Water, Daddy? Water? Water? Want some water? Here Daddy. Water! Have some water? Water..." I was thirsty; I just wasn't hungry. There had to be half a sausage biscuit in there. But I drank it, because I love her.

Love is also what's gonna give me her pinkeye. It's a testament to capitalism that the same people who exposed her to pinkeye not only have the right to refuse her admission to school today, but also are completely entitled to full tuition for the week. Like the old Trident commercials used to say, chew on this:

I ran Daddy Daycare for 2.5 years during which time she was sick MAYBE four times. After only six months with them she's been exposed to every strand of bubonic plague known to man. Each time she gets sick I have to keep her home. That in itself makes no sense to me, because the source of the virus is at the daycare. Keeping her home only increases her chances of spreading it to those who aren't sick. Then, on top of that, they still get paid even though she isn't there. You only had one job to do: Send her back home in the same condition she left. You exposed her to Ebola and you want me to fix it AND pay for it.

I've never had pinkeye before, so I did some research. Rule #1 says that she should keep her hands away from her eyes but if she does touch them then she should immediately wash them before touching surfaces or other people. Riiiight. She's three. The first thing she did was rub one eye, stick her finger in her nose and then rub the other one. Oh...and ask me for a hug. I hope it can't be spread through saliva because she had a brief moment of lunacy where she thought she was a dilophosaurus and started "play" spitting. The only problem is that real spit flew into my face.

I guess it's all a moot point. She woke up in the middle of the night scared because the "goo" that formed around her eyes hardened overnight and practically welded them shut. Even though I got up at 3 in the morning and cleaned her eyes, she was still afraid to get back in her bed. That's when I made the executive decision to intentionally expose myself to it. I let her sleep in the bed with me where she snuggled up and fell fast asleep. Who knows what microbes were dancing around on the sheets, but considering that she woke me up this morning by prying my eyelids open with her fingers, I'm certain they found their way into my eyes.

It's just a matter of time now. The things we do for love.

So This Happened Today

The following takes place between 9:00 and 9:15 AM on Saturday July 27, 2013

The Child [grabbing my hand]: Come here Daddy.

Me: Okay?

The Child [stopping in front of the fridge]: Cookie Dough?

Me: I'm sorry baby. It's too early for ice cream. You can have some grapes.

**The child then pulls a sword from behind her back, and points it up toward the sky**

The Child: By the power of Greyskull, I HAVE THE POWER!!!

Me: ???

The She-Ra Child: COOKIE DOUGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Me: Who do you think you're yelling at? Go sit down right now before we have a problem.

**The She-Ra Child then storms away while stomping on the floor, meanwhile I'm looking for my own He-Man sword in order to deal with her. She then leaps up into the air, "lands" with her entire body laying flat on the floor, pauses, bumps her head onto the floor, and then gets up crying**

The Stunt Double Child: What's wrong, Zoe? Are you okay? Come here. It's okay. Don't cry.

**She gives me a hug and then sits down on the couch and starts reading a book.**

Me: [Googles homemade Holy Water recipes]

Scene It.

Sorry for being MIA the last few days. Someone important was in the hospital and I had to go stand guard for a few days.

The whole thing has me down, so I tried to cheer myself up by watching a movie. What the hell is up with movies these days?  I rented The Incredible Burt Wonderstone on the completely misguided logic that between Jim Carrey, Steve Buschemi, and Steve Carrell at least one of them would make me laugh. How about NO, Scott? (Ten points for getting the Austin Powers reference)

Remember when movies were worth sneaking to go see? The good Lord blessed me with a 30 year old's facial hair back in elementary school, but not with his height. Hell, I'm 31 and still don't have a 30 year old's height, but that's another story. I remember going to great lengths to sneak into an R rated movie. Either I'd wear my suit to the theater and put my church usher's badge on before I got to the ticket counter in order to sell my age and honesty, or I'd just buy and adult and child ticket and then take one of them back later for a refund.

Then of course there was "my friend" who used to spend the whole day at the movies off just one ticket. He'd check the paper for the show times as well as the running times and then map out the best strategy to see 3-4 movies in a day without missing any part of the films. Weird guy.

