Episode 85: Why are you reading a blog, you should be outside!

Friday begins the absolute greatest weekend of the entire year, Memorial Day, where Americans pretend to remember the sacrifices made by our veterans by barbecuing and getting hammered for two straight days. I love Memorial Day weekend primarily because it signifies the start of summer and, more importantly, it is the first holiday since probably the 4th of July that you can really sit back and relax for a couple of days knowing that you don't have any family obligation and you aren't going to get ridiculed for some crappy gift that you gave your girlfriend. Also, grilled hot dogs and Budweiser are a combination arguably better than sex.

So, turn off your computer, go outside and enjoy yourself this weekend. I'll be back on Tuesday hopefully with some new material for you to read. I'll leave you with some kick-ass 'welcome to summer' music from the Trial By Fire Parenting house band, The Black Keys. If this song doesn't make you want to roll down the windows and crank your stock, eight speaker car stereo, I don't know what will.

Episode 84: Back to...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

So yesterday was May 26, which means that it was the first day of my 6-week seminar on human resource management at the North Shore Community College Institute for Corporate Training. As you can imagine from the pizazz of that sentence, it was not an exciting two-and-a-half hours. When I signed up for the class a few months ago I started to think about how weird it was going to be going back to school. It has been four full years since I graduated college- a lifetime ago- and aside from the two years I spent covering school committee meetings for the Lynn Item I haven't so much as set foot in a classroom since.

I figured I would probably start freaking out a few weeks before the class, get real nervous driving there and all that good stuff. Not the case. In fact, I was so burnt out from working five straight closing shifts at the bar, and from the 100 degree temperatures, that I hardly knew what day it was yesterday and barely thought about going to the class until it was time for me to leave. The one thing that I did keep telling myself, though, was that I had to make sure to pay attention while I was there. So much of college was spent doodling and day dreaming, staring at the clock, checking out girls in my class, getting high during my breaks and generally not giving a damn. Somehow, though, I managed to stay on track, finish on time and with a decent GPA, all despite changing my major half way through my sophomore year. I do not think, though, I will be quite as successful if I do those things this time around, so I have to make sure to be attentive and try not to doze off while thinking about jamming dry erase markers in to my eyes.

I wasn't really sure what to expect from the course. I knew it wouldn't be a traditional classroom setting, and I expected the student body to be mostly adults, but knowing nothing of human resources other than what I have learned from Toby Flenderson, I was otherwise going in blind. I was pretty much right about both of those things. The classroom, which is located in a gigantic business park in Beverly, looked like a corporate meeting room, and aside from one girl who was still in college everyone in the class was an employed, professional adult. Except for me, of course. One thing that made me feel a bit more comfortable was that of the 10 students in the class, only about half of them were actually working in HR already, meaning that I wasn't going to be the only moron there who was completely lost.

As I have admitted here in the past, my desire to pursue human resources does not stem from any deep, burning desire to punch in payroll numbers or recruit and hire people to work at a large corporation. Instead, I chose it because it appears to be a steady field that provides fair pay, benefits, and an opportunity to wear a suit to work every day. I love putting on a suit. Most of all, it appears that I can enter in to said field with little more than a certificate from a $400, 6-week community college course as opposed to having to go back to school for an associates or masters degree. This posed a problem right off the bat when, during the traditional 'introduce yourself to the class' session I answered the question 'why are you here' with 'because I need a steady job and HR seems like an easy field to get in to.' This sparked a lecture from the instructor, who we will get to in a moment, essentially lambasting me, in a polite way, for not recognizing all of the important things that HR professionals do blah blah blah. That was the last time I spoke for the entire class.

On to the instructor, a 50-something blond woman who made it very apparent right from the start that she takes HR VERY seriously. One of the many things that I did not like about college the first time around was the 'know it all, look at me and what I have done in my life' braggy attitudes that many of the professors had. I remember one journalism teacher I had came in on the first day of class and handed us 10 different articles that he had written for the Boston Globe. He then spent the next hour going over every reason that they were great and telling us all of the amazing issues that he was able to address by writing them, essentially saving the world with his editorials. Yeah. That was the last time I took one of that asshole's classes.

The HR course instructor last night was no different. Along with bragging about all of the companies she was the first woman to do this or that at and all of the reasons that she should be teaching the course, she decided that the text book we were given was too generic, so she printed out all of these little charts and diagrams that she made all by herself to give a more personal feel to the material. Don't get me wrong, if I knew what the hell she was talking about I would probably appreciate the more human information. What I didn't appreciate was her saying 'This is called wisdom,' or 'These are the types of things that made me the #1 HR representative in the region,' or 'You won't find information like this from your current HR bosses, your welcome' when she handed them to us. Get over yourself, lady. Cool, your really good at HR, that is why your teaching the class. A little less bragging, a little more explaining, thanks.

This full-of-herself attitude was made even more infuriating by the fact that this woman made no sense. She spoke in riddles, cliches and analogies, comparing business to sports, parenting and marriage. The worst part, though, was the 45 minutes she spent talking about how candy bars are a great motivational tool.

"When an employee does well, give them a.. (long pause, no one answers because it makes no sense) TAKE 5 BAR! Tell them to take 5 because they did a great job."

"And what do you give an employee that made a mistake? (another long pause) A Butterfinger! and then they will know that the mistake was made, but your reinforcing that you have confidence in them by giving them the candy bar."

Her point was that money isn't what it takes to make an employee happy (which I totally disagree with). It is recognition. I still don't know if the candy bar was a metaphor or if she actually handed them out to her employees. I hope it is the former because if I worked at that place I would have quit in about 10 seconds.

Equally as annoying as the professor is the kiss ass. In every college course I have ever taken there has always been that one kid who doesn't shut up. The kiss ass. The hand raiser. He or she is the one who asks that last question three minutes before class ends and keeps you there late. Or the person who on the first day, when everyone is minding their own business, walks in, asks if he or she is in the right room (knowing full well that they are) and then cracks jokes while everyone uncomfortably waits for the professor to get there. This time around is no different. Her name is Susan. She is about my age, approximately 650 pounds and way, WAY too in love with her lame job in the HR department at Tufts University. How do I know this? Because she spoke about it at every chance. Always chiming in with something to add. Always asking questions at the wrong time. Always annoying. Some questions are rhetorical. Keep them that way.

I'm not going to say that I hate the class after one week, just that it is overwhelmingly annoying and I didn't get a whole lot out of those candy bar analogies. What I did take out of the night is this. HR is simple. It is a lot of work, but it is essentially just making sure that employees behave themselves and get paid, with a little hiring and recruiting mixed in. If this lady keeps talking about it like she is the f-ing President for the next five weeks I don't know if I am going to make it. She doesn't like me because I can see through her bullshit and she knows it. She also doesn't like me because I got irritated that the class ran until 9:10. Maybe she should shorten that candy bar speech.

Episode 83: Dog days of May

Summer has officially arrived in Salem, as it has been about 90 degrees here for the past couple of days. It may be a little bit early this year, but the air conditioner is in the bedroom window, the fans are strategically placed throughout the house and the underwear has been packed away for the season- bring it on, mother nature. Two summer favorites that I am eagerly awaiting are the first mid-evening thunderstorm cooling us off after a 90 degree day and next month's gas bill, which should be mercifully cut back down to $30 or so now that I don't have to crank my heat all day long.

The weather has been so hot, in fact, that Av and I have kind of avoided going out too much for the past two days. I figure, even with sunscreen, exposing the little guy to the pounding heat can't be great for her and I wanted to avoid the inevitable packs of sweaty, snotty kids that are probably greasing up all of the playground equipment as we speak. Instead we have been enjoying the scenery of the ghetto from our back porch and taking relaxing, air conditioned rides around the North Shore stopping briefly to run around but not staying out too long to induce sun stroke.

