MetroDad

The Genetics of Butter and Comedy

My mother was a premature health nazi during an era when it was believed that smoking cigarettes was good for you, fried chicken was the 6th food group, and Twinkies improved blood circulation.

Of course, I'm abundantly grateful to my wonderful mother for leading me down a path of healthy living. However, growing up in my house was like living in a vegan snack stand at Burning Man. We had no soda, no candy, no chocolate, no chips, no cookies, and no strawberry milk. It was all so painfully torturous that I eventually started selecting my childhood friends based on what kinds of snacks their mothers packed in the pantry.

(Special shout out to Mrs. Weisgal. Muchos gracias. Without you, I would have shown up at college like an Albanian farm boy: "What are these potato chip things that you speak of?")

The worst part of growing up in such a healthy environment was that we had a strict "No Butter" rule in the house. I guess I didn't mind so much because even if we were to ever have any, I'd only have been allowed to put it on whole wheat raisin bread.

However, I'll never forget spending a week in Paris (the city, not the vagina) when I was 10 years old and discovering what REAL butter tasted like. Not only did I immediately start eating sticks of butter but I also used it as a dip, a condiment, and a sauce. To say that it was a taste explosion is grossly understating it.

I immediately become a devout apostle in the belief that butter must have been created by the One True God who grows them on trees in the Elysian Fields.

Needless to say, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.

My daughter has taken to butter like a fish to water. I actually joke that her future autobiography will be subtitled "Butter is Better." She can't get enough of the stuff. A few weeks ago, I caught her pretending to put butter on some bread but instead shoveling it into her mouth with a knife like she was laying down landfill. I'd have reprimanded her but I was too impressed by her creativity and cunningness.

Today, the two of us went out to dinner together for a daddy-daughter dinner. Here's a photo of our weekly date.

This was her second plate of butter.

I told her that she'd eaten enough butter and that it was time for me to take it away. As I reached for the plate, she pulled it away and said, "Just gimme 5 more minutes, Daddy!"

I laughed so hard that butter started coming out of my nose.

My heart practically exploded into a million tiny pieces as I realized that this little 4.5 year-old midget has totally inherited my weird sense of humor. While I rely heavily on her mother to teach Peanut the important life skills like math, riding a bike, using a knife and checking the weather, it warms the cockles of my soul to know that my influence on this little girl is manifested by her sense of humor.

Because let's face it.

You can't teach funny. 

Three for Tuesday

EMPTY THREATS, KOREAN DEATH STARES, AND JENNIFER ANISTON 

Once kids realize that you're not serious about a threat, you're fucking toast.

This past weekend, we were at The Doctor's house in the Hamptons. We had a fantastic time playing in the pool, taking the kids to the beach, chasing them around the backyard, and cooking all weekend. By the time we got home on Sunday night, we were exhausted.

When we walked inside the apartment, I told Peanut that if she didn't immediately take a bath, then she couldn't have any dinner. She started to whine until I couldn't take it anymore so I made her a sandwich and let her go to bed. 

The next night when I told her to take a bath, the Peanut tried to get out of it by telling me, "You said I wouldn't get dinner last night but I did."

Needless to say, I shot her my KDDS (Korean Daddy Death Stare) and she was in that tub faster than you could shout, "Girl overboard!"

Empty threats are dangerous. Not only do you have to be able to back up your threats but you've also got to be aware of the stakes involved.

If not, next thing you know, you're Jennifer Aniston telling Brad Pitt, "If you don't spend more time with me, I'm leaving you"...and having no idea that Angelina Jolie was waiting in the wings!

DRIVING IN THE SHALLOW END OF THE GENE POOL

Driving back into NYC, we were stuck behind a pick-up truck who, for about 100 miles, had its turn signal on. What did you think that clicking noise was, buddy?  The explosion of neurons misfiring in your cerebral cortex?

We would have tried to pass him but I was too terrified by the woman driving while drinking a 64-ounce Big Gulp of Orange Crush, putting on her mascara, and texting on her iPhone. The woman was swerving all over the road like Nick Nolte on a 3-day bender.

Now, as most of you know, I'm a pretty laid-back guy. The only time my temper rises is when I'm in the car. Usually I don't have to worry about negatively influencing the Peanut because she has this amazing ability to sleep in the car. I can be blasting Jay-Z with the windows open for 5 hours and the Peanut won't wake up for a single second. So every once in awhile, I'll yell out at another driver or mumble an insult under my breath.

I immediately stopped doing this a few months ago when a woman cut me off on the Long Island Expressway and I heard a sleepy little voice coming from the back seat saying, "That woman drives like a mofo, right daddy?"

THE GRASS IS SOMETIMES GREENER

Last month I was at dinner with friends. All of us were parents except for a buddy of mine who remains happily single and childless. A few of the women were giving my buddy a hard time, accusing him of secretly wanting a relationship and desiring children. I have no idea why women always want all of their friends to be married. Does anyone know the answer?

At some point in the evening, all the parents started whining and bemoaning the fact that they had to go home soon in order to wake up early to coach soccer practice, go on a Costco run, take the kids to a birthday party, clean the house, attend a PTA meeting, cook dinner for the in-laws, and help the kids with their homework. 

