I'm Off The Skag!

I quit. I'm a quitter. I hope, anyways. I've quit smoking. I plan on employing the Sick Boy Method. No patch, no gum, no throat lozenges. I'll have none of it. Instead I've armed myself with reasons. There are tons of them, but the three that stick out the most in my mind are these: 1. D and I have a baby. 2. My uncle had a heart attack recently and almost didn't make it. The doctors attributed it to his smoking. He quit, he's been at it much longer than me, so why can't I? 3. A good friend of mine recently got pneumonia. He's been in the hospital for three weeks. He hasn't come off of the oxygen yet. The doctors are attributing his slow recovery to smoking. He quit, with help from the patch, he has been at it much longer than me, so why can't I?

It's going to be hard, I know. D wholeheartedly recommends the gum, but again I'll be having none of it. The self imposed smoking embargo begins now. And, I'm going gumless!

I've seen my immediate future, and it is bleak to say the least. It includes an on the job nicotine withdrawal freakout where I takle one of my coworkers like my name was Shawne Merriman. Suffice it to say that in the coming days I may be fired from my job. But know this, I have smoked my last smooze because win lose or draw I'm officially off the skag.

Pabst Blue Ribbon

I drink PBR. It’s been that way for awhile now. I was drinking PBR before all those little emo hipsters jumped on my bandwagon and brought the mood down. It’s a fact that I don’t particularly feel the need to defend, so I won’t. Besides, that’s not my purpose here (like I even have one, really). Instead, I want to focus on a little development in my life with regards to my PBR, err, fetish.

Since about a month ago, I made a switch. Mind you, this was not a brand switch, but more of a style change, really. I’ve flirted with that mess before, back in 2003, when I briefly toyed with the notion that Milwaukee’s Best might, indeed, be the best (turns out that Milwaukee’s Best is actually swill and that PBR is still the champ in my house). No, this switch is different. Lately, I’ve been going with the tall boy sixer. Sometimes, when I’m feeling it, I’ll even rock a Rainier tall boy sixer, ya know, just to change it up. I know what you’re thinking, that’s a lot of beer. And, well, it is. But look at it my way. Instead of making three trips to the kitchen, I now only have to make two, and any way you do that math I’m coming out ahead.

Plus, this means more play time with the Bean. I can sit her on my lap and play patty cake for the time that it takes to drink one and a half beers instead of just one. That’s called bonding. I.E. Quality time.

It really is all about the Bean. I promise.

The Foot Powder Follies

The combination of sweaty feet and a job that requires that I stand approximately 90% of the time requires that I use foot powder. It’s a weird thing to talk about on a blog, I know. I use Dr. Scholl’s. Religiously, almost. It’s my brand. It’s not unlike my preference in pop. For me it’s Dr. Pepper or no thank you. There’s no in-between.

The other day I ran out of foot powder, and D, being the observant girl that she is, took it upon herself to replace my depleted supply. It looked the same as always, the Dr. Scholl’s logo displayed on the front, the 10% more claim directly beneath it, and the bold yellow colored bottle I’ve come to rely on.

Yesterday morning, as I readied myself for work, I put generous amounts of the powder in my work shoes and was on my way. The day started off the same as most as me and my morning co-workers readied ourselves for the day ahead. It wasn’t until about a half hour after our real work had begun that I noticed the cold tingling sensation in my feet. I brushed the feeling aside at first, chalking it up to being in a air conditioned environment and promptly forgot about it. Soon I noticed it again, but this time my feet were tingling even more than before. My feet were getting colder and the tingling sensation made me begin to worry.

Heart problems run in my family and while I don’t really know much about the warning signs I imagined that a tingling sensation in any of my extremities could indicate a circulation problem. I was getting worried now, but brushed the feelings aside in favor of getting some work done. I was, after all, on the clock.

By the end of the day, with my feet still cold, I made my way home privately worrying that I may have a much larger problem than just cold feet. Upon arriving back at our house, the first thing I did was remove my shoes and socks. So after I did it, my feet warmed to their usual selves and I decided that I had probably just tied my kicks on to tight. The next day, my feet were cold again, and this time I really started to get worried. But in keeping with the previous day, when I got home and removed my shoes and socks the feeling had, again, quickly subsided.

Finally, on my third morning, I happened to look at the bottle of Dr. Scholl’s foot powder, when I made a little discovery. It seems that D had bought the mentholated version, and since hot feet are not my problem, the powder just, instead of counteracting the heat, made my feet cold. While the worry I had felt for the past couple of days gave way to laughter, I could only shake my head at my reluctance to explore what the cause of my symptoms might have been. Really, the first thing I should’ve done was to inspect the bottle, but in my private worry, I didn’t want to discover that a larger problem existed.

See, I’m afraid of the doctor’s office. I believe that if you want to catch something then the waiting room of any Doctor’s office would be a good place to find it. I’m also afraid of what the Doctor might say in regards to whatever malady brought me in. So I tend to worry about things until they become so dehabilitating that nothing short of a visit to the Doc will suffice.

Sammy Says . . .

