Sunday, August 30, 2009

Off Broadway

Let me just say off the top, learning that my PC has headphone jacks is boss. Sunny Day Real Estate, now Zero 7, shuffle off to Buffalo, can I get a witness?

We're on the verge of football season, and I'm on the fence about whether to go all Mr. Marinovich on Gavin, the 2-year-old twin. For those of you unfamiliar with the Marinovich tale (I really only know the generalities), the elder Marinovich began shaping his son Todd to be a big-time QB when the boy was 2. Fitness regimen, special nutrition, wouldn't be surprised if there was film study.

The kid won a full ride to USC, was the Trojans' starter, and made it to the NFL, where he flopped. Smoked a lot of marijuana, might have been arrested. Became someone I had to explain to you.

That's not the plan for Gavvy Gav, as we call him around here. Pronounced like it's spelled. Protect this House!

It all began when I suspected he was a bit of a rockhead--seemed unfazed by the same collisions that have his sisters in tears and in need of a hug and a booboo kiss. Plus, he doesn't fall down as much as his twin, Darcy, and has got one heck of an open-mouthed stare that athlete-students get in Geometry class.

Then one day last week, Maggie calls me from upstairs after I hear one of the three cry....OK, scream. She says that Gavin's bleeding. I ask what color. No, seriously, she says she bonked his nose with her head. I run upstairs and he's on the stuffy chair, bare-chested, blood smeared across his face and hands, eating the fruit snacks I had given him minutes before.

Right then, I knew he'd be No. 56. That's right, linebackers wear that number.

There will still be reading and writing and math-ing, and for now we'll keep it to sprints, plyometrics, and yelling 'Strong Right!' 10 random times per day. But come Jan. 6 (or 7th?), his third birthday, the backpedaling, tip drills and supplements begin. He will be thereafter described as having a "high motor", good "awareness in space" and "blood in his eye".

On Jan. 10, we'll add (I use "we" referring to the organ-eye-zation, not so much my wife) the raising and lowering of a running-back pinata over a tree limb. The key to this will be that when he finally rips it to shreds there will be no candy inside. He'll never forget that moment, and we believe his trademark sack dance could involve whacking an unseen target with an imaginary stick, then weeping.

He will be known as Bushwhacker, and the troubled past that will make him a Sunday Conversation on Thursdays will be his relationship with his father, a former sportswriter who wanted one last scoop to get him back to the bigtime.

As Gavin progresses, there will be Jeep-pulling playdates, strength-training advisers, bike-helmet stickers for random acts of aggression, surprise challenges by the old man: "Is he keeping or pitching?" or "Race you to the last protein shake," or "What if the ref isn't looking?" I can picture the slow-motion montage of this period in the movie of his life, "Tackling Dummy."

In seventh grade, he can learn to read from playbooks, learn to write with pretend appeals of league suspensions and learn his numbers from a book I found called Fun With Incentive Clauses. He won't be anybody's fool.....until age 48, when he will mumble orders (like Ozzy Osbourne--he's so funny!) to his butler, maid and the person who will hold up his lower lip up so he can swallow soup.

There will be no money from speaking engagements, but wow, his memories of his career will fade in and out. I will say in interviews that I had little to do with his brutality, that he deserves all the credit. His name will live on in the social-services camps he will found.

Bushwhacker Academy for Troubled Youth Who are Good at Football.


That's all I've got for tonight. Bobby Womack's seeing a yawning me to the door....

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Led Zeppelin

I put away the baby monitors a couple weeks ago, and could have done it a few months ago, really. The one we still used was in Darcy's and Maggie's room, and for a long time now if one of them has a late-night issue, she will just come downstairs. No crying, just all of a sudden one, usually Darcy, would be at our bedside.

It was a milestone I believe gets overshadowed by the biggies--potty training, walking, self-feeding, talking. I did a lot of thinking about that thing, though. While it was in use, it could be a way to stay remotely connected to the wee ones, and when we played soothing music all through the night, we were soothed as well.

We heard them play together and say funny things, and I couldn't wait for Carrie to forget I could hear her as she made a comment about me to the sidekicks--but I only ever heard what was meant to be heard. I also had plenty of chilling imaginations about it, and if I were more driven, ambitious, less lazy, would have written a story or perhaps a play or screenplay.

Because we around here are into ghost pictures and the aural equivalent known as EVPs (less so than pics--those sounds are hard to stomach alone), it was easy to conjure the monitor as the basis for a horror tale.