Right around this time, my buddy got up and sat down next to the mom who had previously been giving him such a hard time. With a shit-eating grin on his face, he looked her right in the eye, threw down a double shot of tequila, and said, "''I am a little bit jealous, you're right. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go do whatever I feel like doing, all the time!''

He then left the table to hit on the hostess of the restaurant.

But if you listen real closely, you can still hear him laughing his ass off.

24 Hours in the Life of a Twitterer (sic?)

There are certain cultural references that both divide and define generations.

The Doctor and I recently spent an entire weekend in the Hamptons quizzing his 22-year-old nanny about music. It completely blew our minds that she had never even heard of Depeche Mode, Pet Shop Boys, Nirvana, New Order, or The Cure. How was that fucking even possible? Heck, I've never listened to an Englebert Humperdink album but at least I've heard of him.

After we got over the shock of feeling old, the Doctor and I came to realize that kids today don't know shit about music.

Just kidding.

Want to know what the new dividing cultural reference is?

Twitter.

Most friends my age have no understanding of Twitter.

Do you?

As Wikipedia explains it, "Twitter is a social networking and micro-blogging service that enables its users to send and read other users' updates known as tweets. Tweets are text-based posts of up to 140 characters in length which are displayed on the user's profile page and delivered to other users who have subscribed to them (known as followers)."

Could anything sound dumber or less intellectually-stimulating? It sounds like writing in Morse Code.

However, everyone from my agent to fellow bloggers to readers are pushing me to join Twitter. I literally get about 20 e-mails per week from strangers asking me to please start a Twitter page.

Here are my problems with Twitter.

(1) I don't like the fact that people who subscribe to your Twitter page are called "followers." When I think of "followers," I think of Jim Jones, Joel Osteen, and Oprah Winfrey. Call me crazy.

(2)  Everyone wants to believe that they’re important because everyone, at their core, is a narcissist. And how better to give yourself an inflated sense of importance than to think that there are large numbers of people who are reading a 140 word post you’ve written that says, “Going to the store to look for cereal. Hope they have Chex!”  Please spare me the details of your boring life.

(3) I was recently at a dinner with a bunch of 20 year olds. All of them spent the entire night twittering. All it did was make me realize that kids today have the attention span of fruit flies. If you speak to them using more than 140 characters, their minds literally go into shutdown mode and they'll go on their iphones and twitter "stuck at dinner next to some weird old guy who won't stop talking."

Anyway, in the name of science, I decided to imagine what I would write if I had my own Twitter page so I wrote down every thought I've had in the past 24 hours. I'm pretty sure I won't follow through on actually joining Twitter because really, who has the fucking time?

Regardless, here are the past 24 hours of my life as expressed via Twitter:

• New York City smells like a wet tampon today, n'est-ce pas?

• It's cool connecting with high-school friends on Facebook but the abortion bills are killing me!

• Why do they only do construction work in my office when I have a hangover?

• "I'm considering being one of those guys who claims not to watch tv," he said as he watched yet another episode of "Real Houswives of New York."

• Why would my co-worker think I would give a shit about his vegetable garden?

• My apartment has a faint smell of mouse poop and toddler pee.

• I want to join the NFL just so I can show off my dope-ass touchdown dances.

• Apparently I'm on a diet of egg whites and tequila. Lost 5 pounds and 5,000 brain cells.

• My daughter is high on chocolate and running around naked. It's like the pre-school version of Burning Man.

• Am I the only one who thinks Campbell Brown has freaky cheekbones?

• I am Kaiser Soze!

• Better name for my imaginary son? Jack Bauer Kim or Mookie Wilson Kim?

• Oprah joining Twitter is like your grandma getting a tattoo, a Brazilian wax, and a belly button ring. No offense, Nana. Love your new tats!

• The "Housewives of New York" reminds me of Dorothy Parker and the Algonguin Round Table. Not!

• It's really true. Sometimes you can just smell "the crazy."
  

• If you name your daughter Siena, should you be surprised when she grows up to be a stripper?

I'm still undecided on the whole Twitter thing. It seems too exhausting (and boring.) Obviously writing on this blog is kicking my ass enough as it is. However, I do kind of like the idea of writing down quick brain farts instead of fully-formed blog posts.

Hmm, dilemma.

I'm pretty sure that I'll never start a Twitter page. Honestly, I'm just too damn old. Forty-year-old dads should just not be on Twitter. In fact, there should be a law against it. However, tell me YOUR Twitter pages and some of your favorite ones so I can judge this whole phenomenon more rationally. Maybe I'll change my mind.

But I seriously doubt it.

Fingers, Faces & Floaters

Over the past 4.5 years, I've been woken up by my lovely daughter in about a million possible ways.

When she was a baby, it was all very cute. I'd often arise to find her using my head as a pillow. However, I chalk that one up to sheer comfort. My head is abnormally large and I could imagine how an infant crawling on a bed would see my head and be naturally attracted to it. Kind of like Lindsay Lohan gravitating towards an open bar at the Chateau Marmont.

