The Politics of Giving at the Office

I distributed Christmas cards to some select people at work this morning. Halfway through the process, I was reminded why I don't normally do this.

I had exactly 20 cards to give out. That was my allotment. Of course, we could always order more, but I'm off for a few weeks after tomorrow so this was essentially the last chance for the workplace card project without having to find out everybody's address and do it that way.

I sat down at my desk and went through the list of employees. Are we friendly with them? Did this person ever give me a card? Would this coworker benefit from a more personal holiday greeting than a firm handshake?

I whittled the list down to 22, then eliminated three in order to get under 20. I had to eliminate all three, because they work right next to each other and I didn't want the lucky card recipient to make a scene when they opened their card, drawing attention to my selective giving.

After putting the names on the envelopes, stuffing them, and even licking the envelopes (it's Christmas after-all), I made my way to the wall of mailboxes to find the names and stuff the boxes. At the same time, another coworker walked up and started doing the same thing. Let's call him Mike. Uh-oh. I didn't give this guy a card! Do I need to? Does he have one in his pile for me? I got to know him a little better over the past year. I do have an extra, so I could go back and throw one together. That's what I'll do.

Abort card distribution mission, go back to office!

There was no graceful way to leave the mailbox area, so I just pretended my cell phone was vibrating, put a concerned look on my face, and hurried off. Good job. Nice save.

I quickly put together a card and envelope for "Mike and Family". Good idea. I should have given him one all along. This will bring us closer together. I put the envelope in the middle of the pile, to make it look like it had been there all along. This way, when he grabs me and hands me a card, I can say "Thanks. Hey, I have one somewhere in here for you. Merry Christmas, friend".

I heard somebody else in the office comment on Mike's card. They are childless, what could it be? Oh, it's a picture of their dog. How cute. I'm sure he'll enjoy the photos of the Undaling and the stylish off-white envelope.

I went back to the mailboxes. Nope. Nothing new in my mailbox. I saw a holiday-looking envelope in a nearby mailbox. It had little, artistic paw prints on it. That must be it! I don't have one. Is it possible I wasn't on Mike's list, either? Did he just run back to his desk to work up a card for me? What should I do? I don't want to put him in the position of having to give me a card by giving him one.

Dammit! I forgot somebody. This person had been at our wedding. I played softball with her husband. We talk all the time at work. Oh no! Who can I cut? I hope Mike's not making me a card right now.

I hustled back to my office and opened the 20th card intended for Mike. Good thing I had a few extra envelopes. I re-addressed it to correct my error and returned to the mailboxes. Quickly, I started matching up last names and putting the cards in the boxes. I didn't want anybody to see me, in case they're not one of the lucky 20.

Oh no, here comes Mike. OK. He's just looking at the schedules. I pretended to do the same.

"Mike, have you ever had somebody give you two-weeks notice right in the middle of December."

"Yep, two people this year," he answered.

"Me too. I need to deal with these schedules today or tomorrow because after that I'm off", I said.

There, that was enough of a conversation for him to believe I was up here pondering the posted schedules the entire time, right?

Why do I care anyway? It's just a Christmas card. I could order more.

Soon after, I completed my mission and covertly put the remaining cards in the proper mail slots.

As of now, I've yet to receive a card from Mike. I'm happy I made the decision to recall the card intended for him. But I must say, I'm a little hurt that Mike didn't think to give me a card. I like dogs! I should give him one tomorrow just to make him think about it a little bit.

Comedy 101

My son, the Undaling, just reached what I would consider a huge milestone worthy of a prominent mention in the baby book.

At just 2 ½ months old, he has officially made his first attempt at humor.

Sure, there have been many instances of unintentional humor. In the first few days home from the hospital, he was getting laughs for urinating on people at the changing table. Since then, he’s become quite adept at the spit-take, though I don’t think he does it to be funny. This time, I’m sure his joke was intentional.

As I told you a few days ago, the Undaling is dealing with his first cold. The other night, he coughed. I could see the frustration in his eyes every time this happened to him. Coughing is annoying, and this is the first time he’s had to deal with it on this level. I tried to make him feel better by fake-coughing right back at him. When I did this, his eyes got big. I could see his wheels turning as he tried to process what I just did. Then, he looked back at me, opened his mouth and fake-coughed right back. I immediately laughed a genuine laugh, then he smiled knowingly. His attempt at humor had been successful and achieved the desired result, laughter.

In the two days since, he’s experimented with different deliveries of the same joke, as if he’s trying to find his comedic groove. He’s fake-coughed without provocation, caught me by surprise, and gotten laughs. He’s tried the deadpan delivery, where he doesn’t smile back. (This is one of my favorites). He also appreciates hearing my attempt at the fake cough. Even though it’s technically his joke, he seems to enjoy seeing another artist’s take on it.

He’s not yet 11 weeks old, but I would venture to say that his comedic timing is already more refined than certain “professionals” like Pauly Shore and Carrot-Top. He clearly knows his limitations and plays to his own strengths. Since he hasn’t quite mastered the English language, knock-knock jokes are out of the question. He doesn’t have enough control of his own body to pull of an intentional pratfall. However, he does know how to fake cough, and he’s milking it from his audience while he works to develop new material.

Someday, when he’s much older, and he needs a go-to joke that feels comfortable, he’ll probably use the fake-cough again. Henny Youngman said “take my wife, please” right up until the end of his show-business career. Maybe when the Undaling makes the leap to more adult-oriented humor, he’ll experiment with the age-tested technique of combining a fake-cough with the word “bullshit”. Perhaps he’ll work a fake-sneeze into his routine. Either way, I look forward to watching him develop as a child and as a humorist.

I’m proud of my boy today; proud that he seems to have learned already that a good sense of humor is an essential way of dealing with life’s curveballs (like the common cold).

Guest Column from THE UNDAGROUND MOM

The price was right, so I went and hired a guest columnist, my Mom. Below is her first "official" contribution. She has a slightly lower level of self-confidence than I do, so she really needs you to comment on her contributions for validation. I'm not, in any way, saying that she has low self-esteem. I'm just making that point that I'm conceited and I genuinely feel superior to other people.

To celebrate the guest column, I have given my mother her own font (Verdana) and her own text color (blue #2).

I really hate it when I call my daughter by my cat’s name. I used to call her by the dog’s name when the dog was alive. It’s absurd. I know her name, I know the cat’s name – I named them both and yet it never fails, every 3 months or so – out pops the name of my latest pet when I’m addressing her. Why the hell does this happen?

When I had male pets, I don’t recall calling my boys Sergeant or Duke. It seems to only happen with my daughter. I have a deep affection for my cat, but I don’t love her nearly as much as I love my daughter so that’s not the issue. It’s weird that I never screw up and call the cat by my daughter’s name.

What’s worse is I try to cover it up - I start a sentence with the cat’s name by accident and then have to pretend I actually have something to say to the cat. Then to make it more believable, I use my sing-song baby voice as I ask a follow-up question. For example, if I’m asking my daughter if she would like something to drink and I slip and start the sentence with the cat’s name it goes something like –

“Luna, do you want a drink?” (pregnant pause as I realize my mistake)

“Who’s the itty bitty thirsty kitty?? Where’s that parched little feline??”

I have to add the “where” question when I realize the cat is not in the room. Does this ever happen to any of you? Let me know if you have any suggestions on how to quit doing this – it’s only a matter of time before the cat catches on.

First Cold

The Undaling has his first cold. This is not a fun milestone.

Apparently, newborns only breathe out of their nose. I've been trying to teach him how to be a mouth-breather, like his Dad, but he hasn't quite gotten it yet.

Mrs. U has purchased saline drops and a humidifier.

Want to piss off a baby? Put saline drops in his nose. I guess I'd probably be pissed if somebody put something in my nose, so I can't judge him.

So far, the issues are confined to his nasal passages. He doesn't have a fever and the doctor says his ears and chest are OK. Unfortunately, he's too young to eat chicken soup, so we'll just have to wait this one out.

Good Monday Morning

Super Bowl Halftime Show

It's been announced that the artist formerly known as the artist formerly known as Prince will be performing at this year's Super Bowl halftime show. Given all the fallout from the Janet Jackson controversy, I'm hoping he leaves his assless pants at home.

