Cheeky's Hideaway

Spirit of '76

My clearest memories of Independence Day growing up--aside from lighting snakes on the driveway--was around the US Bicentennial in 1976.  All the teachers in school were a-twitter about the significance ("200 years old!") and regaled us with tales of Paul Revere, Thomas Jefferson, and Ben Franklin.  The fireworks were an extra-big deal that year, and celebrities like Sandy Duncan , Captain & Tennille, and Evel Knievel all seemed to have specials celebrating it.  As a six year-old, it was AWESOME.

So when a group of comrades on a music bulletin board I periodically waste time on decided to split up the 70's and make mixes for each year of the decade, I volunteered for 1976.  I was a little worried at first, since '76 was when Zeppelin and the Stones started phoning it in and just before punk really took off, but I was able to pull together a respectable retrospective of the year.

To celebrate your 4th, and perhaps transport yourself back to a time when there wasn't all the hand-wringing about flag-pins and patriotism, I'm sharing the mix with you.  While you're at it, you should check out some of the great other mixes from the decade, like 1975 and 1978.

Here's the tracklist, and you can download it here.  You go enjoy now.

1. Thin Lizzy - Jailbreak
2. AC/DC - Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap
3. Kiss - Shout it Out Loud
4. Aerosmith - Sick as a Dog
5. Boston - More Than a Feeling
6. Styx - Lorelei
7. Flamin' Groovies - Shake Some Action
8. Electric Light Orchestra - Do Ya
9. Rod Stewart - The Killing of Georgie (Part I and II)
10. Peter Frampton - Lines on my Face
11. The Modern Lovers - Pablo Picasso
12. Bob Seger & the Silver Bullet Band - Night Moves
13. Tom Waits - Tom Traubert's Blues
14. Gordon Lightfoot - Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
15. Blue Oyster Cult - (Don't Fear) The Reaper
16. Bob Dylan - Mozambique
17. The Commodores  - Fancy Dancer
18. Hot Chocolate - You Sexy Thing
19. KC & The Sunshine Band - I'm Your Boogie Man
20. Boz Scaggs - Lido Shuffle
21. Stevie Wonder - Sir Duke

We're doing the 80's next so keep your eyes open for another mix once we kick that off.  I've already claimed 1982, and I've whittled the tracklist down to a cozy 41 songs. 

Why Noggin' is a Better English Teacher than Me

Cheeky:  Look, that's my new fool!

Me:  Right, it's your new school.  Can you say "school?"  SK-OOL?

Cheeky:  Fool!

Me:  No, it's SK-OOL.  School!

Cheeky:  Right, daddy.  Fool!

Me:  Yeah.  Fool.  Whatever...

Some time later...

Me:  What do you want to eat?

Cheeky:  Um....I want some pfthert!

Me:  Some what? 

Cheeky:  I want some pfthert, Daddy.

Me:  Pfthert?  What the hell is pfthert?

Oodgie:  (translating) She means dessert.

Me:  You want some dessert.  Can you say, "dessert?"  DA-ZERT?

Cheeky:  Sure!  Fazert!

Me:  Um, let's try one more time.  DA-ZERT.  Say it with me.

Cheeky;  FA-ZERT!

Oodgie:  Cheeky, why don't you tell daddy what you told me you were good at today.

Cheeky:  (smiling)  METACOGNITION!

Where's Your Lost & Found? I'm Looking for MY MIND

By now you've probably figured out that our daily life is utterly boring.  Writing about it would induce comas and beg comparisons to watching cars rust. 

We tend to compensate for this by going overboard every once in a while with a freewheeling "Hey, let's drive to Washington DC this weekend and tour the White House" sort of attitude.  These high-risk adventures tend to prove repeatedly that we aren't very good at them, much like investing in the stock market on September 10, 2001 taught me much about my knack for market-timing.

This last weekend, to yet again labor the point, we did indeed drive to Washington DC, opting to spend our Friday staring at the ass of New Jersey traffic for six hours rather than try to fill the chasm left by the final episode of Battlestar Galactica with apartment-bound activities.

As I've mentioned before, we have an otherwise normal friend who has untethered herself from reality to work in the White House, serving as an assistance communications director and liaison for such low profile agencies as the EPA, Homeland Security, and the Justice Department.  As a result she has special access, and as long as we promised not to make snide remarks about the administration we could take a tour of the West Wing.  Who knows when we'd get an offer like that again, so we said yes.