Despite the weather, our week didn't start out the greatest way, as I was forced to make Av an emergency doctor's appointment yesterday due to a rather nasty looking rash that broke out on her stomach and back. The rash itself wasn't bothering the baby at all, and didn't appear to be anything serious, but we thought it best to check in with the doctor's office just to make sure that everything was cool. Unfortunately for me, this activity took place on my shift.

As you can imagine, knowing my irrational fear of other children, especially sick, dirty ones, that the doctor's office is not exactly my favorite place to go, but the rash wasn't getting any better so I was forced to suck it up and drag the baby to Beverly for a 2:15 appointment with an on call nurse. I am not sure why I didn't expect this, but I was surprised to find out that Mondays are apparently a very busy day for said nurse, something I realized immediately as we walked in to an absolutely packed doctor's office.

Yes, all around us were snotty, coughing, whining, yelling, crying little bastards and their irritated parents. Our 2:15 appointment- which we had arrived 15 minutes early for- quickly turned in to 2:30, meaning that I was forced to sit amongst the sick and the dirty for 30 minutes. The real issue was trying to keep Av, who was in no way sick, from getting too antsy. All she wanted to do was run around and play with other kids, but I obviously wouldn't let her given all of their conditions. One particular fit came when I wouldn't let her follow a little girl named Alliya (whose mother was literally dressed like a Laker Girl) in to the examination room when her name was called. Other battles took place when I wouldn't let her eat the end of the coat hanger in the closet and when I wouldn't let her pull the pictures off of the waiting room wall.

After we were finally, mercifully called in to the office we were placed in examination room #2. Anyone with kids knows that most pediatrician's offices have themes to each room. One is butterflies, one is sports etc... and the decorations and toys match accordingly. Well, just our luck, room #2 was race car themed. Something that I would have thought was awesome if I were 5- years-old, until I realized that the toy cars were in a locked case hanging on the wall and there were no other toys or books for Av to play with. Thus, as if the trip wasn't aggravating enough, I was forced to sit alone in a tiny room with a 1-year-old with cabin fever who is yelling at me because I won't let her play with any medical equipment. The only thing that saved them was that the on call nurse was extremely nice.

Of course, as we suspected, there was nothing wrong with Av. The rash was just a product of allergies or perhaps a seasonal change, and since it wasn't bothering her we were sent on our way, $10 poorer and with a pounding headache. The lesson here? Don't ever bring your kid to the doctor on a Monday.

Do you want me to take care of your eyebrows for you?

Lately, as the warm weather arrives, I have been trying to make it a point to re-discover my manly side. I promised myself that this summer I was going to do more active, manly things, like go to the beach and climb some rocks, maybe change my own oil and learn a little bit about my car. I am determined not to let myself become a fat, 26-year-old pansy just because I live with a bunch of women. As a result of this I have enthusiastically offered to help a friend of mine with some yard work at his new house, most specifically, chopping wood. Lumber jacking has always been one of my dream jobs. Not like big time,chain saw, cutting down the forest lumber jacking, more like back woods, chopping up fire wood lumber jacking. Hence why I was, and still am, excited to partake in the activity this summer.

Saturday, prior to heading to my friend's house to help him for the first time, I decided that I would get a hair cut in anticipation of the hot weather and ensuing physical activity. I went to my usual spot, C & K Barbers in Swampscott, but I didn't get there early enough so the waiting room was packed with dudes who had the same idea I had. On most days I would have just waited and read 3 issues of Maxim, but today I had shit to do so I hastily took a drive to Super Cuts instead.

I have had a longtime ban on Super Cuts, ever since that time about four years ago I went and an Asian woman who spoke about as much English as my cat gave me the worst hair cut in modern history, but my options at this point were limited so I decided to make a one time exception. After this experience I can only describe my feelings this way: All of the things that I hate about Super Cuts can be explained within all of the reasons that I love going to the barber shop. Lets examine the benefits...

At the barber shop the waiting room features a television as well as such male-oriented reading material as Maxim, Sports Illustrated and Car and Driver. At Super Cuts, instead of girls, sports and cars, you get People, Vougue and about 16 magazines devoted to trendy hair styles. Oh, and no TV. At the barber shop I know that I am getting my hair cut by one of two people, Corey or Kyle (although, I admittedly can never remember which one is which). There is no mystery. They have both cut my hair before, they talk to me about sports, girls and cars- and every so often our kids. If I don't want to talk that day, there is a TV in front of both chairs. At Super Cuts it is completely random. There are always 5-6 girls working, all of them with the worst hairstyles I have ever seen, and they all ask me questions about how I want my hair cut like I just spent 6 months studying at Blaine Beauty School. I am a simple guy, cut my hair short and leave me alone.

The conversation at Super Cuts sucks, too. It is completely forced and un welcomed, especially since I am pretty much always awkward and uncomfortable when I am forced to talk to girls. Seriously, it is like I am still 15. Sometimes, when I am at work and a group of girls come sit at the bar I will ask the other bartenders, if there are any, to go help them just so I don't make it weird and blow the tip. It is truly amazing at this point that I am not some sort of weird, creepy, single, comic book-loving hermit.

Finally, and in my opinion, the biggest selling point for the barber shop, is a little thing called hot foam. When the barber is done you get to enjoy a nice hot foam on the back of your neck, soothing the skin as the finishing touches are put on your neck hair with an old school 1920's hand held razor blade. At Super Cuts you get an almost always crooked line up done with a pair of clippers and are sent on your way- but not before the bimbo who cut your hair asks 37 times if you want to 'try any gel'.

Needless to say, given all of the above facts, I was not looking forward to my Super Cuts experience. All of what I said above happened. Some dumb chick with Bump-It bangs cut my hair, asking me such idiotic and irrelevant questions as 'What sort of fun do you have going on this weekend?" (I did not answer honestly with 'chopping wood,' I just said 'work') and 'So, do you go to school somewhere?' Instead of just cutting my damn hair she made me answer questions about my bangs and how I comb my hair (I don't, that is why I want you to cut it short, idiot) and I was asked at least three times if I wanted any 'product' in my hair. Perhaps the most telling questions, though, came at the end when she asked me first if I would like to 'sprinkle in some dye to cover up my salt and pepper look' and then if I wanted her to 'take care of my eyebrows for me.' No and No. Please release me from your clutches you evil hair wizard.

All in all, my haircut was fine, but my neck hurt a little from that dry clipper burn and the chicks in Maxim are much hotter than the ones in the Super Cuts haircut brochure. Next time I will be waking up extra early to beat the rush at the barber shop. That is a promise.

As for the wood chopping, it was a fantastic time. I am almost praying for a lightning storm to knock some more trees down in my friend's yard. Although, it is now Tuesday and my hands still hurt, so I am clearly not at full man capacity yet.

Because they are awesome

I am officially on a crusade. Here is your Black Keys kick ass song of the day (with a rather humorous video that I hope will not distract you from the awesomeness of the rock and roll). Love it, or else.

Episode 82: The suburban ghetto

A while back I was tossing around the idea of starting up a second blog that focused on the neighborhood that we live in. I wanted to call it the Suburban Ghetto, as it would examine what it is like living in the ghetto surrounded by an otherwise hip, high class suburban tourist city like Salem. From hard working immigrants to unemployed white trash, from drug dealers to stray cats we have an interesting hodgepodge of characters that wander our streets and every day brings with it something new. In the end I was realistic with myself and decided that starting a second blog was a bit ambitious- let's be honest, I can barely motivate myself to upload pictures to this one- so I abandoned the idea. In a way it is kind of too bad because the summer is starting up and that is when things really start to get hoppin' around here. The college kids and Spanish people throw loud parties in to the early hours of the morning, the garbage pail kids meander the streets at all hours of the night with little to no supervision and the stray cats are howling for sex like the world is about to end. It could make for some good material.