You know, Young family, full of love and child-centered fun, with early examples of the monitor in the daily routine, hearing some regular mundane stuff over the monitor, complete with some of the family hearing another member fart over the monitor and cracking up together. That's the good vibe before the devil comes to breakfast.

Then it gets good: we see the bedroom with the couple asleep, as soothing music wafts over the monitor. La la la la la la grunt growl warped voice snort..but not loud enough for the couple to wake. Yes, there's something uncuddly in the baby's room.

I actually just paused to get up to turn on the light, as I blog on the computer that is up in our loft, right next to the playroom, which is darker than the loft lit only by Sportscenter. You guessed it, I scared myself.

Not sure if it gets all standard-horror formula from there, but that's the beginning. Could probably get a half-hour of a movie just from that. Probably progress to conversations between the kids/babies and the Terrible Teddy, a la the pig from Amityville Horror.

The point is, sounds of horror are as scary or scarier than the sights. One of the most frightening scenes to me from the Exorcist is when the young priest is playing and rewinding recordings of Regan (and her guest) alone. Could not have done it. The garbled, twisted, demonic voice....

The baby monitor was interesting because I remember it picking up people's cell phones comversations as well, just like a pair of wireless headphones I thought I just had to have and used three times. I once listened to a pair of high-school girls having a high-school-girl phone chat for a good 10-15 minutes. They swore like, oh my God, twice.

So, to recap, no more monitors to eavesdrop on the kids or my wife or neighbors, and I am certain that I will see in 6 months a blockbuster horror flick involving a baby monitor and I will have no legal recourse to capture any of the proceeds.

But you will know, and that will be enough for me.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

N.W.A.

Putting Maggie and Darcy to bed tonight, I was creeped out by Darcy's eyes rolling back in her head as she fell asleep while I read Little Bear's Visit. Sort of like when you see a boxer or a QB knocked unconscious--that noone's-there stare that is so scary.

Tangent alert!

This makes me think of all the drinking incidents when I was very much younger, when there was a period you don't remember, a blackout, yet you are told the next day things you did and said. It boggled my mind that a person could do and say but not remember.

Tangent alert!

That calls to mind the terror we've all known imagining a kind of sleepwalking during which we commit heinous crimes and are imprisoned for them. I'm not cut out for a stretch in the pokey.

When I lived in Naperville in my early years at the Daily Herald, I bought a bunch of hockey-goalie equipment on my credit card. At the time I had a part-time job at a Naperville coffee shop, from which some checks had been stolen. Apparently I was a suspect, and when I attained that status courtesy of the shop's owners, the police checked my recent consumer activity, and noticed the chunk I had charged for the sporting gear. Ding ding!

Two detectives came to my apartment, asked me to come in for questioning and fingerprints and and a handwriting sample, and flat-out told me they thought I did it.

That was one of those moments people describe as the ground shifting beneath them, complete with a swirling room. It felt unreal to be told a detective was certain I was guilty of a crime I knew I hadn't committed, to the point that I started wondering and fretting that indeed I had stolen checks and cashed them in a horror-novel case of Jekyll and Hyde. What if?

I never heard from the police after that, causing me to almost call them and rage in vain at how they could incite so much grief and then not let the accused know the coast was clear. I did let the shop's owners know how I felt, though. That was a good job, once you figured out how to make lattes and cappuccinos, getting the foam just right. I must have gained 10 pounds drinking cafe mochas (hot chocolate made with coffee instead of water and topped with whip cream).

Back to original thought alert!

It wasn't the first time I had watched a kids' eyes roll up, but I didn't have a blog the other times. It's not so creepy that I don't enjoy it, because it signals a worn-out child and a soon-to-be-free adult. It makes you want to capture that moment when you yourself fall asleep, the time right after the last thing you remember. I had a knee surgery once, the only time I've been put under. That was weird, and you think about the terror some people undergoing serious surgeries experience, as their anesthesia-countdown backwards from 100 could be their last action in this realm.

Everyone's eyes roll up, not just kid's, and it's jolting on those occasions when you are falling asleep in public to think what you must look like to others. You think that staying awake is all you have to do, but barely remaining conscious has a facial expression all its own and it ain't pretty: almost-closed eyes, a head that snaps up for all to see when you nearly doze off, and if you're really unlucky, drool is involved. There's a word that sounds like its meaning, drool. Like squat. Ugliest word in the English language.

Retroactive tangent alerts!

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

The Sundays

If you hang on each Senyor Madre post, I apologize--I was finishing some freelance work the past couple days. I will however stop doing such things if you'd be willing to send $100 each month (times 13 followers, even my wife) to the address I will provide when you agree and contact me.

