Cheeky's Hideaway

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!

You Can't Spell 'Diet' Without D-I-E

Not long after our triumphant return from Antigua Oodgie and I decided the bulbous, squishy parts of our bodies have to go.  Months of feasting, carousing, and general abuse of our bodies have finally caught up with us--although you could argue that they caught up to us in our late 20s and we've been ignoring it since.  Our weapon of choice?  The South Beach diet.

For the eight of you not familiar with this diet, it in no way whatsoever resembles the actual South Beach.  The implied decadence of the name is immediately countered by the word "diet" after it, which means that no matter how easy the diet may be you'll still feel like a POW two hours into it.

We're freakin' starving!

I have noticed a few bad habits I'd picked up over the years as a result of this suicidal challenging decision.  Apparently my brain is hard-wired to grab a bag of chips 20 seconds after I walk in the door, and the battered chicken fingers which make up 63% of Cheeky's diet look more and more succulent every day.  I've been trusting my young, fit body to absorb my indiscretions, forgetting that neither adjective applies to me anymore.  Now I'm picking the croutons out of my Caesar salad (oh, the irony of it all...)

Far and away the most traumatic change, though, is the strict prohibition of beer.  We all know that it sometimes occasionally has been known to in some people to possibly maybe contribute to weight gain.  OK, I get it.  But seriously....none whatsoever?  The timing of this could not be worse.  The biggest national holiday of the year and they expect me to sip mineral water?  I 100% guarantee that there's a loophole somewhere that I can exploit!

...as long as I'm OK with the consequences.

Any one else have any diet war stories they'd like to share?

You Know Summer's Over at Casa de Cheeky When...

...the only food in the house is fruit and Lean Cuisines.

It happens every year:  we spend the summer sucking down enough carbs and dairy to send Jillian Michaels into catatonic depression, then compensate after Labor Day by starving ourselves.  The gravitational collapse of my stomach has created an event horizon threatening to make my body implode, but at least I feel a little less like a manatee.

...there's a panicked rush to watch a year's worth of TV in a week.

A couple years ago it was Battlestar Galactica.  Before that it was Alias.  This year's award for "show we originally ignored and belatedly decided to catch up on before the new season starts" is Heroes.  I remember thinking "that show is probably going to suck" last year, then had to listen to everyone's astonished gasps when I told them I wasn't watching.  I took a shot and bought season one on DVD, and Oodgie and I have been watching 2-3 episodes per night.  It's awesome!  I wonder what we'll be catching up on next summer.  My guess?  Reaper.

...my feet are freezing.

One day it's disgustingly muggy and hot out.  The next it's cold enough to fire-up the Zamboni.  Welcome to September!  The 900 lb window-unit that this weekend will probably be the only thing sparing us from drowning in our own perspiration is currently ushering meat-locker temperatures into our apartment.  My feet, in addition to being short and stubby, have zero thermal regulation, so I'm forced to wear ridiculous footwear to compensate.

...I'm lamenting the dearth of running backs on the waiver-wire

My fantasy football draft strategy this year included some key assumptions. 

1. The Saints would be good, and Reggie Bush would have a break-out season
2. Jacksonville would have a lousy passing game and have to run the ball
3. Other people could waste their picks on Randy Moss, Tony Romo, and Joseph Addai, 'cause none of them would live up to expectations.

It's too soon to panic, but it's not too soon to worry.

Welcome back, autumn!  Nobody on the road, nobody on the beach.  I feel it in the air...the summer's out of reach...

What is it About Us and Weekends?

Here's a quick rundown of how we tried to kill our child yesterday:

• We decided to go out for breakfast, and as we walked up to the diner I opened the door right into Cheeky's head.  She cried so hard she puked.
• We recovered enough to go in anyway, but as we were putting her into a booster seat Oodgie inadvertently pushed her chair in until her fingers got caught between the table and seat.  More screaming.
• Later in the day, Cheeky was sitting at home on a dining room chair, pushing against the table with her legs while we were sitting around her.  We were inattentive to the point that we watched her chair tip back in slow motion without reacting, with only the loud THWAP of the chair and child hitting the floor snapping us to action.  Again, she puked.