But today? I couldn't name a single movie out today worth sneaking into. Hell most of them don't even rank on the suckitude scale from back in the day:

1. I'll wait for it to come out at the dollar movie (six months)


2. I'll wait for it to come out on tape (a year)


3. I'll wait for it to come on cable (a year + change)


4. I'll wait for it to come on TV (it doesn't matter because you don't want to see it)

Burt Wonderstone, and just about every other movie I've seen lately falls on the rarely seen #5:
Yeah, there's something on that tape, but you can tape your stories on that one if you want.

If this were the 90s, that tape would have scotch tape over the back so fast (Sadly, the average kid these days won't get that reference). The movie isn't even worth describing. Stuff happened for 45 minutes. I laughed once. I turned it off once I saw that it had another hour to go.

Maybe I'm just getting old and I've seen so many movies at this point that they've lost their appeal. I don't buy it, but it's possible. I just miss the old days when all of my friends would leave school at the same time to hurry and get to Union Station or City Place in time to catch the twilight show before the price went from $4.00 to what we thought was outrageous back then, $6.50.

Nowadays...I'll wait for it to come to Redbox.

Winter is Coming

Sorry for being MIA lately. I had the misfortune of someone convincing me to watch the pilot of Game of Thrones. I believe it was Wednesday or Thursday of last week. I'm now caught up. Yep...30 hours of TV in just three or four days. I have insomnia, so watching it was the easy part. The hard part is shaking this uncontrollable habit of speaking with a British tongue and medieval speech. Blame it on the sleep deprivation. I was talking to someone who looked frustrated and (I'm not making this up) I said, "You wear the mark of despair. What ails you?"

It's still not as bad as when I first got caught up on Lost. I started watching it while season 3 was showing. I bought two seasons on iTunes and watched them both on the tiny old iPod video screen over the course of the weekend. This was back when I used to work in a call center. I fell asleep at my desk for what couldn't have been longer than two seconds. It was still enough time for me to have a full dream of being chased through the island by the smoke monster, and to jump up out of my chair (in reality) just as a beep went through my ear signalling a new call coming through. My cube mates just stared at me. I finished my call and left early for the rest of the day.

The beauty of binge watching is that you get to skip the suspense. After watching The Red Wedding on Game of Thrones...I kinda wish I had a week to digest that episode. I won't spoil it for anyone who hasn't seen it yet. It's a courtesy that I'm thankful was granted to me. I kept hearing about it, but, like the big reveal for The Sixth Sense or Fight Club, one of those things that is so much better if you experience it without a heads up. It's been a few hours and I still can't believe I saw what I did. My pupils are forever dilated.

So anyway, I have nothing really to write about today. I'm going to work on dumping this accent and try to catch up on some sleep. As of 10:01PM, however, my daughter is singing "I'm bringing sexy back. Them other penguins don't know how to act" at the top of her lungs. Up until I realized she was singing the Happy Feet Two version, I was looking for a belt powerful enough to alter her trajectory away from clear heels. All is well, but I can't sleep until she does.

Tell Me About A Time

I just got off the phone with one of my friends who wanted to share one of her crazy interview stories. Apparently the young woman came in dressed like she was going to a cabaret. My friend tried to comment on it subtly, hoping for an explanation, but the young woman misinterpreted it as my friend admiring her wardrobe. "Oh yeah, I'm on vacay!" That was strike one. Strikes two was her trying to negotiate the salary at the beginning of the first of three interviews. Strike three was responding to a question about how to motivate someone toward a different goal with, "Who am I to change someone's mind?" The entire job, by the way, is to motivate and change people's mind.

It reminded me of some of my favorite interviews:

There was the time that I called a woman who thought I was a collection agency pretending to be an interviewer. She asked me to prove that I was not a collection agency. That's still not as bad as playing twenty questions with the jealous boyfriend who thought I was a guy trying to talk to his girl. I always felt bad when I called someone whose phone was disconnected. I always wondered if I had just called them a day earlier would their phone have been "accepting incoming calls at this time." Worst of all is being asked to call back later because the person is busy.