Jelly Belly Etiquette

A lot of discussion about Jelly Belly jelly beans at the Undaground house this weekend. Costco has four-pound buckets of these delectable treats, so they've become a regular fixture on the coffee table. Here are some ground rules for jelly belly eating at our house, in case you visit our living room any time soon:

• You may take as many jelly beans as you'd like, but you are responsible for what you take.
• The joy of jelly bellies is variety, so there is no visual inspecting allowed before you reach into the jar. Don't just scan the top layer of beans for caramel flavor and then pick it out, leaving more of the crappy black licorice ones for me (You know who you are Mrs. U). If you end up with "rotting peach", and you aren't fond of that flavor, it's up to you to eat it, throw it away, or transfer possession to somebody who likes rotten peaches.
• Please decide right away if you'd like to offer me a "caffe latte" jelly bean because you don't like light- brown colored jelly beans (what are you, a racist?). Don't make this decision after it has been clenched in your jellybean grabbing fist for a few minutes. This alters the chemical makeup of the candy, and may change the flavor from "cafe latte" to "sweaty cup of old coffee".
• Visual scanning and picking is allowed if you are trying to create a mixed-flavor, like those pictured on the packaging. They say that one popcorn jelly bean and two blueberry jelly beans tastes like a blueberry muffin. If you'd like to try to create a combination, I won't rob you of that privilege. Just don't abuse it.
• These are not traditional Easter jelly beans. They are not designed to be eaten in bunches without first consulting the flavor chart. If you do this, you do so at your own risk. You could end up with a mouthful of coffee flavored fruit punch with popcorn and beef wellington in it. You've been warned. We do have ginger ale, and other homeopathic remedies for nausea, but if you vomit on the microfiber, you will be billed for the cleanup (unless you're an infant with an underdeveloped digestive system or a cat -- because cats don't have any access to cash).

TGIFridays

Has anybody had the fried macaroni and cheese appetizer. Whoa! I'm not sure of the nutritional value but it's quite good and I'd be remiss in not mentioning it here. Do yourself a favor and try it. It's like a party in my mouth. In case anybody's wondering, the responsible eating program I was sticking to is on hiatus and is scheduled to return sometime around January 2nd. Until then, I'll be over here trying to fit my enormous face through the neckhole of my Christmas sweater. Bon Appetit!

Seen While Driving

I was driving to my softball game on Sunday morning, and I passed two teenaged girls who were standing in the median of the road. They were both wearing extremely short shorts and bikini tops. I would guess they were about 14 or 15-years-old. They were holding signs that said "Feeling Dirty?" As I sat at the light, they yelled over at me and the other drivers waiting for green. "Hey! Feeling Dirty?" I can only assume they were advertising for some sort of car wash, but I couldn't confirm this, since I didn't answer their question. Truth is, I wasn't feeling dirty; I was feeling thankful. I'd just like to take this moment to thank God that we had a boy. (Although I don't think I'd want him to be standing in the middle of the road in a bikini either).

Blogiversary

The Undaground blog is one-year old.

I continue to be motivated by the same reasons I opened my account and started typing one year ago.

First, I was looking for a creative outlet. While it is a tall challenge to continue to update the Undaground on a regular basis, I think that its presence makes me a more observant person on a daily basis and also forces me to continue to try to develop my writing ability. Someday, when the great idea strikes me, I hope to be able to sit down and write it, and I hope the blogging experience will keep me sharp enough until then.

Next, I want to leave a “footprint in the sand”. By this, I mean that I personally enjoy looking back and reading my own thoughts as I move forward in life. I’ve never been organized enough to keep a journal, and this is certainly the closest I’ve ever come to documenting my thoughts and observations as a habit. Someday in the far-off future, I hope that my son will be able to read my thoughts as we experienced the pregnancy and the story of his birth.

My Grandfather loved to write. When I think of people I’ve tried to emulate in life; people who have inspired me, he will always sit at the top of the list. I have three or four of his writings in a shoebox at home. They’re handwritten and are sprinkled with spelling mistakes and some creative grammatical liberties, and that makes them more personal. When I go back to that shoebox and look at his notes, they remind me of his essence and inspire me to keep writing. I wish my Grandfather had a blog, because I’d be the most loyal of readers.

With year one behind me, I look forward to year two. In year two, I think I’ll try to increase my readers. For reasons stated above, that’s not my main motivation, but it seems like the next logical step. I think that more readers will lead to more comments, which will lead to more ideas. I’d like for the Undaground to be more interactive than it is. In the world of blogging, I think I’m somewhat of a recluse. Bloggers are social creatures, and I’m not. I’ve been looking around at other blogs and will soon add some links to the side of the page to begin this socialization.

Now, I have some questions for you. Please comment. Do you read any other blogs that you find interesting? If so, who? Anything you’d like to see more of on the Undaground? Anything you’d like to see less of? Questions? Comments? Concerns?

Oh, Tannenbaum, oh tanning balm.

Tree OCD

We all have varying degrees of OCD. That may or may not be true, but it’s something I accept as truth to make me feel better about mine. One area where this really “shines” is in the lighting of the Christmas tree. I spoke to somebody at work who I view as an “everyman”. He takes a few strands of lights, strings them together, then walks in circles around his tree for a few minutes and he’s done. Somehow, my process takes about 2 hours (including a few bathroom breaks and some quality “dude” time with the baby. Granted, this everyman does not have 750 lights on a 7-foot tree. I do. Honestly, the back of the tree is looking pretty dark, so I could use another two or three hundred, but I’ll probably quit right now.

RSVP

Got an email from Mrs. U the other day at work:

“Hi. This infant massage class is next Monday and Tuesday night. I have to call them soon. Do you want to go?”

Immediately I had post-traumatic flashbacks of Lamaze class. I quickly got her on the phone and asked a question straight out of my soon-to-be-published “Good Husband Manual: A Domestic Guide to Wedded Bliss.”

“Is this some kind of test?”

“No. Of course not.”

“OK, then I politely decline. Infant massage can be your thing and making goofy faces at him can be my thing.”

Phew. Crisis averted.

The Break-Up

"Jennifer and Vince mutually agreed to end their relationship but continue to be good friends today," said representatives Stephen Huvane and John Pisani, according to People.com.

Does anybody actually believe that they'll remain good friends? What does that mean, anyway? Is Vince somebody that Jen can now call if she needs help moving? Will they stop e-mailing each other, but continue to forward jokes? Will they try to set each other up with new love interests, pretending that they don't still care for each other? I call B.S. on the "good friends" portion of that quote. Somehow, it took two people to come up with that statement for People magazine. Did they get on a conference call and say it in unison? I think they could have found one competent person to construct that sentence. Why did it take two? I don't see any grammatical stunts or fancy wordplay.

By the way, these two just happened to star in a movie together about breaking up. I reviewed it for this blog. Read it here:

Here's a link to the Undaground review of "The Break-Up".

Happiest Baby on the Block, Part 2

When we returned home from the bookstore, we were a bit frustrated. Apparently, even the simplest of enjoyable errands and weekend excursions are now completely dependent on the mood of the child. We’re officially no longer in control. We are now the flustered parents we always said we wouldn’t be.

Mrs. U called a friend who had obviously been through this before, since she arrived at our house in record time with the “Happiest Baby on the Block” videotape. While I watched football, Mrs. Undaground watched the video in the other room. I listened to the sounds from the other room. Each time a baby cried on the video, our baby cried as well. Suddenly I was happy we didn’t have twins. (Until now, I always thought that would have been cool.)

Late that afternoon, when the witching hour began and he started to get into his fussy time, Mrs. U started employing the techniques she learned on the tape. Turns out we had been doing many of the things right, this just gave us some more ideas. I guess the message in the tape is that when you’re baby’s crying, you have to work your ass off to get him to stop. That’s not what I wanted to hear as I found myself holding the crying creature a little while later. You see, I was trying to watch the BCS selection show to see which team was playing in which bowl.

Mrs. U was coaching me from the other side of the living room; the new knowledge she’d learned was fresh in her mind.

“Make a shwooshing sound”, she said.

“Shwoosh. Schwooooooooooosh”. I sounded like an idiot.