And did I mention Cheeky also has a cold?  And a bloody nose?  We're awesome.

There's One for You, Nineteen for Me...

I just got off the phone with the IRS.

A couple weeks ago we received a nice letter from them stating that the return we submitted last year didn't align with their records.  They wanted to give me the opportunity to review the information and make any "amendments" necessary to my 2005 return in case there were errors.

How nice of them!  I wonder if Texas oil billionaires get the same courtesy...

You see, last year I decided to do our taxes myself.  We fired our accountant when they tried to charge us for two separate returns by filing my wife and I individually as "single," and when the state of New York asked why we didn't file with them the same week the state of Connecticut asked why we'd sent them a check.  This looked like a job for TurboTax!

As it turns out, TurboTax is great for a single person who doesn't change jobs or have Cayman Island gambling winnings to worry about.  At one point, while filling out the questionnaire, I believe it said, "Your return is too complicated for our software.  Would you like to make shit up and hope for the best?  If 'yes' then click 'continue.'"

"Click"

We've got a new accountant now, and I sent him the notice and a copy of our taxes.  I imagined him reading them, chuckling, and saying "what a retard" under his breath.  But he's optimistic that we won't, in fact, have to pay $312,475 in back taxes, and since he's already uncovered some new deductions for us this year I'm hoping he'll figure something out.  (Did you know you that if you're a business owner and you drive across the Brooklyn Bridge you can deduct a portion of the depreciation and maintenance of the bridge?  Nice!)

I just hope that we don't get hit again with the "grab your ankles" tax targeted at wiping out the middle class so Haliburton executives can take government-funded helicopter rides to the country club without us complaining.  Every time I think about it I recall Lewis Black's observation of our tax code: "You'd have been better off if your Congressman just came to your door and pissed on your foot."

Blame it All on My Roots, I Showed Up in Boots and Ruined Your Black-Tie Affair

Last night Oodgie and I were enjoying one of our favorite meals at one of Brooklyn's many fine-dining establishments and discussing how perfect we are in every way.  I believe I may have mentioned--and I'm paraphrasing here--that Oodgie "hit the mother-load" when she met me.  At about this moment Oodgie started laughing, probably because of something she saw behind me that I missed, and when she was done she said:

"Oh really?"

"Sure!  Look at me!  I'm good-looking, funny, smart, talented, a good provider...what more could you want?"

"Well, you could be a little more....cultured."

"What are you talking about?  I'm well-read, I follow politics, I like classical music and....opera...I guess..."

"That hardly makes you a renaissance man."

"Are you saying I lack class?"

"No!  I just think you could be more....refined."

"Refined?"

"Yeah.  You're lowbrow and despicable."

"Is this about the spoons?"

"Well....sometimes.  You're definitely not the most delicate eater in the world.  You could just be more...you know...refined."

This sounded a little strange coming from someone who thinks puppets barfing is the funniest thing ever.  And I took umbrage at the accusation. 

("Umbrage" is a word refined people use.) 

(So is "erudite")

(I'm not sure about "barfing"...refined people probably prefer "blow chunks")

But Oodgie does have a point.  Emily Post wouldn't think highly of my propensity to belch during meals, or to point out that it "tastes like chicken."  I'm not exactly a snappy dresser.  I read the New Yorker, but I hate people who talk about reading the New Yorker.  And I think a mash-up between Legos and Star Wars is fucking brilliant.

On the other hand, knowing which is your salad fork and which is your fish fork doesn't make you a better person.  It may save some embarrassment when I'm dining with the ambassador, but our invitation hasn't arrived yet.  I don't see anything contradictory about enjoying both William Faulkner and Neal Stephenson, Amadeus and Pee-Wee's Big Adventure, a quiet dinner party and a rodeo.  I think a lot of the rules of "refinement" were invented by "refined" people so they can show off to their "refined" friends how "refined" they are.  And, as you can tell, I don't hesitate to point that out from time to time.

