Laid-Off Dad

Newsmakers

I haven’t got much to report about Sunday’s protest that you haven’t read already. We marched, we sweated, we yelled things in unison and hoped they resonated. I took a lot of photos, and I shook hands with Rob Smigel while his hand was inside Triumph, the Insult Comic Dog. (Note: To clean the page, just click on the LOD banner.)

I also encountered a Republican couple at the base of the Empire State Building. I was marveling at how well dressed and coiffed they were despite the oppressive heat and humidity (how do they do that, anyway?) when the wife surveyed the crowd, wrinkled her nose, and said, “Don’t these people have jobs?” It occurred to me to remind her that it was Sunday when I realized, “Holy shit. I do have a job. And it starts tomorrow.”

And so I went today, and I liked the other new people, and now I’m thinking of the enormity of this new career opportunity, and how much I have to learn in order to perform well, and how important it is that I don’t screw it all up, and how I was so wrapped up in everything else over the weekend that I forgot to submit my timesheets, thus delaying a paycheck for another two weeks. So I’m not my biggest fan right now.

Meanwhile, while Daddy was part of Sunday’s news in his own infinitesimal way, Robert was featured far more prominently on my in-laws’ local newscast—they said his name, and everything—when a camera crew caught him dancing to an oompah band at the German-American Festival. Making this about the millionth time when I’ve wanted to trade places with him.

Escape from New York

You know those days that everyone thinks are travel nightmares but are actually a breeze? Like when the only flight you can get out of town is on Thanksgiving morning, and there are no lines anywhere and 10 people on the plane? Well, to the list that includes Christmas Eve and July 4th, it’s time to add the Weekend Before The Government Turns Your Town Into The Global Epicenter of Rancorous Political Activism.

As soon as we learned that Union Square would be a major gathering point for waves of splenetic humanity, we decided that Mama and Robert should fly the coop. We left for the airport yesterday at 4 a.m., anticipating hordes of New Yorkers fleeing town like ducks from a gunshot. Imagine my surprise when, a half hour later, my wife and son had cleared security and I was on the M60 headed back to Manhattan.

There just isn’t anyone around. The smart ones skedaddled long ago, and the only civilians left are 1) protestors, 2) delegates, and 3) dopes like me who are irresistibly curious about what will happen when 1) and 2) collide. And I’m not worried about the security. The city is a fortress, under constant surveillance by beat cops and helicopters. We even have the Fuji blimp on loan, so if anything happens, it can roar off in low-speed pursuit.

Apart from a few flare-ups (and record sales of those plastic flexi-cuffs), we’re gonna be fine. If I’m wrong, at least Robert will be halfway across the country, sneaking fistfuls of Grandpa’s birthday cake.

Soft ’n’ scruffy

In my pathetic last stand against the bowdlerizing demands of full-time employment, I haven’t shaved in a little over a week. Since I am one of those hirsute beastmen who get a five-o’clock shadow at around 2:30, I have reached the slovenly, Borg-at-Wimbledon stage that is usually uncomfortably scratchy.

This time, I’m happy to report that Robert’s herbal baby shampoo—a soothing concoction of palm oils, sage, lavender, and peach leaves—has softened my beard in a way that regular shampoo never could. Which means my last days as an unkempt troll will be comfy ones.

The Gathering Storm

The RNC delegates aren’t due here for three days, but the superabundant security precautions are already palpable.

I was playing softball in Central Park last night when two police officers asked us to claim all of the bags behind the backstop. And we did, since abandoned packages can be a legitimate threat. Then, however, they asked if they could perform a few random searches; a few of us politely demurred, and the cops took names and addresses. Luckily, my treasonous stash—running shoes, an extra T-shirt, and a library book—remained unmolested.

Timing is everything, and it’s too bad the cops didn’t try this an hour earlier, when WNYC’s team, which included Brian Lehrer and Robert Siegel, was using the field. It might have been an interesting discussion thread on All Things Considered.

“Home office” is an even more ridiculous oxymoron than “head butt”

Not too long ago, I attended a concert in DUMBO with some friends from college, one of whom I hadn’t seen since he moved to Westchester. We were catching up over beers when I explained the whole stay-at-home family experiment, which my wife and I had maintained for over a year, and his jaw dropped. Then he responded, “Wow. And you’re still married?”