More crying.

“Bounce him a little bit while you swoosh.” My wife continued to tell me what she learned on the tape.

“Shwoosh.” Bounce, bounce. “Wait, did you hear what they said about the Orange Bowl?”

More crying. Baby now strongly dislikes his father, despite the swooshing and bouncing.

“Here, try the pacifier.” My wife handed me the little rubbery gift from above.

As I shwooshed and bounced, he spit out the pacifier like it had been dipped in tobasco sauce.

Now I was getting frustrated. (Actually, I was still shaken from the bookstore experience and had been mean to the dog all day because of it).

I put my foot down. “Video, schmidio”. Yes, I said it. I know I sounded like a five-year old, but it happened. “I’m going to appeal to the little man in him.”

I lifted my red-faced son to eye level and spoke to him. He fought through his sobs and did his best to listen.

“Dude, can you chill for a minute so I can see who’s playing in what bowl game?”

Silence. He stopped crying. OK, now I’m confused. That worked? I paused Tivo (the greatest invention in the history of the man), something I should have done a few minutes earlier.

My wife chimed in: “You called him Dude.”

I looked back at the baby. “Dude”.

He smiled. I guess he didn’t care about football. He likes the word “dude”.

“Duuuuuuuuuuuude”.

More smiles.

“Duuuuuuuuuuuuude”.

Happiest baby on the block.

And this continued until he decided he was hungry again. Go figure.

The Happiest Baby on the Block

For my wife's sanity, I've found that we need a family-friendly outing each weekend day just to get out of the house.

Saturday, we did breakfast and got our Christmas tree. All was well.

Sunday was a particularly fussy, colicky day for the little one. Nonetheless, we pressed forward and decided to go to Barnes and Noble to get out of the house and pick up a few Christmas gifts and other assorted reading material. My wife wanted to get the "Happiest Baby on the Block" book, to deal with the Undaling's recent colic diagnosis. (A pediatrician confirmed our suspicions on Friday).

Traditionally, when we park the mini-van and unload all the baby gear, I push the stroller through the parking lot until we reach the entrance of our destination, then I turn it over to Mrs. U. I guess that somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I can kick any wayward vehicle or shopping cart that threatens the baby.

"Wow, he's really enjoying being outside", I said as I looked down at the smiling child in the stroller."

"Don't jinx it", warned my wife.

When we visit Barnes and Noble, Mrs. U and I normally go our seperate ways to explore our own personal interests. She heads for the trashy romance novel section and the bathroom humor section and I head for the philosophy aisle or the transcendental meditation section. As I handed over the controls to the stroller, I said "Just fire an emergency flare if you need me", knowing that the Undaling might complicate matters.

About 60 seconds later, I heard a baby crying. Could it be our baby? I tore myself away from the paperback-version of Moby Dick and wandered toward the source of the noise. Yep, it was him. Mrs. U was holding the baby with one hand and pushing the stroller with the other, trying desperately to make it to the children's section, where the loud, high-pitched shrieks would be more socially accepted. I grabbed the stroller and helped guide them to the brightly-colored back of the store, where we were greeted by books with pictures of talking animals with fuzzy textures. Immediately, a clerk met us at the entrance to the kids section.

"Can I help you find something?"

Hmmm. Did she really want to help us, or did she just want to get us out of there.

"Actually", I said, "we're fine. We're just seeking refuge here."

"OK", she looked us up and down. "There's some nice board books back here for him."

What the hell is a board book? Oh, well. The baby was calm for a moment as something big and colorful and well-lit caught his eye.

"I'll be back", I said as I turned back to the quiet part of the store and continued to look for "The Happiest Baby on the Block".

I reached the "desperate parent" aisle and began scanning the titles.

"What to expect when you're expecting". Been there, done that.

"Babywise". Hated it, wait for the movie.

"Your pregnancy week by week". Oops, wrong shelf. Where are the baby-already-born books?

Oh, OK. Here they are. "How to clean up a big mess with only one baby wipe". "Burp me dammit". "How to operate heavy machinery on three hours of sleep". "The Happiest Baby...." Then, I heard it again. This time it was much louder with a touch of baby anger. For a moment, I was Batman and this was the bat signal. I navigated my way quickly back to the childrens section. I saw Mrs. Undaground holding the baby again. His face was twisted and red, as he let us both know that he's not a big fan of bookstores.

"Let's go", my wife said. "You pay for these and I'll see you outside."

We moved quickly toward the front of the store, pushing people out of the way as if we were carrying a ticking time bomb that needed to be detonated outside. Mrs. U headed for the door, and I shoved a teenager out of the way to get to the cashier.

"Are you a member of Barnes and Noble sucker club?" If I had 20% off for every time I've been asked this question....

"No, No thanks."

"Do you need a gift receipt?"

"No. Just a regular receipt. Thanks." Then I gave her some non-verbal cues to hurry the hell up.

"Do you want to buy a book for a poor kid?"

"Huh?"

"They're all under $5"

"Sure, whatever."

"Do you want to pick out which book you want to give?"

"No, just whatever you think is best. I'm kind of in a hurry."

Finally, we completed the ridiculously long transaction and I left the store. Forty-eight dollars and we never actually bought the thing we went there for.

I don't know what I expected to see when I left the store, but I had the sinking feeling that my wife was in trouble, and that a mob of strangers had formed a circle around her and the baby, pointing and laughing at the public tantrum.

Instead, Mrs. U was standing outside the entrance with the happiest baby on the block.

Apparently, he doesn't care much for bookstores, but parking lots are like baby paradise to him.

Voices Singing Let's Be Jolly

The leftover turkey meat has been relegated to the dog’s dish. The last two or three pounds of stuffing have been tossed in the trash. The final hunks of pie have been disposed of, as Mrs. U and I return to world of break-and-bake cookies for dessert. My belly is back to its late-2005 form. All of this can only mean one thing: It’s time to get ready for Christmas.

Yes, tomorrow we will enter the pine-scented tent on the side of the road and make our selection. I hope to choose our tree more wisely this year. Last year I was either very flustered or very drunk; I can’t remember. Somehow, we ended up with a seven-foot version of Charlie Brown’s tree. I guess it wasn’t so bad, once it was decorated, but the bald spot was prominent enough to prevent us from doing the old “comb over” with pine needles. I have nothing against bald people, but I prefer my trees to be lush (think Ted Danson’s hairpiece in Cheers, not Becker).

After the tree-hunting exhibition, I will once again tempt fate and make my yearly, wobbly ascent up the extension ladder to hang the lights on the house. As I’ve aged over the years, there are many areas where my abilities have continued to mature and improve. This list includes, but is not limited to crossword puzzles, remote control dexterity, competitive eating, defensive driving, blowing off telemarketers and changing diapers. One area where I’ve really regressed is climbing a ladder. I remember the good old days when I could scoot up and down a ladder like a squirrel climbs a tree. Maybe it’s an inner ear issue, but it’s become much more difficult. Each shaky step requires me to stop, look up, look down, then say “You got it? You got me?” to whoever is holding the ladder. Once I reach the top, and I need to release both hands to attach the string of lights, I become much too aware of my giant clown feet balanced on the tiny strip of metal that is the ladder rung. I realize I could avoid this entire charade by simply limiting myself to the lower portion of the roof and avoiding the peak, but it’s not possible. You see, another thing I’ve developed over the years is the need to compete with my neighbors. Granted, I won’t be duplicating the Rockefeller center job the guy across the street does on his A-frame (I’d need an Armenian family of circus performers to pull that off), but I do need to put a little altitude on my lighting job nonetheless, just for the sake of civic pride.

Our final Yuletide task this weekend will be to officially photograph the Undaling in his Christmas outfit before he grows out of it. This is not as easy as it sounds. It will take some serious defensive maneuvering, schedule flexibility and, above all, proper lighting. First, we’ll need to put him in the outfit. Then, we’ll need to block any and all bodily fluids from leaving a stain while we wait for him to get in his smiling mood. Finally, when we sense that the smiles are about to begin, we’ll need to rush him outside to our makeshift studio and capture the image before he decides he’s hungry, wet, tired, uncomfortable, gassy or bored again. All he really has to do is sit there and smile, but I haven't found a way to properly communicate that to him quite yet.