It's when you finally get through to someone that the magic happens. "Tell me about a time when you failed at a task." If you learn nothing else from reading my blog, please remember that "rehab" is never the right answer to ANY question in a job interview. I appreciate you trying to be up front, but some things you should just let come out naturally. Speaking of honesty, a lot of people get fired for stealing from work apparently. If this were Family Feud I'd say that it would be the top answer to "Why did you leave your last job?"

Just to be fair, I've botched an interview before. I still kick myself for it. The first interviews went great. I was in the last one with two guys and I just bombed the damned thing. The last question was the icing on the cake: Why should we hire you? "Because I want, but don't need this job." I don't know why I said it. As the words came out of my mouth, the voice in my head was screaming "WHAT!?" I tried to sweeten it up and make it sound like I was passionate about it enough to turn down something else, but there was no freshening that mess up. The interviewers just stared at me blankly.

The truth is that I had that interview a few days before my heart surgery, and the day before another doctor called to tell me that there was a problem with my liver functions that could be due to cancer. My mind was on other things. I wanted to tell the interviewers that, but for some reason I didn't. I wonder if any of those other people had similar issues going on.

 

Not Guilty

I debated not even posting today. I was going to observe a moment of silence in response to the response of the Zimmerman verdict. Some of the people I know have really lost their minds. It was a very polarizing trial. Tensions are high. I get that. But someone on my Facebook NewsFeed said that they were boycotting Florida Orange Juice, and that's where I have to ring the bell and get off the bus. It sounds like a joke, but this person was completely serious. Supposedly, it's part of a larger effort to hold a "quiet riot" against the state of Florida.

Though what I think of the verdict may shock you, it is essentially irrelevant. The same goes for what any of us think about the details of that night. All that matters in the American court system is how well the prosecution presents its case through evidence and witness testimony. It's like playing Horse. If you tell me you're going to close your eyes, stand on one foot, spin in a circle and then shoot the ball with nothing but net, then you have to do that. If you miss any of those things then the shot doesn't count.

The prosecution said that they would convince the jury beyond a reasonable doubt through their evidence that Zimmerman killed Martin under the conditions that warrant a second degree murder charge. That's a big word: Evidence. Not by what you read in the paper or saw on TV, not by what you know from experience as a minority in America, and not by what your gut tells you, but by evidence they will prove their case. And all of us, whether you want to admit it or not, know that there were points during the trial when the prosecution missed some steps in this game of Horse. Go back and look at your Facebook NewsFeed and you'll see a ton of "WTF" moments where a lot of people just shook their heads.

All of that amounts to doubt in the jury's mind. The goal was never to prove he didn't kill him or profile him. He admits to killing him and the tape shows the profiling. It all comes down to what happened during the "fight" and can the prosecution prove that he shot him in cold blood. The jury coming back with a Not Guilty verdict doesn't necessarily mean that they think it was justified, rather they can't say beyond a reasonable doubt that it wasn't. The prosecution's job is to eliminate all doubt and they failed.

Going to extremes and talking about America doesn't value the life of black people is hyperbole and it's destructive. Even if you truly believe in your heart that all six jurors were pulled from a Klan rally, then it still gives you no right to assign that to the entire state. The same people talking about boycotting Florida are the same ones who have pictures on their Facebook page of themselves in Miami or at DisneyWorld. What changed between your trip and now, because you certainly didn't come back talking about the injustice you suffered at the hands of the Floridians during your week-long trip.

Why do we get mad when people make assumptions about us based solely on the actions of a few, but then turn around and do the exact same thing? We are members of individual races, but no race is one monolithic group functioning under one thought process, one behavior pattern, and one belief structure. You cannot decry Paula Deen's use of nigger while referring to her as a cracker. It's not righteous indignation; it's hypocrisy. And most hypocritical of all is to quote MLK as you denigrate all non-blacks.