While I'm not quite a Two-Toed Sloth, I do lay around a lot. I sigh a lot too. With D caring for Bean and Pau at work, I have the whole day to fill. My time is split between laying around and pestering our cat, Lacy. She was rescued from jail, just like me. Don't get me wrong, neither of us did hard time. It, other than my little cage, was quite nice actually. Three squares a day, and all that, hell; they even had a volunteer who walked me. Not as good as a walk with Paul, but a walk is still a walk, right? A lot of my fellow jailed runaways wouldn't shut up, however, and that sucked. But, again, I digress.

Anyway, back to pestering Lacy. I love it. She (the poor thing) is declawed. Apparently her last owners were sadists, because that kind of thing is bad news. Bad News Bears, you know what I mean? She's got it good here though. Plenty of corners for her to hide in, they even got here one of those scratch post things (which I would knock the hell over if I could). But, sometimes, I get bored and go on the prowl, and that's when Happy Hour starts in mi casa, amigo. I like to sniff her out, and then the chase is on. She swipes at me, but I know she can't hurt me. I don't think she realized that I know the claws are gone. I'm not afraid. There is no reason to be. Now, if she had claws? Well I ain't stupid. I like my nose the way it is, in one piece.

About Pau, he doesn't seem to really like his job. I think he'd rather have my life. You know, all footloose and fancy free. But someone has to make the scratch to buy my food! And I ain't no Hollywood dog, I mean why work when the puppy dog eyes and a sigh technique has worked so well?. I saw Turner and Hooch, and I, as a dog, didn't appreciate the way they made fun of Hooch's drooling problem. All this saliva, coupled with such a long tongue can really blow sometimes. You try to keep it under control when someone is dangling a biscuit in your face. Pavlov while obviously a good scientist, really, in my opinion, sold us out. Collectively. If I could talk, do you know what I would say? I'd say, "Hey, stop messing around and just give me the damn biscuit. We both know that I can roll the fuck over; I showed you that shit yesterday. Right now I want my biscuit, and I ain't doing any song and dance routine to get it." I, by the way, prefer the green milk bones. I do. You can take the "beef liver" brown colored milk bone and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine. Who likes liver anyways? I know who doesn't. Me. Sammy. Sammy the F'N Bull. That's who.

Now if only I could get in on the cat nip. I've sniffed it, and you know what? It doesn't do it for me. I asked Lacy once what it was about the nip that did it for her. She just looked at me with those crazy Cats' eyes and yelled out, "WHOOOOHOOOO!", and then freaked the hell out. Lacy is crazy, man. I'm telling you. She's cuckoo for the nip. Me? Hell, I'm cool with a squeaky toy. That's hours of fun right there. A lot of people probably think that chasing a squeaky toy around is boring. Hell, after 3-4 throws I can even tell that Pau ain't into it anymore. But, I mean, what's a dog to do? I mean, for shit sake, I got to stay spry, man. If you were fast like me then you'd realize that sometimes you gotta stretch your shit out to keep what the good moon gave ya!

Pablo The Penguin

If there’s one development that I haven’t been able to wrap my head around, it’s my sudden insistence that all of my childhood faves return. Take The Penguin That Hated the Cold, for example. As a child I made my parents put in some serious work with this book, and now I find myself beating it into my daughters’ brain. And that’s not the only childhood fave of mine that I’ve been attempting to stampede into Beans subconscious. There’s my Fox and the Hound storybook record, and my old He-Man toys too. What does a little girl want with He-Man toys anyways? I’m not sure if she loves The Penguin That Hated the Cold or if she just smiles so big because of the faces I make when I read it to her, but it makes me happy just the same. So, what gives?

Listen, don’t get me wrong. I’m not denying that Bean will eventually determine her own favorites completely independent of the things I try to thrust upon her, but still. Surely, The Penguin That Hated The Cold is as good as any children’s book, and as a story whose theme it is to be yourself I could do a lot worse. Thing is, while she seems to enjoy it now, the day will come when she requests her true favorite and I, in keeping with my effort to be a good Dad, will give in and, well, let her be herself.

Maybe it’s because I had such a happy childhood, dominated by favorites that I can still remember fondly to this day. But, things have changed, and the world is a much different place. Take the closing scene from episode 1 of the Wire, where a young boy sat on his steps pondering his part in the death/murder of another kid while a police car raced past his house. Shortly after the fuzz sped by his Mom called him in, and the show ended when he closed the door. The scene continues to resonate with me, in both its sadness and blunt reality. Surely, the Bean’s reality will, hopefully, be much different than his, but still I can’t help but wonder about the world she’s going to grow up in. A world where every system that my parents counted on is corrupt and where most of the institutions that are in place have become so oligarchic that only the whims of the economic and corporate elite are pandered to, while our poorest cities eat themselves from within.

My favorites are good, or at least they were for me, but the Bean will inevitably determine her own. Sadly, she can’t have my reality, but, if D and I are lucky enough she can possibly have one of her own that rivals ours in terms of happiness. That, I’ve decided, is all that I want. A big smile flashed across her face as much as is humanly possible. Besides, what else is there?

