Technology is annoying the crap out of me

After a quick check, it appears that I’ve written quite a bit about bathrooms and plumbing in this blog, along with the ordeals one must go through to avoid having our houses destroy themselves as a result of bad DIY plumbing jobs (anyone remember my own personal Sarlaac?). Well, the good news is this story is NOT about home plumbing. It's about office plumbing, and the convenience brought to us by the wonders of modern technology. Or, more accurately, how that technology has completely failed us.

My place of employment recently relocated to another suburb about twelve miles from the original location. Our old building was a certified "green" building that included many tree-hugging and energy-reducing features, especially in the bathrooms. The new location was built with an equally environmentally conscious mind set, with even later-and-greater technology that brought promises of saving the Arctic ice shelf, reducing our reliance on fossil fuels, and making it just that much easier to poop with a clear conscience.

In both cases, the technology implemented to reach these lofty goals has utterly failed.

Let's start with the old building. First, there were the toilets. Above the toilets were two buttons. The buttons were unmarked, but it was pretty clear that pressing one button enacted a weak flush to save water, while the other button launched a torrent of water destined to flush a multitude of golf balls in one shot without clogging (yes, a #1 and a #2 button, as it were) .

The problem was that there were also urinals in the room. Thus no one using the toilets ever hit the #1 button. The #1 button just sat there as an overly expensive but useless feature, like so much gold on a new Apple Watch.

Then there were the sinks. These sinks had motion sensors that were so fickle it was virtually impossible to wash your hands. In some cases you had to wave your hand violently around until it responded, and in other cases the water would come on as soon as you put your hands underneath the faucet, only to shut off a second later. And there were no temperature controls, so the water was always cold. Sure, we saved the environment by using less water, only to destroy humanity by passing along a massive bacterial infection due to poorly washed hands.

And don’t get me started on the motion sensor lights, which usually turned off halfway through a typical visit to the men’s room, leading one to wonder if he should stand up and wave his hands to get the lights on again, or just sit there in the dark and continue catching up on his Facebook feed until someone else walked in. Not that I updated my Facebook feed whilst in the bathroom. I mean, if I did, then my Facebook friends would know EXACTLY what my poop schedule was each day based on the volume of my posts, right? Hey, Mike must be having stomach issues today…he’s commented on fifteen people’s posts this morning! No, I’d never do that.

When we moved to the new building, we had high hopes for improvement. The building committee was well aware of the past struggles, and we expected something that worked better. And, at first, everything seemed to be vastly improved. But then reality set in.

The sinks were fine. They had hospital-style handles, which could be turned on or off at our leisure. Great. But the sensor soap pumps…oh, the sensor soap pumps. There were three sinks, each with one of these motion sensor pumps:

One spits out nothing but a small soap bubble. The second spits a good wad of soap, but will time it’s spurt to the precise moment where you THINK it’s broken and take your hand away, so that the soap ends up in the sink. The third spits at just the right time to get a good dollop of soap on your hand, only to spit a SECOND dollop as soon as you take your hand away. Sigh.

And then we get back to the toilets. Motion sensor toilets. Why, oh why, are toilets made with motion sensors?

Let’s think about this. You sit down. You do your business. You stand up. It flushes. Umm…how about the rest of what you gotta do in there? As a result you have to flush a second time once you’re completely done, wasting twice as much water as expected. 

And then there’s the low-tech toilet paper rolls. They look kind of like this:

And they are mounted six inches off the floor. SIX INCHES OFF THE FLOOR! How exactly, are we supposed to get toilet paper out of that?

Yes, all this technology, put in place to make it easier to wipe our own butts while saving the Earth at the same time. And ironically all it makes us want to do is drown a harp seal in frustration. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’m gonna go pee outside behind a bush.

When Black Friday Comes...

