Cheeky's Hideaway

Four Years Ago...

Below is a transcript of the vows I read to Oodgie four years ago.  If you wish to truly transport yourself back to that day, imagine them read in a sexy radio voice by a man who can best be described as 'Clooney-esque' to a woman whose radiant beauty made the sun look dim by comparison:

"It didn't take long for me to realize that Oodgie was a perfect match for me. From the very beginning she accepted me for who I was, and I never had to act any different than my natural self. Unfortunately for her, that includes a lot of habits that drive her crazy, such as head-bobbing to AC/DC and leaving toe-nails on the bathroom floor. But she also makes the best of me even better. She has always encouraged me when I needed support. She has indulged my curiosity, from intellectual pursuits to simple and--€”occasionally--€”misguided ones. But she is always there for me and with me, and the comfort and warmth I felt on our first date has only grown and intensified since that night.

I want to spend the rest of my life with her because I believe with all of myself that our lives will only get better. I want to grow with her, to share all of my thoughts and feelings with her, and to see the world through her eyes. I want to comfort her when there aren't any parking spaces, and want to laugh with her about the thousands of things we always seem to be laughing about. I can see myself as an old man with her, with our ridiculously talented and good-looking children all around us. And I know she will be my best friend forever. That's why I'm standing here today."

Not a day goes by where I don't think that marrying you was the best thing that ever happened to me, and the smartest decision I ever made.   I'm the luckiest guy in the world.

Happy Anniversary, baby.

A Shameless Plug for My Wonderful Wife

Today marks the dawn of a new era.   No longer shall the pregnant women of the world waddle in discomfort, constantly hiking up their pants to spare the world a full moon.  For today the product Oodgie has been toiling over for months has finally arrived.

Not content with the simple stress of single-handedly raising one child and being married to another, Oodgie created, tested, and produced a great product called BottomsUp.   Apparently pregnancy wreaks havoc on the wardrobe choices of expectant mothers, and no pair of pants ever fits for long.  Oodgie set out to fix this problem, and today marks it's official launch.

Coolmompicks has started the ball rolling, and hopefully we'll have Oprah shilling it for us in not time.  But in the mean time I would be deeply grateful if you, the internet audience for whom I have so much love and respect, would tell all your friends, relatives, celebrity-stalkers, and strangers you meet in elevators or waiting in line at Starbucks to visit www.getbottomsup.com and buy hundreds upon hundreds of these miraculous items.

Thanks everyone!

The Pit of Despair

Oodgie shared this story with me a couple nights ago, and I was laughing so hard I nearly wet myself.  I told her she should write something up for the Hideaway, and lo and behold she did!  Enjoy!

Many, many years ago--before the Crouton (B.C.?) and I were joined in holy blessed until death matrimony--we took a little trip together. Okay, so it was a big trip: clear across the world to Thailand. We were to spend 2 weeks on a boat with some others (no, not Others) exploring the islands in the Andaman sea. Lovely, right? Well, after arriving at the airport a day late, flying for 4,929 hours, spending a night at a sketchy roadside motel, taking a "cab" through the rural Malaysian countryside and finally arriving at a port, we boarded a local ferry to finally and triumphantly meet up with our fellow travelers.

On that ferry I suddenly realized I had to pee. Not like "oh, I have to pee" but more like "I HAVE TO PEE NOW." So I stumbled down to the bowels of the ferry (no luxury liner, mind you) and entered the "restroom."  There, I found it.  A swirling, disgusting pool of despair.  A foul-smelling, violently circulating eddy of Malaysian peasant excrement (not that there's anything wrong with that) cut into a hole in the floor of the ferry. What could I do?  I had to pee! So I sucked it up, held my breath, and squatted, praying vowing that I'd never have to endure such a sight again.

I was wrong.

In fact, right here, just a few days ago, Cheeky was kind enough to recreate that moment for me.

Here we were, at Bespin, ready for tub time. My Croutonspouse may have mentioned before that Cheeky has developed the unfortunate if not-too-often habit of, well, relaxing so much in the tub that her bowels release their contents. Or, more simply put, she poops in the bath.  It'd been a while since the last incident, so I felt a false sense of confidence.  La la la, all is well, when all of a sudden she got a very worried look on her face.  She stood up, grabbed my hand, and started firing nuggets into the water.