Update: I've fixed the, "My Daughter is Afraid of Mike Tyson", post.

Sunday's are for Beer

Finally, some testosterone. Football is back, for real this time, and I’m not talking about some Thursday night teaser either. Or the college game. To hell with that mess. College football sucks. Actually, I don’t really know if that’s true because I never watch it. Never. As in, fuck that. I’ll watch the Dart Championship before college football. I like man sports where men get paid to play. Wait . . . never mind.

The Monday Morning Remnants:
Nine road victories? What’s that about? The morning games alone nearly put the kibosh on any hope I had of claiming the $50 prize in my pool. As luck would have it though, everyone got screwed in the morning, and somehow, after the confidence points were tallied, I found myself tied for the win. Only problem is that I need a Minnesota victory and San Diego to lose (outright or by the spread) to pull this thing off. That’s like playing for a flush draw on the river. That’s not really a draw now is it? That’s just a gamble.

Aston Villa
My fantasy squad (I like to call them that), Aston Villa (It always seems to piss at least one person in the league off when I name my Fantasy Football team after a Futbol team, and that makes me happy), got the win, and while the only thing lamer than playing fantasy football is blathering on about it, I’ve never let the threat of lameness stop me so why start now? The match was a wrap after the night cap, and I still got two going today. Icing. That’s all that is, just icing on the cake I’m going to throw in my opponents face later today on the league message board.

The Other Bay Area’s:
Things aren’t looking good for fan's of teams in the league’s other Bay areas. Both Green Bay and Tampa Bay got shutout. Wow. They both suck, sure, but to get shutout, on opening day, that’s pretty weak. Okay, so they both went up against great defenses, but please. Can somebody just kick a damn field goal? All the other teams kicked field goals. In fact, after what seemed like a morning full of field goals, you'd think that Green Bay and Tampa Bay would've been good for a couple as well, right? The only thing interesting about the Baltimore-Tampa Bay tilt (beside the fact that they might have an offense now), to me at least, was thinking about the return of the Wire while the game was on. Returning on the first Sunday of NFL Football 2006, by the way, was, in my mind, a brilliant way for the fine American’s over at HBO to ensure that every Sunday from here through the holiday’s will in fact be Man Day. As for the real “Bay Area”, their San Francisco 49ers put up 27 on the Cards. 27. That’s like 24 more points than I thought they would.

The Return of Seahawks Football:
They’re back! You had to figure that they would just come out roughshod against the lowly Lions from the D didn’t you? Like they would just take out all the angst they must’ve felt during the off-season on Kitna and crew? But, that didn’t really happen. Instead we were treated to two and a half hours of boredom. One of the people from my work actually said to me, in all seriousness, that, “if you look at the stats, they’re good”. I don’t even know what that means. However, I do know that I won’t be wasting too much more of my time yakking with that yokel. The stats looked good? Is there a stat for punishment? Because Hasselbeck almost got killed. After his being on the recieving end of five sacks and a number of other solid hits I'm sore for him. It got so bad that my television screen morphed into an abyss, and as I sat transfixed by its evil beauty, it ate my soul. It really got that bad.

My mind wandered aimlessly, I began looking into my half empty beer and wondering how many more of them I was going to need, and I started to daydream. I thought about life on other planets, pondered the fact that it has really been 5 years since 9/11, and wondered how it could be that people still find it in their hearts to say nice things about Ben Affleck when they can’t even drive on the freeway without cutting me off. How many lives does that guy have anyways? 12? How many bad movies (I won't count Phantoms 'cause I liked that shit) can he make before we collectively stand up and say, “no more, Mr. Affleck, no more”?

There were moments when I would focus back on the game and watch with a glimmer of hope. Hope that a touchdown was near or that Shaun Alexander would break free. It never happened, though. None of it and, instead of a morning filled with cheers, I found myself flipping through other games and wondering if there is any truth to the Angelina Jolie rumors, and, if so, when the vid will surface.

Upcoming:
2 for Monday!
(Updated) The Seattle Seahawks got Dion Branch from New England. The specifics aren't important. Who cares about that crap? What matters is that while Seattle's no touchdown performance yesterday is no cause for alarm, it definately will not happen again next week.

I Don't Want to Grow Up!

She doesn't quite fill it out yet, but the Bean is rocking her Descendents onesie just the same. Now, if I could only get her to listen to Bonus Fat without crying, then I'd really be on to something. For now I suppose that flexing the onesie will have to suffice, but the day will come, you mark my words, when I mold my little girl into the punk rock princess she was born to be. It's either that or I'll be buying her Justin Timberlake (or whoever comes along to supplant him) records for the next 6 years.