So, Black Friday is almost upon us once more. I remember, back in my younger days, I once partook in the Black Friday cluster bomb, getting up at five in the morning and venturing out alone (my family had no interest in such madness) in search of the great white deal. There, in the darkness of the outside world, I encountered a zombie-like horde of un-showered, over-caffeinated zealots waiting in long lines with their newspaper circulars rolled into saber-like tubes, ready to fend off evildoers and line skippers. That year, I had planned to go to Best Buy and Home Depot, but ended up only at OfficeMax (or maybe it was Staples, or Office Depot....All I remember was it was an office supply store with red and white signage) due to the lines around the block at the other two locations. I was looking to pick up a dirt-cheap computer monitor, but once I got into the store there were none to be had. That's when I learned the first trick of Black Friday...the Unrealistically Low Supply of Doorbuster Items.

I didn't leave empty-handed, however. Instead, I ended up with the following items. 

1. An office chair. We still use it, but we never really liked it. It's uncomfortable and crappy. And it isn't like you can toss it in the closet  to get it out of the way. So until the dog successfully rips the fake leather to shreds with her untrimmed claws, it's ours, and it's a constant reminder of my previous folly.

2. A laminator. Why? Because it was free. I didn't have any NEED for a laminator. I had nothing to laminate. And I soon discovered that a package of lamination sheets cost the same as your average above-ground swimming pool. The laminator is still in the original, sealed box somewhere in my attic. 

3. A spindle of CDs. Remember CD's? I still have about 75% of them left. I will probably never use them. 

I mean really...were any of these items worth waking up for? I love a good deal as much as the next cheap bastard. I drive my family nuts by refusing to go out to a restaurant without a coupon. Ask either of my children what daddy says when they ask to buy a bag of chips at a Turnpike rest stop for $1.25 when there are perfectly good snacks in the car, and they will respond by explaining that they aren't allowed to talk about the days when Angry Dad comes to visit.

The more I read about Black Friday hysteria, the more I think it is a conspiracy hatched by the media in conjunction with the government and retailers to suck every last ounce of soul out of every last American. I mean seriously, what idiot sets up a tent outside an electronics store, skips three days of work and Thanksgiving dinner with their family, with the end goal of picking up a $250 laptop that will likely catch fire the first time it has to save a file to PDF format?

I think it's a fine time to modify a classic cliche. You will never regret buying the best. You will, however, regret buying the cheap crap you find searching out the best Black Friday deals. 

This Friday after Thanksgiving, I'm sleeping in.

One Male....In the House...

Every once in a while Thing#1, who is now 12 years old, will venture down the stairs well after bedtime with that solemn look of "I have an issue" on her face. It used to be the most common cause of this was a stinkbug crawling across the bedroom ceiling. Nowadays, her issues are different. Very different. Lately when I see her descend the stairs with her face in a frowny position and I ask, "what's wrong honey?" the most common response is,"I need mom."

This means the dreaded Female Issues have begun. I have no role here. I'm fine with this. I will be in the workshop.

I don't know what my daughter and wife discuss anymore. I don't want to know. My daughter is changing from a cute little toddler and plaything to an actual human, with opinions, issues, and bumps where there were no bumps before. Suddenly she wants to shower with the door closed. Suddenly dad is no longer allowed to voice an opinion on dress code, except when she's dressed in something too small to cover up a chocolate bar. Suddenly, the subject of "boys" enters the conversation (or so I'm told). Before too long there will be a drawer in her bathroom that is completely off limits to all male residents of the house.

I'm entering uncharted territory here. I have no place in this new world, one where estrogen sets the rules and slowly seeps from the walls like so much Amityville blood. Heck, I'm not even sure what I'm able to write about here, without unleashing the wrath of the womenfolk telling me to delete on threat of divorce and beheading. I'm thinking I need to change the subject of my blog to something safer, something about as far away from the subject of Female Issues as possible. Maybe a blog about iPad apps, men's shoes or perhaps fruit salad recipes.

But where's the challenge in that, really?

Here's what I'm thinking. I have several friends who have been blessed with a gaggle of women in their household, Not an ounce of testosterone to be found in the place outside of dad's own, rapidly shriveling masculinity. They all need help. WE all need help. There's no "Dads With Daughters" support club out there that we can go to for advice, resources, or escape from the madness of femininity. Well, it's time we created one.