I wrote that I’m the happiest I’ve ever been, and that’s mostly true. But it’s also a load of crap. For as fun as our home life usually is, all this working in our home office (a scant 7 feet from our living/dining area) causes a lot of wear-and-tear. You’d think a couple like us—who met, became friends, flirted, and fell in love while working together—would be unnaturally adept at dealing with the perils of constant contact. Well, that was when we 1) both worked for someone else and 2) had a lot more “alone time.” Now, one of us (usually her) usually outsources stuff to the other (usually me), which means one of us is the boss of the other, and hoo-boy is that a bad idea. Like Hitler-invades-Russia bad. Each of us is a better teacher than a learner, so we have lots of conversations like this:

One: "See, you’re supposed to—"
The other: "I know, I know, I was just thinking that—"
One: "I know what you were thinking, but you should still—"
The other: "I KNOW! I KNOW!"

The effect is rubbing off. Robert and I had a catch the other day, and when I braced for one of his fastballs by holding my hands opposite each other, wrists together, he said, “That's not how you do it, Daddy.” Then he pulled my pinkies together, and shoved my palms upward. If I’m doomed to be bossed around by everyone in the family, I figure I’m getting out into the workforce in the nick of time.

For my last meal, I’d like Rocky Mountain oysters and head cheese

Life is fundamentally imprecise. The Big Ten has 11 teams. L.A. has no lakes, and Utah has no jazz. Madison Square Garden is nowhere near Madison and is neither a square nor a garden. And now, LOD has a j-o-b.

Today I’m nursing a cocktail of equal parts excitement and unease, because as much as I look forward to the new gig, I’ve grown very attached to the simplicity of this carefree, hand-to-mouth lifestyle. I like that I can’t remember how my alarm clock works. I like shaving once a week. I don't even mind having no disposable income, because I don’t have to think about where to dispose of it. Most importantly, I like our current family dynamic, which is tightly knit and mutually respectful. Basically, I'm happy. And now that I have to shake things up, I’m feeling a little like a Dead Man Walking along the Green Mile.

I knew this couldn’t last forever, and I’ve at least found a way to get paid pretty well for something I love doing. So I probably won’t mind rising at that ungodly hour as much as I did at my old job, which was cubicular and stifling and utterly pointless. There’s also the steady hours and ample vacation, which will let me pal around with the kid while he’s still young enough to want me around.

So there it is. The air’s much better out of the closet. After the elephant shit hits the fan, it's back to commutation and dry cleaning—which isn’t really dry.

A suitor awaits

His friend Erin was fashionably late, so I snapped a few photos while the young squire and I cooled our heels in her lobby. I liked how this one turned out, so I submitted it to The Mirror Project.

Baby, you can drive my bed

I’m proud to say that, despite my many years of drawing breath, I have never bought a car. And thanks to some very generous friends (with a large child and a small apartment), my streak remains intact—although we now proudly hold the title to a “pre-owned” toddler bed shaped like a snub-nosed Ferrari. (Older brother sold separately.) When Robert first saw it, he deemed it the Coolest Thing Ever and immediately pounced on it, blithely shoving away anyone who tried to climb up with him.

Yes, my son sleeps in a used car. Real estate being what it is, he might as well get used to it.

Gawker stalker: Fake news division

Robert and I were headed home from the park the other day when we happened upon Jon Stewart, who was strolling along Sixth Avenue with his wife and baby son. We were all waiting for the light, so we managed to exchange a few pleasantries about fatherhood. Overall, he exuded the happiness that a new baby and a new multimillion-dollar contract can bring about.

Bob’s off the job

Noggin has replaced Bob the Builder with some insipid thing called Maggie and the Ferocious Beast, and I’m incredibly dismayed. Bob feeds Robert’s insatiable truck jones, and Bob’s 7 a.m. timeslot made him a perfect distraction when comatose daddies, who had been up since 6, could catch a few winks on the couch.

Plus, Bob and Wendy went on one of those not-a-date dates on a recent episode, and now I’ll never know if they ever get it on.