Cheeky's Hideaway

I Could Definitely Live Like This. But For How Long?

Bachelor Week continues at Casa de Cheeky-in-Absentia.  As an added bonus, I decided yesterday that I'd be working from home for the rest of the week.  I'm currently wearing the same underwear I woke up in yesterday, and smell like a diseased donkey.  That's freedom, baby.

I actually spent much of yesterday taking conference calls and checking e-mail while painting the bathroom--one of the fringe benefits of being attached to projects to which I have little to contribute.  I'm no Ty Pennington (thank GOD!) but the room looks pretty damn good, if I do say so myself.  The color we selected, "Windswept," is a huge improvement over the first color we'd picked, which made it feel like I was pooping in a crypt.  Score one for the man of the house.

To reward myself, I finally watched Jackass Two (the Oscar snub was an outrage), sipped some Lagavulin, and smashed the crap out of an army base with my gamma-ray enhanced strength.  Today, after an inexcusably long afternoon meeting (again, taken from home) I'll be catching up with some old friends who probably got laid off today. 

It struck me last night, however, that this initial burst of energy, indulgence and juvenalia is inevitably short-lived.  It may feel like decadence now, but it's really an accumulation of minor pleasures suddenly accessible.  And once the frenzy is over (I'm predicting around noon tomorrow) things would settle into the normal rhythms of life anyway, with a couple extra concerts and dinners out thrown in.  Staring down into a half-eaten carton of ice cream you'd opened just ten minutes earlier (about 1:14 AM) is a sobering moment of clarity; I personally wouldn't live long fueled solely by self-gratification.

It would be a fun few years, though...

So I'm looking forward to recess being over Cheeky and Oodgie coming back tomorrow.  By then the boredom will have set in, and I'll still be no closer to becoming a guitar virtuoso or a capable chef.  It may be a pain the ass sometimes, but it's good to be an adult, responsibilities and all.

That doesn't mean I'll be cleaning sooner than 15 minutes before they arrive.  I've still got some layin' around to do.

Bachelor Week Kick-Off (Sponsored by Sony)

Somewhere in the vast corn-rows of Iowa there lives a woman who, once upon a time, was a good friend of Oodgie.  She has two kids, the youngest of which is just a month or two older than Cheeky.  I've been to Iowa a couple of times, and although I love the people and the healthy portions, I wouldn't rank it among my top tourist destinations.  I've warned Oodgie about this, but she misses her friend enough that she's bought two plane tickets--one for her and one for Cheeky--to go visit the Great Flatness for five days.

You know what that means?

IT'S BACHELOR WEEK, BABY!

Of course, I'll miss Cheeky's joyous embrace, and the way Oodgie insistently shoves her feet in my face for a massage.  And it won't be all fun and games, mind you.  I've got to repaint our bathroom (the color we picked reminds me of congealed pancake mix) and will be picking the strands of plastic Easter grass out of plants, furniture, and as-yet-undiscovered crevasses in our apartment.

But until Friday evening I'm donning my cod-piece, tossing out my razor, and living la vida de ocio.

I've also got a couple movies on the docket, possibly a concert, and a load of old friends for a happy hour which I might have pumped up a bit too much for my own good.

But mostly, I just want to hang out without a schedule.  Maybe pop in some tunes.  Or go to a store.  Or just read a book.  As long as it doesn't involve fuzzy red monsters.

So let me know if you're in the New York area this week...drinks are on me!

I Was So Much Older Then, I'm Younger Than That Now

While the Fourth Estate endlessly discusses the apocalyptic ramifications of Britney's trip(s) to rehab, the music nerds of the world have visions of sugarplums Andy Summers, Stewart Copeland, and Sting dancing in their heads.  During one of many arguments debates shouting matches discussions over whether the Police reunion is truly an historic event or a rapacious, geriatric attempt to clothe the increasingly AOR-friendly lead singer in the faded legitimacy of his youth (see:  The Who) it came up that the Police last recorded music together 20 years ago.

20 years ago.  When I was a kid Buddy Holly was making music "20 years ago."