Meetings will be once a month, held in a local machine shop, lawn mower repair facility, or auto detailer. Some place where men can return to their base natural instincts and fart hearing only a reply of "dude, nice one!" rather than the usual, "auugghh Dad, you're embarrasing!".

Each meeting will begin with a reminder that all children, boys or girls, healthy or sick, are a true blessing. We need to get that out of the way quickly and move to new business. New business will include such topics as what to do when your daughter clogs the tub drain with her long flowing hair, how to pair her iPhone (the one with the hot pink case with the photo of the guy from Hunger Games on it) to the bluetooth on your car stereo so she can listen to One Direction while you drive her to school, and how to most effectively embarrass her in front of boys she secretly likes. 

Each meeting will of course begin with a pledge of allegiance:

I pledge allegiance

To the flag

Of the Dads With Daughters Support Group

And to the escape

For which it stands

One male

In the house

Where estrogen

And issues

abound.

If you would like to become a member of the Dads with Daughters support club, Feel free to contact me any time, day or night. You can find me down in the workshop, door locked, hearing protection on, shop vac running. Just come in through the back door...you don't want to know what's going on upstairs.

Sure I wear my seat belt, but only when I'm drinking

My office just instituted a new health program, that offers points towards healthy habits (exercising, eating right, etc) in an effort to keep costs down. Overall it makes sense and seems to be a fairly intelligent program. But there is one thing about it I find just a little odd.As part of an overall introductory questionnaire, each participant states whether or not he or she smokes, drinks, or wears a seat belt.

It's the seat belt question that has me puzzled. My first thought is, who in their right mind would say that they don't? But then my second thought is, why does it matter? Okay, I realize that my ER bill is going to be that much lower if I'm in an accident wearing your seatbelt as opposed to, say, being launched through the windshield of my Subaru headfirst into the nearest jersey barrier. I get that. However shouldn't the question perhaps dig a little deeper, and find out a little bit more about my driving habits themselves? For example, do I text while driving? Do I cut people off? Do I check my email at stoplights? Do I like to adjust my eyeliner in rush hour stop-and-go traffic? Do I enjoy the occasional McDonalds' hamburger with a hot coffee held between my legs and greasy fries in the cup holder while cruising at 70 miles per hour down the interstate at four in the morning? I mean really, just because I wear my seat belt, that doesn't mean I'm a good driver. Shouldn't the question be, "do you drive like a maniac who's late for a movie?"

How not to introduce your children to camping

This weekend I attempted to demonstrate the wonders of tent camping to my two young offspring. Unfortunately, as most Pittsburghers are aware, this was NOT the weekend to go tent camping.

It seemed like a simple enough plan. Two guys, their four young daughters, a couple of tents, and enough s'mores to power a Girl Scout troop for weeks. My kids were very excited, this being their first experience sleeping in a tent that wasn't set up in the basement. We had our supplies ready, our juice boxes on ice, and our GPS coordinates entered. What could go wrong?

Well, for one thing, we failed to count on that predictable summertime weather in western Pennsylvania. Threat of rain + plans to do something outdoorsy = guarantee of rain.

After meeting at a local pizza shop for dinner, we all headed out in two cars to Cook Forest, about two hours away. The skies were clear, but it was one of those typical hot summer days that usually brings on a good whalloping of rain when you least expect it. We reached the campsite just after dark, and just as it started to rain lightly. Ever try finding a campsite in the dark while it's raining? It's about as easy as finding a lost penny at the bottom of a tar pit. Nonetheless, we found it just after that point where the girls began to get tired and cranky, wondering if we were ever gonna be there. You know how it goes.

We pulled in as the rains dissipated, and started to set up the tents while the girls proceeded to explore their surroundings by shining flashlights in each others faces. By the time I got my tent laid out, the rain came back. And this time, it brought friends. It was then I realized a crucial camping mistake, which is to ASSUME you remember how to set up the tent based on a foggy memory of doing it several years ago. Naturally, attempting this in the dark during a torrential downpour, With two children leaning over your shoulder screaming that they're getting wet, was not a pleasant experience. As I proceeded to set up the rain cover upside down, I started to wonder if parents of kids on the boat from the Poseidon Adventure felt the same way when it turned over.

