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.