We can't come together if we keep allowing things to push us apart. All white people aren't racist, just like all black people aren't criminals. And if you really want to get mad at something, then let it be the sad reality that if you're black then you have an exponentially greater chance of being killed by another black person than any other race. There could be 500 more George Zimmerman's and it still wouldn't be enough to outnumber the amount of black people killing each other in Chicago alone. There have been SEVEN HUNDRED murders in that one city since Trayvon Martin was killed. And that was just a year and a half ago. There are 50 states and countless cities, so you do the math.

You want to talk about America not valuing the life of the black man, well if that's true (which I don't think it is) then she's only paying the absurdly low price that we set.

 

America's Game

I had the unfortunate luck of talking to a teenager not too long ago. Scary creatures, they are. She just graduated and we were talking about her plans for college. "I'm going to ($27,000 a year) University!" I was happy for her, and asked what she was majoring in. "French with a minor in Music." I just stared at her silently. It was a silence so loud that you could hear me blinking. I was thinking about the economy and how much student loan debt she was going to have."What?" she asked. I drew a deep breath, which allowed me to go into a deep meditative state as I carefully decided what to say next. It was in this state that I came up with the following analogy.

Life is like football. You are, and forever will be, the offense. Life will always be the defense. Your dreams are the ball. Unfortunately, the odds are stacked against you. You will achieve success when you make it to your goal. That's how you win. Life's goal isn't just to stop you. That makes for a boring game. Life's goal is to strip you of the ball. Life's goal is to take your dreams away. This can happen in two ways: Fumble or Interception.

Fumble
When you lose your confidence, you lose your strength to hold on to the ball. No matter how bad things are going. No matter how many of the previous attempts have failed, the worst thing you can do is to let go of your dreams.

Interception
Unfortunately, you are every player on your team. Running back, quarterback, wide receiver. They're all you. You play every single position simultaneously, so you'll always be the one holding the ball. There will be times when life will come rushing at you, and you'll be under immense pressure to make a move. Don't make the common mistake of handing someone else your dream. I don't care if it's family, friend or significant other. They are not on your team.

It was after that long analogy that I told her that in this particular situation, I don't know if I'm just a coach on the sidelines or Life coming in one of it's many forms to strip the ball. The only advice I could provide is to pick up a dual major or a minor to fall back on.

Think of it as shoulder pads and a helmet just in case Life knocks you on your ass. It'll be easier to get back up and keep going if you have on those.

She asked, "So what happens if I score?"
You keep playing til your clock runs out.

Herschel

I wasn't going to post anything today, but then I witnessed something on the way to my daughter's daycare that demanded to be shared. I'm driving down the street during rush hour, which is a feat all by itself in DC, but somehow I managed to catch most of the lights. I know that all good things must come to an end, so as I neared the intersection of Connecticut and K Street I prepared myself to sit there for a while. For those unfamiliar with the area, that intersection might as well be a brick wall because there is always gridlock.

To my surprise, not only was there no idiots blocking the intersection, I also saw that the far right lane was empty. In DC's rush hour traffic being first in a lane is like winning the lottery. There's no worry of what the idiot in front of you will do:

Bus-- Maybe it'll stop to pick up people and hold up traffic.
Cyclist--Maybe they'll take that moment to pedal as slow as humanly possible (with no hands on the handlebars) while texting.
Car--Out of state tags signals tourist, which means they'll be taking pictures or pointing at stuff. Local tags is anybody's guess.
Cab--Wild Card. Anything is possible. Maybe they'll jump over four lanes to pick up a fare or maybe they'll just reverse backwards down the street because it amuses them. Who knows?

Suffice to say, I was happy. I made my way to the intersection at the ripe old speed of 19 miles an hour (which is warp speed during rush hour), when what to my wandering eyes should appear but a black dude in a suit. I shall call him Herschel Walker.

At some point in the 5 seconds before my light turned green, Herschel decided to run the 40. I don't know why. Maybe he was trying to see if he still had it. He does. The fact that I'm telling this story on a blog and not to police signifies that not even wingtips can stop a man with something to prove. I can only imagine what was going through his mind at the time.