Nonetheless, I got the tent set up keeping the inside relatively dry, managed to get the sleeping bags and the girls' things into the tent without completely soaking them, and attempted to lay them down for the night. Tried to, anyways. The girls sat staring at me, with fear in their eyes, as the thunder started. One began to cry in fright. The other just looked at me with an "are you serious?" look on her face. I explained to them that we were perfectly safe, and the thunder and lightning were far off, and that the tent would stay dry. Lucky for me, they were both exhausted enough that they fell asleep within minutes, each one with a death grip on one of my hands, while I lay wide awake for the next several hours listening to pouring rain and wondering if they felt I'd kidnapped them and were going to leave them in the forest as a very wet snack for the bears.

At around four in the morning, just as I began dozing off, Natalie tapped me on the forehead to inform me that one of her molars fell out. Well, at least there was that.

The next morning they recovered quickly from their night of terror, ate some breakfast, and were off to start the day. After quite a successful canoe trip down a lazy river, some go-karts, lunch, and a visit to a swimming hole, my buddy and I felt we'd probably redeemed ourselves from our attempts to permanently scar our children the previous evening. We made our way back to the campsite and cooked hot dogs and s'mores over the fire, and felt pretty good about ourselves. Then, the thunder returned.

This time we were prepared, and simply made our way into our now dry tents, just in time for yet another torrential downpour. It was then that my wife called me to inform us that the area was expecting severe thunderstorms until around one in the morning. Natalie began to cry again, and Jessica simply took on the same vacant stare that I remember Jeremy Piven having in the movie Judgement Night, when he realized that in a couple of seconds Dennis Leary was going to drop him off the side of a building to his demise. It was then that my buddy and I tossed in the towel and decided it was time to pack up.

We waited for this rainstorm to stop, made our way out of the tents, and began piling items into the cars. The girls, overjoyed with the idea of getting out of this god-forsaken place, were more than happy to actually help with the teardown and packing. And of course, just as we began to tear the tents down, the downpour began again. While the girls waited in the cars, the two of us finished packing up the tents while being drenched head to toe. When I finally sloshed my way into the minivan, one of my daughters greeted me with an outstretched arm holding my last dry shirt. She handed it to me and said, "maybe next time it won't rain."

That was all I needed.

The Family Vacation

We've just returned from what can only be deemed a classic American vacation. Last week we packed the minivan with beach toys, scooters, coolers, and antacid and headed for a rented beach house in Delaware, where we stayed with our close friends who also have two small children and an SUV filled with crap.

Overall the week was a success. We left on speaking terms with our friends. The moms got their well deserved rest and yet left more exhausted than they arrived. We only broke two dishes, a glass, and a vase containing fake flowers that was a victim of poor placement in the first place. And the dads, also known as the "pack mules", managed to squeeze out just enough relaxation to not go completely insane.

Paul, my fellow pack mule, reminded me of a post I created several years ago as a warning to future parents on what they should expect when a new member of the family arrives. Well, in a similar vein, a couple with no kids perhaps debating whether or not to join the parenting game might just decide against it after reading the following vacation highlight reel. I'm pretty sure the sound of doors slamming and tires squealing that I heard one night early in the week was the unmarried vacationing couple next door sneaking out in a combination of disgust and panic.

The bunk beds
The kids were quite excited to find two sets of bunk beds in the house where we stayed. Of course, with one kid still in a pack-and-play, that meant two top bunks for three kids. Time for a lesson on sharing, right?

Before the first night's sleep it was decided that, each night, the kids would switch things around so that the duty of sleeping in a lower bunk would be shared equally amongst them. This seemed like a reasonable idea at the time. Unfortunately it also meant that, each night, the parents had to deal with a child who was so traumatized by the possibility of bumping her head when sitting on the lower bunk that they would refuse to go to bed. For some reason, none of the kids bought into the logic that my buddy and I both spent four years of college sleeping on a bottom bunk while somehow avoiding a concussion. Go figure.