Where does the time go?  For all the talk of grups and rejuveniles and alternadads desparately smugly proudly sporting their skateboard bruises and Arcade Fire CDs, time still marches on, and the weight of age and responsibility still hangs on us, whether we want to accept it or not.

I proudly brandish my grup credentials, mind you.  But I felt a twinge in my hip while retrieving Cheeky from her car seat the other day, and again while trying to negotiate a fossilized snow-bank without killing us both.  That stuff didn't use to happen.  Everyone my age in the NFL is either retiring or should be (sorry, Bledsoe...it's time).  And my 9 year old nephew got a Rubik's Cube and Optimus Prime for his birthday, providing irrefutable evidence that the circle of life has had time to do a complete lap around the track and christen those toys "cool" again.

Probably most shocking to me was this.  What you don't see in this picture is the bar I used to hang out in a lot when I first moved to New York, back when I was alive and still had the glitter of hope in my eye before I met Oodgie and began stressing out about annual performance reviews.  I've seen places come and go before, but the shock of turning that corner in Tribeca to see the vacant facade hit me with more force and clarity than I expected.

We may ignore it, or fight it, or slap a fresh coat of paint on it but time continues it's ponderous, inexorable steps forward whether we like it or not.

I'm not afraid of it.  I welcome it and accept it.  It's part of life, and the sooner I get used to it the better I'll adjust to it.  But I do sometimes find the weight of responsibility a struggle.  I try not to show it or let it get me down, but every once in a while the realization that I can't just hop on a plane and go to Sasquatch or SXSW for a weekend, or that being constantly more creative and diligent at work may be the only way to move up and keep paying the bills, drags me down.  I can't help wishing for the excitement I used to feel when I'd go tubing for the weekend with friends, or sneaking into the rooftop pool at a local resort.  Those moments of unfettered, selfish joy are fewer and farther between when you've got responsibilities like we all do.  But it's our obligation to ourselves and those we love to acknowledge that change is inevitable and good, and in the end there's nothing wrong with growing up.

I'm am optimist at heart, and even in those gloomy moments I know it's just a matter of time before they devise a pill that will make me as young and vigorous as a tiger at a water buffalo convention.  Then I'll be breakdancing at Cheeky's wedding, even if I have to shed my cryogenic suit to do it.  And in the mean time, although the moments of joy I experience now may not be as dramatic or spectacular as they used to be, I wouldn't trade them for anything.

But I'll tell you, I still wouldn't mind getting Optimus Prime and a Rubik's cube for my birthday.  Only 179 more shopping days to go...

Men are from Mars, Women are from Someplace Else. I Wasn't Listening When She Told Me.

The other night I was lying in bed reading a new book and laughing so hard the bed was shaking.  Oodgie looked over at what I was reading and asked, "What is that?"

"It's a lumberjack punching Santa Claus"

"That's funny?"

"No, there's more," I said.  "Let me read something to you."

Time for a pop quiz:  What's more awesome than a lumberjack punching Santa in the face?  (A) Nothing, or (B) All of the above.  I gave this quiz to my friend's wife and she got the wrong answer.  She kept asking questions like "what's so cool about punching Santa Claus in the face?  That's not cool, that's mean."  Wrong answer, bitch.

"Funny, right?"

"What's wrong with you?"

OK, it's juvenile.  And ludicrous.  But it is also awesome.  I laughed for the same reason I laugh at old Schwarzenegger one-liners, beer commercials, and Jackass:  because I'm an idiot...I'm a guy.

We've had a few conversations lately about the difference between men and women.  Most of those conversations revolve around our divergent tolerances for filth.  I, for example, firmly believe that if you can't see it, it must not be dirty.  And if I keep my focus directly forward, preferably towards a glowing screen of any variety, I don't have to see much of anything. 

Oodgie takes a more flawed holistic view, in which she scans the entire apartment, cataloging every misplaced toy and every food-crusted fork stuck to the counter like it's been bolted there.  The problem with this approach, in my opinion, is that it makes it difficult for you to focus on the task at hand (see above) and creates unnecessary discomfort and unhappiness.  When she hits her threshold she begins cleaning up and (as I realize about ten minutes later) gets annoyed that I didn't instantly bounce up and start Windexing the floor with her.

