May 22, 2007

How I Got Picked Up…And Put Right Back Down

Well, it takes a certain combination of charm, aggression, fatigue and love of family.

Every once in a while I release my death-grip on the remote control, the iMac and all other forms of male-dominated technology in our home so my wife can have the night off from me.

I’d had a long day of last minute writing deadlines. My wife had had a long three years of child-wrangling. We were both crispy enough to get served up in a basket with ketchup and chicken fingers.

So I left my beloved so she could enjoy a little peace ‘n quiet and headed to a bar to veg.

Margarita in hand, swallowed whole in a sea of pretty happily buzzed twenty and thirtysomething or others I was staring vacantly at the TV like I actually understood the colorful pictures when I felt a nudge.

I look over and there’s a table of cuties~buzzed, naughty and as I was about to discover out for a bachelorette party.

None of which has applied to me in even the remotest of possibilities for about fifteen years.

So this blonde arm-nudger says to me “What’s going on?”.

I’m like, clueless. I’m also like, married. So I quickly do the math, look back up at the television and reply “Oh, um I think Damon just homered for the Yankees~its 5-2”.

Cutie doesn’t blink. Which makes me think “Uh oh, Red Sox fan”. In fact, not only doesn’t she blink, but she doesn’t even look at the TV. Instead, she goes “So, what else is going on”.

Now I’m thinking, “Shit~I just summed up my entire grasp of sportstalk in one sentence”.

Then I notice she’s not wearing a Yankees cap. Or a sports jersey. Or a boyfriend. And despite all the noise in this place for some reason I can hear my heart starting to accelerate, like someone just asked me the answer to a math-quiz question.

So basically there’s this nubile athletic Cheetah staring down a past-its-prime wildebeast. I mean, let’s keep this well in perspective.

I was at best, the helpless defenseless mouse this feline was batting around just to keep its game sharp until something worth it time ambled in to view.

So I did the only thing a red-blooded, not-entirely-past-its-prime, can enjoy the painting without smudging the canvas, hot-blooded male would do.

I had an outburst of “Marriage-Tourettes”.

In the entire space of one sentence I managed to blurt out something like MARRIED I HAVE A THREE YEAR OLD DAUGHTER I NEVER EVEN GO OUT THAT OFTEN HOW ‘BOUT THOSE YANKEES HAVE I SHOWED YOU PICTURES OF MY GIRL?!!!!

And, true to spastic form the next thing I know I’m flashing them cell-phone pics of my family.

Which Cheetah could care less about and proved the point by responding “You know what? Everyone always thinks their kid is like, the cutest. You can’t be objective”.

Which is when I realized, Cheetah’s may be fast, but Wildebeasts are made for the long haul. And I said something like “Oh, you mean like when girls say they’re a size six but they’re really like, a size eight?”.

Yeah, I guess you could say that kind of put a damper on our little Tom And Jerry flirt-fest. The last I saw of Cheetah, she bolted off to the bar with a well executed eye-roll/hair toss to her friends, “Well, enjoy talking to the guy who’s married with a three year old…”.

By the time I got home both mama and daughter were curled around each other, fast asleep. I took Advil, wondered to myself since when on a school night do I have three drinks, then crawled in to bed just in time for Ella to do a full-out toddler stretch by planting a kick to my chest.

Which made me gasp for air and wonder how many pounds-per-square inch force can a rib absorb before it hairline fractures?

But it also made me smile, like I said~us Wildebeasts are built for the long haul.

May 11, 2007

Starbucks: Where Wildlife Mingles

Its true. Starbucks really is one of the last remaining wildlife refuges on the planet.

Just stop by any morning, mid-morning, late-morning, afternoon, mid-afternoon...(you get the idea) and watch the timeless display of species interaction.

Typically, as most wild animals tend to do~they congregate around a central, important and life-sustaining feature of their landscape.

At Starbucks it’s the condiments counter. The modern day "watering hole" for every species that visits.