Wish us luck.

Business Attire

Yes, people, I'm wearing a tie. I have an somewhat-important meeting this afternoon.

Based on reactions around the workplace, you would think I arrived to work with a horn growing out of my forehead. I think I might have to don a tie a little more often, so it doesn't carry so much meaning for people in the future. I just want to be left alone in the morning, so it's distracting walking the "Green Mile" from the parking lot to my office.

"Oh hi, why the tie?"

"You look nice, what's the occasion?" (translation: you usually dress like a slob)

"Oh, I'm so sorry. Is there a funeral?"

"Are all of your thrift shop clothes in the wash?"

I once read somewhere that you should "dress for the job you want".

I guess I took that advice too literally, because the job I want is "retiree". Here are some friends modeling my fall collection:

Is that so wrong?

Black Friday, Cyber Monday, Walmart Tuesday?

Is it really necessary to name every day between Thanksgiving and Christmas?

Things that are dead to me:

• Our mango tree. I've removed the "stump" and will not try to plant a tree again without the help of a licensed professional. Sorry, mother nature.
• Our Thanksgiving turkey. Five nights in a row was very, very good, but it's time to move on and have something else for dinner.
• NFL football. Ugh. I guess the Steelers winning the Super Bowl was intended to hold me over for a few years. Watching them this year has become brutal.
• WVU's BCS hopes. A loss to South Florida? Oh my. The only thing worse than WVU losing is WVU losing while we are entertaining a house full of people. Is locking yourself in your bedroom and breaking off communication with the rest of the world bad etiquette when hosting?

Strike a pose:

Here are some recent photos of the Undaling enjoying his first Thanksgiving:

This is him reacting to my explanation of WVU's possible bowl matchups in light of the USF loss.

A Very Special Undaground

Two hours before I pulled the turkey from the oven, I hopped in my car to pick up some ice and beer at the one supermarket that was open.

As I drove through the same busy intersection I cross every day, I saw the same homeless guy that’s always there. I’m sure that as far as panhandling goes, it was a pretty good day for him. It is Thanksgiving, after all. No doubt, drivers who normally cruise right by were stopping to hand him a dollar or two. Normally, when he walks past my window, I stare straight ahead with both hands on the wheel. This time was different. The light stayed red long enough for me to roll down the window and wait for him to walk over.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out two dollars. As I handed it to him, the weathered lines on his face fell into a warm smile.

“Thank you, good sir”, he said in a surprising English accent.

“Hell of a day to be out on the street”, I said.

“I’m just happy to be alive today”, he replied as he tucked the dollar bills into his shirt pocket and adjusted the “Hungry” sign he had resting in the crook of his other arm.

“Listen, I’ve got a twenty-pound turkey and an extra spot at the table. Why don’t you hop in and share Thanksgiving with us?” I couldn’t believe what I was saying. I was half-hoping he’d say no thanks, as he scooted around the other end of the car and was suddenly sitting next to me. “We live just down the street. I won’t take you too far.”

“You’re very kind”, he said, as he bobbed his head to the music playing in the car.

On the short ride home, I found out his name was Edwin, and he had been living on the streets of South Florida ever since he’d lost his job as a college professor teaching economics. Wow, that’s irony.

We soon arrived home, and I asked Edwin to wait in the driveway so I could go in and tell Mrs. U that we needed to set the table for one more. Mrs. U was both shocked and touched by my gesture of goodwill. She also said that she had invited our neighbor, Paulette to join us since she found out she, too, was alone for the holiday.

I introduced Edwin to my wife, my in-laws and our son. He took a special liking to our dog, and she was pleased that somebody was finally paying attention to her for the first time since the Undaling was born.

“Is there anything I can get for you Edwin?” I asked.

“A glass of ice water would be great, but a shower is what I’m really thinking.”

I got Edwin a towel and also gave him a disposable razor and some shaving cream. I also gave him a clean pair of shorts and a Hawaiian shirt out of the closet.

While he cleaned up, Paulette arrived. She is an older woman who tends to be a little excitable, so we gently told her that we’d be eating dinner with a homeless guy. We even joked that she might be attracted to him and that maybe the two of them could date.

Forty-five minutes later, Edwin emerged from our bedroom looking more like an economics professor on holiday than a homeless person asking for money. It was an unbelievable transformation.

Edwin's long, unkempt beard was now a closely cropped, snowy white, distinguished facial feature. My nephew, who is a year-and-a-half old and can say maybe 10 words, looked at him and said "SAN-TA!"

Everybody in the room laughed, including Edwin. "See that Edwin", I said, "now the kids think you're Santa Claus."

“Ho, ho, ho. Good as new. Thanks for the clothes.”

“They’re yours, Edwin. This is our neighbor Paulette. Paulette, Edwin.”

Seriously, I think there were immediate sparks. What a wacky Thanksgiving. Nobody will ever believe this story.

The rest of the night went like most Thanksgiving dinners go. Our family shared comfortable, family conversation while Edwin and Paulette reminisced about their own families. Both had gone years without seeing them. Each of them got tears in their eyes while they spoke. As the dinner went on, we realized Edwin and Paulette had a lot in common. Who knew?

After dinner, I wasn’t sure what to do next. “Can I drop you off anywhere Edwin? How about some money for a hotel room tonight?”

“You’ve really done enough for me. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all of this. I’m going to enjoy the weather and walk off that wonderful meal you folks prepared for me.”

“Seems like you and Paulette hit it off.”

“She’s a great lady. Looks like a girl I knew in Manchester. I’m fixing her fence for her next week for a home-cooked meatloaf.”

I walked him to the door and handed him a bottle of water for the road.

“Take care of yourself, Edwin.”

He shook my hand and looked me in the eye. Again, he smiled and his grandfatherly eyes filled with tears.

“Thank you. You didn’t have to do this. This was your child’s first Thanksgiving. And, it was my first Thanksgiving in a long time.”


Okay, fine. So I made all of this crap up. I think I just wrote an episode of “A Very Special Fresh Prince” or “A Very Special 90210”.

I did see a homeless guy on the way to the store, but the light was green and I didn’t have time to stop. Maybe next time, I will. If I find out he’s from England, I’ll invite him to our house for some leftovers.

Cook the Turkey, Save the World

Happy Thanksgiving to all... one day early. I don't anticipate posting anything tomorrow since I will be busy prepping the bird.

Yes, it's year two of Thanksgiving Dinner at our house. This year, I'm expecting a crowd that looks something like this:

Two Grandmas
Two Married Couples (including us)
Two Sisters-in-law
Two Babies
Two Dogs (possibly)
Two Cats (I doubt they'll eat much)

As for sleeping arrangements, I believe we're covered with two hotel rooms, two air mattresses and two couches. Not sure yet who is going to the hotel rooms. I've suggested we play some sort of game and then vote people out of the house, but I'm not sure that's gonna fly.

Today, I will get on Butterball.com and review the turkey-cooking video. Also, I think I need to watch the carving tutorial again. I seem to have forgotten everything I learned last year. I guess I should start cooking an October turkey just to get the kinks worked out.

The Undaling will be limited to mother's milk for his holiday feast. I expect that it will have more than a hint of turkey and stuffing flavor for the next week, so he'll get to enjoy some of my cooking in a roundabout way. I hope that the tryptophan is passed along in breast milk.

In other baby news, our child is experiencing some male-pattern baldness. I've read that this is normal. We can't tell if he's embarassed at all by this yet, but we've put a hat on him in public just in case. Also, he recently moved from Pampers size "N" to Pampers size "1", in case anybody's keeping score at home.

Again, happy Turkey Day. Among the many things I'm thankful for is you, the twenty or thirty readers who regularly visit the Undaground.

What are you thankful for?

Save the Cheerleader, Save the World

Has anybody been watching Heroes? Mrs. U and I are fans. Awhile back, I thought about what super power I'd like to have. Read it here:

http://theundaground.blogspot.com/2006/01/my-super-power.html

Backyard Brawl

WVU: 45
Pittsburgh: 27

Meow.

Let's take a moment to bask in the glow of the greatest backfield in college football.