The Crying Game

My Mom - who else? - said that there would be days like this. I'm beyond exhausted after getting approximately 3 hours of good sleep last night. Every time things seemed to settle down and just before the last sheep had been counted Bean would rise again. She's almost 7 months old now, and in addition to a lot of other lovely discoveries she's learned to scream. I mean really wail. When it comes to pure unadulterated guttural screams, Bean does not play around. It sounds like the entire Seattle Symphony Orchestra is coming through our baby monitor, all of them. Even their shitty clarinet player, you know the one right? She's sitting with the rest of the orchestra, her hands are moving, and her mouth seems to be blowing, but I swear I can't hear any damn clarinet in the mix. I move to ban all clarinets from Symphony Orchestra's everywhere and if I didn't have a heart I would chuck the damn baby monitor out the window with them. But I can't do that, now can I? If I did then what kind of parent would I be? I'm shooting for "marginally good" so there will be no throwing of the baby monitor any time soon. But, if I could get away with it, without D breaking my nose, then I just might. No. Wait. On second thought, I would never do that. I love my little Bean and fancy myself as a damn nice fellow, so, again, there will be no throwing of the baby monitor.

But, if there was a time when I could've got away with throwing the baby monitor out the window, I think last night was it. The crying was incessant. It just went, nonstop. Sure, Bean would give us momentary respites from her paint peeling serenade, but for the most part last night was abysmal. Now that I think about it, I don't even know if I got 3 good hours of sleep at all. I don't feel like I got three good hours of sleep, and, since this bit is going to be completely selfish and all about me, I demand that in the future I get more sleep. I realize that I don't really have a say in the matter, but still.

It’s our fault, though. So I guess that I really don’t have much ground to stand on. We had been working a co-sleeping arrangement for a while. It worked for us, but in the long run we knew it wouldn’t be in our best interest to continue. Finally, after some debate, we decided it was time for Bean to sleep in her room. We’ve been working on it now for almost two weeks. Some nights are great, while others are, well, not so great. But, last night, by far, has been the worst. Each time she started with a whimper – the kind that just make you feel bad – and then would break into a full on wail. She can go from soft whiny moans to a full on buzz saw attack quicker than Shaun Alexander can juke a lineman. I’m not kidding, she’s that good. Usually my little angel tires herself out after a few minutes. Sometimes, we have to go in a couple of times to calm her down, but then after that she’s golden. Not last night though. Last night it was nothing doing, and even after reaching deep into our bag of tricks we still came up empty. I can’t begin to describe the feeling of failing – miserably – at soothing your child, and the truth is I don’t really want too.

I hope I make it through work today, I have my doubts, but I think I’m good for it. I’ll be thinking about bed the entire time, so I fear that my employer will just have to suck it up today and pay me for nothing, but I’ll show up. I’ll even be on time. I’ll be worthless, but punctual. That’s going to be my new motto, in fact.

“Hey Pau, what’s your motto?”
“I’m worthless, but punctual.”

Does that even qualify as a motto? I don’t know, I’m too tired to tell. Furthermore, I don’t care, because, again, I’m too tired to care.

Raccoons: Nasty Little Critters

My computer/office room is located away from my house. It sits just off the car port, completely detached from the comforts of my house. The idea when we built it was to keep our workspace separate from the more comfortable space inside our home. Now, it’s really just a pain in the ass. Nevertheless, I usually make a stop into the computer room shortly before going to bed. It’s a nice place to relax. We even have a bench in the backyard in between the house and the office. On cool evenings it’s a nice place to spend the last fifteen minutes before going to bed.

Last night, for the first time in a couple of years, I saw some raccoons. See, we've had problems with these nasty buggers before. A family five raccoons took a liking to the fence that runs up my driveway and across the length of my yard serving as a buffer between my neighbor’s beautifully lush deep green colored grass and the slightly blondish looking collection of weeds I keep in my yard. For the entire summer of 2004 those 5 miscreants taunted me. Sometimes they would simply knock over my trash bin. Other times they, when the moon was full, would graffiti my driveway and spray paint there little raccoon tags onto the siding of my house. There were even nights when, after arriving home late from work, the five of them would just sit on the fence watching me as I cautiously made my way towards the door while flashing their raccoon gang signs and making fun of my ride.

We solved the problem easily enough. Basically, a raccoon problem is easy to fix with a couple of coffee cans containing ammonia soaked rags. According to the local animal control authority that we consulted when the problem got out of hand they smell the ammonia and assume that it is the urine of a much larger and potentially dangerous animal.

This time, however, the raccoons had no use for my fence and instead directed their attention towards my neighbors’ garden. Before I continue it should be said that I don’t like a raccoon. Rocky Raccoon? Sure, I mean how could you not? But, a real life raccoon? Well, not so much. There is something about those nasty little bastards. I think it’s the patch of dark colored hair that circles their eyes like a mask. They just look crooked, and last night, in a behavior that suits their looks, they burgled my neighbor’s garden right before my eyes. Talk about gall! They are to the Western Washington suburbs what Gophers are to Southern California. Just a complete annoyance, nay a scourge!

After contemplating the idea of filling my super soaker with ammonia and unleashing hell on the little bastards, I thought better of it. I mean, there’s no reason to poison my neighbors now is there? I suppose that if I see my neighbors tomorrow I’ll just give them the heads up and let them know about the shenanigans that I witnessed last night in their beloved garden. I might even let them in on my ammonia trick. After all it would be the neighborly thing to do and since they have been nice enough to put up with my barking dogs it seems like the least I can do.

