How to make your kids NOT eat fast food

I'm not quite sure of the point of this, but it looks like fun. Fancy Fast Food demonstrates extreme makeovers of actual fast food items purchased at popular fast food restaurants. No additional ingredients have been added except for an occasional simple garnish.

For example, there's the Tacobelllini, made entirely from the parts of Taco Bell Burrito Supremes. That's good eatin'.

The Munks and the Restless - There's been a Murder

Wow. Apparently I had no idea just what kind of soap opera I was getting into with yesterday's post. Apparently the fight between Roger and Darren took a murderous turn. I just discovered Darren lying belly up under next to the woodpile.

The Munks and the Restless

I was cleaning up in the garage this morning with the garage doors both open. Every five seconds or so, out of the corner of my eye I spotted a chipmunk trotting out in front of the garage door, only to notice me and dart back behind the garage. This continued for several minutes until at one point I got curious enough to take a further look at things. Slowly and quietly I stepped outside the garage and found a strategic position on the grass to watch what turned out to be a scene fit for the cover of this week's Soap Opera Digest.

Two chipmunks, whom I shall name Flo and Roger, had found themselves a quiet and romantic spot behind the trash bins, right next to an old gasoline jerry can. Apparently is was time for some lovin'. Flo had the look of a horny coed during spring break. She looked positively radiant, lying there next to the gas can in a "check out my tail" pose. She was ready to get down to business, her cheeks puffed up as if ready to take in Roger's um...nuts.

Come on, this whole post was an excuse to use that pun, so feel free to chuckle politely.

Roger was pumped and ready, standing up on his hind legs, flexing his little chipmunk muscles, and keeping a close eye out for Darren, a third and obviously less dominant rodent currently hiding under a woodpile about twenty yards away. It was clear Roger was the alpha male, and it was time to get it things moving.

Roger saw me, but after a minute or so of making sure I wasn't a threat to his morning plans, he turned his attention to Flo. Roger took Flo in his tiny grip, threw her up against the gas can, and had his way with her. Five times. In approximately seventeen seconds. Chipmunks do it really, really fast. I had considered running to the computer and downloading a copy of Alvin and the Chipmunks singing Barry White's "Let's Get It On", but they were done before I even got the thought out. After the final time, Flo had decided she'd had enough, and turned what little energy she had left on getting Roger quite literally off her back. Flo turned to face Roger (oh yeah, you know which way they're doin' it) and gave him a left cross right on the forehead. Roger went flying. Once he regained his composure, he relaxed in a corner and lit a tiny little cigarette. Which, by the way, is something I would have recommended against given their proximity to the gas can, but who am I to judge?

Meanwhile back at the woodpile, Darren had decided his time was due. He'd spent enough time in Roger's shadow, watching Roger get all the chipmunk tail while he was left to spend each night with a cold shower from the lawn sprinkler. No, this time things would be different. With a freshly sharpened shiv carved from a wood chip in his hand, Darren headed from the woodpile, under the back door, past the planter and the bag of fertilizer, to Roger's lair. They battled. They fought. They rolled about with anger in their eyes. Flo looked on, completely disinterested in the result. Soon, the two competitors disappeared around the corner, and only one returned. Roger was victorious. I could tell it was him by the familiar way in which he then munk-handled Flo and had is way with her six more times. In about four seconds. Man, they're quick.

At that point, the evening was apparently complete. Flo waddled off, looking for some quiet time to start re-reading her worn copy of What To Expect When You're Expecting. Roger flipped on the TV and watched a show about acorn collecting. Off at the woodpile, Darren quietly licked his wounds and surrendered to another evening alone with nothing but his own paws.

And yet, despite the drama that unfolded this morning, with all the damage these little varmints have done to my landscaping this summer, once Flo pops out a few pups I can't help but think I'm going to be the one getting screwed.



Editor's note: Yes I know that's a squirrel in the picture. But c'mon...

Boop and Booop!!

Jessica asked me today if she could label her bunny slippers. It seemed to be a reasonable question, as she was having trouble telling them apart. Not the left from the right...she's got that down. No, she keeps forgetting their names. After all, their names are so similar:

Right bunny slipper's name: Boop.

Left bunny slipper's name: Boooop!

Now, I don't believe just writing the names above quite explain the nuances of this specific bunny slipper naming convention. I will need to break it down further. First, say the word "Boop". Just say it, they way you'd drop the word "Boop" into normal conversation. That's the name of the right bunny slipper. Now, say the word again, but this time have someone sneak up behind you and pinch you in the ass just as you say it. Have you done that? Great. See how the word lasts a little longer, and reaches sort of an excited, high pitch at the end? Yeah, that's the left bunny slipper.