When I'd mention this to friends, they'd often tell me endearing stories about how their kids would wake them up: nuzzling on their neck, jumping on the bed, kissing them on the cheek, or gently cuddling with them in semi-slumber.

Sure, I got a little of that. 

Not too much though.

As the Peanut got older and developed a sense of humor (one for which I feel both proud and shamefully responsible,) she started coming up with amusing ways to wake me up:

• Sticking her fingers up my nose.

• Shining a flashlight in my eyes.

• Covering my face with a mountain of stuffed animals.

• Putting her sippy cup in my mouth and force feeding me apple juice.

• Drawing hieroglyphics on my face with a magic marker.

Now, I'm generally a crappy morning person. I'm usually so groggy and unfocused that it takes awhile for me to get my bearings. So invariably when my daughter wakes me up in one of her inventive ways, it scares the living crap out of me.

However, my startlement only makes my adorable little daughter laugh like a freaking hyena. Seriously. Have you ever seen a pre-schooler laugh so hard that tears are rolling down her cheeks? Feel free to come over any morning and witness for yourself.

Now, before I continue any further, I just want to say that the Peanut is the kind of girl who automatically folds her napkin on her lap at a restaurant but will then stick french fries up her nose to get a laugh.

If you sneeze, she'll say "Bless you," but then carefully check your hand to see if you caught any good boogers (apparently, the "good ones" are the green ones.)

In other words, my daughter is unfailingly polite and well-mannered---but dude, let's face it. She's fucking 4 years old!

The point of all this is that the Peanut has found a new way to start my days.

Recently, she's been waking up before me and occupying herself in her little den. As my alarm clock goes off, I drag myself out of bed and wearily make myself over to the master bathroom for my morning pee. 

As I lean over the toilet, I'm hit with an abominable smell that can only mean one thing. Sure enough, as I open my eyes, I look down and see that the Peanut has not only taken an enormous crap but has also failed to flush the toilet!

As I scream out her name, I can hear the Peanut laughing in the other room. When I sternly call her over and ask her why she left a giant log in my toilet, she toothily grins and says, "Do you like it, Daddy? It's a present for you!" She then starts cackling hilariously.

Once again, I feel both proud and shamefully responsible.

Meanwhile, does this look like a girl who would leave a floater in your toilet? 

 

By the way, this is the Peanut's variation of "Crying Wolf." Every time she goes to the bathroom and I'm in another room, she yells out, "Help, Daddy, Help! I've fallen in the toilet and I can't get out!" When I inevitably make my way to the bathroom, she jumps out of the toilet and yells, "Just kidding!"

Ahhh...the joys of modern parenting.

Meanwhile, in 15 years, how much is she going to hate that I put this photo of her up here? Sorry, Peanut. Should have thought of that when you were licking my face and sticking jelly beans up my nose at 6:00 am. Payback's a bitch.

I love you, kiddo!

For Those About to Rock, We Salute You!

"Songs are what I listen to, almost to the exclusion of everything else. I don't listen to classical music or jazz very often, and when people ask me what music I like, I find it very difficult to reply, because they usually want names of people, and I can only give them song titles. And mostly all I have to say about these songs is that I love them and want to sing along to them."
-Nick Hornby (Songbook)

"You can't really learn much about a person based on what kind of music they happen to like. As a personality test it doesn't work even half the time."
-Chuck Klosterman (Sex, Drugs & Cocoa Puffs)

                                     

I fucking hated taking piano lessons when I was a little kid.

Between the ages of five and eleven, instead of playing baseball with my friends, I was sent to an after-school music academy twice a week for two hours of piano lessons. It was pure torture and I hated every minute of it.

Through forced repetition, I eventually became pretty good. I once performed in a recital at Carnegie Hall. I was the dinner entertainment during my uncle's wedding. And I was accepted into the local neighborhood's All-Star Orchestra.

But my heart was never really in it so eventually my parents allowed me to quit playing piano so I could try other instruments. Since then, I've played trombone, saxophone, acoustic guitar, and harmonica. Want to know what I learned?

I suck at playing instruments.

So now I stick to karaoke. Unfortunately for me, I suck at that also. Unfortunately for anyone around me, I have no shame about singing badly. I'm not only a microphone hog but I've actually got a repertoire of favorite songs that I am not ashamed about singing (everything from The Cure to Bruce Springsteen to Coldplay.) Hell, I've even stood up in front of 50 women bloggers and sang Britney Spears' "Baby, One More Time" with my friend Kristen. I really do have no shame.

Despite my lack of talent, I love music. Heck, let's face it. Who doesn't love music? Even Nietzsche once said, "Without music, life would be a mistake." And that dude was a nihilistic atheist!

To understand the extent that music is organically ingrained in the human spirit, you only have to spend some time with a bunch of little kids. I love watching kids react to music. It's hilarious to see what makes them get up and start shaking their butts.

Ever since she was born, I've played all kinds of different music to the Peanut to see what really moves her. I love putting on a song for her and getting her opinion. Some of her favorites are Smashing Pumpkins, Depeche Mode, and Oasis. When we really want to go crazy and dance around in the living room, we put on some Duran Duran or old-school De La Soul. 