The tantrums
By the end of the week, Paul and I made it a game of deciding which kid would be next to tantrum, and why. With only a little practice we were able to call them moments before they would occur, much like Radar O'Reilly in M*A*S*H would announce the arrival of helicopters before anyone else could hear them.

There were tantrums over sharing of toys. Over naptime. Over sandcastles. Over hair clips. Doors being closed on fingers. Sequence of showers. Showers instead of baths. Baths instead of another five minutes in the pool. Getting out of the pool. Getting out of the bath. Getting out of the shower. Shopping for trinkets. Shopping for t-shirts. Over ice cream. Over dinner selections. Over being dragged on a pirate cruise. Over who got to be the 8th person in the minivan, forced to sit in someone's lap.

In other words, it was just like being home.

Fear of the ocean
I suppose it's healthy for a child to have some level of fear of the ocean. It's big and swirly, tastes bad, and movies are made about it with sharks eating people who like to swim. On the one hand, there's the level of fear that allows the child enough courage to go ankle deep into the water, only to dash out at full speed before the cold wave splashes at thigh level. On the other hand, there's the child who's level of fear is so high that just the sight of seeing dad enter the water without her causes screaming and panic. We experienced both levels, and every one in between. My oldest managed to work up the courage to join her dad several yards into the water where the waves broke, only to refuse to speak to him for the rest of the night when he somehow managed to allow the wave to crash directly into her face, filling her open and screaming mouth with salty sand. Paul's oldest took the stance of "uh uh...if I don't go in, you don't go in, so get your butt out of that water, mister!". Thus, he stayed pretty dry all week.

Out to Dinner
What would a beach vacation be without that night out at a big ol' seafood restaurant? Well, we belted through two dinners out this week, one more successful than the other. The first was in classic style. The little one's nap failed to take, so he was the typical bear that every parent dreams of. The only way to keep him from fussing was to constantly distract him with the spotlight-induced images of fish swirling around the restaurant floor, and thus we didn't see much of him or his mom the entire meal. And of course there were the usual bathroom breaks. First a child announces it's time to empty the bladder, so mom takes her. Upon returning to the table, the second child announces it's her turn, and the parent returns to the bathroom. Once back, she realizes that she, herself failed to go, and it's time for another trip. By then the appetizers are finished, and it's the dad's turn to go. Overall, we would have all seen more of each other if we'd asked for a table inside one of the restroom stalls.

The second dinner was almost strangely successful, with little issue to speak of. This was despite the 45-minute wait for a table, which we realized would be worth it when we thought about the fact that it would take us at least that long just to find another restaurant, and on a Friday night that place would have a wait as well. But the kids kept themselves occupied the entire time. Perhaps it was due to the four iPhones we had in our possession, each with a copy of the game "Pee Monkey" on it.

The noise, noise, noise, noise!
After accepting the challenge from my eldest child to swim down and touch the bottom of the nine-foot deep pool, I found myself unable to remove the water from my ear. After three days of asking people to repeat themselves and turning the TV volume up to eleven, a trip to the local urgent care facility was necessary. It turned out that the water pressure had compacted enough wax into my ear canal to make an entire colony of bees say, "dude, that's a lot of wax."

Unfortunately I didn't realize how good I'd had it. After my ear cleaning, I quickly learned just how loud a house with four children who've had nothing but ice cream and popcorn for four days straight can be. I promptly went back to the urgent care facility and asked for my wax back.

It only took about thirty years, but at last I finally understand why my parents never took me or my sister anywhere.

40-year old Verging

Okay, okay, I know, the blog. Yeah, it's time to get my butt back in gear and let those creative juices flow. I have to say that the past couple of months have been a trying time for the creative side of my brain for many reasons. For starters, I've quit my job (the one I've had for a little less than a year after being laid off from a place I'd been with for close to two decades) and am starting a new one two days from now. Meanwhile I'm taking a week to get my head, my life, and the house back in order, to prepare for my upcoming role as an engagement manager (sorry, that's as detailed as I'm gonna get right now...it's a rule of mine not to blog about work), and to lay some concrete below the back steps. Yup, there's always a home improvement project.