Sammy is Fast

From the perspective of my dog:

"Oh I'm a fast dog. I'm fast-fast. It's true and I love being fast I admit it I love it. You know fast dogs. Dogs that just run by and you say, "Damn! That's a fast dog!" Well that's me. A fast dog. Hoooooooo! I'm a fast dog. Hooooooooooooo! You should watch me sometime. Just watch how fast I go when I'm going my fastest, when I've really got to move for something, when I'm really on my way - man do I get going sometimes, weaving like a missile, weaving like a missile between trees and around bushes and then - pop! - I can go over a fence or a baby or a rock or anything because I'm a fast fast dog and I can jump like a fucking gazelle." from After I Was Thrown in the River and Before I Drowned by Dave Egger's

Man oh man, when I read that, while sitting inside on a rainy day waiting for Pau (the guy who walks and feeds me (a good looking debonair type chap by the way)) to get home from wherever the hell it is he goes, I thought to myself, "Who is this Egger's fellow? And why the hell is he spying on me?" He was so dead on. About me, I mean. What he forgot to mention was my strength. I'm strong strong. I have cheetah like speed, gazelle like grace, and bull like strength. Hell, I could put those Pamplona chumps to shame. I mean I wouldn't gore anybody; I'd just weave in and out of the crowd and leave those sad sappy suckers in the dust! ‘Cause that's what I do. I can swim too. I invented the dog paddle. Me. And I'm fast at that too. I fast at everything. I'm so fast I don't need to use the verb am, ‘cause it just slows me down. It should be illegal. But until they post speed limit signs on grass and in the forest, I'm gonna keep on truckin' and keep on haulin' ass! Some people would say that it's crazy to run so fast. But I don't care. My name is Sammy the Bull and I'll do whatever the hell I want.

And now since dogs can’t talk:

It’s been awhile since Sammy and I have gone on a trip around the block. Lately, he’s been neglected in favor of the Bean. He’s a good dog, though, and is content to play a little fetch in the backyard. But, I owe him more than that. I owe him a walk around the block. It’d be like old times. I’m sure he would appreciate it. I know that my growing tummy would. What I need to do is set a schedule. I’ve never been good at things like that, but now, with all my newfound responsibilities, would be a great time to start. I’ve found that if you don’t at least attempt to plan ahead when you have an infant child to watch over, then you’ll usually get nothing done. So far, in our neglect of everything that is not named Bean, we have succeeded in putting ourselves in one bad position after another. The dishes mount, the layers of dirt on my car are slowing us down in traffic, and my work shirts all need ironing. Now, more than ever, I need to get organized. I need a list and a fine tip black sharpie to hash little checkmarks next to each item.

Yep, that’d do it. But, of course the Bean would be at the top of that list and depending on the amount of work item number one requires then the rest might just sit there on the page taunting me and begging for a little check mark. After all, a sharpie only works if you take off the cap.

Buying for Baby

I've developed a nasty little web shopping habit. I already have this onesie on the way, and now, after browsing through Awesome! and Daddy Drama, have made three more purchases for the Bean.

The first, as I've already said, is the above Descendents onesie. They've long been a favorite of mine, and just like all marginally good parents I'm attempting to make Bean love them too. Starting with this onesie. Now, if I could only get her to listen to "Catalina" without crying.



Next, I found the above car on Daddy Drama, and had to have one. It's not the most girly of toys, but Bean is in to green right now in a major way. She is! I've done tests! When I hold a pink toy and a green toy in each of my hands, Bean always reaches for the green. I'm going to encourage this color preference as much as possible because pink is slowly taking over my house and it's time to fight back!



I found the above via Awesome's "Orange Post". In keeping with my decision to wage war against all things pink with the color green, I opted for the limited edition clops instead of the orange one suggested by the site. I'm a loner Dotty, a rebel.

And last, but certainly not least, is this. It's a little froggy grasping toy. I can't remember the exact sequence of clicks that led me here, but I'm sure that either Awesome or Daddy Drama had something to do with it. As soon as all of Bean's new toys arrive, then, suffice it to say that pink will offically be on notice around my house. Your days are numbered pink, NUMBERED.

My Daughter is Afraid of Mike Tyson

Granted, she's never seen the man, in person or otherwise, but she is afraid of him nonetheless. I know that she is afraid of Mike Tyson because I use his voice as my cell phone’s ringtone. I am that big of a dork. It's a fact that I'm not always proud of, but even after numerous embarrassing moments at video rental places and various other stores, I've always been too lazy to change it. Things change when you have a kid. Bean doesn't like it when people call me and Mike Tyson's voice starts to come out of my phone. In fact she dislikes it so much that nearly every time it happens she starts to cry. I think he scares her. Hell, I'm afraid of him too, it's just that I've always found it kind of funny.

Now, though, in keeping with all the other things in my life that have changed since her arrival, I'm starting to rethink my ringtone choices. So since Bean is my real life equivalent of Little Mac, we'll be going with the soothing sounds of Miss Cat Power instead of Mike Tyson's fighting words. That oughta do it. Now, since Cat Power is decidedly not scary peace will reign in my house even if someone decides to call after 8pm!