I try not to push my musical influences on her. For me, it's really more about exposing her to everything and letting her decide for herself what she likes. For example, these days, the Peanut is strangely into country music. When American Idol recently featured Carrie Underwood and Randy Travis, my little 4-year-old New York City girl couldn't get enough of it. She was completely mesmerized. Naturally, she now wants an acoustic guitar for Christmas.

I told her to just stay cool and I'd talk to Santa about it.

Anyway, this whole post is really just an excuse to introduce some amazing videos of some awesome kids playing music. Check these kids out. I can't stop watching them over and over.

This first video is Korean sensation Sungha Jung. In the video, he's eleven years old. His dad is a classically trained guitarist and started working with Sungha when he was only nine years old. Here he is performing Bob Dylan's "All Along the Watchtower."

Lucchy, short for Lucciano Pizzichini, came straight from Buenos Aires to Miami at 11 months, and now, at the tender age of seven, jams at music festivals around the world. The kid is even sponsored by Gibson Guitars. Here he is perfoming a Santana song. If you look closely, you can see a SpongeBob SquarePants sticker on his guitar. 

This last one is my absolute favorite. Joe is a young Canadian drummer who began playing in May of 2008. He was 3.5 years old. He has had no lessons and has learned to play entirely by watching drummers on YouTube. He plays at least an hour a day. The kid rocks the sticks like a young Neil Peart. Here he is rocking The Who's "Won't Get Fooled Again." Unfortunately, there's no way to embed the video but here's the link.

JOE THE ROCK STAR

How amazing is that? I discovered it via BossLady today and I think I've watched it 50 times already.

Anyway, summer's around the corner and, as always, I'm looking for some new music. In the past, you guys have turned me onto some great new stuff that I never would have found on my own. So let's hear what's rocking YOUR ipod these days.

Give me some good stuff!

Oriental is a Rug: Five Quick Thoughts on Race

ORIENTAL IS A RUG

Recently, the Peanut and I were at Whole Foods when an elderly woman approached her and said, "Oh my, aren't you an adorable little Oriental girl?"

Because the lady was so damn old and probably doesn't think she's offending anyone when she calls African-Americans "colored people," I shrugged her off and walked away.

Naturally, the Peanut turned to me and said, "Daddy, what's Oriental?"

I have to admit that I kind of stutter-stepped. One thing I love about little kids is that they don't think in terms of race or the color of their skin. They pretty much judge them solely on their ability to relate to poop jokes, Dora the Explorer, and farts.

As Dennis Leary once said, "Racism isn't born, folks, it's taught. I have a two-year-old son. You know what he hates? Naps! End of list."

Now, for better or worse, I tend to answer the Peanut's endless questions openly and honesty. So I sat her down and gently explained to her, "Oriental is a word used to describe objects from eastern Asia. Like rugs or teapots. Some people of earlier generations mistakenly use the term to describe all Asian people. However, that's generally considered politically incorrect. Does that answer your question, kiddo?"

"Yes, daddy. Can I have a cupcake?"

Proving once again that, in a perfect world, the only color that should ever matter is the icing on your cake. 

ARE REDNECKS A MINORITY TOO?

Last year, we hired some workers to clean out my FIL's store in Dallas. Since we were getting rid of everything, we told the movers that they could take whatever they could salvage and sell it themselves. One woman turned to a mover and said, "Why don't you take it to your Indian friends and see if they'll buy it off you?"

To our shock, the mover replied, "Shit. Injuns ain't nothing but Jews. Those bastards will make $2.00 out of a nickel and rip me off. Hell, I can't even decide who I hate worse. Injuns or Jews."

Ten years ago, I probably would have gotten into the guy's face and baited him into a fight. Racial slights are my Achille's heel. Few other things make my blood boil.

However, I'm a father now. My daughter needs me in her life. Part of that social contract involves me making smarter decisions and recognizing that my life has greater importance than it did when I was a young man.

So I took a deep breath and looked at the mover a little more closely. He was missing two teeth, was carrying a knife in his belt, and literally had a "redneck" tattoo on his bicep. The tattoo looked like it was done at home after drinking a bottle of moonshine. He was a scary-looking dude. Even scarier was his 300 lb. son who looked like the illegitimate love child of Sasquatch and Australopithecus.

So what did I do?

I bit my tongue, said nothing, and cursed myself in silence. I think it's important for people to step up and say something when faced with racism, ignorance, and intolerance. That's a philosophy that I want to pass on to my daughter and my silence made me feel like a hypocrite. I hated myself for not beating the crap out of this ignorant redneck but, as it should be, my family's safety trumps everything. 

So instead of confronting him, I shorted him on the cash, spit in his soda, and then slashed one of the tires on his pickup truck.

I'd be lying if I said it didn't make me feel better.

DO I BLAME THE DUMB WHITE CHICK OR THE MEDIA?

Last week, I was in a restaurant when I noticed a young woman staring at me. As I walked by her, she flirtatiously reached out for my arm and said, "I just wanted to say that, for an Asian guy, you're very good looking."

How the fuck did we reach a point in our culture where that's supposed to come off like some sort of damn compliment? 

You know what that comment represents to me? That the stereotype of the emasculated Asian male is continuing unabated and the concept of Asian male masculinity is not being portrayed in America's media, pop culture, or society.