If you were expecting to see a post here that I'd spent days and days noodling over to get the content and the comedic timing just right, you'll be sorely disappointed I started this post at 11:15pm and expect it to be done by 11:21. Instead, this is more of a reboot for me. At least once a day lately I've been saying to myself, "would you just sit yer ass down and write something already?" The problem was, I couldn't decide on a subject. Should it be about my daughter's solo at the 3rd grade violin recital? About buying a new Flip Video camera only to have its hard drive completely filled with shaky closeups of the dog's nose as taken by my 6-year-old? Or how about the fact that after completing our major home renovation only two short years ago, we just completed about seven grand worth of re-work as a result of damage from this winter's snowpocalypse? Hmm, well you know how sometimes your guest room just gets so messy, you don't even bother straightening it up and instead just close the door and pretend it's not even a part of the house until the day you find out your sister and her entire family are coming for a weekend stay for the first time since your wedding? Well, in blogging terms, today is that day. Time to open the door and start shoveling.

I suppose a good enough place to start would be with what may be deemed by some as a personal milestone this year. It finally happened. I hit forty. I don't believe I've thought much about it up to this point...it's just another notch in the long, somewhat worn belt of life, really. And frankly, I tend to wear the crap out of my belts, keeping them around for years and years past their prime, until the holes are loose and the leather is so shredded that I would have an easier time keeping my pants up with duct tape. So, I guess if I were to build this into a solid metaphor, I can say that I've got a lot more life in me before I completely fall apart and I will attempt to make the most of it by adjusting a notch or two.

I realized one interesting thing related to my birthday, though. 40 years old is the youngest age that I truly remember my dad being. Oh, he's still alive and kicking, so this isn't some memoir about a father long since past. But when I think back to my childhood, I realize he was 40 when I was ten years old, and I don't really remember any time when he was younger than that. For some reason, this strikes me as important. I think I know why, too. According to my own brain and memories, my dad's life began thirty years ago, when he turned 40. This means I'm just getting started, as well. And I've got nothing to complain about. Well, except that I need a new belt.

My new Theme Song

Every once in a while I come across something accidentally that gets me all giddy inside. This weekend, I came across my new theme song, along with the genius behind it.

While listening to Pandora yesterday, I heard something completely new. It was a song called "Shop Vac, but an artist named Jonathan Coulton. It seems back in 2006 Coulton produced a number of songs under the Creative Commons License, giving them away for free and thus becoming an internet sensation. Which makes me wonder why I never heard of the guy before yesterday. Especially because he grew up in Colchester, CT and was roommates with John Hodgeman. Anyway, the guy is a freaking genius and absolutely hysterical. Take some time and check this stuff out:

If you're an itunes user, click on this link to be taken to Coulton's collection of 52 songs he produced by releasing one each week for a year. The album, aptly named Thing A Week One, is available for free as a podcast. Make especially sure to listen to the songs below.

Now, to make the experience even more worthwhile, it turns out there's an entire Wiki site dedicated to Mr. Coulton, where you can read the lyrics to each of his songs. The song links below are to their lyric pages.

Shop Vac

Re: Your Brains

Mr. Fancy Pants

Code Monkey

The Town Crotch

After you've listened to the above selections, I dare you to not go about your day with "All we wanna do is eat your brains" running through your head endlessly.

Genius. Absolute genius.

Planning to have kids? Better rework that budget.

Some advice for all you expectant parents out there. I'm sure you're giddy with anticipation over the prospect of a new little one in your life. someone to love, to care for and, most importantly, to pay for. I'm sure you've got the nursery all ready, the pantry stocked with Enfamil and various jars of pureed vegetables, and the budget for the next several years solidified and ready for the little one to invade your life. You're ready to be Supermom and Superdad, right? We laugh at you, you silly young waifs. Here's a few things I bet you never thought of for that budget.