Otherwise, I need to contribute something more than keeping the kids alive, the house and furniture intact and spreading domestic tales of joy with this here blog.

Back to business, then.

I have confidence that Darcy will be smart, and I'll tell you why. The other day at a park, I asked her if she wanted to play catch with me. I bring along a football to park outings involving Connor in case the ConMan wants to chuck it around. She is very game, and put her arms in the basket position we have drilled each morning at 4:30.

I tossed it and hit her in the face. After I comforted her--hug, some words--she went to play with the equipment and her siblings. Later, I asked her if she wanted to play catch. She said "No."

So, she's all set for a life of enlightenment, trial and error, risk and reward, living and learning. Her twin, um........I believe that if Gavin touched an oven in use that he would not repeat it...once he let it go. He has a high pain thresh-hold is the point I'm trying to make. He's my Goon-in-training.

I'll leave fourth-grade Connor out of this, restricting it to the toddlers. The ConMan gets good grades and is sociable and sensitive and funny--a completed work if you will. Maggie, though, not sure what to do.

She's reading already, has been since she turned 3, though a lot better as she nears 4. She has since about then been doing things on her own on the PC as well--finding her sites, clicking on them, playing games, etc.

I'll type this once--this is not bragging on my kid. I know plenty of kids can read at this age, and use a PC, but I have only one of them, and we have to worry about how to handle precociousness. Add fertilizer or let it grow organically?

No, I haven't researched anything. I'm afraid because child development is the kind of field with five different theories. I'm sure I will push--maybe find a group her age that also reads, maybe start one (yeah, right). I'm trying to get her to work on writing now, but she's resisting, and that'll be cute for another day or so, then the food-rationing will begin.

She starts preschool again next Monday, and it is a good one, focused on education, not just play and crafts. We've been messing around with Spanish since she was walking--"Cuidado!"--but not in a get-after-it way. She gave my heart a skip today though when she said "Fresa."

It's fun just letting her be a 3-year-old girl, so that is the other part of the tug-of-war. Just would hate to let a good thing fade away.

Her progress is no mystery--we had time and space to focus on her before the twinny twin twins, and like most folks, we prioritized book time. I am sure that the time spent on Starfall.com made the key difference (besides the genetic aspect of superior intellect of course), however. Sounding out letters in words is real.

Excuse me if I'm stating the obvious, but I don't remember doing this with Connor, so this seems like my first toddler educational venture. He fooled me one time, when he was 3 or 4. We were playing Cariboo, and he pointed at the word "airplane" and said "airplane." I screamed, "Carrie, he just read a word!" Then I noticed that a picture of an airplane was right under the word.

So, I don't think we'll turn into the Rick Moranis character from "Parenthood"--I so much enjoy a child who beats his bucket-covered head against the wall that I could not in good conscience over-manage any of them. We'll see.

As for the twins, they have had less attention paid to their phonetics and such, but they'll have each other to cheat off. Not playing favorites, you understand, just trying to keep all my shit in one sock, as my old friends used to say.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Love

Not sure I have one theme tonight, so as reporters sometimes refer to a column with brief vignettes, I'll empty the notebook.....

**I cut Gavin's nails tonight, while he slept. It's the only way I could, and from the combination of negligence, being too tired and forgetting, and his belligerence, they had grown into some weapons which ever other member of the family had felt; some sported scratches.

I don't know, now that I think of it, if we should have gotten some kind of shots, or put him down. Anyway, once he was snoring (or purring, really) I picked up the hand that was closest to me and hacked away. It's nerve-racking, because you can't feel what you're cutting, like when you do your own.

Got that hand done, and figured I'd be happy with that and get the rest later. Carrie asked me to check to make sure I left his closet light on a couple hours later, so I got my chance to finish and sure enough his other hand was available.

Mission accomplished. The family is safer than it was.


**Carrie and I got over the Battlestar Galactica hump we'd been climbing lately. We've had such fun with Blockbuster.com and watching TV series. Deadwood, Rome, Carnivale, Weeds, Dexter, Big Love, Tell Me You Love Me, Sopranos--all great experiences and windows into our murky souls.

Co-workers at my last job highly recommended BG and one of them had the first season, so we bit, and really enjoyed it. We're on the last season now; it had started to lag, we felt, but there was no way we were going to quit this far along. Tonight we saw enough to restore the faith and inject the adrenaline needed for the remaining three episodes.

So say we all. Frackin' skinjobs. Godsdammit.

Wow. Imagine if I was writing about Deadwood.