Look at the depiction of Asian males in movies and television today. For the most part, we're portrayed as nerds, computer dorks, or socially inept geeks. The sole exception seems to be the martial arts experts starring in blockbuster action movies. However, has anyone noticed that, even then, the Asian guy never gets the girl? They can kick ass but they can't get a kiss?

I've mentioned it a million times before but take a look around. There are plenty of masculine Asian role models around us: baseball players Ichiro Suzuki and Kaz Matsui, actors Daniel Dae Kim, Will Yung Lee, John Cho, and Sung Kang, and Survivor winner Yul Kwon.

Aside from being great-looking guys, these men are all interesting people doing interesting work. They're smart, outspoken, and charismatic. Whenever I see them, I'm proud that they're changing the perception of Asian men in America. 

So why don't we see more of them? 

KISSING YOUR BROTHER

I recently met two Asian-American women who told me that they don't date Asian guys.

One woman's rationale was that kissing an Asian-American man felt like kissing her brother. The other Asian-American woman said she simply wasn't attracted to Asian-American men.

Over the course of my lifetime, I've pretty much dated women of every color and ethnicity known to mankind. To me, an attractive woman is simply an attractive woman. Race was usually the last thing I looked for in a woman.

On the other hand, there's a certain comfort in having a shared cultural or ethnic background. When I dated Korean-American women, we could always joke about the pervasive smell of kimchi in the house, the extra homework from our fathers, the ubiquitous consumption of SPAM, and our mothers' steadfast belief that you could die from sleeping with the electric fan turned on all night.

Anyway, I don't disparage the two women who refuse to date members of their own race. However, I do find it interesting that their statements seem to be unique to Asian-American culture. I never hear black women say they won't date black guys because it would be like kissing their own brother. And I've never heard a Latina woman say that she simply wasn't attracted to Latino men.

Why is that?

PUTTING MY MONEY WHERE MY MOUTH IS

Currently, I'm in discussions with several production companies to turn MetroDad into a network television sitcom. All three companies are major players in the entertainment industry and their interest has resulted in my getting agency representation and a potential book deal. Right now, it all looks very encouraging so I'm crossing my fingers and keeping my expectations in check.

Here's the dilemma...

How strong am I willing to push in order to keep the main character Asian-American? Am I willing to jeopardize any potential deal? Would I walk away from the opportunity on principle?  As I mentioned above, I feel very strongly about the need for the media to portray a better representation of Asian-American men.

The sad reality is that no network is likely to pick up the sitcom if the lead character is Asian-American. That's a factor beyond my control. Let's face it. America probably isn't ready for a comedy centered around an Asian-American father raising his daughter in New York City.

On the other hand, someone's got to be the first to try, right? How do we know America won't accept an Asian-American lead character in a sitcom if nobody even tries? I'd like to think that if the material is funny enough, people won't even notice that the character is Asian-American. Is that realistic? I hope so, my friends. I hope so. 

We'll see what happens as discussions proceed further. I'll keep you all posted.

As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts on all of the above. Fire away!

25 Random Things About Me: The Peanut

For those of you on Facebook, you're probably aware of the recent digital craze revolving around a chain-letter/literary exercise called “25 Random Things About Me."

The way it works is people write a note with 25 heartfelt observations about themselves. After completing it, they then "tag" 25 friends to do the same. The idea is to learn the little quirks about people that may not come up in everyday conversation. As the NY Times reported, people seem to have gotten hooked on it because it's "a creative way to indulge in social networking without coming off as needy or shamelessly self-absorbed."  Whatever.

Anyway, the following is how I would imagine my 4-year-old daughter would compose her own "25 Random Things About Me" note....

(1) Sometimes I pee my pants because I'm too lazy to go to the bathroom.

(2) Diapers make my butt look big.

(3) I smell like Play-Do.

(4) I once lived solely on mac-and-cheese for an entire month.

(5) The "Sound of Music" is the greatest film in the history of cinema. You really can't appreciate it unless you've watched it 50 times. In a row. Over the course of a single weekend.

(6) I'm easily distracted. I think it's primarily because...oh look, a birdy!

(7) The best thing about being four? You never have to pay for anything. Seriously, dude, I don't even own a wallet.

(8) The worst thing? Naps. 

(9) If I've learned one thing during my four years on this planet, it's that boys are freaking crazy.

(10) Then again, what the heck do I know? My best friend is a stuffed polar bear. 

(11) Vacuum cleaners and paper shredders scare the crap out of me.

(12) Don't tell anyone but I haven't bathed since last Tuesday. 

(13) I sing Christmas songs all year round.

(14) Things I do solely to freak out my daddy: eat dog food out of the bowl, watch Barney on TV, and pretend to lick the electrical outlet. Man, if you could see the look on his face. Priceless!

(15) I'm a Mac, not a PC.

(16) Give me a bottle of ketchup and I'll pretty much eat anything.

(17) I can cry on demand.

(18) Despite the fact that I'm a city girl, I really dig country music.

(19) I know it's derivatively inane but there's something about SpongeBob that cracks me up every single time. 