Birthday parties.
No, I'm not talking about your little one's birthday party. That's enough of a financial drain in itself, what with the required passage through the worlds of Build-A-Bear, MyGym, and giant backyard BBQ's. I'm talking about the friends' birthdays. As your child enters toddlerhood and begins to attend preschool, it's a requirement that she invite each and every classmate to her birthday party. Likewise, she's obligated to attend each one of their birthday parties. Each birthday party will out-do the last, and don't think for a MOMENT that you're not required to do the same. So plan on about twenty bucks a kid for presents. Plan to spend each and every weekend being dragged by your toddler to Build-A-Bear to go through the same ursine manufacturing process you did the previous week until she's amassed a quantity of stuffed bears no human should have to tend to. My advice to you? Train your child to become a pariah, loathed by each and every one of her classmates. It's cheaper in the long run, and scars will heal. Who knows, your socially awkward child might grow up to write a blog or something.

Paper
Kids love to draw. Expect that your printer will never be in proper working order. Expect that the paper tray will always be found on the floor under your desk after your kid has ransacked it in an effort to obtain clean media for her latest bit of artistry. Plan on about a ream of paper,per month, per kid. With the economy the way it is, save money by swiping paper from the office, since chances are good your company won't be around in the next fiscal quarter anyway. Oh, also consider space allocations in your home, as every flat surface in the house will eventually be piled high with your child's artwork. There's the stuff she makes at home, the stuff she makes in preschool, the stuff she scribbles on the back of the Denny's menu...none of it can be thrown away as it's all entirely too special and important and your child will still be healing from the wounds of not being invited to her classmates' birthday parties so don't injure her pride further by throwing something out. That sheet of 8-1/2" x 11" with the two messy crayon circles on it? Better get it out of the trash right now and put it up on the fridge before she notices what you tried to do. As if to demonstrate my point, Jessica just walked up to me asking, "Dad? Can I have a piece of paper?" I'd tell her to check the recycling bin, but if she does she'll find the pile of her drawings I threw out the other day and call me an evil ogre for doing so.

Prescriptions
Another advantage to making your child the preschool outcast is that it will enable her to avoid physical contact with other children. If your child is unlucky enough to have a friend or two, then plan for the worst. By the 3rd day of the first school year, she will have her first ear infection. The following week will bring a case of strep. After that, another ear infection, with diarrhea. And just in time for your upcoming vacation, she will pass all those diseases over to you, knocking you flat on your back for the rest of the month. Get to know your local pharmacist. You'll be there often. I should also mention that you should plan to add an extra closet to the kids' bathroom dedicated to the storage of Childrens' Tylenol, Vaporub, and humidifiers in the shape of Hello Kitty. As I write this, my wife is picking up Jessica's latest prescription, this time for an ear infection with pus on her tonsils.

Camp
This one has been discussed by many a blogger in the recent past, but it's worth mentioning again. As a dutiful helicopter parent (a term I just learned last night), you will need to make a multitude of decisions about how to get your child out of the house when school is done for the summer. But telling your child to simply go play outside is NOT an option. There are evil things in your neighborhood. A skeevy man with thick glasses and beady eyes is camped out at the end of your street at this very moment, waiting for a lone toddler to wander just a little too far from his front door, so the child can be swept up and shipped to an overseas white slavery ring. There are packs of wild dogs roaming your neighborhood right now, on the hunt for an afternoon snack. And since chances are good little Timmy has some syrup from this morning's breakfast still on his new outfit from Childrens' Place, if the wild dogs don't get him the swarm of bees will. Where was I going with this? Oh yeah, camp. Start writing checks now. There's preschool camp. Bible camp. Art camp. soccer camp. Acting camp. Piano camp. Attitude Adjustment camp. Band-Aids and Booboos camp. Learn to be a Vegetarian camp. Send your child to all of them, for if you skip even one, come fall your child will be even more of the social pariah than she already is, having missed out on an opportunity to learn how not to fend for herself over the summer. Oh and of course, don't you dare try to schedule your own child for camp independently of the scheduling of the other children in her class. If your son's best friend is going to Paint Your Own Pottery camp, you'd better damned well send your son there at the same time, even if he thinks painting your own pottery is for sissies.