Unfortunately, I think this is one of the great chasms between men and women. I actually try hard to do my fair share around the house, but I'm on a different time-line. It's on my list of things to do, but I'm doing something else right now.  I know I'll get around to it soon, but I prefer to save up the work so it's worth the energy.  Given a choice I would:

1. run the dishwasher only when squeezing another knife inside would tear the tray
2. file the bills only when our insurance policies and bank statements block the backspace key on the keyboard
3. do laundry only when I'm forced to reuse the underwear at the bottom of the hamper
4. fetch fresh toilet paper only when I have to waddle out of the bathroom with my butt-cheeks clenched and my pants around my ankles to get it
5. clean the tub never.  There's water in it every day...it must be clean.

The flip side of this is that  cleaning is more of an event to me, to be accompanied by a decent soundtrack (may I suggest Pyromania?) and involving overturned furniture, several rolls of paper towels, duct tape and a leaf blower.  When I finally hit my breaking point, I'll take the time to reorganize books so proportional sizes are arranged together, repair the plumbing, and dust under the rugs as part of the same exercise.  When I'm done with the place it looks like the centerfold of a Pottery Barn catalog and smells like a dewy meadow at the cusp of a spring dawn.

Which way is better?  I'll wager the answer would split down gender lines.  Both have their merits:  mine because it's more thorough and allows for more free time, hers because the more she cleans the less likely I am to hit my threshold, thereby postponing the need for me to turn off The Lost Boys.

What's this have to do with a lumberjack punching Santa in the face?  Very little, it turns out.  But if you were to replace the lumberjack with Dirty Harry, Santa with a dinosaur, and the fist with a lava-coated ninja-blade, then...well, that guy probably wouldn't clean the house much either, would he?  He's too busy kicking asses!  But you'd be safe from dinosaurs, wouldn't you?

I could just fancy some cheese, Gromit. What do you say?

Look no further for evidence of my excellent taste in spouses (at least recent ones) than my plans for this evening.  For my birthday Oodgie signed me up for a craft beer and artisanal cheese class, which I'll be attending tonight.

Let me say that again, so I can savor the sound of it:  craft beer AND artisanal cheese.

For me, that's the rough equivalent of fabulous wealth and a "happy ending."

Oodgie's keen powers of perception picked up on my love of delicious specialty beers.  Perhaps it was the way I close my eyes and wipe a tear from my cheek after each mouth-watering, soul-quenching sip, or the way I'd pet the glass or bottle and whisper softly, "I love you."

She's also noticed that when the 6-year aged Gouda, the Humboldt Fog, or--dream of dreams--the Gorgonzola appears on party platters, the shadowy figure in the corner double-fisting crackers stacked with inch-thick hunks of each bears a striking resemblance to me.

The genius of combining the two cannot be over-stated.  I'm happier than Flavor Flav in a costume shop. 

Now I've got less than two months to top that for Oodgie's birthday.  Internet, I need your help.

My lack of romantic sensibilities has legendary status in our home.  My idea of a romantic evening is a bottle of wine and laser tag.  I'm not a complete ignoramus (yes, yes, sparkly jewelry, spa treatments...I know about all those) but I could use a little creative spark to help come up with something good. 

So, do you have any ideas?  Let me know! 

Survivor's Guilt

I felt a little guilty this morning.  Cheeky has been bipolar the last few days, waking up in a perky, cute mood and then, almost instantly, transforming into Mel Gibson on the PCH.  She twists, she flails, she throws her face on the floor, she writes angry letters to the editor--in short, complete meltdowns.  Only the medicinal glow of Sesame Street or Blues Clues seems to help, and even that requires constant monitoring so that distractions like movement, light, or the earth's atmosphere don't set her off again. 

But I don't have to deal with it long.  I see it for an hour in the morning, then off to work I go.  And do you know what I felt as I shut the door behind me this morning?

Relief.

