Laid-Off Dad

Fraying into scatterplot

Today is my birthday, and I spent it in about the best way I could have hoped: out with the boys, burgers on the plate, baseball on the flat-screen. Good conversation about Star Wars, pancakes, and what happens when several vehicles collide. A little ice cream, a little Seuss, a little Dahl, and precious little boistrosity (about 20 minutes, far below the median) before they passed out. I was watching the debate, pausing when I couldn't take any more and resuming when my BP had managed to return to normal, when I remembered I wanted to post something tonight.

Posting has been a challenge lately, although I'm not at a loss for topics. I'm feeling a little bipolar about my new neighborhood. I'm working on a Unified Theory of Commuting. TwoBert likes to burst into tears at the slightest thwart. But the intervening thing is life, which has sort of flown off its hinges and bears little resemblance to itself a month ago. I've said "Yes" to a lot of opportunities, including a writing workshop that has me filled with renewed zest for my novel. So during the rare chances I get to write, I write that. And I read other people's thats.

I do get time to read, since it seems I'm always on the way someplace. Lots of quality time with the MTA, and a good book. I've read more books over the last six months than I did in the previous six years, which has me even more fired up about writing, which I have no time to do. Maybe I'll blop for a month, just to see if I can.

The point is, blogging is still fun for me. And it's incredibly frustrating that I can't fill my idle time of riding a subway with the idle pleasure of reading/writing blogs. Seriously, wtf science? We can genetically engineer a seedless watermelon, but underground wireless is beyond the pale? I scoff in your general direction.

Until this "miracle of science" comes about, then, I'll just have to spend those two hours per day with my nose in any of the million or so books I just got finished moving. If they're going to compress my spine into a scoliotic hook, I should at least read them, right?

Wordplay and testicles: a winning combination!

The first film Robert ever saw was "Austin Powers in Goldmember." He was about four months old, the weather was hot as an Air Popper, and his mama and daddy were eager to plop down into the cold darkness, turn off our anguished brains, and absorb a couple hours of pure silliness. With luck, Robert would nurse and fall asleep, leaving us to exhale for a bit and (quite probably) fall asleep.

The HMS Filmtanic cruised along at full speed for a while, but we hit the iceberg when Robert woke up in a strange, dark, dank, percussive peopletank and started squalling. All attempts to comfort him were useless, so mama volunteered to take him out to the corridor and watch through the crack in the doors. I spent the rest of the film scuttling back and forth, and the only thing I remembered about the wacky denouement is the gag that brought the house down: when Austin comes face-to-arse with Dr. Evil's bare backside and says, "I used to think you were crazy, but now I can see your nuts."

Goldmember has been in reliable rotation on basic cable for years now, and I've lamented how they've always cut this gag. I've sort of hoped that one day social mores might loosen up enough to let a harmless junk reference squeak through the FCC's gnarled stricture, but as I watched over the weekend with Robert I was certain that day had not yet come.

It has.

And the feeling is bittersweet. For even though we should rejoice that the FCC has decided there's no harm in talking about man-grapes, Robert now thinks that joke is about the funniest thing ever ever ever ever. Everything is all balls, all the time.

Something tells me I better wear a helmet to that first parent-teacher conference.

Sleep is for the carless

As I dragged myself out of bed this morning at Obnoxious O'clock to move my car, it occurred to me that the one positive aspect of alternate-side-of-the-street parking (against a torrent of negative ones) is that it teaches you not to dwell on past accomplishments. You circled around for an hour, you burned about $20 worth of gas, and you found the perfect spot? So what. Go out and do it again. Keep going. Move forward. Stay one step ahead of that dyspeptic, hemorrhoidal traffic cop who feeds on parking tickets like a vampire on blood. Sweet sustenance, in $115 increments.

By that analogy, all car owners in NYC are lovechildren of Van Helsing and Sisyphus.

Today will be an adventure for all sorts of reasons, not least because from 5-7pm I'll be at Tea Lounge, with a bunch of other bloggers who are not men, signing copies of "Sleep Is For the Weak." Since I will have my car with me, I have no confidence that I'll be able to park it anyplace legal. So if you'd like to come by and say hello, I'll be the one circling the block with the windows open. Just hurl your book in my back seat, and when I come back around I'll hurl it back at you.