At the watering hole, you'll see the intricate and complex give and take as nature displays its awesome tendency towards natural selection.

Or as I like to call it, "Only The Caffeinated Survive".

Lesser-caffeinated males can be seen staying near the back of the pack, waiting for the moment they can meekly reach over for the thermos of Low-Fat milk.

Quickly, ever on the alert for larger game, they top off their tall, skim extra shot vanilla latte.

Sadly, this smaller-than-average specimen will not last the next round of budget cuts or will sustain a career-ending paper cut while filing. Nature is cruel, but fair in its meting out of wildlife-justice.

Next, the real lords of the plain.

The Alpha Males.

They triumph proudly and without fear right in front of the milk counter, almost daring another male to confrontation.

They drink triple-shot vente espressos.

They don’t need milk.

Or sugar.

They metabolize the espresso directly in to primal aggression.

They ravage icing-rich cinnamon rolls, but show no discernable weight-gain.

Often, in a sign of species dominance they can be seen eyeing the lesser-males behind them in to forced submission. The non-caffeinated males will slink back, gaze averted and not approach the counter until the Alpha male departs back to the office.

The females stay in protective groups, clustered around the yellow and blue artificial sweetener packets for camouflage.

In courtship display they will casually wave a stir stick in mid-air to draw attention often while reaching across the alpha male for the non-fat milk thermos which of course, is sadly out of reach for the lesser male, as are any of the females.

Occasionally, a lesser male will try to force its way to the front of the counter. It’s the natural-selection equivalent of salmon stream-jumping.

Though many fish will be pushed back by the force of the water, over time their generations will develop the fast twitch musculature to make the jump upstream to the calm breeding pools.

At Starbucks, you’ll see a lesser male push his way past an Alpha male, to the surprise of himself and the females. Sadly, once at the front of the counter the lesser males suddenly realize they lack the requisite lean body mass to sustain a fully caffeinated drink.

Lacking the energy they need, they typically stand mute and helpless for an awkward moment before grabbing something unneeded and inappropriate, like one of those two foot, extra long straws before they retreat.

And as night falls and cooling, mid-morning Frappucino orders evolve in to later afternoon double lattes, the cycle of nature continues and fulfills its evolutionary mandate~in tall, grande and vente.

May 8, 2007

Housepets: The New Celebrities

Okay, so Barbaro finally died. Yeah, that race horse. Exactly. I have no idea why this horse and his story so fascinated the media. Last I checked, he was a racehorse, right? That won? Isn’t that what racehorses are supposed to do?

I mean, its not like this horse turned his back on racing to pursue a career in medicine and find a cure to childhood diabetes or something. Yet for what seems like years, every time I turn on the television like, every station was talking about this horse.

Barbaro hurt his leg again!. Now he has an infection, he’s better! Oh no, he’s sick again! He’s recovering! No, Barbaro succumbed to his injuries!.

Seriously, Darfour hasn’t received this much coverage since it even barely became a topic in our country. So what’s up with this horse? It’s not like he was Mr. Ed. Now there’s a horse. You show me a talking horse, hey~you can have all the coverage you want. I’ll write the press release myself.

I mean, for weeks you couldn’t even get a good heated conversation going. You mention Iraq, someone's like "Oh, did you hear Barbaro's up and walking". Or try and stir the pot about the whole Gonzoles DA mess and people brush you off with “Hey, Barbaro’s injuries healed. They’re saying he’ll have a light work out next week and he munched a handful of oats! WILD CHEERS FROM OFFICE STAFF.

I mean, you mention Barbaro in a sentence and you get employees dry humping each other at the fax machine in pure, unadulterated joy. Again, what did Barbaro do? Oh right, he was a horse.

Are we so starved for celebrity that the faux royalty-status we already shower on pop icons is no longer enough? Have we transcended human adoration and shrunk to celebrating the achievements of animals?