Faced with the choice of just letting her use the tub as a toilet or trying to fling her onto the potty, inconveniently positioned miles away (did I mention the size of the master bath here is actually the size of your average NY one-bedroom apt?), I opted to accept my fate and let her finish.  When I was convinced she was done I tried to pick her up, but she didn't want to get out.  To punctuate this fact, she promptly sat down.  On the poo.  Squishing it into the tub mat.

So much for solid waste removal.

We moved on.  I got her out, got her dressed in pj's and diapered up.  I then suggested we go back to the crime scene to clean and swab for DNA.  While she threw fully-wrapped feminine products into the toilet, I cautiously plucked the remaining bath toys out and placed them under scorching water in the sink for decontamination.  Then I tried to scoop.  Not happening.  The poo, soaking in tub water for ten minutes, had taken on a flaky consistency that just wasn't solid enough.  Shit.  Literally.  I was stumped.

So what did I do? I accidentally leaned on the button that starts the air jets.  Did I mention it's a jacuzzi bath?  So when I say "jets" I'm talking "JETS."  NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

And there it was again...my swirling pool of despair. Bubbles churning, liquefied shit swirling and fragmenting even more, a deafening roar bouncing off the bathroom walls, and poor Cheeky, red-faced, sobbing and screaming in terror (silently, to me, since I couldn't hear over the roar of the JETS). 

I tried desperately to shut off the air, pushing this button and that, and this one and that (of course there are only 3 buttons but it seemed like more in the midst of my panic) and grew increasing flustered.  Finally, I grabbed Cheeky's trembling hand, said "should we leave the bathroom?"  I saw her nod a muted, frightened "yes" and we fled, leaving the churning hell-pool behind closed doors.

Later, when she was asleep, I went in to assess the damage.  It was grim.  You know you've hit a low point in parenting when you're using a wipe to hand-scoop tiny ground-up turds out of your mother's Architectural Digest bathtub.

But it makes for a good story, right?

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?

A Peek at Christmas Through the Lights of the Menorah

After much pleading and nagging, I've convinced the infinitely-more-talented-than-me Oodgie to once again grace us with a post. Moved by the holiday spirit, she's agreed to share her Jewspective on this time of year.  Enjoy...

Like any good Jew, I grew up coveting everything about Christmas. Way back then, of course, Hanukah wasn't even remotely what it's become today  as we sorely lacked the shameless paganism which seems to have overtaken Christmas. Not, of course, to belittle the religious meaning behind the holiday, but since when did the mania start right after Halloween?

I wanted to celebrate Christmas so badly when I was kid that I actually went out and bought ornaments and hung them on the family ficus. My father, horrified by this gesture, quickly denuded the tree and delivered a terse explanation of why we don't do that sort of thing. With a heavy sigh, another lame holiday season went by.

Sure, sure, Hanukah (which no one really knows how to spell...Channuka? Chanukah? Hanukka?) IS a holiday and we DO get presents but come on, a dreidel? Really? And latkes with applesauce? And imitation chocolate that looks like money (and I'm sure that doesn't fuel any sterotypes)? It just isn't the same.

In college, my Christmas Envy took a turn towards bitter disdain when faced with a Jewish roommate whose family - both Jewish parents, mind you - fully celebrated Christmas. I'm not saying they put out a nativity scene or baked cookies and fought about who ate the baby Jesus, but they got a tree and exchanged a ton of gifts and that was enough to send me into a tirade on how wrong it was for them to do that. I even pretended I was motivated my an inflated sense of religious loyalty.

As I sailed into adulthood (or gave up the fight and stopped clinging to my youth) I continued to lust after pine and hams and lights and fat men dressed in red and basically All Things Christmas. While I believe I was open to the idea of marrying a fellow Member of the Tribe, well, I just never even dated one. Enter CroutonSpouse.

I like to think my choice in a mate wasn't clouded by my sordid, envious, Christmas-coveting past, but hey, who knows? These days, I'm the one who picks out ornaments when we travel somewhere (and we've got some doozies, we claim, for comedic relief). I'm the one who wakes up every weekend after Thanksgiving saying, "today? tree?" and who scrambles to prepare a holiday meal for a gathering that features 4 out of 5 Jews (apparently, since I'm Jewish, Israel says so is Cheeky and that's that). I keep telling myself (and my guilt-inducing relatives) that we'll celebrate Hanukah (Channuka? Chanukkah?) once Cheeky is old enough to understand the meaning of the holidays and also grasp the fact that what's inside, not the box itself, is the present. But I guess we'll have to wait and see.