However, something’s will not change. My boy Inigo Montoya will continue to alert me of incoming text messages and the Geto Boys will continue to wake me for work. I've been waking up to Damn It Feels Good to Be a Gangsta for so long now that I'm afraid to change it out of fear of never waking up again. Besides, Bean has her own room so she can't even hear all the cussing.

Wedding

D, the Bean and I went to a wedding last night. D’s older brother finally tied the knot with his girlfriend of seven years. The ceremony was beautiful, and the weather for it could not have been any better. The temperature hung around the mid 80’s for the entire service, and while that’s hot for Western Washington it wasn’t unbearable. The couple exchanged their vows on a balcony overlooking a golf course below and when Bean decided to chime in D, in all her mother of the year glory, quickly scooped her up and calmed her down.

Besides learning that D and I have all but forgotten how to party, it was a lot of fun. Her brothers’ speech was great. He made a few of the women, including D, tear up a little bit. She blamed her tears on a bee, but everyone at our table knew that the speech was the culprit.

The event marked the first time that Bean has been in a room full of people who were nearly all family. Everyone wanted to meet her or to say hi, so she was on sensory overload for the entire event. We fed her at the table as we ate. She had a chicken noodle concoction while the rest of us woofed down the delicious assortment of hours devours provided by the weddings caterer. Later, after the newly married couple had their first dance, Bean fell asleep in my arms. All in all, it was a good day.

Shortly after Bean fell asleep in my arms, D and I decided that it was time to make the rounds and say our goodbyes. One of D’s aunts remarked that the first time she brought her twins to a family gathering they both cried all night as a result. At the time I brushed it of, but it turns out that her little pearl of wisdom was true. The Bean had minor little fits all night long. They were spaced out by about 30-45 minute intervals, and each time she would wake up briefly before falling back asleep. As a rule we want her to sleep in her crib. We’ve been working on this for awhile now and, besides our moments of incessant guilt and hand wringing, it has been going pretty good.

However, last night was different. These screams were new. It seemed like, besides being just your normal run of the mill scream fest, Bean was screaming away the remnants of a bad dream each time she awoke. I felt terrible about it, and finally gave in around midnight. What can I say? I’m a soft touch. After making my way to her room to get a look, I found her on all fours. She looked up at me and just wailed, so I scooped her up and tried my best to soothe her. It worked, albeit only briefly, and after crying for another ten minutes, I gave in and brought her to bed with us. She continued her pattern of at least one scream per 45 minutes for the rest of the night, but with her in our room we were both right there to soothe her every time.

Maybe we’re spoiling her. Maybe if we continue giving in then we may only succeed in raising a spoiled little brat. I suppose that it is selfish in some respects too. When she gets like that, something inside me says, “Go save her dad”. I can’t help it. In most cases behaving in this manner is probably defeatist, but last night, she needed us. Sometimes it’s nice to be needed, but if this trend continues we’re going to have to find a happy medium where the Bean can learn some independence without us always feeling terrible about it.

Piano

D and I bought an electric keyboard off of Craigslist about two months ago. At the time the purchase seemed like a hair brained idea to me since neither of us could actually play the Piano. D, however, assured me otherwise when she told me that she played a little as a child. I played a little guitar as a child, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to run out and buy one so that I can sit in the living room strumming my little heart away while sucking at it in front of my girls. But, D was persistent, as she tends to be, and finally I relented and green lit the purchase. Actually, that’s not entirely true. D doesn’t need me to green light anything. When D gets an idea in her head she goes for it.

When we got our new electric piano home, I was surprised to find out that D actually played the songs from her youth quite well, and that after only a couple of days had learned a few more songs by ear. Though the discovery of D’s talent left me more than a bit jealous, I was amazed at her aptitude for the piano. She’s become very good at it. She doesn’t play it as much as she did when we first brought it home, but when she does the Bean loves it.

This morning, as I sat outside enjoying my coffee, D and Bean played a duet. I could hear it echoing out from the backdoor. I sat there entranced for a few minutes. Bean must’ve been on her lap, I thought. I could hear her excited screams and every once in a while a random misplayed note would come with them. They played for about a half hour with me as their unknown audience sitting outside the whole time. I wanted to go in and watch, but decided that risking their momentum wasn’t worth it. So instead, I just listened with a big smile on my face as I watched the sun come up to D and Bean's serenade.

Maybe, if I’m lucky, there will be a piano recital in Beans future. D and I would be there, in the crowd, proudly recording the event. We’d watch it over and over, forcing Bean to sit through it with us every time. We’d tell all our family and friends about our daughters’ virtuosity. We’d become braggarts and the musical equivalent of Soccer parents.

“C’mon Coach! Where’s Beans solo!” I’d scream as I spit a sunflower seed into the row in front of me. I’d feel righteous about it too. How dare the coach not let all the people in the crowd feel my daughter’s brilliance! Well, I hope not. Besides I’m getting way ahead of myself, just as most new parents tend to do. But, the fact remains that, for now at least, with me as their audience, I’m happy that we bought it. I’ll be even happier when Bean rocks her first few bars of “Chopsticks”.