Maybe I'm just bitter because a farm animal I've never heard of will probably get his own book deal posthumously. I'm sure that psychic guy John Edwards will be chatting up Barbaro from beyond the grave next show.

Seriously, if I as so much see one "Barbaro: Amercia's Horse" bumper sticker I'm throwing myself under the car.

Whatever. But I tell you it’s a slippery slope we’re on. Black ice slippery. Check out youtube. Enter “cats”. How many videos are there of cats doing stupid things? Answer~way too many. What’s next, “NBC is proud to present, The Iifetime Achievement Awards For Housepets”.

Where does it end?

More importanty, where did it begin? Rin Tin Tin? Lassie? Flipper? C'mon, you never saw Flipper trying to get a development deal. Flipper was more than happy to pull little Sandy from some awful riptide then celebrate with a backflip and some sushi.

Benji. That's where it all went bad. One *&^%*&(@! feature film and the next thing you know Benji's in an air-conditioned trailer asking for gourmet kibble.

I never liked Benji. His eyes were too close together. And now, because of Benji we're grieving the passing of a horse that couldn't even talk.

Great.

Thanks for setting our culture back oh, about a century's worth of common sense Benji.

Doggystyle.

May 4, 2007

Livn' La Vida Three Year Old

I am caffeine powered. My three year old daughter is nuclear powered. She derives fuel directly from the sun as it creates stellar energy.

She no longer needs to nap. Or really, eat. She lives on Polly Pockets and day-long playdates at the park.

Oh, and this kind of weird, artificial laugh she's developed. You ask her if she wants more fruit and she throws her mouth wide open and laughs like a forty-year old, "HAHAHAHA".

Then of course, she seems to gain great strength from her philosophical outlook on life.

Her early phase of inquiry was purely empirical~fingers jammed in to a bowl of frozen blueberries yielded-cold.

But that's when she was two. She's three now and her powers for reasoning have increased in direct proportion to her love for mini Peppermint Patty's.

Yesterday she was in rare form. Made the Energizer Bunny look like a narcoleptic.

Ella played all day, then skipped her nap, proudly walking out of the bedroom at 3:00pm declaring, "I'm just not tired Dana...".

My wife, though clearly a saint among mere mortals hasn't slept well the last few nights. In that condition, you miss one afternoon toddler nap and you're ready to eat a bullet for dinner. As Ann walked out of the bedroom after Ella it was clear from the look on her face she needed either:

a. Drugs
b. A hot affair
c. Some help

Needless to say, we can't very well be telling our little Angel "Just say no" while popping Vicodan like M&M's, and thankfully Ann is way too tired to have an affair. Even a lukewarm one.

So we picked "C". I scooped up Mighty Might and off to the park we went. We ran. We swung. We see-sawed. We chased each other. We played Cinderella. We went to our friend Rosie's, where Ella and Rosie tore her place apart, laughed out loud, tried to remove tufts of hair from one another and gobbled down mini-cheeseburgers.

By 8:00pm Ella was yawing. My plan was working. By 8:15pm we were in the tub, en route to an early bed-time. So there we are, tub full of dollies, us wet and soapy.

Ella was giving her tiny doll a good scrub down when she asked: "What are we doing tonight?".

Just like that. Like, "Nice little break. What's on the books for the evening~build our own particle accelerator?".

I just burst out laughing it was so funny. I said "You crack me up!".

Prompting her to ask "Why am I cracking you up?".

Dana: Oh, because you have such fun.
Ella: Why I have fun?
Dana: Well, I don't know~you just enjoy living so much.
Ella: When are we dying?
Dana: *pause*
Dana: *pause*
D: Well...not right now. And when we do, we'll relate to it then.
E: Okay.

So yeah. Basically what passes for casual tub-time conversation for my daughter is a brief inquiry of one's mortality.

I wonder sometimes what its like for her, raising a fortysomething dad.

Probably though, I won't ask her...