Another side effect of summer in the ghetto is a visibly increased police presence, although this fails to prevent anyone from setting off fireworks in the middle of the road at 1 a.m. or getting in to drunken domestic disputes outside our bedroom window. In fact, I struggle to find anything that it has actually been successful in preventing, except of course for people parking on the street during street sweeping. Yesterday, though, was a different story. Finally, after a year of living at this apartment, we actually got to see some real, ghetto police activity.

It all started around 1:30-2 in the afternoon. Av and I were out on the deck drawing with sidewalk chalk (actually, I was drawing, she was just putting it in her mouth) when she started frantically yelling "DOGGY! DOGGY!)" I kind of blew it off and said "yeah, doggy" assuming that someone was just walking their dog down the street, probably letting it crap in front of our house without cleaning it like they always do. As the yelling continued, though, I looked up to notice that it was actually a police dog being led by two officers up to a house across the street. Accompanying them were at least seven plain clothed officers and one man dressed in a suit, with a gun and cuffs, who was apparently some sort of detective in charge of the entire operation. Intrigued, I ran inside and looked out the front windows to find three police cruisers parked in front of the house and about four uniformed officers minding each end of the side street.

As I watched the situation unfold back on the deck, I was not at all surprised, as the person living in the upstairs of this apartment is very obviously a drug dealer- and I'm not talking about your friendly neighborhood weed dealer, either. This guy is hard core. Spotting a drug house in the ghetto is pretty easy, it is the one with the most visitors, especially at night. The customers park down the street, away from the house, go in the back door and are never there for more than 10-15 minutes. Like I said, seeing a dozen cops surround the place was no surprise.

After about 5 minutes or so the situation officially turned in to an episode of COPS. The officers split up, manning each entrance while a few more meandered about the driveway and back yard. A few minutes later one cop noticed the curtains move in the window and gave his secret signal to the detective, letting him know that someone was inside. A few cop-knocks on the door later, the detective lost patience and began to yell.

"It's over, Patrick. We know your in there. I've got guys at every door. Just come out. Come out, Patrick or we're coming in. PATRICK! GET THE F OUT HERE OR YOUR F-ING DOOR COMES DOWN! Ahhh F-it, go in boys."

It was at this point that I decided to bring Av in to the kitchen and watch through the window (she was oblivious to everything that was happening, but I wanted to avoid stray bullets, just in case) as the cops broke down the door and stormed in to the house. There were a few crashes and some yelling, but it appears that the assailant didn't put up much of a fight because he was led out in cuffs a short time later.

There was police presence at the house for the rest of the day and around 6 p.m. a few detectives came outside with about eight bags of evidence, including a large blue duffel bag. Interestingly enough, it turns out the charges were not drug-related. According the the paper, the guy was responsible for a rash of break ins and robberies in the city over the past few months. Somehow I felt a lot better about the guy across the street having a house full of guns and cocaine than I did when I found out he was an armed robber. Although, I would imagine that the number one rule of burglary is to avoid robbing your neighbor's houses. That seems like a set up for failure.

So, now that I am over the excitement, my question now becomes how did they not find any drugs in there? There is absolutely no way, no way that this guy is not a drug dealer. No way. Unless he sells stolen TV's out of his house like a pawn shop, but I find that hard to believe.

The few people that I have told this story to have all reacted similarly, suggesting that I now live in a dangerous neighborhood that may be unfit for children. For some reason, this event yesterday does not bother me at all. I have lived next to that guy for a year and never had a problem. He may be a burglar and a drug dealer, but at the same time, he kept to himself. No one ever had any reason to call the police on that house. If anything, the little bastard garbage pail kids cause a lot more problems running around the neighborhood.

Things I Saw at the Park

I am quickly finding out that the summer is going to be a problem for us if we want to continue our park trips. Today was about 75 degrees and that place was crawling, I mean crawling with little bastard kids. There was even a field trip from a local elementary school at the playground. Yeah, nightmare.

Despite the stress and aggravation of having to share the park with a bunch of disease-carrying little twerps, it did provide an opportunity to showcase just how diverse the neighborhood, and the city as a whole, actually is. We headed over to the playground equipment once the field trip bus left and there were only a few straggler families left, but these families were about as different as could be. On one end of the playground with a portable grill was a group of about 15 immigrants who appeared to be Indian, or perhaps of Middle Eastern decent. I base this on the fact that they were dressed head to toe in robes and turbans, showing no skin despite the fact that the sun was pounding heat. On the other side was a pair of aristocratic women who made their wealth and lifestyle known by sporting polo shirts with popped collars, designer out door shoes and Cadillac- like strollers. They were so aristocratic, in fact, that their children were still carrying the family names. The three little girls, probably no older than 3 or 4, were named Elanor, Mable and Gretta. The boys, one about Av's age and the other around 5, were named Harold and Charles. Not Hank and Charlie, Harold and Charles. Congratulations, you have named your children after old people. Good luck in school, kids, maybe that will be an easy way for them to learn the first ladies of history, or perhaps famous puritan seamstresses. Oh yeah, and the kids had popped collars, too.

The third family was an absolute model in awful, unqualified parenting- and this is coming from me, at one time perhaps the world's most unqualified parent. Yes, joining the quiet, sweltering Middle Eastern family and the poorly named aristocrats were a couple who were clearly former teenage parents now in to their early 20's spending a day with their probably 3-year-old son, Johnny. The mother, sporting a Playboy Bunny tattoo on her ankle, was dressed in a pair of Daisy Dukes and a tight, tight tank top that exposed both her belly button ring and a sweeping butterfly tattoo on her back. Since her shorts were so tight, the only place she could find to keep her cell phone was in her cleavage. The dad was very over weight and dressed like most over weight 20-year-old men do in the summer: wife beater and basketball shorts. Aside from swearing like sailors and telling inappropriate stories about who they 'chilled' with last night and how so and so are 'trippin'' if they think this or that was going to happen, the couple was actually fairly attentive toward their child. Unfortunately, they were merely being attentive to all of the ways he was misbehaving and didn't seem to care. For example, he hit one of the aristocratic kids in the face with a handful of rocks (which made me laugh, of course) and later went down the slide immediately after one of the Indian boys, effectively punting him across the playground when they got to the bottom. His parents didn't seem to care much, although the rock throw did get him a weak 'Don't do that, Johnny." After a few minutes it became apparent why the kid was acting up so much when his mom brought him over his large iced coffee from Dunkin Donuts and told him to take a sip. Who in their right mind gives a kid coffee- a LARGE coffee? That is just asking for it.

Later, dad left to go smoke a cigarette. When he came back, he decided that he had the energy he needed to tackle the playground. As mom and kid watched, he ran around to all of the equipment, sliding down slides and swinging on monkey bars like an 11-year-old. I was nervous for the structural integrity of the playground, as I am pretty sure he exceeded the weight capacity on his own.

I would like to make it clear that none of these people ever bother Av, and most times they are pretty nice to us. She even played with Mable for a minute today before losing interest and wandering off to go have a conversation with a pile of rocks (she is a weirdo). I merely wanted to paint a picture of exactly how diverse this place is. This, I think, will be a good thing as Av gets older, although, I would like to think that we can move off of this shitty street before she gets too old.