The good news (for me, at least) is that Oodgie tolerates loves me for who I am, even if she questions my judgment from time to time.  I know what I like, I know what I don't like, and I'm willing to try pretty much anything else (except bungee-jumping)  And regardless of how highbrow and sophisticated the activity or entertainment may be, we both agree that it can always be enhanced with a good fart.

'Cause farts are funny.

A Quick Note to my Refined Readers: Please accept my humblest apology if you found little delectation in the chronicle above.  If you're at all timorous about perusing future vitae on this blog, let me assure you that I hold you, my esteemed Brahmin friends, in the highest regard, and shall aspire to confabulate about more genteel subjects--and in a more urbane and sophisticated manner--in the weeks ahead.

 

Pillars of the Earth

I love to read.  We have walls of books, boxes of them in storage, and the requisite discount cards at Barnes & Noble and Borders.  I can spend hours browsing in the Strand, flipping through art books or scanning the spines on the shelves.  I've got half a dozen magazine subscriptions, and carry four to five magazines with me almost everywhere I go.  It is one of my deepest hopes that I pass along a love of learning and literature (not just Good Night, Gorilla) to Cheeky.

There's one problem.  I am a slooooooow reader.  Moraines form while I read. 

I'll get halfway through a page and go back to reread it because my brain skipped the light fandango and started thinking about spackle or Enter the Dragon.  Or I’ll find some shiny object that distracts me for days at a time.  Or I'll put my head on the pillow after which the 30 second countdown begins before I’m in deep REM.  Not even Jack Bauer can stop that countdown, no matter how loud he yells at me. 

Right now I'm really in a rut, because in March I started the Pillars of the Earth.  SIX months ago.  If you haven't read it (or aren't able to lift it) it involves the building of a cathedral in medieval Britain and the lives and politics of the people involved.  I guess it’s sort of a classic, and I like it.  EXCEPT THAT IT'S GIANT!

I just checked the last page, and in the upper right-hand corner I’m pretty sure it says "page 50 gazillion."  (could be wrong…not wearin’ my glasses)  I don't work out enough to carry this thing around!  Here's an untouched photograph of me standing next to it.

I have to go outside to read it, because it doesn't fit in our house.

I happened to get a shot of the truck Amazon used to bring it to me, too, in case you need some perspective...

I can't exactly bring it on work trips because it pushes my luggage over airline weight limits.  Setting it on my lap cuts off circulation to my extremities.  And holding it with one hand while clutching desperately to the sweaty, slimy poles in the subway demands coordination that my midget hands can’t muster.

I've got several great books waiting in the wings, calling out to me with their flashy spines and their svelte, streamlined look.  But I LIKE this book.  I've invested in it.  And damnit, I'm no quitter.

So I trudge along, pushing my dolly from room to room, turning pages at the same rate the author wrote them.  Once I'm done, it's nothing but pamphlets and brochures for a couple of months.  The guys from Jehovah's Witnesses will be thrilled...

They Seem Like Good, Strong Hands.....

Self-confidence isn’t much of an issue for me.  There’s very little about myself that I’d change if I had the opportunity.  Sure, my belly-button is a little further from my spine than I’d like it to be, but I like to think I’m a decent looking guy with no major facial deformities or lacerations (excluding those caused by Cheeky’s unclipped nails).  I’m reasonably smart, fairly well-read, can make it up stairs without passing out from exhaustion, and have almost all my hair.

There’s one thing, however, that drives me crazy.  I can’t hold onto things to save my life.

Whenever I pick something up I clutch onto it like Charlton Heston's rifle.  At any second there is an enormous risk that whatever I’m holding will not only experience a sudden burst of gravity, but will ricochet off several walls, cabinets, traffic signs, or random birds flying by before entering the debris field I leave behind me.  And I just can't get 38 Special out of my head.  It’s embarrassing, and I can’t figure out why.