**Carrie, with the three small ones draped on her for their daily feeding, dropped a piece of chip with hummus on it. I picked it up and stuck it on her right arm, because hummus is sticky. Gavin looked at it and said, "What's happening?" I told him it was a festering sore, and to eat it. So he picked it off her arm and ate it.

If we ever have any infected scabs around here, we might have to rein in the sense of humor.


**I'm very excited to update the iPod today. First off, Carrie showed me how, so I don't have to ask her to do it anymore. Second, I now have most of my favorite Beatles and Elvis songs on there. I'm all for taking chances on music and being Obscure Band guy (Comet Gain, Cat Power, Battles, and Mew also made their Joe's iPod debut) but those two influenced much of what we all know and love and it's damn fine sing-along music.

A year or so ago, I made a video of Maggie (on our youtube channel, vezina11) singing the Beatles' "All My Lovin'," which she knew so well because I would sing it to her at bedtime each night. I started singing it because once you say "Close your eyes" to a child, the rest of the song surfaces, so I went with it.

I found when singing to her in the hospital days after she was born that the lyrics to love songs can work really well with newborns. "Reminiscing" by the Little River Band has always been a schlocky surprise favorite to myself, sort of like "At This Moment" by Can't Think of His Name Right Now.

I sang Reminiscing to her over and over, and who among you parents can argue with words like "I wanna build my world around you," and "I wanna make you understand I'm talking about a lifetime plan," and "On the way back home I promised you'd never be alone."

Fifteen months later, the twins helped us make good on that promise.

Thursday, August 13, 2009

The Detroit Cobras

One of my favorite quotes was/is "Ships are safe in the harbor, but that's not what ships are made for."

It is less a guiding principle the past five years than it used to be, when I had much more freedom (to charge cool trips on the Visa) and little purpose. I reactivated it again today, though, and not in a small way.

I got out the Play-doh.

I thought Carrie would be impressed, and I was right. Actually, between you and me, I think she was a little aroused by her beloved getting all crafty. I've told her before I'm just not going to glue, stick, cut, fold, draw, paint, shake, bend, tape, or mutilate quite the way she did when she was Mrs. Mom. Not gonna do it.

I'll take the kids to the park, with none of her girlfriends to help out, and have no problem getting them in and out of the gym and the pool; I've started bathing them; diapers?--please, I've been changing those for years; I'll whip up some cereal, with milk, and cut up an apple, too. Been known to do a little laundry.

But I hate messes, and crafting=unnecessary cleaning. So, coloring books and crayons have been about it since Daddy took over field ops. Occasionally, I'll draw some lines on a piece of paper and harangue Maggie into improving her fine motor skills with scissors. Nothing wet, though, no way, uh-uh.

Tinker Toys, multi-colored blocks, Lincoln Logs, movie after movie, yes; finger paint, Elmer's, creativity, no.

Carrie pleaded with me a couple times, saying the kids need stimulation, what are you going to do in the winter (um, go outside, sled, make snowballs, push each other down), yadda yadda....but honesty is the bedrock of some relationships, I mean our relationship, and I said, "Sorry, it's probably not going to happen."

A couple of weeks ago, Carrie accidentally bought a pack of 24 cans of Play-doh while grocery shopping with Maggie. I don't like Play-doh, mainly because of its smell. And once you get all the spaghetti-making machines and hamburger-grinders going, that crap gets everywhere.

But, I did it. After all, technically, it's not even moist, right? So, down went the plastic tablecloth, and Gavin, Maggie and Darcy each got two or three colors (Connor was with a same-aged buddy blowing shit up in the loft). Once I showed the darlings how to squoosh it, they were naturals. I helped them along by showing them you could tear off pieces and make multiple lumps, or you could flatten the main lump with your hand for a pancake--but don't eat it! Ha ha ha.

The craziness picked up when I couldn't find Carrie's cookie-cutter shapes collection, so I started handing out things that were definitely not sharp knives. And when I gave them the mashed-potato implement, the one with the flat surface and multiple holes, the shrieking commenced.

The only break in the fun was when one of them would drop a chunk on the floor, and I would get in their face and yell until they picked it up. In this way, there was hardly any mess at the end, and I think we'll do it again in October.

Monday, August 10, 2009

The Cult

One of the aspects of being a father of and to four kids--by now, I have spent more time with Connor than has his Dad--is watching the whole brother-sister dynamic.

I grew up an only child, raised by a single Mom, who had to work late quite a bit when she waitressed, and stopped hiring babysitters to save money as soon as she felt it safe. Let's say I was 9 or 10 when that bridge was crossed.