Episode 81: Word World

Back in February when Av went for her 1-year doctor's appointment (remember the one where they gave her five vaccinations at once and then sent her to get an X-ray on her hip even though nothing was wrong with her?) the doctor was very concerned about the fact that she was not talking yet. At the time, she told us to give it a couple of weeks and call her if we didn't see an improvement. You know, because most babies are already carrying on conversations and reciting the Gettysburg Address by their first birthday. She must be retarded.

Anyway, we kind of blew off the doctor, realizing that she was being completely unrealistic- kind of like how she told us the baby had to start drinking milk out of a cup instead of formula out of a bottle, despite the fact that she was only having two bottles a day and milk made her poop turn in to some sort of horrific colon-borne monster in the middle of the night. Now, about three months later, I am happy to report that the baby has not only caught up to her super-genius 1-year-old peers, but has taken a step further and created her own language. Take that you med school know-it-all's.

Along with such English favorites as "doggy," "kitty," "hi," and "bye" the baby has created and entirely new set of words and expressions that she uses to carry on epic conversations with herself and the inanimate objects around her. I kind of picture it being like what the characters on Family Guy who can't understand Stewie would hear. Written out, I imagine the language to look an awful lot like keyboard jumble: "dginnghoasbsfiwwgebjaslkhf" That sort of thing. But in her head it must make perfect sense because she carries on conversations all day long.

Evidently she also thinks she is extremely funny, because more often than not she ends up laughing through a portion of the conversation.

"Diglingdignling gid... HAHAHAHAHA!"


Sometimes, just for fun, I try to speak back to her in the language. This usually inspires laughter and, on occasion, a response- but that is rare. I am pretty sure she just does it to humor me and then probably goes back to making fun of me to her tooth brush, or the smelly pink bunny that lives in the back seat of my car. Video to follow soon.

Things that Happen to me at Work

It has been cold and rainy here for the past few days, so park trips have been kind of out of the question. Fortunately, I had a pretty interesting night at work last night, so I can fill the void at the bottom of the blog with that.

In the two weeks since I have switched from working Wednesday nights to Tuesdays I have been pretty lucky. The Celtics have played playoff games both nights so I have had a certain level of guaranteed business, but it hasn't been crazy enough for me to miss watching the game. Steady business over a five hour span nets just as much money as crazy business over a two hour span, it is just much less miserable to handle.

Last night was actually shaping up to be a pretty hoppin' night at the Beer Works when at around 6 p.m., with a full bar, a transformer blew down the street and knocked out our power. Now, most logically run businesses in the area have back up generators, but I work at Beer Works- a place where our owner is more concerned with how many dish washing racks we have for dirty glasses behind the bar than he is about making customers happy, so we, of course, do not have such a luxury.

Because of this, I was forced to continue working in the dark for about two hours- something that could have been a bit easier if someone had not painted over the skylights in the building with black paint, but that is another rant for another time. Once I got past the initial aggravation of not having a generator and watching most of the other useless employees essentially shut down like robots when they couldn't see, working in the dark wasn't so bad. It actually created a more festive atmosphere for customers, and actually improved tips by about 10 percent. It was almost a perfect situation, as we were getting ready to close around 8- after I had made a decent amount of money already- but just as the manager was sending a bunch of people home, the lights came back on and we had to continue working. No worries, though, it wasn't like I didn't expect to be there anyway.

Shortly after the power came on I took a short break to go charge my cell phone in my car. I have a very old phone, made in 2005, and the battery capacity isn't very strong. I actually ordered a new battery (on EBAY, from China for $1 because the hack cell phone companies don't make that battery any more) but that turned out to be just a cheap Chinese knock-off that didn't work right (what a surprise). In any event, I went out to the car, charged the phone long enough to check my messages and return a phone call and came back inside. I would say it was about ten minutes later I was standing at the cash register punching in all of the manual credit card slips from the power outage when I felt something hot against my leg. I moved back to see if I was leaning on something, but couldn't find anything. Then I started smelling burning plastic. I reached in to my pocket, pulled out my again-dead cell phone and immediately realized where the smell was coming from. The back of my phone was extremely hot and it was smoking. I took the battery cover off to find that the top portion of the battery had melted to the back of the phone. I looked at my pants to find a small singe in the inside of my pocket. Somehow, my battery had short circuited and briefly caught fire.

The best part about this situation is that when I got home I swapped out the faulty Chinese battery and the phone still works. It is now over 15 hours since the fire and the phone still smells like burned plastic. I am going to keep using it, though. You know why? Because cell phones are a racket and I refuse to buy a new one unless I have to. I even took an old Motorola from the lost and found at work in case mine bursts in to flames again. See if I give you another $100 for a crap phone again, T-Mobile. This is war. WAR!

How do two white guys have so much soul?

My favorite band in history, the Black Keys, have a new album out. If you like bluesy rock music with a lot of soul, listen to it.

Episode 80: Blogger's notebook- Or the one where I essentially vomit the details of my mundane life on to a computer screen. Again.

I think I just had a small mental breakdown while writing this. I may have even momentarily blacked out. Once again, for posterity, and because I just wasted an hour and a half of nap time doing it, I'll just post it and apologize for the nonsensical jumble of useless information that you are about to read. I will say that momentary blackouts and stream of consciousness rambling are two of the unfortunate side effects of being a writer. Office dwellers, score one for yourselves on this one. Your minds take much less abuse.

...

From the moment that I found out that Monica was going to be having a girl, I pretty much knew that my life was going to make little to no sense for the next 20 years. I even thought about taking a few psychology classes just to try and keep up with the overwhelming amount of female insanity, but then I remember that psychology is pretty much just a made up field founded mostly by crazy people. In retrospect, maybe I should have gone in to that. It is the ultimate bullshit profession.

Anyway, my point is that sometimes I forget that Av is a girl- not like I think she is a boy, more like I just disassociate her from gender, kind of like I do the cats. That is until she starts to act irrational and crazy, something that I have found to be an inherited trait in every single woman I have ever met. Ever.

For example, situations that in the past would spark nothing more than subtle whimpering have more recently been inspiring dramatic episodes of weeping. Like when she is told she cannot have something, or when she slips and falls on to her knees tears begin to well up in her eyes, her face slowly droops to a frown and, after a deep breath, she unloads an ear-piercing scream followed by hysterical crying. This isn't just regular kid crying, we are talking 'I just saw my dog get eaten by a bald eagle' sadness. Makes absolutely no sense. It was really starting to get on my nerves the other day and in a fit of irritation I fired off a text message to Monica at work.

"What is up with your kid? (It is always your kid when she is pissing me off. Like her real father is in jail and I swooped in to 'watch over' mom until he got out). All she does is throw these epic, dramatic, unnecessary crying fits?"

Her answer was quite simple: " She is a girl. And she is 1."

Yeah. I am pretty much screwed for the next two decades. At least now it is just about not getting the kind of juice she wanted or seeing someone she doesn't like. In ten years she is going to be slamming doors in my face for not letting her hang out at the park with some skateboarding boy from down the street. Unless she is a lesbian. Which I am totally pulling for.

...

Along with the fits, Av has also become extremely defiant, doing things she knows she isn't supposed to do on an hourly basis. For example, this morning while I was changing her morning diaper, which was filled with night-poop, she reached down between her legs, grabbed a hand full of her own poop and squeezed it. Imagine the disastrous mess that followed as I tried to 1. Stop her from putting that poop anywhere near her face. 2. Stop her from grabbing more poop. 3. Grab some wipes so that I could clean the poop off of her hands before she touched anything else. 4. Get her clothes off so we could take a bath- preferably without smearing poop all over them, and 5. Finish getting the damn diaper off. All the while she is laughing at me and trying to twist on to her poop-covered stomach so that she can stand up and presumably drop small dumplings of poop all over everything in her room. Not a good start to the day.