When I left, Cheeky was cheerfully waving "bye" to me while Oodgie was holding her with the helter-skelter eyes.  Now that the heat had dropped to a MUCH more comfortable 92 degrees they might go out, but the weather reports threaten rain.  If trapped inside...well, let's just say that two would enter, but only one would come out. 

What sort of selfish prick feels good leaving his two loved ones behind to battle it out?

Since I left the soul-consuming behemoth in Queens, I've really like my job.  It's relatively quiet.  I like the people I work with.  We get to brainstorm and design fun ideas for internet sites, and discuss the relative importance of ForBiddeN in the context of social networking.  I've got my iPod plugged in next to my computer (today's selection = The Amazing Rhythm Aces) and can head to Starbucks or Chipotle at my leisure.  And occasionally I even get to write blog posts.

I feel bad for Oodgie when she has weeks like this, when the oppressive weather and repetitive readings of Who is the Beast? wears her down.  It's hard to leave when you know it's going to be a rough day, even though it has to be done.  Her career is on hold while she helps raise our daughter, and when I leave every morning I unintentionally reinforce a feeling of being left behind.

Oodgie doesn't begrudge me my job, and I wouldn't trade it for her day.  Frankly, I do like the fact that I don't have to manage the emotional roller-coaster and tightly managed feeding schedule of an infant.  It's hard!  On weekends I do everything I can to give Oodgie a break, but that's much easier when I know that Monday I won't be sitting on the floor for eight hours hitting that damn Learning Drum. 

I was raised Catholic...nobody knows how to absorb, compartmentalize, and live with guilt better than us (thanks, Mom!)  And until the Gates Foundation adds us to their grant list I'll be trudging out the door every day anyway.  I'll just need to hurry home to make sure no one needs immediate medical attention.

SAHD Chapter One Quiz

Interested in what it's like to be a SAHD?  Curious how an out-of-shape 35 year old who habitually lets his daughter smear meatloaf in her hair scored during his four-day parental immersion course?  This little quiz may give you some insights into the experience, and if you're not careful you might learn something before it's through.  Hey hey hey!

a)  When Cheeky says "bah" what does it mean? 

1. ball
2. book
3. bottle
4. not what you think
5. I see dead people
6. all of the above

b)  Where can you find the best KDDs

1. Heights Cafe sidewalk in a pool of ketchup
2. McDonald's - Mmmmm....processed
3. Ore-Ida frozen fries in a toaster oven
4. Smeared into the floor at Bubby's
5. Growing out of Cheeky's hands

c)  What is the greatest invention in history of ever when dealing with a needy child? -

1. General Electric, commander in chief of pressurized water
2. X-Box, robotic bounty-hunter and provider of daddy entertainment
3. KitchenAid, radioactive emissions system
4. Maytag, cooler of beer and hidden trove of lunch meat
5. Sony Wega, teacher, mother, secret lover

d)  How do you make a cartoon "splat" sound?

1. Watch cartoon.  Wait for splat.
2. Eat veggie burger for lunch.  Wait several hours.  Relax butt cheeks.
3. Chew/gum a nectarine thoroughly.  Utilize a side-arm throwing motion to discard the nectarine.  Angle your shot to ricochet the nectarine at a 30 degree angle from the floor. 

e)  When the instructions on your frozen lasagna say "microwave at 50% power" you should...

1. Ignore instructions - Smoking bricks taste delicious
   
2. Thoughtfully follow instructions, taking plenty of time to monitor progress
3. Glance at the directions, throw graham crackers in general direction of child, pray for time to speed up, wonder how the species survived before microwaves

f)  If your daughter is in her crib screaming uncontrollably, and it doesn't sound like she's going to stop, you should:

1. get her and comfort her
2. ignore her and hope she eventually calms down and goes to sleep
3. how the hell should I know? 
4. it doesn't matter...all answers are wrong

g)  What is the absolute best way to use your free time once Cheeky went to bed?