So this last weekend we loaded up all the necessary provisions for a long car ride with the Cheekster and slowly made our way down to DC.  Cheeky is a non-stop talker, and when she's tired she can get a little "off", so our strategy consisted primarily of multiple distractions and all the totemistic objects that she needs to sleep.  It's a tried and true strategy, and it got us through day one with minimal scarring.

The weekend was short but nice, included a panda-viewing, an ill-advised detour through Adams Morgan, and an important lesson in never letting your child go to bed before she meets the babysitter.  But the drive home...that's another story.

As mentioned above, we have a strategy for long car trips.  There are three requirements for a moderately tolerable drive with Cheeky, regardless of length or circumstances:

1. Time it so she's tired and likely to nap
2. Ensure necessary comforts--such her favorite blanket--are present
3. Provide ample televised entertainment

In a fit of extreme incompetence, we managed to do the following:

1. Let her fall asleep for five minutes just before we left...just long enough to keep her from falling back asleep but leave her tired for the rest of the day
2. Lost her favorite blanket--an object she values more than ketchup or the love of her parents--somewhere on the streets of DC
3. Left our DVD player an all DVDs on the curb in front of the hotel.

This all happened within the span of about 40 minutes, just as we were leaving.  The last was not discovered until we were halfway to Baltimore.  The cumulative results...catastrophic.

Panic.  Tears.  Improvised attempts at placation.  Finally, defeat.  You may have heard the air-raid sirens in your neighborhood, for all we know.  We were miserable beyond belief.  All of us, traveling together in a frantic, pathetic, anxious box, bouncing slowly, inexorably north while a line of cards formed to block our path at the Holland Tunnel. 

So desperate were we that we stopped at a Best Buy and bought another DVD player, calculating that $200 was a fair price to pay for a respite from the wails of dismay.

712 hours later, as we finally collapsed into a frazzled heap on our couch, Oodgie fixed me with a stare that said, "What I am about to say will be the final word on the subject."

"From now on, we FLY."

No argument, baby...no argument....

NOTE:  Some of you in "the know" may note that this post is a week late in coming.  It takes that long for the anti-anxiety medication to take effect.

Got Some Beef in My Teeth and Some Chicken, Too

Is there a more useless product on the planet than children's toothpaste?

Let's be honest; toothpaste is about as effective on a toddler as Wii Sports is on my tennis game.  It gives the illusion of progress, but you're really just flailing about.

First, let's talk taste. Cheeky's toothpaste comes in two flavors: strawberry and Little Bear.  It's been a long time since I've eaten bear, but I'm pretty sure it tastes nothing like bubble gum, so this is clearly mislabeled. 

What about those flavors is supposed to make your breath smell good?  Being near her is like standing in front of the exhaust vent at a tire factory.  You'd think a family of gypsy's had moved into her mouth and were setting up a fertilizer business. 

(I must confess it's hard to complain, as the stench of her breath gives a brief respite from the near continuous commentary from Oodgie about the scent of my own oral cavity, which she likens to the rotting underbelly of a beached squid)

Let's assume that, despite the questionable flavor choices, they actually clean teeth.  If Cheeky is at all representative, then I'd say toothpaste collectively touches about seventeen toddler teeth nationwide every night.  The first thing she does is suck it down her throat like it's whipped cream.  Then she  aggressively scrapes the enamel off her front four teeth with the now-dry toothbrush.  In a final coup de grace, she "brushes" her tongue, which upon closer review has a film thick enough to write your name in it.

I question the point of kids toothpaste anyway.  The teeth are just going to fall out eventually anyway, leading to a long and arduous lesson in economics facilitated by a fairie myth.  What's the worst that could happen?
 

We've Made a Terrible Mistake

Close your eyes and take a little journey with me.  Relax, and let the scene unfold...

The time:  way too early

The setting:  the Crouton's bedroom

The mood:  very, very sleepy

We see our heroes, nestled snuggly in bed, exhausted from an evening of aggressive sitting around.  Spoiled by a child who values sleep as much as they do, they rest comfortably knowing there are hours left before they'd need to rise and greet the day.

*ca-click*

thump thump thump thump thump thump thump

"MOMMY!  I NEED YOU HELP ME!"

*snort* *cough*

"what the...?"

"MOMMY!  CAN YOU HELP ME?"

"What do you need help with, sweety?"

"I don't know!"

Thus began our odyssey into the next phase of parenthood:  the crib-free era

I have to take responsibility.  It was my idea.  I thought getting a toddler bed was a good idea.

I mean, Cheeky could climb out of her crib if she wanted to.  She just never did!  And besides, she'd sleep forever...what harm would it do?  It was time, right?

Right?