Not to go on about this, but that situation builds independence, comfort with oneself, selfishness, self-confidence to a sometimes-arrogant degree, and lots of masturbation opportunities. I can only say that I'm curious as to a different existence--two parents, siblings--but not unhappy with how things turned out. I'm sure everyone can say the same because you'll never know.

I played catch with myself, tossing a football and running under it outside; being tackled by the couch inside, and turned out to be a pretty good wide receiver. Had an All-Star Baseball board game for which I invented leagues and kept stats (Ron Guidry threw the only no-hitter in the thousands of games I staged), and an electric football game.

Yes, I had friends, but by the age of 11 (when I read Helter Skelter, twice), I had no problem choosing my company over others', and that holds true today. I would rather be alone than with anyone but family and good friends, or at a party. As my followers are aware, "You know, parties are fun."

Carrie has a sister, but I can't type about her experiences and thoughts on this matter, except to say that one sister is not four kids, so she has to marvel as well.

At times I imagine being a child psychologist, behind the one-way mirror, the main difference is they have no emotional connection. We've all done it--watched a child or two while they're distracted, eating an apple and watching a cartoon. I usually feel honored (the agnostic equivalent of feeling blessed) to be able to see them hug without being prompted because of an indiscretion or injury, or grab one another for a dance, or the nirvana of seeing them make each other laugh.

Of course, the fighting is a given for those who spend so much time together. I'm referring to the kids. I remember doing many stories on wrestlers, and invariably one had started in the sport because of an older brother's involvement, and usually accomplished more due to his learning and beatings suffered at the hands of the mentor. Cliches included grappling in the house escalating to some sort of unplanned remodeling, and gruff affection and awkward acknowledgement of the others' skill and success.

That was the extent of my sibling understanding before Connor-Maggie, then Connor-Maggie-Darcy-Gavin. At its most basic, they always have playmates and chew toys and venting targets and dance partners and will be the ones who taught each other to share and empathize and sympathize and compete, manipulate and defend, listen and collaborate.

Just today Carrie and I were laughing because Gavin has started to come between us when we kiss or cuddle up. They all have for awhile, but it's usually to join in when it takes place in the kitchen, standing--lift and snuggle.

Lately, Gavin is not sharing his Mom, and today I remarked that he should watch it because I'll be bigger than him for another 15 years maybe. Carrie said by then she won't be his target as much as his sisters' friends. Oh, to be Gavin, when Maggie and Darcy's BFFs are around.

We don't put Darcy and Gavin near each other at mealtimes; if it isn't their play, it's their battles, that hinder their feeding. Maggie sometimes seems 5 years older than them, not 15 months--she is the "teacher" on the computer, as they do an educational website, and of course has much more to say about what she wears. Still, the other night, I put Gavin to bed and when I came out of his room, the girls were having a pajama party on Maggie's bed, with a book involved. Contented sigh.

As for Connor, he's all about being the much older brother. They love him and miss him, and vice versa. I hope he shows Gavin how to build Legos and Bionicles, like Connor's Dad showed him. Connor rolls around with them, and helps us parent whether or not we ask him to, and corrals them and laughs at what they say and do. It's got to be good for his soul, I would think.

I am on the lookout and hearout for any special language or hand signals that the twins are supposed to have. All I can detect is this weird thing they do with their middle fingers, followed by laughter and shaking their heads dismissively. Otherwise, they just play together and whale on each other with all of their natural weapons.

Gavin has worn dresses and has put hair things in his hair, perhaps had his nails painted. It's cool.

I said, it's cool. OK?

Saturday, August 8, 2009

Soul Asylum

"And so it begins," Carrie said, and so it does.

I asked Maggie who took the foam letters out of the mat we have, strewing them across the floor, and she said Darcy. We asked Darcy, and she said, "Maggie did it." Only 15 years to go....

To pick up on a path I didn't take the other night, when I twisted the legend of Barbie, some of my favorite movies are ones I would never have seen without children in my life. The list includes:

*Shrek (only the first);
*Monsters Inc.;
*Finding Nemo;
*Nightmare Before Christmas;
*Robots;
*Iron Giant
*Scary Godmother (only the first);
*Aladdin;
*Lion King;
*Emperor's New Groove
*Toy Story (the first)
*Bug's Life

In the interest of space and time--I'm starting to conquer both--I'll stop there. My standards are only that there are memorable lines (meaning I repeat them around the house) and/or characters. I don't need to like the whole movie; some of them I lose interest in after a rock-em, sock-em first hour, like Robots or Shrek or Lion King, even. In order, here are why I picked some of the above, most of which you know, a couple of which I hope you try.