...

This story really doesn't have anything to do with anything, but it needs to be told, so I am going to tell it here.
We found ourselves at a local restaurant last night because Monica's uncles came up to Salem to visit and our apartment is a bit to small for entertainment. The five of us made reservations at a downtown seafood place, where we have eaten before but have not been to recently. From the moment that the waiter opened his mouth to the moment we walked out the door, the events can only be described as frighteningly bizarre, in a bad made for TV horror movie kind of way.

Our waiter's name was Derick, and he was one of three, very tall, 20-something males that were working on the floor. Bar tending was a short, hobbit-like 20-something female. There was one manager and a hostess, both of them female. It appears as though the owners of the restaurant trained the staff based on somewhat of a script- which is not uncommon in restaurants, it is always good to give employees a guide as to how the conversation should go at the table based on the restaurant and menu. The problem here was that the entire staff was so completely socially awkward that they did not understand that the script is a suggestion as to how you should speak to guests and, in most cases, you will have to defer from the exact words and actually have somewhat of a conversation with the customer. Worse, Derick and his counterparts all featured very monotone voices, personalities and physical movements, creating a zombie-like scene. Everyone walked around with glazed-over eyes, moved very slowly and deliberately and failed to include any inflection or personality in to their voices. I felt exactly like a horror movie. Like at some point during the meal all of the doors and windows would be locked and we would become zombie lunch, or be sedated and forced in to a life of medical experimentation in the restaurant basement. I was almost afraid to eat in the chance that I, too, would be brainwashed by whatever evil force was ruling that place.

At first I thought I was just being a snob because I do the job for a living, but when I brought it up at the table everyone agreed. At one point someone at the table had asked for a different beer, explaining that the one he had received tasted flat, as if it may have been at the end of a keg. He instead ordered a Sam Adams. The manager returned with the new beer and, again with no facial expression or emotion, said the following.

"You are right. The Pilsner is flat. Unfortunately, we cannot fix the Pilsner. Instead I have brought you a Sam Adams. I apologize," and slowly walked away.

Later, after the meals were dropped off, she returned and, again with no expression, said "Has the chef prepared everything to your liking this evening? Very well." Like a horror movie. Like she returned to the Master's chambers and said something like "They are enjoying their food, sir. It won't be long now. Shall I prepare the instruments for surgery?"

Maybe I am not making any sense, I have tried to explain this to people verbally as well and haven't really been able to get the point across, but I had to try. It wasn't even as though the service was bad, it was just so, so, so weird. So weird, in fact, that I think I left my hat there last night, but I am kind of afraid to go back and ask for it.

"Why yes, sir. Why don't you follow me to the back and we'll get it together."

...

Things I Saw at the Park

The dynamic of the Salem Old Man Tiny Dog Club Presented by Chrystler is starting to take shape, as a portion of the group was out and about again this morning. Today there were three men, again all driving Dodge Caravans, but only three dogs. It appears as though only one of the old men has multiple pets. I think that the oldest of the group, a very dapper-looking man, always dressed in a yacht-club-looking suit, is the delirious old father of another one of the dog-walkers. I think this because when they were leaving the older man couldn't find his dog (who was right behind him) and the supposed son went to help him with an irritated "I'm always showing this crazy old man where things are" kind of tone. In a bizarre twist, a woman arrived to join the group today, and was welcomed in by name. She did not have a Caravan, rather, a larger Dodge conversion van, and was toting a poodle, which makes me think that it is probably just the Salem Old Person Tiny Dog Club- Presented by Chrystler.

Today was also lawn mowing day again, it appears that they do it every Monday in the summer, which, combined with the Tiny Dog Club meeting raised an important question in my mind. What would happen if one of those tiny dogs ran in front of the lawn mower? Those guys don't keep them on leashes, they are always dogging around the park, crapping on stuff and barking at each other, it is extremely plausible. Sure, lawn mower guy has to be aware, but at the same time, there is only so much you can do. Again, I am not sure what any of this has to do with anything. I feel like I'm making little to no sense today, and essentially vomiting the mundane details of my useless life on to a computer screen, so I am going to call it quits now. It looks like today is another 2-10 shooting day for me.

Episode 79: Celebrating my brother's 21st birthday... and more poop.

As a person whose sole source of income comes from kissing people's asses as a bartender/ waiter, I find myself telling a lot of small white lies to people I don't know in an effort to increase my sales and, in turn, increase my tips. For example, last Friday night I ordered one of our new monthly specials for my dinner while taking my break- a dish called the Lord Wellington Sliders. A delicious sounding contraption, the sliders feature three small cuts of fillet (supposedly) on a burger bun with cheddar cheese and bacon, served with onion strings. Sounds delicious. It wasn't. The "fillet" was essentially three pieces of under cooked fat, the bacon was burned to a crisp and the cheese wasn't even melted. They were so bad that I spent the next half hour after my break contemplating whether or not I had to go throw up in the employee bathroom. I even told the manager that I refused to pay for them at the end of my shift.

As luck would have it, the first three people who ordered food at the bar after I had returned from my break, with my skin probably yellowed and dripping sweat, asked how the sliders were. "Really good," I said to each of them. " I actually just ordered some on my break, they were delicious." All three ordered the sliders, only one of them complained.

I have absolutely no moral problem doing this. That person wanted to order those sliders anyway, they just needed me to confirm it for them. If i said "They were disgusting, I think I have food poisoning" those people would not only avoid the sliders, but probably any other meat on the menu. I do the same thing with sports, music, whatever. If someone is talking to you about something, just agree. Make something up to appease them in the conversation and move on. All part of the job.

What I do have a problem with is that I am now apparently inadvertently doing this in my daily interaction with strangers. I don't even think about it, it just happens. Like yesterday, the baby and I headed out to do some errands at a local shopping plaza that includes a Target, Shaws and Petco- one stop shopping. We had completed all of our tasks when I noticed that she had lost a shoe, so we had to back track over to Target to try and find it. On the way I realized there was a liquor store in the same shopping strip. I was planning on grabbing a 6-pack later on for the evening, so I figured while we were there I might as well just grab it. That is when I caught myself lying to the cashier for no reason. Here is how the conversation went.

"Oh, your daughter is cute. I used to have a little girl that size. That was a long time ago, though. The time flies."

"Yeah, she is already getting big, doing something new every day."

"Just wait, she'll be buying herself beer before you know it."

"Yeah, I am actually buying this for my little brother. He turns 21 today, I can't believe it. I remember when he was a little guy."

WHAT!? Ok. I have absolutely no freaking clue why I would say that. I don't even have a brother. We weren't even talking about siblings. We were talking about our daughters. Why in the world would I say that? I have no idea. I didn't even think about it until I got in to the car. I buckled the baby in, turned the key and it hit me. "Did I just tell that guy that I bought my non existent brother a 6-pack of Sam Adams for his 21st birthday? What the hell is wrong with me?"
The only explanation I can come up with is that I felt weird buying beer at 9:45 a.m. with a baby, but if the guy really felt the need to ask I could have just told him that it was for later. This is not good. I started to think of other times that I have done this and only a few came to mind, most of them logical, like the time I blamed my over due library fees on my "ex wife." The service industry is slowly killing me. Physically and morally.

Things I Saw at the Park

Today's installment of "Things I Saw at the Park" is brought to you by the letter 'P.' For poop.