Steve Slaton: 215 yds rushing, 2 tds

130 yds receiving, 2 tds

Pat White: 220 yds rushing, 2 tds

204 yds passing, 2 tds

OK, Who's in charge here?

I guess last night was our official "Welcome to the Club". After years of rolling my eyes at hapless couples in public with crying babies, we are now the targets of the eye-rollers. I guess it's time to change my opinion on the matter.

I met Mrs. U and the Undaling at Costco after work to get our 20-pound Thanksgiving bird.

Instead of the usual browsing at the various big-screen TV's, we flew through that aisle as if "stroller speed" would somehow soothe the unusually cranky creature riding shotgun. We eventually made it back to the turkey section by creating a kind of Bizarro-world wagon train. I hope nobody took a photo of this. Let me see if I can describe it. I'm in front, pushing an oversized shopping cart with one hand and pulling the front of the stroller with the other hand behind me. Mrs. U is pushing the other end of the stroller in the back of the line with a screaming baby thrashing about on her shoulder. I swear I've seen this scene in Costco before, but I never knew I'd someday be the one providing the entertainment.

Minutes later, Mrs. U was in the front of the store, feeding the baby again (because it had been a half hour since he'd last eaten). I finished up the shopping while this was taking place. I do have to admit that I'm dangerous without a chaperone in Costco. You can see proof of this in the form of the 4-pound canister of Jelly Belly jelly beans currently sitting on our kitchen counter.

The temporary "milk coma" bought us enough time to walk to our cars and load the groceries and the baby into the van. It also convinced us that we'd be fine to go out to dinner. Ha! Silly parents.

We arrived at the "family-friendly" Mexican restaurant and set up shop in the corner of the dining room. I've noticed that hostesses pick different spots in restaurants for us now that we have a little one in tow. Thirty seconds after we were seated, the fussing started. It began with little Oprah-phrases (all five of them actually), then quickly morphed into a full-fledged primal scream (not unlike something you'd here at a major metropolitan zoo). Mrs. U picked him up to buy a minute or two of silence, then handed him over the table (narrowly missing the nachos) to me and I tried to do the same. Apparently, he didn't want to hear my soulful rendition of the Beatles' Golden Slumbers and I soon handed him back over the table (narrowly missing the salsa) to my wife. She held him while we ordered, then fed him again as we enjoyed another 10 minutes of zen.

Another thing I've noticed about how we're treated at restaurants is that our food comes out a lot faster now. They must put a rush on any ticket attached to a small child. I'm fine with getting in and getting out. Our food arrived about two minutes after we ordered. For a few minutes, I just stared at my plate and said to my wife "I'll wait for you." Soon, I remembered an anecdote some stressed-out parent had told me about taking turns eating and I decided to forge ahead without my wife. I ate as quickly as I could. Mrs. U finished feeding baby, then burped him, then layed him down. I counted backwards from ten, and he was crying by the time I got to four.

As I continued to chow down like I was in a chicken enchilada competitive eating contest, Mrs. U got up to change him in the ladies room. All the while, I was wondering what my food actually tasted like. When I saw her walking back to the table, I laid down my tired fork and pushed the plate away, ready to take my turn.

Mrs. U came back and said "Wow, he was very happy just now. I guess he just wanted to walk around."

Back in the carseat, this time he waited about 8 seconds to cry. I picked him up and did my best to entertain him while Mrs. U began eating. I broke eye contact with the baby to check on my wife. She, too, was now shoveling food into her mouth. Wow, this is the way to eat.

"We look like a couple of idiots", I said. "Guess what. We're those people now. Ladies and Gentlemen, that guy!"

Oops. I looked back down at the baby and apparently my comments had hurt his feelings. I watched as his little face twisted back into that "I'm about to throw a fit" look.

"Honey, you keep eating and pay the bill and I'm going to walk around."

There it was. Two ships passing in the night, both held together by an 8-pound tyrant. I carried the baby outside and suddenly he was in the best mood I'd seen him in all night. He stared up at the lights of the building, and then over at the tree line, and then back in my eyes, and then looked as a pickup truck with a broken muffler chugged by. I stuck out my tongue, then he stuck out his tongue. He made an "O" with his lips (his favorite facial expression), then I made the same face. I said "dadadadada" and he furrowed his brow. I went back to the familiar "O-face", and he rewarded my hard work with the most precious baby smile I could imagine. Thanks baby. That's what I wanted to see.

For ten minutes, we continued our male bonding outside the restaurant as Mrs. U finished up her express meal and paid the bill.

Those ten minutes were the best ten minutes of my day yesterday.

As I strapped him into the carseat, back in the van now, I counted back from ten again. When I reached 5, he was crying. Someday when he's a teenager, I'm going to wear gym shorts, black socks and white sneakers and embarrass him in front of his friends, just for that.

The Secret Language of Babies

According to an expert on the Oprah show, our baby is already speaking to us. This is from Oprah.com:

After testing her baby language theory on more than 1,000 infants around the world, Priscilla says there are five words that all babies 0–3 months old say—regardless of race and culture:

Neh="I'm hungry"
Owh="I'm sleepy"
Heh="I'm experiencing discomfort"
Eair="I have lower gas"
Eh="I need to burp"

Mrs. U was kind enough to Tivo this, so I saw the segment on Oprah yesterday after I got home from work and changed into a clean t-shirt. Immediately, I heard him say "eh, eh, eh".

I was quick to apply my new Oprah-knowledge. "Ooooh. That must mean you need to burp. OK. Let's just put you here on my shoulder up against this freshly-laundered t-shirt and pat your back once, twice...." My new understanding of Undaling vocabulary was quickly rewarded with a generous dolyp of baby vomit. I guess the lady on Oprah was right.

So far, my daily ritual of holding him and repeating saying "dadadadadada" has not resulted in him saying "Da-Da". It turns out that his response to this is usually "Eair", followed by "Eh". Say what you will, we're still having a conversation. Now that I can translate his part, our conversation looks something like this:

Me: Dadadadada. I'm going to keep saying things that start with "D", so that your first accidental word is Da-da. Can you say something back that starts with a "D"? Come on, kid. It doesn't matter what you actually mean, I will take any "D" word to mean "Hi, Dad. You're the best."

Undaling: Hi Dad, I have lower gas.

Me: Dadadadada. It feels so good to say it. You should try it. Can you say dadadada?

Undaling: I need to burp.

Me: Let me grab a towel.

(Footnote: Even though the expert says this applies to all races and cultures, I'm pretty sure "eh" means something else to Canadian babies.)

He eats, therefore he grows

Sure, those newfangled tape measures and scales at the pediatrician's office are great for figuring out how big the baby has grown. In our family, we prefer a more scientific method... A giant stuffed monkey. As you can see in the photos below, not only has he grown physically, he's also grown emotionally. I'm no psychology expert, but he seems much more tolerant of monkeys than he once was. This is a good thing, since we're trying to get our hands on a live chimp for next month's photo.

The Best of Rumsfeld

From the Late Late Show

Proud Dad

I mentioned yesterday that I went to Panera Bread for lunch. Also attending was my wife, Mrs. Undaground and my son, the Undaling.

One of the things about being a dad that I've had to learn to accept, is the sudden attention we've been getting from strangers. Those who know me know I try to minimize my contact with other people. I have a circle of friends and outside of that, I generally believe that most people were placed on Earth with the simple goal of annoying me. At least since the Undaground blog has been established, I do find fodder to write about in these painful encounters.

So, the baby's stroller was facing in a direction where I couldn't see his face. I think that I originally had a good view of him as I ate my Turkey Artichoke Panini until we had to move the stroller to avoid the intense Panera foot traffic coming through the front entrance.

Suddenly, as I took another hearty bite of my panini, an old lady approached the stroller and smiled down at the Undaling. She had oxygen tubes draped across her face, but I looked and didn't see a tank anywhere. Maybe she escaped from a home. Maybe she just wants to be wired up so she's "oxygen-tank ready". Maybe it's a new old lady fashion accessory, but I digress. Suddenly, she leaned in closer to him and, without acknowledging my wife or me, enthusiastically uttered the following phrase:

"A goo-goo, ga-ga. Moky Mum-bi. Tee hee."