It seems that purchasing the piano, an event that I wasn’t so sure about at the time, was, in fact, a good thing. D’s much smarter than me when it comes to things like that, and in keeping with her mother of the year status (I judged the competition so what’d you expect), has found a new way to keep the Bean happy when all else fails. Next stop, Beethoven’s 5th!

R.I.P. Steve Irwin

Steve Irwin was killed by a stingray while filming a new documentary on the Great Barrier Reef. He left behind two children (Bindi 8, and Bob 2) and his wife and coworker Terri.

This makes me very sad on a number of levels.

Teething

Always be prepared, that’s my motto, that and, “We can dance if we want to, we can leave your friends behind, 'cause your friends don't dance and if they don't dance, well they're no friends of mine”. In truth, the ‘always be prepared’ part is a bit of a stretch. I never made it past the Webelos, due primarily to a nasty little behavior problem I developed as a child. Having never had the opportunity to achieve Tenderfoot status, I’m forced to rely on my experience as a member of the Yokut Indian Guides when dealing with my newfound responsibilities as an adult and father of a beautiful baby girl. I still call upon the memories of my time as, “Running Bull”, in the Indian Guides and am still filled with an extraordinary sense of accomplishment whenever I happen to look at my highest flying kite trophy earned by my father and me. Even at that young age I can remember thinking, after seeing my kite burst into flames due to its proximity to the sun that it was a wrap and that all the other little brats would have to look on with envy as my Father and I walked to the podium to receive our prize. Still, my experience in the Indian Guides and my subsequent stint with the Webelos could not have prepared me for the parental rite of passage that I like to call teething.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for this. I don’t want to say that the Bean is inconsolable, but she is. My funny dancing routine, the making of odd little noises with my mouth, and tickling have all failed me. Even our collection of cute little teething toys has proved futile in Bean’s battle with the two little white razors that are cutting through her bottom gums. Twenty some odd dollars later, and after watching each teething toy fail in succession, we have made a fantastic discovery. It’s a simple and cost-effective means of relief. A baby sock, one ice cube, and a small rubber band is all that it requires. That such a simple and readily available remedy works has me rethinking the entire baby aisle at Freddy’s.

This magical ice sock, as I like to call it, has ushered in a temporary reprieve from what had been, until its discovery, a maddening time. It comes off as some sort of cheap parlor trick every time D and I use the ice sock to steal some small and fleeting moments of serenity in between wails, but it works nonetheless.

This morning, I used the ice sock supreme to buy me enough time to give the new Bob Dylan album a listen. It worked in tandem with a colorful cartoon set to mute while Bob Dylan reverberated through my stereo speakers. As a method to buy ourselves some “me” time, it worked brilliantly until, “Someday Baby”, ran its course. That’s when Bean finally caught on to our rouse and decided that enough was enough. Soon the wailing began again and operation “soothe the baby” was in full effect.

Bean is like some twisted puppet master who decides where and when to play D and I like the marionettes we’ve become. Parenthood? Yeah, right. Claiming that would require some semblance of control and with the reins firmly in Bean’s little mitts it seems like our life as puppets is going to continue for some time. At least until she’s old enough to reason. As soon as that day comes I will position myself as the Tony Danza of our home. Wait, bad example. Samantha ran that shit, didn’t she?

What's On Your List Today?

I am a devout Fred Meyer grocery shopper, which is a constant source of ridicule from my more cost conscientious friends who claim that my favorite grocery store is too expensive. However, the fact is that if you really wanted to get the best price possible then doing your grocery shopping at only one store would most assuredly not be an option. Instead that sort of endeavor would require planning and stops at no less than three grocery stores and maybe even a drug store or two. Hell, after you factor in gas prices, the psychic toll caused by your inevitable traffic anguish, and the mileage involved then the savings, if you can still call it that, probably isn’t worth the trouble required. Besides, I, not unlike most grocery shoppers, don’t choose my store based on cost alone. Instead I’m looking at factors like convenience, and, most importantly, familiarity.

It’s the last bit, familiarity, which really is my primary concern. In the 3+ years that I’ve been shopping at Fred Meyer I’ve become a sort of speed shopping savant who is capable of planning the quickest route based on any (the more complex the better) shopping list. I’ve become so skilled, in fact, that I’m contemplating starting my own Fred Meyer mapping service where customers would hand me their shopping list and I, in turn, would provide the quickest possible route from the entrance to the checkout stand for them, complete with a hand drawn map and a cereal box compass (magnetic north be damned). Need a yo-yo, a bag of Chex mix, and a loaf of Gouda? Well, I’m your man, step right up.

There is only one little hitch though, and that is that like all small brained business plans, this one, sadly, will never get off the ground. Why? Because, coming from what I like to call, “the great Fred Meyer corporate mandate of 2006”, my local Freddy’s has decided to rearrange their shit.

That’s balls.