The first poop incident, of two, believe it or not, happened while we were walking over to the playground. A sweet old woman was walking a golden retriever that Av took a liking to. The woman brought the dog over to say hello to the baby, much to her enjoyment, and Av continued on with her usual shyness and apprehension, touching the dog with one finger and then hiding between my legs. The dog, which seemed to be overly friendly, kept coming up to sniff her- smelling her shoes, her legs, her face, smelling everywhere. Then, as we were thanking the woman and getting ready to walk away, it became apparent why the dog liked the baby so much. He must have caught the scent of the dump she took before we left the house, or maybe just liked her smell, because he squatted right up next to her and started to take a crap. The poop would have landed directly on her shoe if I hadn't have moved her, an entertaining fact that was not lost on any of us, including Av, who was pretty amused by the situation.

The second poop incident happened about an hour later.

In yet another stroke of park luck, there was once again only one kid on the playground today, but this kid was exponentially more awesome than most. Probably about 4-5 years-old, the kid was dressed head to toe as Batman- mask, cape and all. He was running around the playground, making flying noises, climbing up things and jumping off. He was even making his mom call him Batman.

Av, of course, was enthralled by the young super hero and tried her best to follow him around the park. At one point, when he was climbing up a slide backwards, Av let out a loud "WOW!"

"Yeah, that is cool huh?" I said. "He can do that because he is a super hero."

That is when the kid stopped, took off his mask and in a moment of rare other-person's-kid adorableness explained that he was not, in fact, really Batman.

"I am not really a super hero, you know."

"Ohhh, really, I think I was fooled by the mask."

"Yeah, my name is Tommy. My dad's mom got me this suit for my birthday."

"Wow, cool. Well you have moves like a real super hero."

"I know." (Puts on mask and runs off)

I found a lot of enjoyment in watching Tommy clumsily hop off of playground equipment for the next 15 minutes or so, usually falling or stumbling in to the nearest stationary object. He was not a very good Batman. Throughout that 15 minutes, Tommy's mom asked him at least five times if he had to go to the bathroom, pointing out that they had been there for an hour and he didn't go before he left the house. Each time, Tommy, or should I say Batman, replied "NO!" with increasing anger at each inquisition. You see where this is going, I'm sure.

It is kind of tough to say where the dump originated, maybe on the slide or near the rock wall, but it definitely happened and it was definitely epic. Despite clear skies and a slight breeze, the smell filled the playground almost instantly. This was a wet poop. You could just tell. Batman addressed the situation with an "Uh Oh" followed by tears as his mother scolded him for refusing to go to the bathroom earlier.

"See," I said to Av. "Even super heroes poop their pants sometimes."

For her part, Av had a fantastic time at the park today, spending most of the time that she wasn't chasing Batman tossing around a dirty, old baseball that we found. She has a pretty good arm for a 1-year-old, I must say. She is also getting a hang of the whole "hi" and "bye" thing, both saying it to everyone we pass and sometimes accompanying the words with a clumsy, kind of special needs-looking wave. Although this often forces me in to more conversations with strangers than I would like (most of which I do NOT make up the contents of. I think) I will gladly trade three minutes of social awkwardness for 30 seconds of Av being adorable. Especially since she has reached that bratty, fit throwing stage. Cute moments are at a premium right now.

Episode 78: Dance Video

As promised, here are a couple of videos of the new dance sensation sweeping the household. Notice the leg bend, and the embarrassment when she realizes that she is being filmed. Enjoy. Also, I apologize to anyone who may have been taken to this page in error while Googling 'young girl dance videos.'

Episode 77: Maintenance day

Ahhh the sweet smells of spring. The budding flowers, the fresh smell of the air after a quick rain shower and, my personal favorite, the combination of fresh cut grass and two-cycle lawn mower fuel. Seriously, is there any better scent? It makes me think of running home from school to ride my bike or play wiffle ball with my friends, or the two summers I spent buzzing around the projects on a zero-turn lawn mower as a sex-hungry 19-year-old working for the Pittsfield Housing Authority. (Yes, in Western Mass even the projects have yards. It is actually kind of nice.)

All of those emotions and memories came rushing back today at Forrest River, where it was clearly the first day of the spring maintenance schedule at the parks department. Actually, it seemed to be spring cleaning day throughout the city, as Av and I were displaced from the house at around 9 a.m. due to street sweeping in the neighborhood. Sure, we could have just moved the car about six-blocks away and stayed home, but at that point you might as well keep driving, right?

The city was actually supposed to sweep our street about three weeks ago. They even put up posters on every telephone pole warning us to move our cars. After a full day of me sneakily parking on the sidewalk and staring out the windows in paranoia of getting towed, they never showed up. It kind of pissed me off, not just because of the inconvenience of moving the car, but because we have far and away the dirtiest street in the city. Because of a combination of careless garbage men, snot-nosed, bastard street kids and a large amount of stray cats and pigeons terrorizing the trash, a lot of what we throw out ends up collecting in the gutters and against the curb. Welcome to the ghetto.

After blowing us off the first time the city decided that it would reschedule our neighborhood clean up for today, which would have been fine if they had hung up the glowing orange posters telling us to move our cars yesterday, instead of like 4:00 this morning. Instead, only the people that were going to work anyway saw the posters, meaning that the police had to come around and inform the rest of us- in their ever so subtle way- that we had to move our cars. So, around 9 a.m., just as I was getting Av dressed after her bath, I hear loud, frantic sirens outside the apartment. I looked out the window to see what was going on to find an officer in a yellow wind breaker writing me a ticket. Wearing a silver track suit and slippers and carrying a half-dressed baby I sprinted downstairs to stop him.

As is always the case when dealing with the police, Mr. Officer Man was very polite and pleasant.

"Excuse me, do you need me to move that?"

"Hey- this your car?!"

"Yes, is there a problem?"

"Street sweeping today, read the signs."

"Umm, Ok, thanks, I didn't see them, I thought they already swept this street."

"Schedule changed. It's on the sign."

"Ok. Sorry. Are you still going to write me a ticket? Or can I just move the car? "

"Sweeper is coming in ten minutes. Just get it out of here because we WILL tow it."

Oooook. I suppose I should be thankful that he tore up the ticket, but did he really have to be such a dick about it? I swear they teach them how to completely abandon all politeness and social skills in the academy. Anyway, I ran back upstairs to get Av dressed and change out of the track suit, racing against the street-sweeper clock. Making it out in time, we left for a grocery shopping trip. Once we finished that I quickly ran home, defiantly threw the car on the sidewalk, put the perishables away, packed a snack and headed for the park.

I bring up that it was lawn mowing day at the park not just because I love the smell, but also because it had an unexpected result that really brightened my mood after the whole police officer interaction: It scared the living daylights out of every single kid on the playground.

Av and I first saw the workers tooling around on the zero-turn mowers when we were getting out of the car, so she already knew that they were there. I don't think the same could be said for those other kids. It was kind of a chilly day so there were only four or five little guys at the playground, but literally every single one of them screamed and sprinted over to their parents when the mowers came over the hill. One little boy was hysterically crying, another hid under the picnic table. It was like watching a bad horror movie, or any kid's party with a clown. For her part, Av loved the mowers. She was a little bit afraid of them at first, but she never cried. She just ran over to me where she knew she would be safe, pointed and yelled "WOW WOW WOW WOW WOW WOW!"

Yeah, I was pretty proud at that moment. My 1-year-old is a lot braver than your yuppie, pansy 3-year-old. By the way, nice fanny pack. Way to get that kid going on the right track.