You can see why Jessica is having trouble. I mean, saying things like, "Dad, have you seen Boop and Booop!?" is easy enough. Sure honey, they're under the coffee table. However let's imagine she can only find ONE slipper. She's certainly going to need help knowing which to ask for. So how could I not help her out?

You think I'm kidding with this, don't you. I'm afraid not.

Then one day...at cheerleading camp....

School is out, and all the good suburban moms and dads know what that means, right? Summer camp! After typing that exclamation point, I had to take a moment, breathe in deeply, then sigh. Back in my day, summer camp meant what it was supposed to mean...smelly cabins, giant rectangular trunks with broken corner hinges, bug juice, tube socks, beaten-up metal canoes, horseback riding, mud, swim lessons, dirt trails, and wearing the same filthy t-shirt for ten days straight. Some of my greatest childhood memories were from Outdoor Adventure Camp at Camp Jewell in Colbrook, CT, spending 5 days sleeping under lean-to's in the Adirondack mountains and waking up to find our backpacks stolen by bears during the night. Now THAT was summer camp.

The term "Summer Camp" has been completely watered down this day and age. Write a check for some sort of activity that involves getting your child out of the house for more than eight minutes, and it's called summer camp. For some reason, summer camps have been refined and diluted so much that only one activity can happen at any one camp. Of course we've got the sports camps. Soccer. Football. Checkers. There's the arts and crafts categories. Art camp. Weaving camp. Wicker basket making camp. And let's not forget about the performing arts. Acting camp. Violin camp. Yodeling camp. Now how the hell am I going to be able to pack an entire trunk to get my kid through a week of yodeling camp, I ask you??

But today I'm going to talk about cheer leading camp.


Upon arriving at the local middle school where the camp was to be held, I noticed that the parking lot was busier than the kiss-and-run lot at LaGuardia. Every color, shape and model of minivan was there jockeying for a parking space. Once we found ours we headed toward the front door to be greeted by half a dozen incredibly chipper and bouncy teenagers wearing matching pink t-shirts and short shorts with paws on the butt cheeks. Their arms waving in the air, they yelled to us, "HI THERE! ARE YOU GUYS READY FOR...
C H E E R L E A D I N G C A M P ????!!!!"

"Um...yes?"

They led us into the lobby, where we were engulfed by a swarm of these teenage jumping beans, poised and ready to guide our children to their respective cheer teams. As we followed them into the gym, our jaws hit the floor.

The gym was filled with perhaps 400 kids, all wearing the same matching pink shirts and short shorts with the paws on the butt cheeks. They were yelling and screaming like only young girls can do. They were doing cartwheels. Leaping in the air. Clapping hands. The decibel level was so high, as was the relative pitch, that my eardrums immediately burst apart and collapsed into a sopping mess onto each of my shoulders. I'm not even sure how to describe it, other than to say it made me think that the Disney Channel had exploded in the gym.

Actually, it reminded me of what it must be like to attend a terrorist training camp. New recruits to the gathering of zealots, being brainwashed to believe in the cause. Someone call Homeland...it's time to raise the threat level to pink.

(...must...assimilate....)










Friday was the big show. All the parents were herded to their respective positions on the bleachers and, one by one, each group got up to perform what they'd learned and practiced all week. I felt lucky that I'd lost all ability to hear that first day of drop-off, because the volume level was turned up way past eleven.

While I will fully admit it was very cute seeing my 5- and 8-year olds ra-ra'ing to the "Go Team Go!" mantra, I also saw right through the school district's evil plot. This was no summer camp. This was a recruiting session. Scouts were on hand taking copious notes and names for future placement on the high school cheer team. Start feeding your kids soy protein now, folks, cuz they're going to need to build some muscle mass if they're going to support the human pyramid during the big Thanksgiving Day game in a few years.

I did, however, notice one hole in the armor of this cheer army. If in fact the secret evil plan was to assimilate children into the Borg that is school spirit, they let slip two incidents that definitely gave parents pause, making them think twice about what their kids were getting into. First, there was one of the team leaders, recovering from what was obviously a recent cheering injury. On her arm she wore a brace that looked like it came straight from the set of Terminator. Second was the finale of the big show, when the Varsity high school cheering team got up to show off their prowess, tossed one of the young ladies high in the air, only to miss her on the way down and allow her to land flat on her back. While she avoided traction that day, it was a close call, and enough to make many of the parents wonder how soon yodeling camp would start.

