Friday, May 20, 2011

My Life Has Come to This

I’ve been informed that today is National Bike to Work Day.
As many of you know, I wrote in March about how I was thinking of riding a bike to and from work several days a week in an attempt to save money at the pump and get fit. Can I just say that the very notion of my riding a bike to work might have been the singled dopiest idea I’d ever come up with in thirty-five years of dreaming up stupid ideas?
I arrived at this conclusion one afternoon while sitting at a stoplight on the way home from work. As I waited for the stoplight to favor me, I saw a man and woman riding unicycles across the intersection of Proposed Bike Route #4.  Yes, I said unicycles.  You know…the bikes that don’t have handlebars or a second wheel? Stupid, I know.
Both people were struggling to cross before the light turned against them. I found myself hoping they’d fail, that traffic would bear down on them quickly, forcing the couple to jump ship just in time to watch their stupidcycles get crushed beneath a semi. Harsh? Yes, but these characters were invading my bike route – the route that I’d spent weeks researching and travelling and timing and adjusting and travelling all over again. Proposed Bike Route #4 was not theirs.
No such luck.
Upon my arrival home that day, I decided to give the bike another shot. It didn’t reciprocate. The bike hates my guts. So I humbly come to you to say that there will be no riding one to work any day, let alone on a day when the rest of the nation has decided to make a mockery out of me.
Instead I’m compelled to tell you that my life has come to this: Walking on the treadmill with cellophane wrapped around my belly after an intense P90X workout. Yes, I feel like Sunday’s leftover pork roast when I hit the gym, but it was either this or Skinnygirl Margaritas. I went with the option I felt would dock me the least points on my steadily declining Man Card. The jury is still out.
*Please insert jokes in the comment section below. Ridicule from the usual members of the Peanut Gallery gladly accepted, but I’d like to hear from some of my newer readers. Winner will receive nothing but my utmost respect. And contempt.*
**Kacie, this does not apply to you as I am restricting your commenting privileges. Love, Daddy.**

Thursday, May 19, 2011

Teen of My Heart

My daughter has betrayed me. Again.

Today, without first asking for my permission, Kacie has entered the world of teenagerdom – or teenager dumb. Either or. And both, really.

This is where, for the next six years, she’s made the commitment to make my life hell. By enlisting in the not-so-clandestine organization T.E.E.N. she’s accepted a seven year mission to push limits to the extreme and force her mother and me to create new limits where there once were none.

I know nothing about raising a teenage girl. I was barely coping with being a parent in general, when I just had “kids.” It was okay before because I knew what it was like to be a kid – mainly because I still am one. I was finally getting it down. Coming into my own.

But this is different.

I don’t speak Period or Feminine Hygiene Product or ­­­Miniskirts & High Heels. I don’t know what it’s like to have your heart broken by some boy who’s decided just eighteen hours after the world’s longest makeout session at a party you didn’t even have permission to be at in the first place that he likes your best friend better than he does you.

I can’t ask my mom for advice. Yes, she raised five kids (three of which were girls), but she’d be zero help. Her only response would be: “Remember when I told you this day would come? Well, it’s here and I’m not even going to pretend to feel sorry for you.”

Surely there’s a support group out there to help walk me through this. Like a Craigslist for dads. Maybe Dadslist? Mydaughterbrokemyheart.com? Suckstobeme.org?

When I looked at her this morning it was like a stranger was staring back at me, smiling, waiting for me to make the first move even though she’d already made it. All I could do was kiss her on the head and tell her to have a good day and then quickly bail before the floodgates opened and my mascara started to smear.

But at some point in the next few hours I have to go home and face her. No matter how hard I may try to pretend today like nothing’s changed, everything’s changed. I’ll learn to be okay with it. Eventually. Just not today.

Kacie – I love you. You’re more than anything I could have hoped for and better than anything I’ll ever deserve. But you’re grounded.