Planning on having kid?

I have a coworker who's expecting her first baby. It got me to thinking. As a father of two children, I consider myself a seasoned expert on the subject of child-rearing. I mean, so far I've done everything right, and documented all of my successes so that when the Father Of The Year award comes up for grabs again, I'm a shoe-in.

But that's just my opinion. I might be wrong. But I doubt it.

I have some suggestions for all those new parents-to-be out there. Some might call this unsolicited advice. I think of it more as a warning to all the new players on the team. And it certainly is a team. If we don't band together, those meddling kids will take over. Ever seen the Matrix? Yeah, it's like that but with more goo. So here's how you can best ready yourself for the onslaught:

1. Start buying twice as much food as you do now. When you get home, throw half of it away. That's exactly what will happen when your kid starts eating real food. You'll spend countless hours slaving over dinner and preparing a nutritious meal, and your kid will eat one carrot and half of your slice of garlic bread because three hours ago she had conned her grandma into an extra lollipop. But she'll have plenty of room for ice cream later.

2. Pay a neighborhood kid to call your house every 47 minutes starting at 7pm until around 6:30am. That will get you used to a normal sleep pattern once you have kids. For a more realistic effect, let the neighborhood kid know what TV shows you are watching so he can be sure to call you right when all the best scenes come on.

3. Practice the Dish Color relay. Take a blue dish from the cabinet and place it on the dinner table. Walk back into the kitchen. Now go and retrieve the dish, put it away, and replace it with a red one. Now do the same with two drinking cups. Then, bring out a fork and switch it with a spoon. You see, this is what will happen when your child forms an opinion. Bring him a bowl of red grapes in a green bowl on the third Tuesday of the month, and he's going to want them in the red bowl. Give her milk in the pink sippy, and she's going to want the Dora cup with the built-in straw. And don't even think about asking which bowl she wants before you select one; she will only change her mind the moment you bring it. You see, this is how they break you down, forcing you into submission.

4. When you talk to your spouse, only say the third and fifth word of every sentence. And repeat the fifth word twice. That's how it will be once you have a kid that knows how to talk. Or, more accurately, how to interrupt.

5. Accept the fact that you and your fertile loins will be personally responsible for global warming. Between the twelve thousand pounds of diapers your little varmint will go through, the massive collection of non-biodegradable plastic Disney Princess toys that will amass in the corner of the basement giving off toxic fumes, and the truckloads of empty cereal, Eggo waffle, and Easy Mac boxes you will dispose of each week, there's no hope for this planet and it's all because you wanted someone to carry on the family name. Ironic, ain't it.

6. Ask each of your friends to plan on getting together no more than once a month. When the day comes to get together, one of you should cancel due to illness. It doesn't matter if anyone's actually sick, but it will get you used to the fact that you will never be able to make advance plans with anyone because when the time comes someone's kid will have a fever of 102 and have spent the previous night throwing up on the duvet.

7. Kiss the following things goodbye: friends, spare time, exercise routines, sleep, disposable income, nice furniture, savings, cars that don't smell like spoiled milk, ironed clothing, polished kitchen floors, CD collections, recollections of important events in history, and extra space. All those items will be distant forgotten memories once he takes over.

8. Rent a classic horror movie. When the "girl screaming at the top of her lungs" scene come on, turn the volume up past 11. This will enable you to get started on the inevitable hearing loss that comes as a result having children. There is no sound more piercing on this earth than two children playing loudly in a bathtub while you are less than a foot from them.

9. Take a container of cottage cheese, and store it under the kitchen sink for a month. Now open it. Mmmm, notice that pungent aroma? That's kid barf. Get used to it.

10. No no, this one's for you to find out yourself.

Ooooh, spooky

This was the fortune I found in my Chinese food lunch today. It's like they know me....

It's all relative

Next week I travel to Eagan, Minnesota. Northwest Airlines was nice enough to send me a weather report. Are they freakin' kidding me with this "not as cold" crap?