I’ve got some theories on it.  Here’s what we’ve come up with so far:

• I have frictionless fingers:  I can’t tell you how many times I stare in wonder at the rubble beneath me and wonder how it got there. I was POSITIVE I had a grip on it, but there it is, mocking me from the floor. Only a bite from a radioactive spider can help if this is the case.
• My nerves don’t work:  This is Oodgie’s theory.  She thinks I can’t feel how much or little pressure I’m using.  It’s an interesting theory, actually, except that all my others nerves seem to work, especially the ones in my toes.  Perhaps I should get tested for heightened levels of Novocain in my system
• I don't pay attention:  What?  Did you say something?
• I’m a clumsy oaf:  Maybe I’m a klutz in denial.  I have been known, on occasion, to walk into solid walls and trip over crumbs or quarks (only the top quarks, mind you).  I discount this theory because that doesn’t work with my self-image, and I haven’t really injured myself since I kneed myself in the nose.  Don’t ask.
• God hates me:  Well, maybe hate is too strong of a word.  Perhaps this is just a way of teaching me humility.  After all, something has to karmicly balance my perfectly round ass.

Whatever the reason, it haunts me.  I’m either concentrating so hard that I could lift the X-Wing trapped in the bog, or I’m impersonating Dave Kreig.  You’d think I just learned to use my hands or something!

What’s the solution?  As always, duct tape.  My silver, bandaged hands would suddenly become Mits of Stick.  Sure, I’d probably pick up stray objects without realizing it, such as mailboxes or armoires, and I wouldn’t recommend asking me to bring you tissues, but it would go a long way towards reducing the falling objects and cursing which currently threaten Cheeky’s fragile little head. Sounds like a good idea, doesn’t it?

I’ll just have to make sure I’m careful about where I scratch and wipe. Honey…a little help?

"You Look Like You Got Some Sun!"

We spent a long weekend in the greatest American city outside of the Pacific Northwest (New York doesn't count…we all know it's not part of America) for a wedding.  Taking advantage of ECG's generosity, we left Cheeky behind and tacked a couple extra days to the weekend to remind ourselves of what life is like without someone tugging on your pant leg.

Aside from a painful flight out (air traffic controllers at O'Hare were apparently too busy grooming themselves and throwing feces to get an open gate for our plane) we had a pretty nice weekend catching up with old friends and walking around the city.  The day of the wedding was one of those perfect summer days—glorious sun, a light breeze—and since we didn’t have to be at the church until late afternoon we signed up for an architectural cruise.  What better way to spend an hour and a half on a day like that than on a boat cruising Lake Michigan and the Chicago River, right?

In the Boy Scouts, our motto was “Be Prepared.”  I was a lousy Boy Scout. 

My skin, inherited paternally from a long-line of pasty German peasants, has the healthy sheen of uncooked chicken breast.  This is fine when trying to camouflage myself in Antarctica, but not so great in an unprotected boat.  As we sat down I glanced around at the people slathering sunblock on their faces or shadowed under the brims of baseball caps and realized I was in trouble.

For the record, "looking away from the sun" is not effective.  Neither is "hoping really hard" that my maternal Italian heritage, so prominent in my emotional outbursts and love of gelato, will spontaneously generate enough melanin to turn me into George Hamilton.

Several hours later, after diversions to Millennium Park and Baskin Robbins, we returned to the hotel to get dressed.  While waiting for the trolley to the church, several friends walked up to say "Hi" and commented, "You look like you got some sun!"  Uh oh.  I'm a freakin' raspberry Tootsie Pop wearing Hugo Boss.  Great.

We get to the church.  Hey, it’s the guys from the wedding party!  "You look like you got some sun!"  It’s the father of the bride!  "You look like you got some sun!"  It’s the priest!  "You look like you got some sun!"  I’m tempted to dunk my head in the holy water in hopes of a miracle.

Reception time; receiving line.  "You look like you got some sun!"  Yeah, and sorry the glowing red beacon in the fourth row was distracting the musicians during the ceremony, buddy.  I grab a beer as big as my forearm.  What table are we at?  I wonder who else is sitting there.  Hey, it’s some old friends I haven't seen in a while!  "You look like you got some sun!"  The waiter brings our food.  "You look like you got some sun!"  A raven perched above the chamber door.  Quoth the Raven, "You look like you got some sun!"