The lawn mower scare was great because most of the families left the playground while the workers were cutting the grass around it, leaving us and a 3-year-old girl named Erica, who was there with her nanny. The crazy nanny had to be in her 60's, and she kept giving me advice on great things to do with kids. Like take them down slides, or to the beach to collect sea shells. Thanks, lady. You have opened my eyes to a new world of activities that I never knew existed. God I hate social interaction.

As fun as the park trip was, it was ruined at the end because tired, grouchy no-nap Av started to fuss, but not before a crazy old man threw about three loaves of bread next to the car, setting us up for some close encounters with the local wildlife. Again, most kids would be terrified of ducks, seagulls and pigeons swarming around them in a ravenous search for food, but Av loved it. In fact, she tried her best to catch the ducks, yelling and chasing them around. I was pretty sure she was going to get attacked by a seagull at one point, but that didn't end up happening so all in all it was a good experience. Too bad she had to take a crap car nap because I couldn't get back to the house. How long does it take to sweep a street, anyway?

Episode 76: Pooping in the kitchen, hipsters and old men with little dogs

Being a dad is a lot like being a professional baseball player. Some days you go 3-3 with a home run and a great defensive play. Others you are 0-5 with four strikeouts and your kid takes a crap on the kitchen floor.

As much as I think that I have Av down on a pretty decent routine, there are times when things just don't go the way they are supposed to. It has been a little while, but yesterday morning was one of those times. She started fussing around her usual wake up time- at or around the first time that Monica's alarm goes off- maybe around 6:30. Usually I will just roll over and go back to sleep until Monica leaves for work. The baby kills the time either by playing or by whimpering herself back to sleep, depending on how tired she is and how early she woke up. I do this because it is just easier to get her up at the same time every day, and it is easier to deal with her if she doesn't see Monica leaving for work. Always good to avoid "where is mommy going?" melt downs early in the morning. Trust me.

On this particular morning, though, she felt the need to frantically scream and cry, kicking the bars of the crib. This, of course, forced me out of bed much earlier than expected and pretty much ruined any hope we had of having a functional day. I am not sure what the problem was, but screams typically suggest that she is either extremely hungry or extremely tired, either way, she isn't going back to sleep and neither am I, so it was just best to get her up.

Her fresh attitude was quite a display as she flailed her way through the morning diaper change and in to breakfast, where she screamed at me from across the kitchen the entire time that I made her food. Feeding her was a battle, as she wanted the food but she was also intent on yelling at me ( I am still not sure why), so I essentially just had to try and sneak food in to her mouth between screams. This resulted in her spraying food all over the place and at one point flailing so much that she flung her cup of water off of the kitchen window.

As a last resort, I made her a bottle and started running her bath water, two things that always calm her down. (That bottle has her hooked, man. It is like a cigarette or a cup of coffee. I picture her hanging out by the baby section at Walmart asking for change. 'I just need to calm my nerves, man.')

The bottle worked, if for no other reason than it is impossible to scream while drinking a bottle, but the bath was an absolute disaster. She fought me and stiff-bodied me from the moment we got in to the bathroom, strange because she usually loves taking a bath, and she started screaming as soon as the wash cloth touched her skin. She was so worked up at one point that she ended up splashing herself in the face with soap, something that pissed her off like you wouldn't believe. Despite the fact that this made the screaming louder, I took some joy out of seeing that. That one was a victory for Dad.

After this, I felt it best to get her out of the tub, realizing that I had pretty much failed on every level. She hated breakfast, she hated the bath, she liked the bottle but pretended she didn't to continue proving her point to me. The only thing left to try was naked time.

Like most people probably do, Av loves naked time. It is one of those rare treats that kids get only once in a while. The freedom of running your bare ass around the house for 3-5 minutes. It must be so liberating. Anyway, I decided that naked time was my last hope. I dried her off, stood her up and told her to go for it. The screaming instantly turned to laughing. "I think I did it," I thought. Yup. I had won. Nice.

After about 30 seconds of running in a circle and laughing, Av darted in to the kitchen. I followed a few seconds behind, enjoying my first moments of silence all day, when I looked down and saw it. As she stood in front of her play kitchen, laughing, hanging from her butt was a perfectly turd shaped, well, turd. It was like slow motion. I saw it hanging, slowly slipping out. I grabbed a paper towel as quickly as possible and slid it across the floor, just in time. With the next step it broke loose, landing on the single sheet of Sparkle with a splat. Gross, I know. Just be thankful you weren't here to watch it happen, or smell the aftermath.

Maybe that was all she needed, but the post-dump day was pretty decent. We took a trip to Walmart and followed it up with a nap. I was still tired and discombobulated all day, but at least the screaming stopped. I'll call that a 1-3 day with a walk. Not too productive but, hey, at least we won the game.

Things I saw at the park today

Time for our new segment, Things I Saw at the Park Today. Inspired by, well, some crazy shit that I saw at the park today. First, let me start out by saying that today was an amazing park day. The best park day you could ask for. The sky was overcast and the breeze was just chilly enough that the temperature hovered at a comfortable 72 degrees, with no sun pounding down on our shoulders. Even better, there was a threat of rain, and even a few sprinkles at times, so we were the only people on the playground. I love this because I pretty much hate interacting with other people, Av likes it because she doesn't have to be shy or distracted by other kids and can just run around chasing birds all day.

While we were in our glorious haze of parkdom, I spotted two dirty looking hipsters walking past. Dressed in sleeveless flannel shirts, cut off jean-shorts and conductor hats, the bare-footed pair was slowly strolling down the path, pausing occasionally to look in to trees with binoculars. Birdwatchers, you ask? Something makes me doubt that. That something would be the fact that they were carrying with them a gallon jug of water and a bag full of snacks, of which they were eating while they walked. Maybe I am a little bit jaded, but that doesn't sound like a bird watching expedition to me. Upon further inspection, when we ran in to the pair back in the parking lot, the snacks consisted of peanut butter, hamburger buns and what appeared to be a chocolate Easter Bunny. (I couldn't quite tell what it was, but it was in a square, purple package.) The two grimy men gave an awkward smile as they climbed back in to their rusty, dented 1999 Dodge Caravan and proceeded to turn on some nondescript rock music, roll up the windows and put their dirty bare feet up on the dashboard, eating sandwiches.

Interestingly enough, the Dodge Caravan was one of three parked in the lot when we pulled in, and as it would turn out, the dirty, snacking hipsters may have been the most normal Caravan owners there.

After a short walk down to the shoreline and a battle over Av trying to eat a dirty piece of stale bread off of the ground (I won, but not before she got a good fistful of soil in her mouth, to which she responded "MMMMMMMM!") We saw three older men, probably in their 60's, walking three very tiny dogs. Two of the men had pugs and the third had some sort of brown mop-looking creature. This was funny enough on its own, but lagging behind the men about ten feet were six, yes that is six other dogs, all of them tiny. There were more pugs and mops and even a wiener dog, which is always a treat. The three obvious retirees stood together for a few moments and chatted while all of their little yuppie dogs caught up, and once they had, opened the doors to the two remaining Caravans and let them hop in- one by one, like it was a Disney movie.

At this point even Av had a "What the Hell is going on?" look on her face. I mean, did these guys meet at a club for retired men with tiny dogs? Did they all just decide one day over a game of poker to adopt a bunch of little dogs to cure the boredom of not working? And what is with the Caravans? I get that they have a lot of dogs to tote around, but is that a requirement of being in the group?

That last question was answered when the two Caravans left and the third man piled his pugs in to the back of a Dodge Dakota, but that is still a Dodge. Is this old man mini dog club sponsored by Chrystler? In any event, the last old man turned out to be a real nice guy, although I probably wouldn't have let him coach my kid's soccer team either (just sayin'). He carried one of the pugs, named Diesel, over to say hello to Av. Of course, she responded by burying her face in my chest and ignoring him, but the gesture was still nice.