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Taking Back Television

This is where, if I were a real man, I’d say that my wife is right. But I’m not and to be quite honest am perfectly okay with that.
She’s been pestering me to get rid of some (all) of the TVs in our possession, or at the very least dumb down our cable subscription. I’ve said it before -- that’s just a horrible idea on so many levels. But as farfetched as her drastic measures come off, I’m thinking there’s a solution somewhere within the madness that could work if it means my regaining control of the remote.
My recent epiphany stems from two separate instances yesterday that made me realize I watch, or at least hear, too many children’s television shows on a daily basis. These shows all have catchy tunes that get stuck in your head like a bad song from the 90’s. And because the shows and even the commercials are played on what seems like a continuous loop, it’s easy to find yourself repeating lines of dialogue (or shouting them when Swiper is swiping) in unison with your kid without even realizing you’re doing it.
I submit for the defense:
Instance One
A friend and I are at work discussing possible lunch options. He’s been begging me to go out to eat with him. By begging, I mean giving me a hard time because of the diet I’ve been on for the last three weeks and my decision to punt foods that helped put me in my current dietary predicament. It’s become part of our daily shtick.
He suggests burgers. Ice cream. Tasty chicken tenders, fries, and sweet tea from Raising Cane’s (which I would absolutely love to say yes to but am putting off for a few more weeks). Burritos de Freebirds. I say no to all. He rolls his eyes, displeased in my new lifestyle choices and how they now affect him.
He turns back to his computer and pouts. And by pouts, I mean drops the subject and gets back to work because he really had no intention of going out for lunch anyways because he’d brought his. I decide to turn the table and get his hopes up for an hour-long jailbreak from the office.
Me: What about Ming-Ming.
David: Huh?
Me: For lunch.
David: Ming-Ming?
Me: The Asian restaurant by Target??
David: (confused) You mean NewNew???
Me: Oh, right. Ming Ming is the duck on Wonder Pets…
Instance Two
Last night I’m taking my final Short Fiction test of the semester. For the life of me I cannot remember several answers to what should be some pretty easy questions. My mind was beyond blank.
There was one question in particular that asked about David Barthelme’s short story “The School” and what kind of animal walked into the classroom at the end which caused the kids to go crazy. Sounds simple enough, right? Nope. All I could come up with was a dinosaur. Why a dinosaur, you ask? I was picturing the story as it played out in my head, which turns out really wasn’t the story by David Barthelme at all but instead an episode of Dino Dan.
The culprit is Nick Jr., which is always on at our house. And while it’s a pretty good influence on my kid as far as television is concerned, I’d really like Brady to watch a little more in the way of classic cartoons and a little less pre-school entertainment while I’m around. I mean, a 35-year-old man singing the theme song for Scooby Doo out in public is a little less creepy than one singing “We had a great day. It was a super way, to spend some time together” from the Fresh Beat Band.
Something has to be done while I still have a tiny bit of dignity left.
My proposal? Not to take television away from the kids but to take it back period. Ground Brady from television just long enough that he moves on to kid shows that are more age appropriate for me to openly enjoy and publicly reference. Make him read instead. Sure, he’s only four but there’s no reason to think he can’t teach himself how to read. I mean, the boy already knows ‘hat’ and ‘cat’ and ‘dog.’ This way, should he be able to pick up on a word like ‘superfluous’ somewhere between Dr. Seuss and Ernest Hemingway, making me look like a genius.
You’re welcome, dear.

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Brace For It

Today I have taken the plunge deeper into debt, and in doing so, have totally fooked myself when it comes time for Kacie to start dating.
You see, she’s getting braces. Right now, actually.
Braces are something Kacie’s wanted for a while. I tell my daughter, like most fathers tell their own daughters, that I think she’s gorgeous. She says that’s not why she wants braces. Instead she says that she just wants to have better teeth, a better smile. I can buy that, I suppose.
For me though, it’s Kacie’s eyes that have always had a way of doing the smiling for her, if that makes sense. It’s something I’ve loved about her from Day One – the way the corners of her eyes crinkle just a tiny bit and her blue eyes seem to become even bluer when she’s happy. But now, because we’ve succumbed to doing right by her teeth, Traci and I are arming our firstborn with a toothy smile that’s going to make her even more beautiful than she already is. I may as well start saving now for the wedding. Sorry, Milky Way. I can no longer afford to entertain you or your other friends from the candy barrio.
Last night I asked Kacie if she was nervous. She wasn’t.
I asked if she thought it’d hurt. She wasn’t worried about that either – she just wanted to finally be able to punt the spacer she’d been using the last two weeks. She said that’s what hurt.
I asked if she was afraid of getting teased. I called her “metal mouth” and “brace face” and something else that I can’t think of offhand. I wanted to test her, to see if she was ready for the possible ridicule that could come with such a commitment.
“Is that all you’ve got, Dad?” She wasn’t fazed. “You’re a writer. I thought you’d be better at this.”
“It’s ‘Daddy,’ just so you know.”
“Dad,” she said with a soft, emphatic tone.
She smiled. My heart tried to give in.
“Um, no. Try again.”
“Fine. And no, I’m not afraid.”
“Okay, I’m glad. Now go finish your homework. But it’s ‘Daddy.’ Got it?”
“Got it,” she said, disappearing into the hallway. “Dad…”
Why wasn’t Kacie nervous or worried or afraid like I was? How, at twelve, could she be so confident about herself and the decision she’d made to get them? Why can’t I be as confident at times as she is?
And who gave her permission to stop calling me “Daddy?” Not me, of course. Was this some evil plot orchestrated by my wife because the kids stopped calling her “Mommy” some time ago? Sorry. I know. Focus.
So now I’m waiting, anxiously, for someone to call or email or text or something and say that everything’s okay…that despite having several months’ salary wired into her mouth now, my little girl is good to go – no different from when I saw her just a few hours ago when I poked my head in her bedroom and blew her a kiss goodbye before leaving for work.
More important than her well-being, I need Kacie to hurry up while she’s still groggy and sign the agreement I had drafted this morning that specifically forbids her from falling in love and leaving me one day because some dopey kid thinks she has a beautiful smile and can’t live without her. It’s going to happen. Just ask my father-in-law.