(20) My dad is waging a losing battle in the war against child-targeted marketing and mass consumerism. Yesterday I begged him to buy me Cinderella vitamins. He refused so we got into a huge argument at the pharmacy. Guess who won?

(21) I'm totally getting a pony for my 14th birthday.

(22) I get my big head from my dad. Seriously, you ever see the size of his noggin? It's ginormous.

(23) Hey Santa...if there's any chance you're reading this, I've been really good so far. Now it's time for you to hold up your end of the bargain. What happened last year? How come I got stiffed on the guitar and the skateboard?

(24) Is this list done yet? I can barely even count to twenty-five. What comes next? Twenty-eleven, right?

(25) I'm only four but I've changed career paths twenty times already. A year ago, I wanted to be a farmer. A month ago, I wanted to be a veterinarian. And a week ago, I wanted to be an actress. How do I know what I want to do with the rest of my life when I don't even know what I want for lunch?

Heck, what color is your sippy cup?

 

All Your Parenting Questions Answered...

It never ceases to amaze me how many people write to me for actual parenting advice.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm genuinely flattered that someone would cherish my opinion on such an important subject. In fact, I'm generally just happy when I hear that people are actually thinking about parenting.

On the other hand, I have no background in pediatrics or child psychology. Sure, I've got a semi-popular daddy blog but isn't asking me for parenting advice kind of like asking Hugh Laurie for medical advice just because he plays a doctor on TV? 

Anyway, whenever someone writes me for parenting advice, I usually do take the time to answer them seriously. However, I tend to have a very laid-back approach to parenting so I don't worry about a lot of the little things that might bother other people. On the other hand, I'm also the same guy who read every parenting and baby book ever written in English when he found out he was going to be a father.

I figure that anyone who takes time out of their day to write me a serious e-mail about parenting deserves a serious answer. However, most of the time, these are the replies that I really want to send...

I've been breastfeeding for only a few weeks now and it's extremely painful. Am I doing something wrong?

Don't suck so hard.

Is it true breastfeeding helps you lose baby weight? 

Not really.

I gained about 15 pounds of sympathy weight during my wife's pregnancy. I tried breastfeeding but it felt like I was living off some sort of weird vanilla ice cream diet. I really didn't lose the baby weight until I started eating salad and working out.  

Seriously now, MD. When is a child too old to breast feed?

When they're old enough to ask for it.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a strong advocate of breast feeding but some of those lactation activists need to chill out. I have a friend who breastfed her daughter until she was FIVE. It was unnerving to watch this fully-grown little girl come up to her mother and say, "Mama, may I please have some breast milk? I'm hungry."

Hell, my daughter is four. When she comes up to me and says she's hungry, I tell her to go to the kitchen and make herself a sandwich!

My child is a fussy eater. What should I do?

Nothing upsets me more than when I spend 45 minutes cooking dinner for my daughter and she refuses to eat it.

However, if I've learned one thing in my 4 years of parenting, it's that kids love games. So I made up a really fun game for my daughter. It's called "Eat It or Wear It." Either she eats all the food on her plate or I smush it all over her face. I know it sounds cruel but we've only had to play the game once!

Actually, in all seriousness, there was a brief moment when the Peanut was a fussy eater. When we asked our laid-back French pediatrician what we should do, he said, "Zoot alors! She ees not going to starve to death, n'est-ce pas? Do not worry so much, silly American!"

Despite the fact that the remarks came from a Frenchman, his words actually turned out to be perfect advice. If Peanut starts getting fussy about her food, I don't stress. I just throw her dinner in the fridge and give it to her for lunch the next day. Nobody ever died from skipping a meal or two.

At least not in this country.

My child poops in the bathtub constantly! How can I stop him from doing this?

Ewww. That is so freaking gross. I just got a mental image of that and had to toss my lunch into the garbage. That's the last time I'm eating baked falafel. Thanks!

As usual, I have no advice but I do have a good story...

In the heat of a race, hardcore sailors often piss in their pants so they don't lose any precious time. When they have to take a dump, they just grab the boom, lean their asses over the boat, and just poop over the side of the deck. The floating poop is referred to as a "sea pickle."

When my buddy Stan was a little kid, he once pooped in the bathtub. Just once. That was the only time. However, his dad thought it was so funny, he gave Stan the nickname of "Sea Pickle." Unfortunately, the nickname stuck.

Forty years later, Stan is not only a grown man but also the head of a major European media company. He speaks four languages fluently and has thousands of people reporting to him. However, every time he goes home to his parents, none of that matters.

He'll always be mommy and daddy's little "Sea Pickle."

What should you do if your son likes to wear girl's clothing?

Jeez, Dad. That was like 30 years ago. Let it go already. I told you it was just an experiment!

Is it ok to like one of your children more than the other?

Absolutely!

I know it's politically incorrect to say that you love one child over another. They're all "special" in their own little way, right? Bullshit! I've spoken to many parents about this and they've told me the same thing over and over again. Their favorite child, at any given time, is the one who is busting their chops the least.

If I ever have more kids, I intend to rank my love for them on a daily basis. I'm going to put a big chart up on the kitchen refrigerator and have them all compete to see who earns the majority of my love. All kids love a little competition, right?