"Here's my big chance. Scouts are watching. As soon as this light turns red I'm charging across eight lanes of traffic like the bull that I am. Here it is! Torro! Torro!"

Hell, everyone's jaywalked at some point in their lives. The whole idea is that even if you can't make it all the way across before your light turns red, you can at least get to the other curb before the cars have a chance to take off. It's not like you're challenging a bunch of Lamborghinis or something. A Ford Escort isn't going from 0-60 anytime soon. But young Herschel's eyes widened just enough for me to see exactly what he was thinking as he made it to my lane.

"I never considered that there would be a car coming down the street in the far lane who would already be going at a considerable speed. He appears to be going roughly 19 miles an hour. Mass * Acceleration=Force. I am going to die."

I am not making this up. For whatever reason, Herschel's mind told him to make the Heisman Trophy pose with his briefcase clutched to his chest in his far hand, and the other arm extended as if he were going to stiff arm the hood of my car. I slammed on the brakes, which gave him just enough time to juke and hurdle over onto the curb. The funny thing is that he didn't even stop then. He just kept running. In this job market, I don't blame him. I wouldn't let death stop me from getting to work either.

 

Sugary High

And the award for Worst Father of the Year (presented by Joe Jackson) goes to ME!
(Thunderous boos)

I'm sitting at the dining table at this very moment trying to talk myself out of going back into the kitchen. I bought my daughter a box of Nilla Wafers last week. As of right now there are about ten left in the box and she hasn't had a single one.

[Update]It's been three minutes since I typed that last sentence. There is now an empty Nilla Wafers box in the trashcan underneath some paper towels so that my daughter doesn't see it when she wakes up tomorrow. "I'd like to thank the Devil for helping me achieve this award..."

I forgot that I liked Nilla Wafers. Before this week, I hadn't had any since I was about seven. The year was 1989. I went over my aunt's house and she gave me some. I liked them. The next day in the grocery store I asked my grandmother for some and when she saw how much they cost, she said no. Later that day we stopped by the liquor store to play a number and they had the ghetto convenience store version..."Wafers!" They had the traditional diabetes motivation sticker on the package like every other liquor store/convenience store snack back in the day: 2/$1.00! I bought two packs and almost broke my damned jaw trying to chew those rock hard, stale, tasteless knock offs. But of course that didn't stop me from eating both packs.

That memory came rushing back as I took a bite of one of the cookies. I braced myself for my teeth to hurt and was surprised that it was actually buttery. I've been missing out. I wonder how different my life would have been if I'd been one of the kids who didn't shop exclusively in the liquor store. I had a semi-well-to-do girlfriend in high school who had never tried Kool-Aid before. I snuck her some like it was crack and she tried it, liked it, and immediately poured the rest down the drain and made me take the empty packet back home with me for fear of her mom...stabbing her? I don't know what the fear was, but they weren't allowed to drink Kool-Aid or sodas.

I'm pretty certain I wouldn't have had as many sugar headaches, neon urine and general overall confusion growing up, but that was the FUN stuff! The best summer memories are from those days when my mother just wanted me to get out of her face and go outside so she'd give me $3 to go to the store. That was like a winning Powerball ticket to a 7 year old. I'd run my chunky behind all the way to the store and buy the same thing:

• 25 cent pack of Cheetos Paws


• 25 cent pack of Sour Cream & Onion Utz


• 25 cent pack of Lemon Heads


• 10 cent AirHeads (X 2)


• 25 cent "Red" Little Hug


• 50 cent "red" Giant Freeze Pop (Couldn't get blue because everyone thought they caused cancer)


• 25 cent pack of the red, white and blue Now and Laters (mambas if they didn't have any now and latas)


• 50 cent pack of those hard ass oatmeal cookies that came in a roll (or the "ring" cookies with the hole in the middle, or a Susie Q, or a High Five, or a Moonpie, or the cupcakes with the little swirl icing)


• 25 cent worth of candy for the "greedies" (friends who bummed candy): chic-o-sticks, mary janes, blowpops, sugar straws, etc


• And then I'd run back home with a paper bag full of childhood obesity.