Shrek's strength is its fearless embrace of the gross--his opening bath and evening meal are rife with yukky detail, and some dialogue is similar. Describing the goo inside eyeballs, Shrek says, "It's quite good on toast." Bonus: I like to try to imagine Cameron Diaz once the princess enters the tale.

Monsters Inc. is probably my favorite, overall. There are stretches of the others that I must see, but MI lasts for me usually until they are banished to the snowy area. The oft-repeated lines and exchanges are too many to mention, but off the top:

--"I'm watching you Wiesowski, always watching."
--"Hi Sully Wully." "Uh, Hi, Celia...Weelia."
--"You and me, me and you, both of us together (sung)"
--"Kitty!"
--"Chalooby, baby."
--"Googly Bear!"

Finding Nemo I was just quoting today: "You know, parties are fun," as only Albert Brooks could say it. The sharks scene is chock full: "I never knew my father!" "What's a couple of bites like you doing in a place like this?" Dory brings a lot, as almost everything she says related to her short-term memory loss is funny. In the fish tank, the initiation is good--"Shark Bait hoo ha ha." "Shark Bait, newcomer of orange and white." The old man halibut chasing the kids in a circle, because of his unique eye arrangement. The dentist comes through with "Gotta see a man about a wallaby."

I can't say enough about Nightmare Before Christmas. It won't scare your kids as much as you think. The songs are awesome, the freaky animation and design and characters are a treat. So many fantastic lines are from the songs, several of which stick in your head like brain paste. Spoken lines: the wheelchair inventor/doctor's "Sally? Oh, gone agayne!" "Frog's Breath? Nothing's more suspicious than frog's breath." "You're mine you know, I made you." His words are striking as much for what they say as their cadence. The Mayor: "Jack, Jack? I can't make decisions, I'm only an elected official." The whole scene when Jack gets the town together to explain Christmas is so tasty--when he explains stockings, and a Halloween character asks if there are feet in them still.

Robots I hardly remember any lines from, but it's so fun to watch. The animation and drawing is so cool, and the scene when Rodney travels to the big city in a crazy contraption with I think the Robin Williams character is amazing. Memorable action and lines come from the parents putting Rodney together, meshing baby routines with assembling a machine and the scene where the gatekeeper rudely mocks and dismisses an eager and naive Rodney is great. "Come back five years ago."

We've had an Iron Giant revival around here in the past month--the twins love it. Brad Bird is a genius. Highlights include the government agent's various nicknames for Hogarth--Slugger, Chief, Scout, Buddy, Pal--shown in a montage. When Hogarth says grace while trying to shoo the robot's hand you'll chuckle mightily. Same when Hogarth drinks espresso for the first time. His ultra-Twinkies are very cool, too. Bonus is the Cold War history lesson. Highly recommended.

Scary Godmother may be the most obscure here, but it's a hoot. A younger girl is thrown into a supposedly haunted house so she will want to go home so the older kids can trick or treat faster. As she cries, her Scary Godmother appears and whisks the girl to the godmother's house in an alternate reality. There is about to be a party, and the guests are a foppish, self-important, always hungry and verbose werewolf; a flamingly gay skeleton; a vampire family; a many-eyed monster named Bugaboo. The skeleton alone makes this well worth the rental--his gayness is never explained, even in the bonus features with the cast and crew, but there is no other description for his voice and the things he says. I'm guilty of stereotyping, but there are stereotypes for a reason. There are memorable lines every other minute. Highly recommended.

Aladdin and Lion King might not be here except they share awesome villains--Skar and Jafar. So professionally evil. The exchange between Jafar and Princess Jasmine after Aladdin's arrest makes me swoon every time. His long face, cheshire-cat grin, skeletal fingers. "Your father has charged me with keeping the peace in Agraba." "What was the charge?" Why, kidnapping the prin-cess, of course." "I was running away!" "Oh, how dreadfully upsetting, had I but known." When he puts his hands on Jasmine, finger by finger, like a spider's walk, to comfort her, it's delicious. Skar's exhanges with Simba and his dad, especially preying on Simba's innocence and trust--stylish and wicked.

Emperor's New Groove is good for the dumb guy who serves the evil queen. Funny portrait of a big-hearted musclehead.

The first Toy Story has a couple great songs, and the opening hour is golden. "Last Tuesday's Plastic Awareness meeting was, I think, a big success." "You're mocking me, aren't you?" "Please be a Mrs. Potatohead, please be a Mrs. Potatohead."