Heck, I'll even give them pep talks to boost their morale. "C'mon, Mikey. You're in third place. You've got to step it up big time! Let's go, go, GO!"

How do you know if you are ready to become a parent?

I've said it a thousand times on this blog already.

Parenting is the most important job on the planet next to keeping Lindsay Lohan off the nation's highways. If you're not sure you're ready for it, you're probably not. That doesn't necessarily mean that you'll ever feel truly ready for being a parent but if you're thinking that "the whole parenting thing" might cut into your Tuesday-Friday bowling league or those weekly binge-drinking nights down at the pub, you might want to hold off before pulling the goalie.

Parenting is hard work.

It's not a part-time job. You're either in it or you're not. In order to be a good parent, you've got to commit as much time, love and wisdom as you possibly can to these tiny humans. Even when they're screaming their heads off and redecorating their bedrooms with flying poop, you've got to keep your cool.

After all, let's face it. Kids are a lot of responsibility.  I often think that some people should start off a little lower on the responsibility ladder before working their way up to having a kid. You know, start off getting something a little easier, like a job. Or a dog.  Or three days sober in a row. And then, if you can handle that, work your way up to the care and responsibility of another human being.

Look, I'm not saying that I'm a perfect parent but I like to think that I can stare between the stars into the blackness of heaven and say with a smile on my face, "I'll do anything and everything to be a good parent."

When you can say that, you're on your way towards being ready for parenthood.

Almost. 

First, get yourself a copy of "Finding Nemo."  Watch it 50 times. Pour spoiled milk all over your favorite shirt. Trash the inside of your car so it looks like a war zone. Wipe your boogers with only a finger. Eat all your meals standing over the sink. Now deprive yourself of sleep for about a year.

Ok, NOW you're ready!

Changing the World...one dangling participle at a time.

As many of you already know, I am a self-confessed grammar nerd.

I'm not especially proud of this. If anything, it's a curse. Unlike other people, I can't enjoy the newspaper, casually watch television, or listen to talk radio. Bad grammar seems to follow me everywhere---and it practically drives me insane.

When I was younger, I had an almost pathological obsession to single-handedly eliminate bad grammar from the planet. I'd catch gaffes in multi-million dollar print campaigns and call up the ad agency. I'd find mistakes in the NY Times and shoot letters off to the editor. If someone in conversation improperly said "if" when they should have used "whether," I just couldn't keep my mouth shut. If I didn't correct their grammar, I'd practically start twitching!

Sexy, right?

I'm telling you when I was younger, I had to beat the women away with a stick. Especially when they found out that I also liked to read the dictionary for fun. Woo hoo!

As I got older, I became much better at ignoring all the bad grammar plaguing the world in which we live. My obsession with grammar had even started to annoy myself. Besides, it was like trying to plug a leaky dam with only one finger. What could one man accomplish by himself?

Anyway, for the past few years, I thought I'd fully beaten my addiction and could now live a normal, care-free life.

Unfortunately, I was wrong.

For the past few months, the Peanut and I have been going to the Whole Foods near us in Tribeca. Whenever we were in the checkout line, I'd start twitching and muttering under my breath. My adorable four-year-old daughter would look up at me and say, "What's wrong, Daddy?" I'd lovingly reply, "Nothing, Sweetie. Let's just get out of here as quickly as we can."

The source of my tension? This sign...

A few weeks ago, I was at the Whole Foods by myself when a customer service representative approached me and asked me if I was finding everything I needed and whether there was anything that Whole Foods could do to make my shopping experience better. Partly as a joke, I pointed at the checkout line sign and said, "Yeah, you can fix the grammar on that."

Naturally, the young woman looked at the sign carefully, read it, and then replied, "What's wrong with it?"

I was going to let it go but naturally I couldn't. I just replied, "The grammar is wrong." Then I quickly walked away. As I looked back, I found her staring dumbly at the sign, trying to figure out where the mistake was.

Anyway, last week, the Peanut and I went back to Whole Foods. Guess what I saw?

Call me crazy but that totally made my day.

That's right, my fellow nerds. You too can be an agent for change!

P.S. Only two more days until the charity auction is over. So far, we're now at $350. If we get it up to $500, I'll come to dinner in my Batman costume! Okay, maybe not. Anyway, keep the bidding going so we can help raise money for a worthy cause. Bid here.

CHAOS THEORY: February 2009

Sorry for the lack of posting here, my friends. As always, LIFE has been hectic these days. However, as usual, I've got a lot of stuff on my mind that needs an outlet. Until I find some free time to write a real post, here are some cocktail napkin scribblings:

ATTACK OF THE QUEEN BEES

This past weekend, I flew out to Utah with a few buddies for four amazing days of skiing at Alta.

Meanwhile, BossLady and the Peanut were back in Tribeca doing the dreaded pre-school birthday party circuit. Last Sunday, they were booked for a back-to-back double header.

The first party was a blast. All of Peanut's school friends were there and the kids basically loaded up on pizza, ran around in circles, and stuffed their faces with cake.