Going to the park is always an educational experience for Av, but today instead of learning about ducks and socializing with other kids, she learned to always stay away from beat up, old Dodge Caravans. A valuable lesson none the less.

Episode 75: Road Trippin'

Friday was my grandmother's 93rd birthday, a fantastic accomplishment for a diabetic woman who has lived through two world wars, the great depression, cancer, heart disease and a mild stroke. How does such a resilient person ring in her 93rd year? With a hoppin party in a nursing home conference room, of course. To quote Kurt Vonnegut, "So it goes."

I have always been very close to my grandmother. I spent a lot of time as a kid at her house and as a teenager I would always make it a point to visit and give her rides. As I got older, my dad and I would take her to dinner every Saturday night. He even kept it up after he and my mom divorced, even though she was his mother in law, a tradition that ended just a few years ago when she started to have more health problems. Gram is a sweet Italian woman who grew up in a tight home with none brothers and sisters. She is the best cook on the planet and no one cares more about her family than her.

You can tell that attending her birthday is important to me, but unfortunately for us, the ultra-depressing party venue was located in my home town of Pittsfield, which is a good two and a half hour drive from Salem. We have made the trip with the baby before, but never when she has been this mobile or conscious of her surroundings. This one was shaping up to be a challenge on our part. How the hell do you entertain a kid on a long car ride when she barely has enough patience to sit in a high chair for dinner?

Aside from somehow keeping a baby happy in a car for three hours, I had the usual family visit stress going on in my head. Unlike Monica, who lives 45 minutes from her family- who she actually seems to enjoy visiting- I have to travel three hours to see a group of people of whom I care for half, at the most.

I have some pretty terrible memories of family events, especially Gram's birthdays from the past, most of which center around many members of the family being selfish, annoying, stuck up drunks, but I was pretty sure that crowding around her in a nursing home was probably going to be the worst one yet.

So, with that in the back of my head, we piled in to the car around 7:30 a.m. and headed out. I tried to think of the positives, like my mother and sister getting to spend time with the baby, visiting with my aunt and uncle who were making the trip from Rhode Island and checking out the new deli my Dad and his wife opened up in their new house. I told myself that the birthday party would be a quick one and tried to convince myself that none of the aunts, uncles and cousins that I have disassociated myself from would show up.

The baby actually did surprisingly well for the majority of the trip, playing with her toys and watching Baby Einstein videos on the new lap top that we brought along. Aside from a Coke machine at a rest stop eating my dollar, the ride was pretty good. Pretty good until we got off of the highway, that is. Anyone who has lived in the western part of the state for any length of time can tell you just how dreadful trying to drive in that region can be. Now, I live in Salem, which has to be one of the top 5 worst places to drive on the planet. The roads are all old and narrow, traffic always gets backed up and 10 months out of the year there are so many idiot out of town tourists banging u-turns in the middle of the road that you feel like you will never get where you are going. Still, I think I would take that over driving in Western Mass. The problem out there is not traffic, or tourists, it is clueless people and the feeling that everything can be done at a leisurely pace. Thus, it takes forever to get anywhere because everyone drives 10 miles per hour no matter what the speed limit may be. This situation becomes worse after two hours of highway driving with a baby who just wants to get the hell out and run around, so you can imagine that the last half hour of country road driving was pretty rough.

After a brief trip to my dad's new store, which featured a surprise visit from my grandparents who live in North Carolina, we headed to my mother's house to meet up with my aunt and uncle and down a few beers before the nursing home party. As usual, we were all trying to keep a positive attitude before we left and, in the day's first real moment of dysfunction, made an executive decision to pack a cooler full of beers and sneak them in to the home. I don't know if drinking in a nursing home is allowed, I can't imagine that it is, but we felt better to sneak the cooler in either way, just in case. The thought was that it was just going to be about seven or eight of us and that Gram wouldn't care either way. We covered the beer with water and Sprite and packed some keg cups. I likened it to being 19 again, trying to sneak alcohol in to the under 21 dorms at Salem State.

When we got to the home the scene was much worse than I had imagined. Gram was sitting at the head of a conference table next to her 90-year-old sister. Surrounding her were the previously mentioned disassociated aunt, uncle and cousins, including my cousin Tom who has recently been released from the hospital following an alcohol abuse- related liver transplant. There goes that idea of getting a buzz at the party. Or so I thought.

After saying my hello's and spending a little time talking to Gram (who was in unusually exceptional spirits, probably because of the baby and her sister being there) I heard my uncle, who is Liver Transplant's father, ask what was in the cooler. After finding out it was beer he turned to my mom and said "How about handing me one of those 'special ginger ales.'" I felt both shocked and awkward at the same time. My uncle had clearly been drinking already, and no one seemed concerned about the prospect of cracking open a Coors Light in front of a guy who just had a liver transplant and got out of rehab. So, I grabbed a beer, popped the top off with a lighter and joined the party.

Did I feel awkward? Sure, for a minute, but I figured if the guy's own father was doing it, who cares. After pounding a Sprite and twitching for a minute, Liver Transplant got up and said he had to leave so that he could go to the movies with his wife and step daughter. Later I asked my mom about the situation and she reminded me of how much of an asshole my cousin was, how he never spoke to my grandmother even when they lived in the same house and how the liver transplant was kind of his own fault. Heartless? Maybe a little, but she made some good points.

The plan to not get caught with the beer took a hit almost immediately, as the baby, who was being supervised by my mother, was able to get her hands on a keg cup sitting on the end of the table and spill beer all over the carpet. The staff never came in to question us, but I have a feeling that we may not be allowed back there once they head in to clean the room. All in all the party wasn't as bad as everyone thought, although Gram did take a turn for the worse at the end when she got tired walking to a music show in the community room and had to struggle over to the nurses' station so she didn't pass out. Not the best way to see your grandmother when you know you may not be back there for a while, but she seemed to recover once she sat down and we had a nice goodbye.

The rest of the day was nice, cooking out on the gill at my mother's house and shooting the breeze, but I had a tough time shaking feelings of sadness that I had to leave Gram in the home, knowing full well it could be the last time I see her, and the feeling of overall disappointment that I dislike more members of my family than I actually like. But, I guess every family is like that in a way.

As we were getting ready to leave I was thinking back about the day, listening to Gram and her sister reminisce, laughing with my mom and aunt and hanging out at my dad's new store and I started to feel a little bad that I was leaving. "I could see myself maybe hanging around here more," I thought. Then I got in the car and drove behind a bunch of losers who drove 10 miles per hour all the way back to the highway and I thought, "Maybe not so much. Maybe next time the family can hang out here."

We ended up getting on the road a little before 6 p.m., which is about an hour before the baby normally goes to sleep. We were sure, since she didn't nap all day, that she would pass right out and we would have a silent ride home. No dice. The baby was awake the entire trip. Sometimes staying quiet, other times screaming just to make noise. The worst part? She decided that she was going to squeeze out a dump just after we passed the last rest stop, but still about 45 minutes away from home. So, after a strange day of fun, dysfunction, depression and borderline alcoholism, with my back killing me, my eyes trying to force themselves shut and a Led Zeppelin rock block on the radio ( I F-ing hate that band) I was forced to sit in a tiny box of stink for the final leg of the trip. Not the best end to a busy day.

Hopefully, as the baby gets older, she will toughen up her sleep habits so we can maybe take road trips over a span of two days instead of one. I will say one thing. Before we had Av I used to scoff at those people who bought cars with DVD players in the back seat for their kids. After yesterday, I totally get it.