Honestly, I don't give people a lot of credit. It's one of my character flaws, so I think she was really trying to speak English to him and couldn't put it all together. I guess it could have been her interpretation of baby gibberish. Either way, it was unnecessary and did nothing to enrich my son's young life.

Just like that, she was gone. My wife was laughing, but I wasn't sure exactly why.

"What's so funny?", I asked.

"He just made that face to her."

You mean this one? Then I furrowed my brow and gave my wife the look I normally reserve for creepy strangers.

"Yes. That's the exact look he gave her." Then she laughed again.

I'm a proud dad today. Good job, son! Another milestone for the baby book.

Apathy

Turns out I didn't properly change my address, so I cannot vote today.

When I say I didn't properly change my address, I mean I completely forgot to change my address.

In most communities, this would probably not be a big deal. In Palm Beach County, home of the 2000 election fiasco, one mistake could potentially alter the landscape of American politics forever... again.

So, don't be like me. Go vote. Whether you are a Republican or a Democrat, be an American. To celebrate my status as an American today, I did go to Panera Bread and Starbucks, then drove my Toyota Camry to work. If you are not American, disregard this message.

If I ever get hit on the head and decide to run for political office, this whole "forgetting to change my address" thing will certainly make for a great attack ad against me.

Happy Election day.

I'm the Undaground and I approved this message.

The 5 Stages of Grief

First, my apologies and condolences to anybody who is experiencing real-world grief from a loss.

I'm going through football grief after a loss. The situation is very different, but the stages remain the same:

Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance

I have no idea which stage I'm in. I know I've been through all of them with the exception of acceptance.

The denial was immediate and happened some time in the 3rd quarter. This can't be happening!!! Something's wrong with Tivo!

The anger began about 20 seconds after the denial. I hope someone was taking notes because I think I may have invented some awesome strung-together profanity combinations. If my son ever calls anybody a "piece of sh*t assbag donkey d*ck f*cknut", I guess they can trace it back to last night. Hopefully, it just sounded like white noise to him.

Bargaining? Sure, I've been doing that all day. They're only sophomores. Next year will be unbelievable. Maybe we can still play in the Gator Bowl if Notre Dame beats USC. Maybe Rutgers will beat Louisville and we'll beat Rutgers and we'll split the Big East and get the automatic bid. Maybe I should skip the Slimfast and hit up Taco Bell for lunch to ease my grief with some good ole comfort food.

Depression? I'm sad for the team, most of all. But yes, I'm also sad for me and all the other Mountaineer fans whose National Championship dreams were dashed last night. Every time I think I've reached this stage of grief, I get angry again, then I start bargaining. I would need a professional to really work this all out for me, but I'm not sure my insurance would cover it considering my angst is a result of a football game.

Have a nice weekend.

Game Day!

I'm a superstitious fellow. With tonight's WVU game looming, I am doing everything I can to appease the sports gods.

So, please indulge me.

I had a dream last night that if I posted a photo of a Chinese man playing ping-pong that West Virginia would win tonight. Here goes:

I will not question this strange dream. Like John Locke in "Lost", I will continue to ask the island (Sports Gods): Tell me what you want me to do!!!

Go Mountaineers! This is a defining moment. All I ask is that you score every time you have the ball and stop Louisville every time they have the ball. The world is watching.

Posting at the 24-hour mark of a 72-hour sugar rush

1. Tomorrow night is officially the biggest regular season game in WVU football history. ESPN 730pm. Check it out. It is my football equivalent of Christmas morning, except I will not be drinking eggnog and instead of “Silent Night”, I’ll be singing “Country Roads”. I will not make any predictions except for one: If we lose, I will cry real tears. I’m not afraid to say it. I haven’t cried in a very long time (3 weeks – Field of Dreams was playing on HBO2), but I will sob like a pregnant woman watching a Hallmark commercial if we falter. As far as the game is concerned, until Pat White loses a game as starting quarterback – something he’s never done – I have to think he’ll win every game. Go Mountaineers.

2. The Undaling’s first Halloween was a lot of fun. It’s nice to be able to experience holidays again through the eyes of a child. I’m sure it will get better when he actually understands what’s going on. Since he’s only been alive for exactly one month, he probably thinks Halloween happens every few weeks. I hope he’s not disappointed when he realizes it’s a yearly thing. His favorite treat is, oddly enough, breastmilk. I’m guessing it had a festive flavor last night since Mrs. U really likes the new Butterfinger Crisp bars that we were giving out.

3. For someone who grew up in Michigan, Madonna has a very thick British accent. I think I might start speaking with a Ukranian accent, just for kicks.

Happy Halloween!

Good morning and Happy Halloween to all.

Essentially, this will be our first Halloween in two years. Last year's holiday was unofficially canceled because of Hurricane Wilma. Although we've now been in our neighborhood for a year-and-a-half, this will be the first time that we actually get to see how Halloween works in our neck of the woods.

Our 9-year-old neighbor has been hanging out at our house quite a bit in recent days. Apparently, having a baby means that your house is now open to children who like to just show up and watch us be parents. While helping us scoop out the junk from inside of our pumpkin last night, she warned us about a neighborhood scam that happens every year at this time. We've been told to look out for teenagers who get candy from us, then go to the end of the street, change into another costume and return for a second helping. Personally, I admire the creativity of these mini-entrepreneurs and I may reward them with a third piece of candy just for the effort. If it gets out of hand, I'm prepared to set up a little CSI lab and fingerprint each child as they receive their first Almond Joy. When they come back, we'll give them a can of tuna so they know we're on to them.

On the other side of the street, our neighbors have asked us to join them at the end of the driveway for chili.

Yes, that's right... chili. This is their Halloween tradition. As an adult, I actually prefer slow-cooked meat and beans to Butterfinger bars. However, I would have to guess that the kids in the neighborhood will be more than a little annoyed when somebody plops a ladel-full of chili into their pillowcase. We'll just play along and avoid making waves. After all, we're still the "new people" in the neighborhood. Maybe we'll bring some Saltines out there as an extra treat for the kids.

I'm told it might be illegal for us to give shots of Jagermeister so we might wait a year before we figure out what our inappropriate tradition will be.

I guess the chili thing works for them, because they seem very excited about it. Maybe I'll tell them that I still curse the old lady who used to give out nickels in my neighborhood. I wonder what ever happened to that horrible old woman. Maybe she's giving kids dimes now.

Wanted: Evil Spider Monkey

I am Purel's customer of the year. I wash my hands with a frequency that would make any OCD patient proud of me. Since October 1, I've turned into a bonafide germaphobe in an effort to protect the 7 pound creature who has taken over our home. Somehow, this has backfired and I now have an ass-kicking cold.

I remember a simpler time, when I could cough freely and throw caution to the wind in these situations. In fact, I live by the "feed a cold" strategy and take those opportunities to eat with less guilt.

Now, everything has changed and I'm tiptoeing around the house hoping not to infect the Undaling or Mrs. Undaground. This is very difficult, considering I'm the go-to person in the household for swaddling duty. So, I will continue to administer the Vitamin C I-V drip and popping Echinacea tablets like they're Chicklets.

But mark my words, I will find the evil spider monkey who is carrying this wretched virus I've somehow contracted. Then, I will nail him with a tranquilizer dart, put him in a dunk tank/display case in my front yard and charge gullible neighborhood children their entire allowance to dunk the monkey. Stupid freaking monkey.

Raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens

Even though the Undaling is just 3 1/2 weeks old, it's clear that he's already figured out some of his favorite things.

I've found that he doesn't care much for doorbells and sleigh bells and schnitzel with noodles at this point in his life. Sadly, he's yet to experience snowflakes that stay on his nose and eyelashes. Honestly, how long could a snowflake actually survive on an eyelash in South Florida?

I'm sure some of his favorite things will soon change, once he has a chance to enjoy all the toys he has. Until then, here's what he seems to enjoy most now:

The Female Breast: I'm not just talking about his "meal ticket". The boy loves boobs. Lactation is not required. He will pull and grab and squeeze any breast within striking distance of his short little arms. I wonder if he knows that he has only about two years to live it up, because any groping he does over the next few years will be considered "adorable". From ages two to sixteen-or-so, it will probably be considered an embarassing invasion of personal space. After that, it's definitely sexual harassment.