The second party consisted of six four-year-old girls dressed up as princesses and playing with dolls. It was a really "girlie girl" party. The birthday girl is a neighbor in our building who goes to a different school so most of the girls were strangers to the Peanut.  

When BossLady told me about the girl party, she practically started crying.

It turns out that, from the moment the Peanut walked into the apartment, all the girls started ostracizing her and purposefully excluded her from all their activities. These little pre-school bitches were mean, rude, and obnoxious. Even the birthday girl's parents felt bad. They tried to get the girls to play with the Peanut but there was nothing they could do. The girls continued to completely shun the Peanut. My daughter, being the well-adjusted kid that she is, took it all in stride and ended up playing with the birthday girl's brother in another room.

I've spoken to dozens of mothers who, at some point in their lives, have had their self-esteem damaged by mean girls and female bullies. Seeing their own daughters experience the same thing at such a young age often dregs up painful memories of the past. In fact, sometimes I think the whole thing is more traumatic for the mom than it is for the child!

Personally, I always had this image of little girls being made of sugar and spice. Now it seems like half of them are actually made of anthrax and aresenic. What does this growing trend of pre-school Queen Bees say about us as a society? Does it develop from a lack of parental oversight? Or is it part of the growing sense of entitlement prevalent in our culture?

Now, most of you know me as a relatively laid-back guy. However, I hate bullies of any sort and when I get pissed, I can be a real son of a bitch. I've already started plotting my revenge. I won't reveal all the details but suffice it to say, it involves eating disorders, giant tarantulas, prank phone calls, and fake birthday party invitations. I might even start applying for credit cards in these girls names.

Nobody messes with Daddy's little girl and gets away with it!

THE MANNERS NAZI (COMING SOON TO A TOWN NEAR YOU!)

As I mentioned, I had a fantastic weekend with a great group of guys. Back in our single days, we would vacation and party together all the time but, over the past decade, we all got married and had kids so it was virtually impossible to find the time.

Needless to say, fatherhood has changed all of us in ways that we could never imagine. Aside from the fact that we spent an inordinate amount of time on the trip talking about our kids, we also found ourselves acting reflexively in a manner that belies how much we've changed over the years.

Perhaps none so more than myself.

Saturday afternoon, we're all sitting in a spacious hot tub at a gorgeous spa overlooking the mountain. A stunningly beautiful woman leans over to me and asks me to pass her a towel.

My response?

I hold the towel away from her and, using the same sing-song voice I employ with my daughter, reply "What's the magic word?" 

I think I can still hear the sound of my friends' howling laughter echoing off the mountain.

CONVERSATIONS FROM HELL

My Mother:  How come you didn’t call us on Sunday night?

Me:  The Oscars were on.  Did you watch? 

My Mother:  We tried but we fell asleep before they started.

Me: They started at 8:00. 

My Mother:  We’re old.  We get tired easily.  By the way, that dustbuster you bought for us last time you were here doesn’t work.

Me:  Is it plugged in?

My Mother:  You have to plug it in? 

Me: Aaaarggh!

MORE CONVERSATIONS FROM HELL

Me:  Hey kiddo, You want some edamame? 

Peanut:  No. I want my mommy!

Me: Very funny. I meant, do you want these soy beans?

Peanut: Why would I want toy beads?

Me: Aaaarggh!

RETAIL THERAPY: THE METRODAD STORE FOR CHARITY

I think we all know that times are tough for everyone these days.

But if I have to listen to my personal valet complain one more time about how tasting my food is not "technically" in his job description, I swear to God I'm going to club him on the head with a loofah. Look, Julio, it's a fucking recession. We've all got to pull a little more weight around here these days.You don't see the poolboy complaining, do you?

All kidding aside, this recession is profoundly affecting virtually everyone I know. Nobody's job is secure. Nobody's future is guaranteed. And the palpable sense of fear is both very real and very frightening.

However, it's during times like these that I strongly feel it's even more incumbent for people to help those around us who are less fortunate. Virtually every charity or non-profit organization with which I'm involved is struggling for resources. They're having a harder time garnering donations at a time when the need for them is at an all-time high. The struggle is very real.

So, to help play my part, I've decided to launch an online store over the next few weeks. Since parenting is an important part of me (and this blog,) most of the proceeds will be donated to various children's charities around the world. I'm thinking of starting off by launching a line of baby onesies and daddy t-shirts with funny catchphrases on them.

Here's what I've got so far...

ONESIES

“Nobody puts baby in a corner.”

“Girls Gone Wild:  The toddler years”

“Turd is the word”

“When I grow up, I want to be a Jedi”

“The Future of Hip Hop”

“Fight for your right to potty!”

“Crapper’s Delight”

“Straight Outta Daycare.”

“Where the potty at?”

“Me so ornery.”

DADDY T-SHIRTS

“Fatherhood is the new black”

“Eat it or wear it”

“Men who change diapers change the world.”

“Who’s yo daddy?”

“I’m not a playa. I just gush a lot.”

“I like it when you call me big poppa”

“I’m just the manny!”


Anyone got any ideas for more slogans for the online store? Leave them in the comments. Remember, it's for a good cause! Also, if you come up with any slogans with artwork, feel free to e-mail them to me. Thanks!