1. Watching a movie I've seen 1000 times
2. Scraping chunks of dried honeydew and mashed potatoes off the floor
3. Helping the Greeks research gunpowder and republican government so they could defeat the Russians and the Aztecs
4. Successfully penetrating a border crossing for a rendezvous with an informant while fighting off several enemy patrols
5. 1 and 3 only

h)  The biggest danger to the health of a SAHD is:

1. Fractured femur from stepping on a previously unseen ball in the bedroom doorway
2. Type 2 diabetes and hypertension due to sudden weight gain from uneaten french fries/grilled cheese sandwiches/yogurt/etc.
3. Facial lacerations due to repeated blows to the head with a plastic cow
4. Back pain resulting from twisting in a hunched position while in mortal combat with a slippery toddler in the bathtub
5. Psychological trauma from repeated readings of Peekaboo Farm pop-up book.

Fabulous prizes await the first person to correctly answer all the questions above. 

SAHD Day One - The Live Feed

7:35 AM:  It's still peaceful here at Casa de Cheeky.  By now Oodgie is munching pretzels and being subjected to either Take the Lead or The Benchwarmers as her in-flight movie.  Me?  I wait. 

Since this is my first full day as a stay at home dad, I'm going to try to share the excitement as it happens; the thrills of victory, the agony of defeat.  Assuming, of course, Cheeky doesn't juke me and get to the computer first.  You'll know if it's her....she's the one who doesn't use vowels when she types.

Hark....the beast stirs.  I must don my sheld and helmet.  To be continued....

8:45 AM:  Food everywhere.  Except in Cheeky's stomach.  The calls for Momma have begun.  Where the hell is my coffee?

9:25 AM:  Storm clouds are gathering outside.  Seriously...the super-dark kind that the aliens use to mask their invasion.  A sign?  Perhaps.  I should be safe...if anyone's got germs to protect us, it's kids.

Oodgie put together an owner's manual for Cheeky.  According to paragraph 17, section 8, Cheeky should get tired around 10-10:15, at which time you put her down for a nap and take care of every potential personal hygeine issue you need to...it's your last chance all day.  But the little kid petered out 5 minutes ago after a rousing game of Throw the Frog, and is now mumbling her way to sleep in her crib.  Am I that exhaustingly fun?

No time to write...I smell like a homeless person, and if I don't shower now strangers will be spraying Febreze in my face by noon...

10:34 AM:  Fresh as a daisy!  This isn't so bad.  I hear her stirring, but at least I got to read part of the paper.  By the way--and I mean no offense to my Jewish friends out there--you can't tell me that this isn't "excessive force."

Now what the hell am I gonna do with her?

3:00 PM:  So far so good.  I'm having what I like to call PPD -- Proud Poppa Day.  Cheeky has been great!  It's ridiculous how effortlessly she charms people...a skill I wish I had in college on my excursions to Cremont all-girls dorm.  But I digress...

We played in the park, where she simultaneously desparately desired and utterly feared playing in the fountain (which, in her defense, was the temperature of freshly melted glacier).  At lunch she consumed about 100 KDDs (Ketchup Delivery Devices) and had a grand time trying (and failing) to get an ice cube into her mouth.  Being the complete novice Dad I am, I forgot a bib, so she was wearing a delivery bag around her neck (which I highly recommend...worked like a charm). 

Baby hygeine hasn't proven to be my strong suit, yet.  When I put her down for her nap she had a ketchup streak under her neck that made her look like she'd lost a fight with a Columbian hit man.  Her hands and feet are the color of coal miner's, and my little white trash baby has been crawling around in nothing but a diaper for the last hour.  But we're having a great time so far. 

Let's hope she doesn't wake up screeching like she's channeling Eddie Van Halen....

6:30 PM:  I've got the touch!  Pardon me while I pat myself on the back, rub my tummy, and roll back and forth on a bed covered with benjamins dollars pennies laundry.  Cheeky's down for the night...a full hour earlier than normal.  Went down without a peep, happy to the end.  It's good to be the king.

It wasn't flawless, mind you.  Cheeky woke up really cranky and upset, probably because of the enormous growler that was stuck up in her rectum ampulla.  She cheered up a lot once that was out; she also smelled like a salmon hatchery.  The storm finally broke open just after dinner, and she was less than enthusiastic about the thunderclaps that shook the windows.  Minor issues, though, and since I electrocuted neither her nor myself I consider today a success.

