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.