Maybe someday I'll do the same with cartoons of the last seven or so years that I wouldn;t have enjoyed without kids. I'm a better man for all of it, and more fun at parties, too, because, "You know, parties are fun."

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Judas Priest

Happy 50th Birthday, Barbie!

Connor and I and the twins took Maggie to the library this morning to celebrate Barbie's half-century of perpetual readiness for anything. There were 29 other girls signed up so Bad Daddy couldn't get Darcy in at the last minute--thank Schenker she's 2 and easily distracted.

I didn't see what went on in the party room, for some reason shades were drawn on my side of the library, and watching a pair of 2-year-olds and a 9-year-old made it unlikely that I would go around to where the view was clear. Of course, I forgot to bring a camera, so there was no photo op with cardboard Barbie princess at the end.

We left with as many as we came with, narrowly averting an extra half-hour as the twins raced into the labyrinth as I was checking out some research documents--Star Wars comic book, two Goosebumps videos, Sky High (pretty good if I may interject in my own blog) and the second Narnia flick. Me and Connor caught up before they went opposite ways, but not before making a spectacle of ourselves for the millionth time.

Later, Connor said something like, "It's weird how she's 50 but is still slim and beautiful." His dad was there to take him to football, so we had a laugh about Barbie's probable use of surgery and chemicals to maintain her plastic playfulness. Still, what if the makers of Barbie had made Barbie in stages......

--At 18, Barbie heads to college in fabulous outfits, including sweatpants for 8 a.m. classes, oversized t-shirts given her by Ken sometime around 4 a.m.. Comes with a gift certificate to buy new, larger-sized pants at the end of the first semester.

--At 24, Barbie sets out to show the boys in the boardroom that she's blond and thin, and has many changes of clothes for every occasion, including texting and receiving texts. LO Elle!

--At 27, Barbie leaves behind the rat race to concentrate on her attempts to have Barbie Babies with, who else, GI Joe! All that ticking was distracting her from breaking the glass ceiling, so it's time to break out of the work world and join a genetic-customization and fertility support group. So difficult to reproduce with no bits and pieces. Jeans and ponytails and a smile we see right through!

--Now 34, with two nappy-headed blond boys with Kung-Fu Grip and camoflauge wardrobes for every day of the week, Barbie is frightened. She sports pastel body-armor and has started a Family Scrap club in her women's group. Cute night-vision goggles and concealed meat tenderizer mark her as a suburban MIBNMW--Mother I'd Better Not Mess With.

--At 41, Barbie knows peace, and has the scars to show it. Comes with tan vials, dark sunglasses, very-raised eyebrows, wrinkle-free skin (as always) and pink corkscrew.

--Now 50, and still vital, with a nod to her "I've still got it" cameo on Toy Story 2, Barbie looks forward to 50 more years of trials and tribulations, joy and happiness, lace and velcro. The latest generation of girlie-girls pays homage, and Barbie feels young again.



I've got to go, before I erase all that and start over with something that is a way better idea. Carrie awaits downstairs, I believe in a mood similar to liking me a lot. See you Saturday

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

George Thorogood

Unemployment is not counter-intuitively desirable, like obesity or burping--it's not a sign of wealth or appreciated in some cultures. It's just never been all that cool, unless you are the offspring of wealthy parents. So, I'm trying to find full-time work.

An executive of the company that laid me off told me I'd have to work as hard at finding a job as I did when I had a job. He knew from experience...and never checking to see how hard I worked when I had a job. Awww, that's just some fun I threw in there to keep investigative prospective employers sharp for red flags. Did you catch it?

Anytime this out-of-work subject comes up, I think about the scene from Dudley Moore's "Arthur" (my middle name, BTW). Not sure this is verbatim, but when the interviewer tells our slurring hero that the company is looking for someone who is punctual, hard-working, and a team player, Arthur enthusiastically replies, "Well, hire me and I'll help you find him."

I'm looking for that job, too. I've noticed that there are a lot of jobs available for things I have no clue about--software engineers, associate professors, HVAC technicians. I just know if someone took a chance on me, I could be their CFO or CIO or ER surgeon, with a little paid training, ya know? But, this job market is unfriendly to inexperienced folks with lots of self-confidence, so what are you gonna do?

At least I'll never tell an interviewer, "I like people." Why is that such a sought-after trait? What about, "I don't harm people I don't like"? Or, even, "I let people talk to me, if it's about the job"?