Unemployment, facial hair and water fowl

Hockey players apparently have a tradition of not shaving their facial hair during the season playoffs. Known as the playoff beard, this superstitious act is somehow supposed to increase a team's ability to win the Stanley Cup. Yeah, brilliant idea and so original, too. Back in '92, I myself didn't shower the entire two weeks of finals at Carnegie Mellon University, and look at me now - unemployed.

So speaking of that, I realized I've been a bit lazy in chronicling my adventures into the world of the economic recession. Go figure, rather than blogging I figured my time was better spent actually job hunting rather than blogging about job hunting. But I had quite a productive day thus far and a little bit of literary inspiration, so I thought I'd touch base with my loyal followers. Oh, and while I considered growing facial hair during my time off, I figured that showing up to a career fair looking like the Unibomber was probably not in anybody's best interest, so that's out.

First, the good news is that I've made progress. I actually had two phone-based interviews and one face-to-face meeting with a local company, and it looks very promising. As I mentioned in an earlier post, I care too much about my career and reputation to spout opinions about the company or the job opportunity, so I will leave it at that and simply update y'all when they realize they can't survive without my world-class talents and offer to pay me hundreds of thousands of dollars to come join their team. That aside, I thought share some thoughts about being laid off.

First of all, it's really nice not having to get up in the morning. However, my brain and my clogged sinuses still team up to drag my lazy ass out of bed each morning at 6:30, which is great because I've found that for the next half hour, before the crazy munchkins rouse and severely limit any chance of productivity, I can get a lot done.

It's apparently a myth that, once you're laid off, you'll have a wealth of time to get all those projects done you've been putting off. That's crap. Sure, I get to spend a bit more time in the Spousal Avoidance Center lately (that's the workshop, FYI) but don't expect that in the first couple of months you're going to tack an outdoor kitchen onto the back of the house or anything. Not to mention that once she hears you're laid off, your wife is probably going to make the tough decision to put the house cleaner on temporary furlough, so you'll be stuck cleaning the bathrooms. Yeah, make sure to put that on the to-do list.

And speaking of to-do lists, expect that once you're laid off you'll be spending the first couple of months getting your proverbial ducks in a row. Making folders for everything, organizing your contact lists, putting a to-do list together...it's all pretty endless. I've come to rely on Evernote, which I use to store all my job hunting information from notes on individual companies to my daily to-do lists and accomplishments. Evernote is handy because it's web based, so as long as you have internet access you can access your notes from anywhere. And that's very important when you're standing in line at a career fair trying to remember the name of the guy at ACME Widgets that you ran into a couple of weeks back. Of course, no matter how organized you are, once you get those ducks in a row you need to keep paying attention to them, otherwise this might happen:



And that's not good. Do I even need to break down the whole falling-through-the-cracks metaphor here?

Unemployment compensation has been an interesting experience. First off, the idea of standing in line at the unemployment office is no longer the reality. You sign up online. Wait for your paperwork, then once every other week you log into the site and answer four questions (Still unemployed? Yes. Still looking for work? Yes) and a few days later you get a direct deposit to your bank account. However there's one bit of governmental stupidity I'd like to share regarding this whole process.

When you first apply, you're sent a 29-page document with details of the program. In the back of the book, Appendix A contains a 5-page chart that enables you to figure out how much you're going to get as an unemployment benefit. In short, the chart starts with, "If you made between $800 and $812 per quarter, you're eligible for $35 unemployment compensation per week." The next line shows that you will make $36 if you made between $813 and$817 per quarter. And so on, for five pages.

So let's think about this. $800 per quarter, that's $3,200 per year. Most of you well-edumacated folks reading this blog probably make much more than that annually. I know I did, so I figured I'd have to scan pretty far down the chart to find where I stood. But wouldn't you know it...at the end of page 5 the last entry states that if you made $13,888 per quarter or more, you make $$558 per week in unemployment benefits. Couldn't they just say at the beginning that if your annual salary was $55,552 or greater, you make the max? Ah, government.

But frankly, I shouldn't complain too much about this. Uncle Sam is sending me money and all-in-all it's a pretty painless process. Not like those folks handling COBRA.

COBRA is a pain in the butt. My former company offered to pay for many weeks of COBRA payments (and hopefully I will be gainfully employed well before I have to pay for it myself) but in order to do this, they use a third-party administrator. Between my old company, the administrator, blue Cross, and myself, there are way too many cooks in the soup right now. As a result it's been two months and our doctor still can't get Blue Cross to recognize that we exist. As a result I've got a stack of medical bills on the corner of my desk that seems to grow by the day. Joy.

Okay, my break is done. Tune in next time when our hero talks about how useless newspaper want ads are in this day and age, and how to avoid driving his family completely nuts with his constant presence in the house.

Do you suffer from information overload?

It's funny cuz it's true...