The crazy thing is that all of us were eating that crap. With that much sugar in our systems, playing tag was the shit! It was like a bunch of mini-crackheads chasing one another. We were jumping down stairwells and doing backflips down hills. Long before parkour became a thing, there was always a kid in the neighborhood who could scale a fence or a side of a building like it was nothing. Nine times out of ten his story probably ended with him being shot by the police.

Nobody ever got caught playing tag with that much sugar flowing through our veins, so we came up with team tag, freeze tag, rock tag (throw a rock at somebody and they're "it"). We made up stupid games like "high-low." That's where two people stretched out a rope and everybody tried to jump over it and then they'd keep raising it. Then there were just dumb "cokehead" games like "How many steps can you jump down?"

It was fun! Until the sugar wore off. Then you were dehydrated as hell, your head and stomach started to hurt, and you just wanted to lie down...but you weren't going to. You kept playing until someone made you come in the house. Then you went in the house, complained that you were thirsty, turned your nose up at water because "it tastes funny" and probably drank some Kool-Aid (Flavor-Aid if you were THAT poor) before watching TV until you fell asleep.

Fun times.

Today's blog post brought to you by Insulin!

 

My Half of the Birthday

And to conclude my birthday, I received the gift of guilt. I say that semi-jokingly.

I had a really good start to my birthday. The first half was great. I woke up the kid, called up the co-parent, and we all went to McDonald's so that she could have a sausage biscuit. I avoid fast food like the plague, but ever so often (maybe once every two months) we let her have a sausage biscuit. Then we brought her back to my house where I set up Birthday Central: Balloons, presents and a banner.

One of her presents was a pair of skates, so naturally we took her skating up and down the street. Then we went to see Monster's University, and then finally off to her favorite restaurant, Red Lobster. She enjoyed the biscuits, alfredo, and a brownie a la mode. Finally, we sang happy birthday and blew out her candle before Operation: My Turn could commence. The details of this mission have been declassified and are below:

OPERATION: MY TURN
Sit in the house
Try to think of something to do
Spend an hour looking up restaurants on Yelp
Lose time playing spades on iPhone
Go down to Georgetown Harbor
Stare at Potomac River in attempt to come up with something to do
Lie in grass and stare at sky in attempt to come up with something to do
Take picture of two random people at their request
Go home
Eat peanut butter and jelly sandwich, BBQ Utz Chips, and a slice of birthday cake
Listen to podcast
Write blog post

Yeah, apparently I wasn't joking when I said that I was more concerned about it being my daughter's birthday. I tried to come up with stuff to do, but nothing came to mind. A few friends invited me to tag along with them to a bar, but I don't drink. "Come anyway!" A part of me wanted to, but the other part felt like I was just stowing away on someone else's fun. It's my birthday. I wanted to do something I enjoyed...I just couldn't figure out what the hell that was.

I sat there for a while debating whether or not I was just being antisocial. The committee in my head decided that I had a legitimate argument. On your birthday I think you're entitled to be comfortable in your surroundings. Bars, lounges, and clubs...that's their thing. Sitting by the water and watching scantily clad women walk by...that's mine.

I then moved on to figuring out why my birthday was taking a turn towards boring. I couldn't even figure out what I wanted for dinner. I didn't have a taste for anything. It's my birthday. I'm supposed to treat myself, but all I really wanted was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and some barbecue chips. I didn't want to go to the movies, and I didn't want to stay out past 9. I was tired after getting up at 6 this morning with just 4 hours of sleep.

Then it finally hit me. When I was little my birthday was the day that I finally had a chance (and only a chance) of getting some of the stuff I'd wanted all year long. I didn't get an allowance, and getting straight A's on my report card was what I was "supposed to do." There was no payoff for never getting suspended, being a good student, or staying out of trouble. I had to milk Christmas and my birthday for all that I could get. And that mentality continued up to adulthood.