Flourescent Lighting: Once he's older and his home decor taste develops, he'll probably appreciate more soft lighting that helps create an ambience. Now, the brighter and more profane the lighting, the better. He could sit and stare at a flourescent light for hours, or until he experiences boob withdrawal.

Showers: The boy loves water poured on his head; there is no denying this. Every two days, he gets a sink shower, and the look on his face can best be described as a zen-like trance. It probably doesn't hurt that there is flourescent lighting in our bathroom. Throw in the fact that he's usually being held by somebody with boobs at this time, and he's literally in baby paradise. How often do you get to experience your three favorite things at one time? I'm not sure I could ever achieve that myself. I do know it would involve watching TV while eating a hunk of parmesan cheese, but I'd rather not get into the rest of it.

Baby Talk

I'm not moving from this position until Daddy comes home from work.

Has anybody ever seen E.T.?

How dare you call me a bandwagon fan.

Hey, other babies... Don't hate me because I'm beautiful. I was just born this way.

Researchers Have Found

Researchers in South Florida have learned some important, little-known facts of life over the past three weeks. So far, the single biggest discovery seems to be this:

Grunting is hereditary.

This particular researcher always thought that grunting was learned and nurtured over a period of years as it builds to a crescendo in the golden years. Not so. Grunting actually begins at birth, and in some bloodlines it fills every quiet moment for one reason or another.

While an adult male may grunt when bending to pull on his socks or when trying to lift a couch, tiny newborn grunts have been recorded for many reasons. Most of the time, it means they are trying to poop for the twelfth time in a 24-hour period. Other grunts can be detected when they attempt to free their hand from a tightly-wrapped blanket, or when deciding exactly where to deposit a regurgitated dolyp of milk (Dad's upper torso is a favorite drop-point).

Somebody please notify the industry bigwigs, because I believe this discovery will lead to a few revisions in those pesky "medical journals".

A Baby Story: Part 2 (Electric Boogaloo)

The next 24 hours kind of went like this:

245am: Transferred to the labor and delivery room and hooked up to a monitor.

4am: Mrs. U starts getting very small contractions according to monitor.

430am: Mrs. U makes good use of the bedpan, then eats 4 ice chips for the nausea.

5am: Nurse 1 tells Mrs. U: “Go easy on the ice chips. Oh, and the sky is blue.”

6am: Nurse 1 starts Pitocin drip to bring on labor.

7am: Doctor makes a quick appearance to say hello, then disappears for 12 hours to coach a little league game and enjoy the rest of his Saturday.

730am: Nurse 2 begins her shift and tells Mrs. U: “You have to eat more ice chips. Oh, and the sky is green.”

8am-6pm: Social hour in the delivery room. Many visitors and little, laughable contractions, but no labor yet. In between visitors, the Undaground continually asks the nurse whether the little league game has gone into extra innings.

7pm: Doctor returns from a hard day of being on call and examines Mrs. U for the first time, then breaks the rest of her water.

701pm: Labor begins. After a day of Pitocin, it’s intense from the very beginning.

12am (Sunday, Oct 1): Epidural inserted, all is well.

12:10am: Three nurses run into the room to give Mrs. U a shot of Ephedra and an oxygen mask after a reaction to the epidural. Order and blood pressure restored.

12:30am: Nurse 3 tells Mrs. U and me to take a nap. Oh, and the sky is purple.

4:00am: Nurse 3 wakes us up. Tells Mrs. U she is progressing wonderfully (4-5 centimeters).

4:01am: Mrs. U and I do the math and figure out that we have about 5 to 6 more hours to go before pushing begins.

4:05am: Five nurses run into the room, start prepping Mrs. U for surgery with the Doctor on the cell phone. Throw me a pair of scrubs to put on and tell me to stand in the hallway until they’re ready for me. Then, they wheel Mrs. U out of the room and down to the operating room.

4:31am: The Undaling is born. We wait a split second to hear his cry, then feel the greatest rush of relief that one could ever imagine. One nurse tells me from behind the sheet:

“Dad, look over here at your son.”

I immediately look over the sheet and down at my wife’s surgery in progress. Oops. I guess she meant for me to look over there. Yes, there he is at the table. I see a gaggle of nurses surrounding a tiny little boy with a full head of rock-star hair. Two minutes later, he’s in our arms… and we are officially parents.

And life as we know it will never be the same.

A Baby Story. Part 1

The Undaground is back.

Sorry for the long layoff. I do have a good excuse, though.

I hope to get back to my normal schedule now as it pertains to this blog. I must warn you that I will be operating on less sleep than normal, so I may dangle a few modifiers or confuse “their”, “there” and “they’re” here and their.

The break from the writing was necessary, but now I’m left with a brain full of things that I never wrote about. I’ve probably forgotten a bunch of stuff, but I’ll do my best to fill in the blanks of the last few weeks. Sooner or later, I’ll have to catch up to the present day. My vast experience in using Tivo and navigating the past, present and future by taking advantage of today’s technology should help me in this effort. I guess I could start at the beginning and tell you about the birth.

Friday, Sept 29, Mrs. Undaground and I were entertaining her parents just one night after we all went to the Santana concert (seems like years ago).

Over the course of the evening, I consumed 8 to 12 beers, a bleu cheese burger, mozzarella with tomatoes, Halibut, stuffed flounder, pita chips with lobster dip, Baileys and Coffee, and about 10 other delectable items that I’ve chosen to block from my memory.

After a quick bleary-eyed Tivo session (to watch the Survivor episode that aired during the Santana show), the wife and I retired to bed.

I was just entering the deep, Heineken Premium Light-induced sleep at about 1230am when Mrs. U uttered the following phrase.

“I’ve either peed my pants, or my water broke.”

“Are you kidding? If this is the beginning of a running, nightly joke, please tell me now.”

“Let’s give it a few minutes and we’ll see.”

Because of the food, beer and Irish Crème swimming around in my belly, I guess I was hoping she had peed her pants. We’d all have a good story to tell some day and then maybe her water could break tomorrow. I could properly prepare my body for the event by eating fruits and vegetables and maybe some calisthenics. I closed my eyes again, returning to the game of catch I was having in my almost-sleep with one of the cornfield guys from Field of Dreams. I was jarred back to consciousness by my wife’s voice.

“It’s still happening. I think this is it.”

“OK. I’m awake. Whoa. Hold on.”

At this time, I did what any responsible adult would do when faced with a life-altering moment: I plodded into the bathroom like an injured Yeti, and grabbed the toilet. I wretched a couple of times. Then, I let it all go. It was disgusting. I just started writing a description of what came out of me, and then backspaced over the whole thing. There is no good that can come from those words.

As I brushed my teeth vigorously, I hollered through the toothpaste foam filling the bathroom:

“I’ll be right with you. Sorry about this. Can you hold off on having a baby for a minute until I gather myself?”

We quickly realized that although the water had broken, Mrs. U was not actually in labor. My physical symptoms were more consistent with labor than hers at that point. I was literally having contractions of my own, except my body was pushing up instead of down. I was taking sympathetic pregnancy to a whole new level.

The gruesome scene in the bathroom actually made me feel a lot better. And, voila, I was sober. Now, it was time to focus on the task at hand. Ladies, if you’re pregnant, please go pack a bag right now. Don’t wait until your water breaks. For the next few hours, we did just that. Mrs. U took a shower. I filled up the dog’s water dish and calmly explained to her that she will now be referred to as “Number 2” on our list of dependents.

We woke Mrs. U’s parents and let them know that we were going to the hospital, but go back to sleep, because it may just be some renegade urine.

We arrived at the hospital at about 230am. Once there, we entered through the emergency room. If you’ve never visited an emergency room in the wee hours of a Friday night/Saturday morning, I highly recommend it. It’ll give you a good look at what’s going on in the underbelly of the real world while you’re at home sleeping off a halibut and Heineken cocktail. We were escorted to labor and delivery by a friendly security guard. I guess he was friendly; he didn’t speak English. For all I know, he called us a couple of jackasses in his native tongue. Whatever he said, he said it in a friendly way.

Soon after, we were sitting in a room called “Triage”. As a nurse examined Mrs. U, I was considering asking what I need to do to get hooked up to an I-V. Then, she looked up at us.