Kiddie kicks

A few months ago, Liz and Isabel (hereinafter referred to as "Lizabel") and I took our children to an event at one of those daycare imaginariums, whereby New Balance launched its new line of Sesame Street-themed sneakers. I don't normally respond to stuff like this, but I was intrigued by this brand marriage because 1) I am a consumer of each, and 2) the shoes retail for about $50 each. So off did we merrily go, to see what creature this corporate coitus had wrought.

When we arrived, Jenny Nametag cordially invited the boys to have their feet measured and to choose from three designs -- Elmo, Cookie Monster, or Oscar the Grouch. TwoBert instantly chose Oscar, with whom he has always had a special rapport, and went off to tackle the guy in the Elmo costume.

Robert was a bit more circumspect, since he left the land of Enchanting Children's Programming a long time ago. And in true, insouciant-six-year-old fashion, he proudly assured Ms. Nametag that when he got the shoes he was going to sell them on eBay, and use the funds to buy Yankee tickets.

Six to eight weeks later, the boxes arrived. And TwoBert demanded to be outfitted immediately. The shoes fit perfectly, and he was rarely out of them for the next several weeks--effectively abandoning the sandals that took about a tenth of the time to put on. Here's a shot of the boy, rocking his new kicks on the subway:

Robert was largely indifferent to his new treads (shown below, with patriotic hosiery), because Cookie Monster is neither a super hero nor associated with any tentpole movie franchise:

He boxed them up lovingly and put them away, lest the product be damaged and reduce the resale price online. But one day, as we prepared for a baseball playdate, he asked if he could wear them (as seen below, in the middle of his pitching windup). I was surprised by this, and when I asked Robert about it, he said he wanted to show off his new "baby shoes."

So in summary: the Sesame Sneakers are durable, yet flexibly-soled enough for a three-year-old to get a strong running start before he head-butts you in the crotch. They are laced, which might be a little burdensome. And they are an excellent medium for a six-year-old to convey to his startled parents that he has discovered irony.

Broadcasting live from the Double Hundy

It's Labor Day morning, high atop the Triple-Didge, and I have an entire city day to myself. There is so much I should be doing, like buying the window treatments that will shield the world from my aggressive nudity. But instead, this seems as good a time as any to remember what typing at a keyboard feels like. I've mostly been thumbing my way through the Web for the last month, keeping tabs on pennant races and presidential tickets (wasn't it fun watching them merge into each other?), and using the other eight fingers again feels strangely decadent.

I did have a plan this morning. A friend and I were going to bike the length of Manhattan, from Debacle to Dyckman. But his wife called at 7am to say he "slept wrong," and he woke up with searing pains in his neck, and a numb arm, and a bent spine (or some such; my brain was pretty fogged up), and he's in the hospital, high as a hippie on muscle relaxants. You know you're middle-aged when lying around can send someone three years younger than you to the ER.

Summer '08 is gone, and never 2B4GOT10. We dodged a bullet, weatherwise, because we didn't have that characteristic Ten Days in the High 90s, when the AC is set to Arctic Blast 24/7 and no one dares leave the house. There was lots of exploration of new kidthings to do in NYC (inspired by the excellent Mommy Poppins). We explored the many food groups of Water Sports (beach, pool, lake, hose, Slip-n-Slide, Water Park, seltzer fight). We biked, we threw and caught, we traipsed and cavorted. And we dismantled a household. It feels OK, though. Sort of like fashioning two new Mini Coopers out of a rusted-out Country Squire. A lot less storage space, but about triple the MPG.

The boys spent their second night with me on Saturday, and we sent Summer '08 off in style with my quintessential summer meal: tomato sandwiches and sweet corn. (It was sort of like that first-dinner scene in Mrs. Doubtfire, except with more boxes and fewer surly teenagers.) We played soccer, we played rummy (that is, Robert and I played while TwoBert rammed his LEGO car into the discard deck), we all crashed at the same time, and 10 hours later (!) I got my morning pounce, the strongest sign yet that all can be right with the world.

And tomorrow, their mom and I will walk Robert to his new school, the sitter will resume her daily helm, and the cycle will begin anew. Unless I wake up paralyzed.