Money was tight in college and after I dropped out, so I always looked forward to my birthday. But around the time that I turned 25 something happened. My income started to be larger than the sum of my expenses and desires. When there's nothing stopping you from getting what you want year-long, then you no longer save everything for your birthday. I'm not exactly swimming in a money bin right now, but I have a lot of free time and I budget what little money I do have so that I don't have to wait for one or two days of the year to do the things I want.

Dinner-wise, I celebrated my birthday for the past week when Giant had steaks on sale. Experience-wise, I was in Niagara Falls last weekend, and NYC a month before that...and Philly a month before that. My birthday (at least, my half of it) really was just a day for me to chill and reflect on my life. So I lie back on the grass, stared at the sky and watched the sunset.

Then my friends called again and invited me to come over and puff cigars. "You don't drink, so you can at least get down with this." That's where the guilt that I mentioned earlier came in. I most certainly came across as antisocial that time. A few posts ago I wrote about NOT having cancer (or an abundance of white blood cells). After sitting terrified in the cancer research center waiting on my results, I can't go out and puff cigars or sit there and inhale second hand smoke.

I told my friend, "I really, really want to hang out with you guys. I don't mean to sound antisocial, but I'm a fish apparently trying to hang out with birds. We gotta find an environment that we're all comfortable in."

 

Happy Birthday to Us!

Happy Birthday to Me!

Now that I've gotten that selfishness out of my system, my daughter has requested that I remember why I'm really here:
Happy Birthday to HER!

Debbie Downer informed me a while ago that sharing a birthday sucks. "You'll never get to have the day to yourself or go somewhere without looking selfish." I disagree.

If I had to summarize the 500 posts that I've written into one theme, it'd be this: I've had a very interesting life so far. It hasn't been short on drama, I can tell you that. Considering that my third grade teacher started making sense when she repeatedly told me that I was an unwanted pregnancy, it's completely understandable that, by 14, I'd cut most of my emotions off. There was a time when I felt absolutely nothing and looked forward to absolutely nothing.

Well, that last part isn't true. I daydreamed a lot. It was the only thing that kept me going at times. It probably wasn't healthy, but I used to imagine having a wife and tons of kids. I used to say that I wanted 15 but would settle for 5. Some people make the mistake of having kids so that they'll have a guaranteed person to love them. I was the opposite. I wasn't looking for someone to love me, but for someone to love.

The years went on and I got married but we couldn't seem to have a kid. By 25, I'd been married four years and was supposed to be on my kid number three or four. It hurt when more and more people started having kids, ESPECIALLY the ones who didn't even want them. I never really made peace with the reality that we couldn't have kids, but I learned to deal with it. Then one day it happened.

The fact that it happened on my birthday made it all the more special. Same day of the week, same day of the year, same hospital...as me. As corny as it sounds, my daughter really is a dream come true. No I didn't end up having 15, but I rolled all that love into one and I show it to her every single day. Whereas I once learned to cut off my emotions, I can't control all of the emotion that surges through me everyday.

I've never loved anything or anyone as much as I love this little girl, and I've tried my best to write about it, but words just fall short. She is the sunrise after a very long night. I am so thankful for her, and I wouldn't change a single thing about my life because it all led up to her.

I love you baby and Happy Birthday!

[caption id="attachment_3433" align="alignnone" width="604"] Happy Birthday to us![/caption]

HAVE YOU SEEN ME!???

[caption id="attachment_3430" align="alignnone" width="604"] Please call CRIMESTOPPERS if you've seen him[/caption]

 

I've been there 110% since my daughter was born. Vaccinations, ear piercing, picking out clothes, touring schools...none of it means jack if I can't replace this toy. If you've seen it, call me. If you know someone who has one, steal it and give to me. There is no time to waste. We lost this thing down on The Mall yesterday, and, after retracing my steps to no avail, I spent about 30 minutes walking up on people like a bomb-sniffing dog trying to figure out if they had it in their possession.

Where are my manners? Happy Belated Independence Day! Do you know the reason for the season? That's right, my birthday is tomorrow (oh, and so is my daughter's). I like to tell myself that all of these fireworks and cookouts for me. I know they're not, but considering I had to pick between fireworks and a birthday present plenty of times as a kid...I feel a certain connection with the holiday.