She's so proud of herself, peddling out of the bedroom five or six times a night, or standing next to our bed with an silent, creepy smile.  Never mind that she's in such a good mood when she doesn't sleep.

It seemed like such a good idea at the time.  Now I look at the toddler bed and see a Vessel of Doom, some ancient device with the power to rob parents of their sleep and sanity. 

I've considered building a barbed-wire barrier, or putting electrified plates on the floor, but I suspect Child Protection Services would have an issue with those.  Moving a couch in front of the door is a temporary solution.  And moving out is too expensive. 

What's your suggestion?  Answer quick...I think she's coming...

Weekend Update (w/ Celebrity Guest Star!)

it's amazing what we can accomplish when we're motivated.

It's amazing how motivating the prospect of four days trapped in your apartment can be.

Unlike every living biped on the planet, we didn't make plans to get away this weekend.  While New York City emptied out like water through a strainer, we stuck around, trading in a leisurely drive to an exotic destination for rare, unfettered access to restaurants and parking in our own city.

With so much time, so few barriers, and the kind of weather that makes me tell Californians to "suck it," we did what any other shockingly good-looking family would do?  We went to the zoo.

I love zoos.  Not the cramped, cagey zoos where the polar bears swim laps for hours because suicide isn't an alternative.  I'm talking the big, sprawling, leafy zoos that feel like jungles and have enough space to move so you don't want to punch the fat, ignorant people zig-zagging slowly in front of you in the back of the head. 

So we packed up snacks, said goodbye to our kick-ass parking space, and headed to the Bronx so Cheeky could see wildlife that for once wasn't collecting cans or swearing in Russian.

There was much to recommend about the excursion, from the great weather to the otters having sex, but by far the best part was that we killed five hours on a Saturday.  We usually define a successful weekend by the amount of Lexapro and Wellbrutin left in the bottles Monday morning, so any opportunity to distract ourselves from the endless drudgery of our meager existence I embrace with the enthusiasm of Cookie Monster at an Oreo factory.

And our weekend motivation didn't stop there!  I distracted Cheeky for a few hours on Sunday while Oodgie rifled through her toys, seeking contributions to the local landfill charity.  Afterwards it was like our scruffy, overweight apartment had gone on an intense diet and exercise regimen and emerged as a trim, dashing stallion, complete with obligatory montage. 

We even retired Cheeky's crib and assembled her $79 "big girl bed."  (That's right, $79! Toys R Us, baby!)  We thought it would be some monumental occasion, but it turned out to be just another day in the life for the Cheekster.  Who knows how long it will take her to figure out the ground is just a couple inches beneath, but for now she's staying put, as if the edge of the bed is a sonic barrier...

Finally, to top the whole adventure off, we went to the amusement park on Memorial Day.  Because Oodgie and I are both really into nausea, compressed vertebrae, and heatstroke.  Not that any of that mattered to Cheeky, who gamely waited in line for 20 minutes to ride on a faux plane no bigger than a St. Bernard for 120 seconds.

But while we were there we were yet again reminded that stars, indeed, are just like us...

In case you can't tell, that is Jon Stewart.  Even celebrities have to drag their kids to the playground on weekends.

Looking back, I still can't believe we did all that.  It's almost like we have "energy" and "inspiration."  I don't want you to get the wrong impression; I'm sure we'll be back to lying exhausted on the living room floor while Cheeky riverdances on our heads again within a couple days.

Just Another 'Parents Night' in New York

I rushed into the school cafeteria, late, scanning the heads of the seated parents for Oodgie.  It was our first "parent night" at Cheeky's new school, and work had kept me later than I'd planned.  It was an important milestone and I wanted to be there for it.

"Behind you!"

It's Oodgie, who I had nearly decapitated with my laptop bag mere moments before.  She was already sitting at a table with parents from Cheeky's class.

"It's OK...we'll make room," everyone says, as chairs slide apart to expose a corner of the table.

"Hi everyone.  Sorry I'm late"

Instinctually I reach across the table to the nearest mother to introduce myself.  There's a strange sense of familiarity to her.

"Hi, I'm Tony."

"Hi, I'm Hope."

That's what her name tag said.  "Hope"  Plus the names of her two kids, one of whom is in Cheeky's class this fall.

I can't decide if that means we've inadvertently put Cheeky into a fancy school, or if that's just New York for you.  After all, we did pass Sigourney Weaver on the street last week, and I just happened to walk past a meeting with George Pataki just hours before.  But I also heard a rumor that "Bob" sent his kids to Cheeky's school, too.