We're all still getting used to the role reversal around here; I stay home and Carrie, who had not had a full-time job at a workplace since 2006, is now oot and aboot. The twins bawled for many minutes when she left in the morning the first couple of weeks, and now occasionally ask, "Where's that lady who sleeps here?"

I take all the credit for their adaptation, but I don't recommend to everyone in a similar situation my tough-love regimen of duct-tape, Sportscenter and ice cream for breakfast. Our kids are just special, I guess, and please don't assume it's easy being respected and adored.

My spirits are still high, but it's not even two months since the change--still getting severance, landed a freelance gig, got the secret e-mail address for upcoming football gambling, etc. I sent an idea to T-Shirt Hell a couple weeks ago and can't believe I haven't won 10 free shirts and 200 bucks yet. "I Just Got Laid" it would say in big letters. "Off" would be underneath, in tiny letters.

A portion of the sales proceeds would go to my charity, The Hire Me and I'll Help You Find Him Foundation. In lieu of sales, please send letters of recommendation to the comments section below.

Sunday, August 2, 2009

The Descendents

Well, sorry to all my 10 followers that I haven't blogged for two straight days. It's been abnormally exciting around Casa de Senyor Madre.

Thursday I had to help chaperone Connor and five of his mates on a birthday trip to the Field Museum--train, bus, museum (walk walk walk walk walk), bus, train. That was also the real birthday of Senyor Madre's Senyora, Carrie, who had to work all day. She got presents and cards from me and the kids in the morning, then a cake and champagne at night.

Friday was a regular day, and Saturday she worked and we went to a party at night. Sunday, hung over, Connor's real birthday (cake and presents in the morn). Connor's Dad took him to the Sox game, where he paid to have Connor's birthday wishes announced over the P.A. and put on the scoreboard. Then, I took the little ones to the gym, while Carrie slept and then I took Maggie and Gavin to Morton Arboretum for a couple hours of wet and climby shenanigans.

It was our date night for her birthday, which was attended--surprise!--by five of her closest friends at a local joint. They let me in on their sex talk and gossip, and I held my own (as I usually do; it is mine after all).

Determined to blog, even though I still am hung over and very sleepy, so it's all for you, Damien.

Carrie thought I should blog tonight about the seemingly-hilarious take I have on farting, and couples who make sport of it. Bottom line--I don't fart in her presence, and I don't understand tolerance of it, let alone bonding over it. As I at-my-wit's-end explained to the group of ladies--IT IS GAS FROM YOUR ASS AND IT SMELLS LIKE SHIT! How can that be in any way fun to share?

Instead I want to blog about a guilty pleasure I have that may be harming my children long-term. Of course, I'm referring to getting the toddlers to repeat phrases they say incorrectly but sound so cute. Parents, you know what I'm talking about, turn yourselves in. (That's not the same as me wanting you to share your experiences in the comments section; if you want to do that, start a blog--our kids' cutenesses are never as cute to others).

Connor was really into Thomas the Tank Engine for a long time. I met Connor when he was 2.5 years old, just as the Island of Sodor began to weave its magic spell on him. The mayor or don or burgermeister of the isle was, and still may be, Sir Topham Hat.

Connor would always exclaim, not say, the guy's name without the Sir, and end the Topham with an 'n'. So, "Top-an hat!" I would prod him to say it many times a day.

I don't remember what Maggie would say that would make me manipulate her in the same manner, but I would listen over and over to a voicemail I saved on which Carrie called me during jury duty and made Maggie gigglesnort to the Bananas Split theme song, so much so that at the end of the message, Carrie says, "Oh, I'm exhausted." Smiling, like blinking and the beating of the heart, is involuntary.

Gavin calls Mr. Potato Head "Tooty Head." When I say that to him, he will respond by saying "No Tooty Head" mainly because he doesn't know why I would bring up that toy out of nowhere. Still, the victory is mine.

Darcy is just past this now, but for a couple months recently, would ask me (and probably anyone else) "What doing, Daddy?" or "Daddy, what doing?" Can't get enough of that, so I ask her the same thing, "Darcy, what doing?" It's a bonus when they play along and say it back because they know you're playing.

The little goblins do and say a lot of other funny and endearing and sweet things, but you knew that, and I want to go find something cold to drink.

I'll be doing the blog thingy every other day from now on, so, see ya Tuesday. I have a freelance assignment I'm working on (90 cents a word, baby) and a business meeting at White Chocolate Cafe Wednesday, so, as you can see, I'm moving and shaking when I'm not coercing toddlers and blogging and collecting unemployment money.