There's not enough aloe vera in the world to cure embarrassment.  Let this be a lesson to all of you.

Next time, I’m packing a freakin' hat.

You Can Never Go Back, No Matter How Good the Mango Margaritas Are

Sunday found us out in the city for the first time in weeks.  We were running some errands on the Upper West Side, and sat in Central Park for a while to enjoy the sun and let Cheeky rub dirt into her hands and clothes.  In a rare moment of inspiration and spontaneity, we decided to get an early dinner while we were up there, reasoning that (a) Cheeky would sleep in her stroller while we ate, and (b) it's probably better than defrosting turkey meatballs for dinner.  Besides, we're old pros at this...we should be able to get a good meal and still be home in time for The West Wing.

We made our way to a restaurant called Citrus that we used to go to a lot before we moved out of the city.  Good food--a Latin/Asian fusion--and killer margaritas.  Plus they had outdoor seating, was close to the subway, and since it was early it probably wasn't crowded.  See how smart we are?

What we failed to realize is that past performance is no guarantee of future returns, and this place aspires enough to be hip (in a late 90s sort of way) that "being accommodating" doesn't apply well to parents. 

The two hostesses, who we'll refer to as Paris and Nicole, were clearly not used to anyone pushing a stroller into the restaurant, and their eyes started twitching trying to figure out how to seat us in a nearly empty restaurant.  "Can we use table 7 and move the party of 5 to 24, carry the 2, and the reservation of 6 can go to 18 cosine A-B?"  I helpfully pointed out how you could remove a chair from an empty table in the back to make room for the stroller, but Paris looked at it like it was a Buick Roadmaster and dismissed that as preposterous.  Thankfully they had managed to accommodate a handicapped person who was just leaving (by removing a chair from an empty table....hmmmm), so we managed to convince them they wouldn't be breaking any fire codes if we took that table.

Unfortunately, that table was pretty close to the bar, which, like all bars, tries to accommodate the conversational needs of its patrons by playing spin-class music at top volume.  Cheeky usually sleeps for at least an hour, but within a couple minutes the thumping shook her awake and, frustrated, she decided to take it out on us.  Meanwhile people were starting to file into the restaurant and scoot their chairs back far enough so that every waiter knocked their elbows into our skulls as they walked by.  Fun!

So now we're trying to distract an incredibly tired infant in the middle of an increasingly unpleasant restaurant.  Our food arrives, and as usual I've opted for the least practical thing under the circumstances--spare ribs.  Nothing one-handed about that.  We score a high-chair in hopes that Cheeky will eat and stop yelling at us for parking her stroller in an aerobics studio.  Her goal in life is to clear all surfaces of objects which rest upon them, so she immediately begins going for knives, forks, and beverages which, when taken away, send her into hysterics.  The only thing that calmed her down is a small piece of spare rib that she could suck on.

(Camera cuts to Oodgie, looking at me like I'm freakin' insane as I hand this to our daughter.)

She's fine for maybe four minutes when we realize that the previously identified piece of meat is neither in her hand nor on the floor. 

(Camera cuts to Cheeky with mouth open, as if to cough, but no noise is coming out.  Her face is the color of a grape Tootsie Pop)

Nothing makes you disregard the flailing arms of your child more than the thought that something is lodged in her trachea, and my finger is in her mouth so fast it you can hear a sonic "pop."  I get the meat out quickly, but Cheeky has now lost her mind, either due to lack of oxygen or the finger that nearly removed her tonsils

(Camera cuts to stunned restaurant patrons staring angrily at the bad father cradling the infant)

By this time all we want to do is get the hell out of there, and Paris and Nicole seem to share the sentiment.  We spill out onto the street, depressed and frustrated, and trudge our way towards the subway (unaware that, due to service changes, the subway ride would turn into a death march of it's own).

This must be why people end up at Applebee's and Bennigan's.  Looks like we'll be ordering in for a while...