No wonder we feel poor, if that's the local crowd we compete against...

Anyway, she's super nice and totally normal.  We talked about the school, the success of our diet, and growing up in New Jersey.  But before I got there, Oodgie (who hated American Splendor but neglected to mention this to Hope) got to witness a funnier and more awkward conversational moment:

Guy sitting next to Hope:  "Do I know you from somewhere?"
Hope:  "Um, I don't know"
Guy sitting next to Hope:  "Really, I'm sure I know you from somewhere."
Hope:  Long pause.  Shrug.
Guy sitting next to Hope: Struggling to think of where he's seen her before
Hope:  Leaning forward, in almost a whisper, "I'm an actress."
Guy sitting next to Hope:  Pause.  Quizzical look.  "No, that's not it.  Where did you go to high school?"

It's On, But Not 'Til After Blues Clues

(Cross-posted on DadCentric, 'cause it's just that funny to me)

Hydro-Avoidance Syndrome

There are many things I don't understand about my child.

I don't understand why she insists on going outside during monsoon season, but when the sun is out for the first time in two months she wants to lock us all inside for a Zingo marathon.

I don't understand why her tongue can't pronounce L's or SP's in words.

I don't understand why she hates chocolate.

I don't understand why she only poops every three days.

But most of all I don't understand why she treats bathwater like it's acid.

Some couples compete for the affection of their children or the remote control on Thursday nights.  We compete to see who can avoid giving Cheeky a bath.

I'm no expert, but I thought kids loved the tub.  You've got toys!  You've got bubbles!  You can splash!  You can float upside down until you parents freak out!  What's not to love?

The tub-givin' process must be started early in our home, as there are multiple phases through which one must methodically progress to reach the Altar of Desoilification.  These phases include:

• Reality Manipulation, in which Cheeky declares certain facts to be self-evident, even though scientific evidence contradicts them.  Examples:  "No, I'm not dirty!" "It's not bed time!"  "That's not Daddy!"  "The world is flat and is supported by four elephants standing on the back of a giant turtle!"  "Mission Accomplished!"
• Acute Stress Response, in which Cheeky uses a combination of maneuvers to evade and escape us, presumably in hopes of wearing us out so we collapse and she can go back to Little Bear.
• Tympanic Overload, in which Cheeky manipulates her larynx to emit heretofore unknown screeches and wails to call social services, emergency medical personnel, or perhaps Hawkman or her mothership to come to her aid.

What's particularly aggravating is that once she's in the tub it's like it's the GREATEST PLACE EVER and she doesn't want to leave.  She can remember us promising her candy hours after we thought she'd moved on...I KNOW she remembers that baths can be fun.

There.  I think I've spent enough time typing up this post.  By now it should take just enough time to get home so that Oodgie has to give Cheeky her bath.   MWAH HA HAAAA! 

Employment does have it's advantages. ...

So That's What They Mean By "Off"-Season

One of the perks of my job (besides free internet access and a climate-controlled cube set to 'glacial') is that I occasionally get to work on cool projects for cool clients.  This is relatively rare--I've spent most of the year trying to sell supplemental insurance and high-yield corporate notes--but when someone says, "Hey CroutonBoy, we need your help with a Colorado ski resort chain...are you interested?" the hardest part is not giving the messenger an open-mouth kiss.

So last week I flew out to Colorado to meet the client, pitch their internet-strategy, and generally look handsome and smart.  It just so happens that I also happened to know the client from waaay back in a former life, and she pulled some strings and set me and Oodgie up with a weekend at a fancy new resort they just opened.  You know, to do some research.

Now, before everyone gets jealous (and you should be) you should note the date.  Despite the presence of several feet of fresh powder the resorts themselves have closed for the season.  This wasn't necessarily a bad thing, as it saved Oodgie the embarrassment of watching me learn to snowboard.  But it did mean that things were...quiet.

How quiet?  This quiet.

We had our run of the place.  No annoying crowds.  Incredible sales on winter gear and ski supplies.  The undivided attention of the resort staff.

Shuttered shops and restaurants.  Tour companies who don't return phone calls.  Empty hallways.  Tumbleweeds.  Literally.

I couldn't shake the feeling that it was chapter 7 of The Stand and Randall Flagg would come strutting around the corner.

But the deafening silence actually helped us relax, and in the end it was great to get away for a luxurious romantic weekend on the cheap.  I managed to avoid the internet for a few days, and it felt like we were gone for much longer than we actually were.  Can't complain about that.

But now I'm back.  I'm certain there'll be plenty to complain about soon.  Stay tuned.