So anyway...I decided to make yesterday special for my daughter. We began our afternoon with me picking her up from her mom's and going to Horace and Dickie's. For those not in the know...it's my favorite fish spot. It's about the size of a thought, and service doesn't always come with a smile, but if they know you (and they know me well) they hook you up with some good fish. The two of us split a plate of fish in the car while jamming to Michael Jackson. Then we went to visit some relatives before going to Forestville Mall for some Snickerdoodles.

Once again, for those not in the know, Forestville Mall... In most sci-fi movies there is always this plan where the good guys want to blow up a base that powers the opposition/robots/evil. Forestville Mall is that for the ghetto coalition. It's actually one of three: Forestville, Iverson Mall and PG Plaza. If someone could somehow destroy all three of those at one time, ghetto people in DC would cease to exist immediately. It would be like iRobot or Attack of the Clones where they'd all just shut down and go to sleep. Anyway, now you know what Forestville Mall is. Snickerdoodles is the power pellet that keeps them all going.

I'm not only a critic, I'm a client. I make the trip out to ghetto Mecca every few weeks to get my fix. It's a cookie made out of lard, sugar and diabetes. It comes in a paper bag that you can eventually see through by the time you get back to your car. We went to get those and then headed down to the mall. We took pictures, ran around, and just had a ball...

It was all good just a week ago

Then we realized we'd lost a man. When that alien went missing, something changed in my daughter. All I can say is that I have until she gets out of school tomorrow evening to get another one. After she turned back into Bruce Banner we watched the fireworks from the steps of the Capitol. My daughter, being the unique creature that she is, sang Thriller the ENTIRE time (all 15 minutes of the show) while sitting on my shoulders.

We then did what any logical person does on the 4th. After having an amazing view of a multimillion dollar fireworks display in the nation's capital...we went to my mother's house and lit our pathetic $20 box of fireworks. My daughter proved that she's got the juice now by walking towards the fountains when the average child would run away. To justify her thug, she tried to put a sparkler out with her hand (I stopped her).

It was a great day, minus the man down.

Oh Canada

Last week's stress load was bad enough all by itself, but you know I need a challenge. I didn't get a doctoral fellowship at The School of Hard Knocks by slacking off. I don't just walk tightropes, I do it blindfolded. With that in mind, I made it through last week on just twelve hours of sleep spread across seven days. It's cool though. One night I dreamed that I was asleep, so that's gotta count for double sleep. So what does a severely sleep deprived person do on the weekend?

Drive 16 hours to and from Niagara Falls.

Yep. My best friend got married and while I wanted nothing more than to find out what delightful coma would befall me if I mixed ZzzQuil, NyQuil and a bottle of wine, I went to the wedding. My brokeness would not allow me to buy a plane ticket, so I had to drive. Insomnia allowed me to sleep two full hours before getting up and driving 8 hours through not-95.

I really need to work on my geography. I just knew that my GPS would send me up I95. Nope. I ended up in the mountains somewhere. It was really peaceful. I saw the sun rise over the mountains. I saw wind turbines in person for the first time. It was like being in a screensaver.

As for Niagara Falls...I have no idea how that place has managed to avoid the long arm of commercialism. There was absolutely nothing to do (i.e., places to spend money) besides a casino and some odd shops. You would expect a barrage of fast food, chain restaurants and gift shops. But it was just...meh. There was a TGIFridays, but that was it.

The falls themselves looked nice--smaller than I expected, but nice. I rode the Maid of the Mist and enjoyed seeing them up close, but most of the ride was spent with me balancing my desire to take pictures against my fear of my iPhone getting wet and voiding my AppleCare warranty.

The Canadian side of the falls looked a lot more interesting. If I could illustrate the difference with an analogy:
Their side is Boardwalk and Park Place, the falls are 'Go' and the American side is Baltic and Mediterranean Avenue. They had a Ferris Wheel, a huge observation tower/space needle, casinos, and all kinds of fun looking stuff. We have a TGIFridays...inside a hotel.

I think the border patrol is more to keep us in than to keep them out.