One down, three to go.  Let's check back in on Monday and see how I'm holding up...

Help a Brutha Out

So here's the deal:  This weekend Oodgie is breaking out the jaws of life and fleeing the drudgery of stay-at-home parenting to sun herself in South Beach.  For four days she'll be having her temples rubbed by a muscular gay man named Pablo, sipping mojitos and catching up on back issues of US Weekly.

That leaves me at home with Cheeky.  Alone.

When I first agreed to this, I thought it would be a piece of cake.  Leave out a bowl of water and a bowl of graham crackers and she'd feed herself, right?  Oodgie, however, keeps insisting that I should get some "help," as if I'd leave Cheeky in the dryer again or something.  I'm stoopid ignorant stubborn pretty confident in my ability to handle it, though. 

However....

I could use some suggestions on what to do with a 1 year old for four days.  I've already scheduled paintball, so that's a good couple hours of fun for both of us.  There's also an exhibit which I think she'd find most educational, after which we can share beer and nachos.  But there's still lots of time to kill, and since she still hasn't mastered the Xbox controller (let alone her bowels) I'm fishing around for entertainment options.  Any ideas, oh mighty internet?  Especially you New Yorkers...something local would obviously be preferable to the San Diego Zoo....

It's So Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday

A couple nights ago, I brought out my cribbage board and forced Oodgie to play with me. I taught her to play once, before we were married, but it had been so long that it required another lesson. Never a big fan of anything involving math, Oodgie gamely humored me while I explained pegging strategy, double-runs, and when to throw fives in your crib. Our “practice game” took about an hour, after which she faked a seizure to get out of playing more pointed out the time and suggested we retire the board for another night.

There was a time in my life when I played cribbage for 3-4 hours a night. My friends and I would position chairs around a stolen traffic sign propped on a milk crate, put the Scorpions or Lynyrd Skynyrd in the CD player (it was pre-grunge Spokane...cut me some slack), and blow off the economics exam or history essay while viciously cursing at each other and throwing beer when we got skunked.  One night my roommate even heard me counting cribbage points in my sleep. For years afterwards I'd try to revive the ritual, usually with former participants now scattered across the country who held onto the happy memories as fiercely as I did.

I got to thinking about those days a week or two ago, and realized how much my life has changed since then. There's no critical mass of like-minded friends across the hall who would drop everything for a few hours of beer and cards every night.  Tiny little clothes need to be folded, food needs to be prepared, messages need to be returned, and hardened, browning banana chunks need to be scraped off the floors.  And getting up in the morning--never easy--has gotten a lot harder.  Leisurely escapes into games and conversation just aren’t as viable or convenient as they used to be.

This may sound a little sad or nostalgic on my part--and I certainly feel hints of both whenever I think about it--but it doesn't mean I'd go back.  First of all, I can't, unless George Carlin and a phone booth show up in my living room soon.  I no longer have to drive a '64 Buick Skylark, or share a bathroom with three other guys with varying definitions of hygiene.  I get lucky way more often now than I did then (not for lack of trying, buh-LIEVE me) and even though I have less freedom to do things now, the quality of what I do is much improved.  Or maybe I just appreciate it more when I get the chance....

I'm sure all of us look back on our lives with rose-colored glasses to some degree.  When you're young, before cynicism and FICA cut into your expectations, life seems full of promise.  But it's also an illusion maintained by student loans and cheap beer.  The experience and wisdom I've gained tell me that traffic signs aren't very practical tables, that studying harder for that economics exam might have led to a higher salary, and that you should probably clean the toilet before the green stuff growing on the rim starts sprouting appendages.

I do, however, think it's a good idea to periodically call up some friends, get a babysitter, and do something you used to love to do.  Maybe there's a band you used to follow playing a free concert in town, or some summer activity you can spring on the neighbors.  Whatever it may be for you, indulging yourself every once in a while is a great way to stave off the ravages of time. 

While you're doing that, I'll be in the corner shuffling cards.  You want piece of this?  I didn't think so...