“Yep. The membrane ruptured. Congratulations. You’re going to have a baby today.”

More tomorrow.

Meet the Undaling

10/1/06
4:31 am
6 lbs 1 oz
Somewhere between 18 and 19.5 inches long

Bear with me over the next week-and-a-half. I will try to post what I can, but it will be sporadic until my paternity leave is over.

Oye Como Va

Last night was the Santana/Los Lonely Boys concert. It was muy bueno. My in-laws came in for the show and are staying at mi casa until Saturday. Me gusta Santana. Now that the concert is over, we are officially ready to have el bambino at any time. We have no more scheduled plans; we're just waiting for the baby to drop. The due date is now nineteen days away. This weekend, I will install car seat bases in both of our carros, and that will be the last bit of preparation.

Here are some highlights from the Santana show:

• Carlos Santana greeted the audience in English, then Spanish. Even with a rudimentary understanding of Espanol, it was clear to me and the other 20,000 people there that he was saying the same thing in both languages. Well, it was clear to 19,999 of the other people because when he started saying "Hola" in Spanish, the woman in front of us yelled to her friend: "JESSE, WHAT THE HELL IS HE SAYING?" I guess Jesse was the linguistics expert in the bunch.
• At one point Carlos Santana sang along to the music and said "Jump, jump, jump, jump." I would like to apologize to Mr. Santana, since neither me nor my wife actually left the ground at this time, despite his encouragement. First, I looked at Mrs. U and said "Don't jump honey." I didn't want labor to begin. Then, I didn't jump because of empathy for my wife (and an inability to actually jump while standing on an inclined lawn.) I'm not sure that my synapses fire any more when my brain tells my legs to jump. It's just a sign of aging. I do think I could still get some "air" on a trampoline or in a zero-gravity environment, but it's not so easy anymore in a concert setting.
• The Undaling woke up and moved quite a bit when Los Lonely Boys began their set. Then, a beautifully-harmonized ballad put him back to sleep. When Santana took the stage, the baby continued his slumber. Finally, when they began to play "Oye Como Va", I let out a concert yell. To review, my concert yell is a sound that I only make when viewing live music (it really wouldn't be appropriate anywhere else). The folklore surrounding my concert yell has grown, and now the people I attend concerts with wait for it, then acknowledge it when it happens. I'm not sure if it was my concert yell that woke the child, or the first few bars of Oye Como Va, but nonetheless, he was up and rocking the womb once again. It's good to know that he appreciates an eclectic mix of music, since this is the first time we've noticed him responding to a Latin rhythm. I can't wait to help him develop and nurture his own concert yell.

Viva Santana!

Mom in the Express Lane

I'd like to share with you an email exchange between my mother and me yesterday. Seems I'm not the only one having strange conversations in supermarket checkout aisles:

Mom: So, I go to the supermarket yesterday for a variety of items. The check out person is a heavy-set, 19-ish, sweating-profusely male named Gary. He does not say 2 words to me while scanning my items. I handed him my Shoprite card silently – watched him move in slow motion while the theme from Chariots of Fire was going through my head. He never told me my total, I simply looked at the monitor and did the drill on the debit card not seeing the need for conversation. I actually thought he might be mute – until – after my order was bagged and in my cart, he decided to speak and asked me the question that must have been on his mind for a long time – “So, what is hummus?”

The Undaground: Nice. Did you answer? Chickpeas?

Mom: I was so thrilled that I was the chosen one to provide the information that I went into too much detail. “It’s chickpeas, you know garbanzo beans – sometimes people call them chi chi beans. They blend some other flavoring in it, garlic and such. This brand Sbarro is the best. My son and daughter-in-law introduced me to it when they were in town for Christmas. You eat it with flatbread or even crackers. I like the flatbread – not pita, you don’t need the pocket. Grill the flatbread over the burner on your stove for a minute or two. It’s delicious. Try it, you’ll be hooked. If you like this, you’ll most likely love babaganoush”

The Undaground: Good answer. Did you watch "Old Man Bites Tenderly" yet? It's all the rage.

Old Man Bites Tenderly

Somebody sent me a very funny clip of a Japanese game show. I've tried to put it on the Undaground, but it won't seem to work.

So, here's the link

Take 9-minutes of your life to enjoy this. Don't try any of it at home. If you must try it, do it in a library.

And... Exhale.

Lamaze class is over and we are now ready for labor, whenever it begins.

I realize that this little tirade I'm about to go on is selfish. I realize that I sometimes let little things bother me. Mrs. Undaground knew what she was getting into, and may very well be carrying another human being with similar hang-ups as me.

To review, our Lamaze class supposedly runs from 7 to 9pm. The first week, we were held there until about 9:45. The second session ended on time without incident. Last night, about 5 minutes after the clock struck nine, our teacher said something like this:

"OK. Hmmm. What time is it?" (looks up at large clock on the wall).

I looked at Mrs. Undaground. "I think she's gonna let us go. It's over."

The teacher looked away from the clock, as if it burned her eyes. "Alright. I want everybody to get into a nice, relaxed mode now. Cuddle up and get comfortable. There's a relaxation CD I want to play for you called 'Childbirth Relaxation'. Everybody just focus on relaxing. Dads too."

How dare she! What a slap in the face. Are you kidding me? I will not relax. I am fixated on the fact that you are keeping us past our agreed-upon class time. Unless this CD is two-minutes long, I'm not feeling it lady!

The CD began with a song about welcoming a baby to the world. Despite the sweet words and music flowing through the room, I began to think about things the teacher could have done to make me less-relaxed:

• Placed a live cougar in the middle of the room and strung a rope of meat around my neck.
• Lit my foot on fire.
• Told me she was going to steal our minivan and headed out of the room.
• Throw darts at us.
• Play some of those Jetta commercials where the people get in sudden car crashes.
• Give me a hand-massage in front of the entire class. (Oh never mind, she already did that at 8:45)

After the song was over, a woman's voice came on the CD. She began by describing the feet and telling us to relax our feet. Then she described the ankles and told us to relax our ankles. Each body part was taking about two to three minutes to describe. Tapping into my own basic knowledge of human anatomy, I realized that this was not going to end any time soon. I looked at Mrs. Undaground, who knew we were living on borrowed time. "I'm going to the bathroom."

I walked into the bathroom and just stood there. The room was so freaking quiet at this point with people "relaxing" that I knew I couldn't pee. I knew from sitting next to the bathroom for three weeks that it's possible to hear every thing that goes on in there. Why put on a show for these people? I knew that any sound I made in the bathroom would be background music for this woman's soothing voice.

Knees, thighs, buttocks. She kept slowly moving up the body.

I washed my hands for no particular reason and returned to my chair. You know, we may have been able to relax had this happened at 8:30. I looked at my watch again. 9:20 now. I looked up at the teacher. Is she sleeping? What the hell? Mrs. Undaground was pretending she was relaxed but really she was just trying to keep me from making a scene.

The CD continued, "Feel your elbows. Imagine your elbows are pointy pillows. Now pretend your elbows are dripping candles. Feel as the wax of your elbows drips down onto the microfiber couch that is your lap. Now your elbows are floating. You're doing a relaxing chicken dance. Feel your elbows flap and flow and relax. Breathe. Now think of your elbows as fuzzy little bunnies on a bed of lime jello......."

Then, it happened. Out of the corner of my eye. I saw another couple gather their belongings and slip out the door. And then there were 5. Five pathetic couples in the room.

Crap, we missed our chance. Now what? Do we follow the leaders like a couple of sheep?

Two minutes later, another couple began to stir. Maybe this was the lesson the teacher was trying to teach us. Maybe we're supposed to each gather the courage to get the hell out of there, much like we will gather the courage to leave the hospital. Sure, that sounds right.

Before the second couple got out the door, we made our move. We grabbed our pillows and pushed in our chairs with the quickness and precision of a military operation. We both waved through the darkness to our warden, like a couple of convicts making parole. I saw her flinch for a split second, as if she was going to chase us down and tackle us, forcing us to listen to more well-disguised torture. Then, she changed her mind, smiled and waved back. And just like that (poof) we were gone.

Then we went home and relaxed. Good riddance.