They should’ve put a disclaimer on the ad I received in the mail today that the USDA Choice T-Bone steaks that they so prominently displayed on page 1 had a new home. Just that small little declaration would’ve been enough. I consider myself a solid C-student so I’m pretty confident that with this small, but very helpful, tip of the hat I would’ve been able to figure that there would be a small trickle down effect in the meat department. That the frozen food section was also rearranged, apparently at random, is besides the point and completely beyond me. They didn’t have to do that. They could’ve kept things simple. They could’ve just put the chicken where the beef had been and left the pork in its right place as a buffer between the two. But, no! They had to go and mangle the frozen food section too.

The bottom line is this: Fred Meyer has simultaneously destroyed my small business idea and completely changed an environment that I had become comfortably familiar with. It’s like a whole new world in there. I flirted, albeit briefly, with the idea of giving Safeway a crack at my business, and if not for those damn club cards I may have. In the end what should’ve taken a mere 7 minutes and 23 seconds (savant I say!) took a half hour, and, that my friends, is not cool. Not cool at all.

And I still can’t find a frickin’ yo-yo to save my life.

The Talking Bean

It's only been 6 months and 22 days since I became a father. In the overall scheme of things that, really, isn't that long. It just seems like it, in a good way. There's a certain level of joy and accomplishment with each new day. Our daughter surprises my girl and I with something new every single day. It's lovely, exciting even. I remember, just before my girl gave birth, how everyone kept saying that as soon as she came everything, every single thing, would be different. It's a fun sentiment, sure, but, in reality, isn't entirely true. Sure, my perception of pretty much everything has changed, mostly due to the sleep deprivation. But a lot of stuff is the exact same. My bills still come every month, my cable/internet company is still a bastard, and we still try to eat healthy even though the frozen food section of our local grocery store taunts us mercilessly. It's the old death & taxes adage. Some things never change. In a way, though, they were right. Everything has changed, and it just keeps getting better.

My daughter, just in time for my recent birthday, finally uttered the words that I had so impatiently been waiting for - "Dah-Dah". Really, it was more like, "Dah dah dah dah dah", but beggars can't be choosers. She doesn't know where to stop yet, but she's getting there. It was a month ago when she surprised us by saying, "Ma-ma". The first time I heard it I scared the shit out of her in my excited rush to congratulate her on her first word. Now, she's actually pretty good at it. She, the little show off, can drop it on command. Shortly after the words "Ma-ma" came, she learned "Gam-ma". It was another cool little development, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't slightly jealous at the order of things. But, now, finally, she's saying my new name - "Dah-dah", and I love it. My goal was to get her to call me "Pah-pah", but D (my girl) and I switched that up when we decided that "Dah-dah" would be easier for her to learn. This thought process is probably not true, but we are pretty good at fooling ourselves, so, at the time, we just sort of went with it.

The Bean (an affectionate nickname, not her given name) likes to taunt me with it though. She won't do it on command, not yet anyways. Instead, when I ask for it, she replies with a puzzled look on her face. Just to mess with her proud Papa, she only drops it when I least expect it. For instance, if D and I are watching TV and she's sitting in D's lap, she, sometimes, will look my way and break off a little, "Dah dah dah dah dah", followed by a more guttural sound. Whenever I excitedly turn her way, she smiles really big and then, in a moment of bashfulness, turns away and buries her head into D's shoulder. After that, I'll try to get her to say it again, but it's nothing doing. Instead the game ends with her up 1-to-nothing on good ol' dad. She's sneaky like that and just way slicker than me.

She got me again this morning. D had put Bean in her Baby Bumbo, with a mixture of toys at her feet, and turned on Blues Clues while I finished preparing our morning coffee. I hate Blues Clues (the host freaks me the hell out) but she seems to dig it, and if I have to listen to our pesky little Baby Einstein DVD again I might freak out before our coffee has had a chance to percolate. We can't have that. Not in front of the baby! After waiting until the last drip I slowly poured myself a cup, leaving just enough room for a splash of 1%, and heard her say, "Dah dah dah dah dah", from the other room. In my excitement, I always get excited when she says it, I almost spilled my cup of coffee. When I reached her in the other room, she had her hands together in front of her mouth. She wore a big smile that stretched out beyond her tiny paws, and, as always, it made me feel great. Like a million bucks, really, or at least what I imagine a million bucks would feel like.

After attempting to get her to repeat herself and not succeeding, I sat in the chair closest to hers and watched the end of Blues Clues. Did I mention that I hate Blues Clues? But, it's not like I was paying attention to the show anyways. Really, I was just sitting there, staring at my TV and thinking about how proud I was that she finally learned my name. It's a simple pleasure that I had never given any thought before she was born. Now that it has happened, just like all of her little developments, I can't wait to see what's next. Maybe it'll be a front flip, or maybe she'll decide to bring some heat my way with the little plush hacky sack I gave her. A two-seamer with wicked movement, or something like that. In truth though, I'll settle for anything, no matter how small. That's the brilliant thing about being a new parent and living in a world that is almost completely different. It doesn't take much to surprise you, and sometimes, even the littlest things, bring about the most mind blowing moments of unbridled joy.