Until then, a have a holly jolly Christamakakwanza!

PS - ...and a big HA HA HA to my college roommate, who, since marrying a more religious spouse, is no longer permitted to observe Christmas. Look who's caroling now....

The Boot

I tease Oodgie about her many illnesses and maladies.  She has enough injuries, incurable diseases, and unexplained ailments--which spontaneously disappear and reappear at inopportune times for medical diagnosis--to put a doctor's kids through college.  It's good-natured teasing, and we openly joke about what the next major accident may be.

While I was in L.A. earlier this week for a last minute business trip, I got a triumphant call from Oodgie.  She had just come from her 17th consecutive podiatrist appointment with exciting news...she has a torn peroneus longus!

(I have a very good fwend in Wome name Pewoneus Longus!)

The call itself was filled with fist-pumping vindication ("Yes!  I TOLD you my feet hurt!") but there was also a perceptible hysteria.  The doctor had some pretty clear opinions on how much walking she should do, and threatened dire consequences if she didn't cut way back.

Not so easy for a stay-at-home mom, especially with Cheeky's energy level. 

The doctor gave her a boot that she needs to wear all the time, and suggested she buy a cane.  We're both a little stunned at how suddenly it went from "I can't seem to find anything wrong" to "If you don't lie down on the ground and stay there for a month we'll need to amputate."  She's been walking all over the place for weeks, and is having a hard time justifying the suddenly harsh treatment.  It's a good thing we found out after her birthday celebration.

She was quick to point out that she'd been walking around for weeks with this, and couldn't understand why she had to stop. "If you don't know you you're pregnant and you have a drink they don't make a big deal out of it," she suggested.

"But once you know you have to stop, right?"

"Good point."

So for the next 4-6 weeks, poor Oodgie will be hobbling around like she forgot to take one of her shoes out of its box.  As a long-time sufferer of multiple afflictions, however, she has a solution:  ask around until she finds a diagnosis she likes better. 

Are there any amateur physicians out there willing to offer a second opinion?  I guarantee that any treatments which restore mobility and promise instant results will be readily adopted.

Happy Birthday Oodgie!

Today is Oodgie's birthday, and to celebrate I did a little research.  Did you know:

Her date of conception was on or about 16 March 1969 which was a Sunday.

She was born on a Sunday under the astrological sign Sagittarius. 

The Julian calendar date of her birth is  2440562.5.

She was born in the Chinese year of the Rooster.

Her Native American zodiac sign is Owl; her plant is Mistletoe.
 
She was born in the Egyptian month of Menchir, the second month of the season of Poret (Emergence - Fertile soil).
 
Her date of birth on the Hebrew calendar is 27 Kislev 5730.
Or if you were born after sundown then the date is 28 Kislev 5730.

The Mayan Calendar long count date of her birthday is 12.17.16.5.18 which is
12 baktun 17 katun 16 tun 5 uinal 18 kin

The Hijra (Islamic Calendar) date of her birth is Sunday, 27 Ramadan 1389 (1389-9-27).

Celebrities who share her birthday:

Aaron Carter (1987)	Tino Martinez (1967)	C. Thomas Howell (1966)
Edd Hall (1958)	Larry Bird (1956)	Tom Waits (1949)
Johnny Bench (1947)	Harry Chapin (1942)	Ellen Burstyn (1932)
Ted Knight (1923)	Eli Wallach (1915)	Louis Prima (1910)

Aaron Carter = SO AWESOME!

Top songs of the year of her birth were:

Aquarius/Let the Sun Shine In by Fifth Dimension	In the Year 2525 by Zager & Evans
Get Back by Beatles (with Billy Preston)	Sugar, Sugar by Archies
Honky Tonk Women by Rolling Stones	Everyday People by Sly & the Family Stone
Dizzy by Tommy Roe	Wedding Bell Blues by Fifth Dimension
I Can't Get Next to You by Temptations	Crimson & Clover by Tommy James & the Shondells

Her age is the equivalent of a dog that is 5.28649706457926 years old. (She's still chasing cats and crapping on the lawn!)

The candles on her birthday cake will produce 37 BTUs, or 9,324 calories of heat (that's only 9.3240 food Calories!) .

You can boil 4.23 US ounces of water with that many candles. 

In the year she was born, there were approximately 3.7 million births in the US.  The population at the time was approximately 179,323,175 people, 50.6 persons per square mile.

Her birthstone is Blue Zircon.  The mystical properties of Blue Zircon include helping one be more at peace with oneself.  (I assume this was a mistake, and the wrong birthstone was assigned).

Some lists consider these stones to be her birthstone. (Birthstone lists come from Jewelers, Tibet, Ayurvedic Indian medicine, and other sources):  Blue Topaz, Ruby, Lapis Lazuli

Her birth tree is the Hornbeam Tree (The Good Taste)

Of cool beauty, cares for its looks and condition, good taste, tends to egoism, makes life as comfortable as possible, leads reasonable, disciplined life, looks for kindness, an emotional partner and acknowledgment, dreams of unusual lovers, is seldom happy with her feelings, mistrusts most people, is never sure of its decisions, very conscientious.

The moon's phase on the day she was born was waning crescent.

She's also the greatest woman in the world and a fantastic mother.  Schmucks like me don't deserve it so good, but I ain't complaining.

Happy Birthday!

Parenting or Horror Movie Script?

A brief transcript from an instant message exchange this afternoon:

[16:34] oodgie: i should play with cheeky
[16:34] oodgie: she's cute
[16:35] croutonboy: yeah, she's cute
[16:35] oodgie: don't forget to come home in a timely manner
[16:35] croutonboy: I know
[16:35] croutonboy: I'll be home
[16:35] oodgie: she's running around with her stroller
[16:35] oodgie: uh oh here she comes
[16:35] oodgie: \\
[16:35] oodgie: y7tg7g7g
[16:36] *** "oodgie" signed off at Thu Nov 16 16:36:05 2006.

HONEY???  HONEY???  NOOOOOOOOOOO!

You Might Need to Have That Surgically Removed

BROOKLYN, NY - The results of a recent study, published in this month's Journal of Medicine, confirm that traditional treatments for the removal of Cheeky from her mother are ineffective, and surgical excision may be the only way to safely and effectively save the sanity of the mother.

The study was commissioned to explore the symbiotic relationship between parent and child, and how at times that relationship can take on the characteristics of parasitic relationships found in nature.  Multiple therapies targeting the distraction and engagement of the Cheeky were studied in the initial trial, with mixed results yielding only temporary remission.

"Our findings indicate that, although treatments such as waving fruit in the air, throwing balls, and encouraging independent play may provide momentary relief, the long-term medical remediation is unfortunately to let the disease run its course." said Dr. Schwerertrinkermitverrücktenaugen.  "At the moment, we don't understand what mechanisms are operating to bring about the response we have observed in our patients, and will continue our tests to isolate the biomarkers for further treatment."

The Cheeky is a unique form of growth--identifiable by a furry white cover which is impossible to remove--which attaches itself to the host's leg and emits a continuous "ma ma ma ma ma ma" noise when agitated or ignored.  This behavior is particularly pronounced when the mother is going to the bathroom, or whenever early indications of a parent leaving the apartment are recognized. 

Attempts to peel Cheeky off of it's host have resulted in serious injury to patients, including reports of heavy bleeding and strained muscles received when bracing against walls and furniture for leverage.  Furthermore, Cheeky has a seemingly unending capacity to reattach to it's host, reinforcing the mental trauma already inflicted.

"Interestingly, there seems to be a dramatic drop-off of reported cases of this behavior when observing fathers," said Dr. Geschlagendurchamrandgescheites, co-author of the study.  "Although occasional parasitic behavior can occur, the attachment with the male patient seems much more benign.  Reading the Clifford pop-up book or playing with stickers is often enough to detach the entity, and only rarely is the radical "Elmo therapy" necessary."

Medical professionals, although stymied by the results of the study, have vowed to continue researching new techniques to at least reduce the psychological impact of the Cheeky's intense demonstrations for love and devotion.  The use of grandparents has shown some success in limited clinical trials, and "giving her the damn banana" has also proven effective, if difficult to rely upon for extended relief. 

"The good news is that the early data--gathered from similar studies of other parents--points towards future cessation with decreasing side-effects after a few months.  The challenge remains how to get through the day without committing hara-kiri."

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!