Back from Hell

Mrs. U and I are back from hell.

On Sunday, we met some friends for lunch at about 1pm. We shared an appetizer and each had a Mango Margarita.

About seven that night, it hit us both like a ton of bricks. It was the most violent stomach illness I can ever remember having. Monday, I called in sick to work for the first time in my 8 years of employment there.

I'm not 100% sure that it was caused by this particular restaurant, so I won't name them here. I realize my readership is small, but I wouldn't want to disturb the national economy by outing an innocent restaurant chain. (You never know when this blog could take off.) Needless to say, we won't be eating there ever again, because the memory of that night will forever be linked to that dining experience.

I did file a complaint for "suspected food-borne illness" with my state's licensing agency, because I don't want this to happen to anybody else, if I can do anything to prevent it.

Since lunch on Sunday, I have eaten a piece of toast, a half cup of soup, and one can of Slim-fast to try to get some nutrients in me. I've probably lost 3 or 4 pounds in the process.

Isn't there an easier way to kickstart a diet?

Shaping a Young Mind

Okay, I’m weird.

I’m well aware of my quirks. While they often make me uncomfortable in social situations, I believe it’s what makes me different. My wife finds my strange behavior endearing, though sometimes (I’m guessing) annoying. The truth is, breaking into spontaneous song, making strange faces and noises and other Tourettes-like behavior of mine began well before there was a baby in the house.

My growing fear is that my boy will be raised in an environment where everything his kooky father does is normal, and everybody else is strange.

Will he be disappointed when he finds out that not all people have the ability to sing a perfect rendition of the “Figaro” opera without actually knowing any of the words? (Everything I know about opera, I learned from Tom and Jerry).

Is his growing brain being shaped in a way where he thinks that all people make strange faces and noises like me? Sure, people make baby sounds and faces at him now, but that will all end by the time he reaches his tweener years. I’m not sure that I’ll ever stop doing it.

On the way to daycare each morning, I like to talk to him to let him know I’m in the car with him.

“Hey, baby. I see you back there checking yourself out in the mirror. Are you having a good hair day? Remember, your hair is your strength. All those bald babies out there envy you and your flowing mane.”

“Look, there’s an old lady taking out her trash in a housecoat. I don’t care how old you are, there’s always comedy in that. Respect your elders, boy. But when your elders reach housecoat age, point and laugh at them.”

“Son, I think you could drive a car better than the dimwit that just turned left in front of us. Maybe some day when you’re older, I can teach you road rage.”

Right now, this all sounds like gibberish to him. Soon, he will actually begin to comprehend what I’m saying, and I’ll have to seriously consider choosing my words more carefully. It might take a few years for him to develop a sense of irony and a healthy helping of cynicism. He may not be able to determine when I’m trying to be funny and when I’m being serious.

If I don’t tread carefully, I can foresee some pretty serious public embarrassment coming our way (and his mother doesn’t deserve that).

Butt Paste

My boy has a diaper rash.

It doesn't seem to bother him much. I wonder if he would complain about it if he could talk. I know I would.

Butt Paste is an actual brand name diaper rash cream. We'll see if it works. I'm proud of myself and my wife for not calling the pediatrician on this one.

I wish there were more products out there that were named for what they do. It would really clear up any confusion I feel at the store.

Kleenex should make a product and call it "Snot Rag". I'd buy it just to reward their ballsy marketing maneuver.

Q-tips should be called "ear sticks", even though it says on the package that you shouldn't put them in your ear. Seriously, has anybody ever used a Q-tip for anything else? I think once we used one to apply peroxide to a wound on our cat. The other 299 Q-tips in the package were shoved into our ears. I bet even the guy who wrote the Q-tip warning on the label uses Q-tips in his ears.

Monday Musings

1. Heroes returns tonight. Mrs. U and I are both big fans of this show, so we'll be glued to our seats at 9pm est. We won't literally be glued to our seats, this is just an expression. There was one time, in second grade, when I was somewhat pasted to my seat but since it was elementary grade Elmer's I was able to pull away by the time school let out. I hope that the "previously on Heroes" segment is longer than usual, because I don't remember much about what is going on. I do know that they saved the cheerleader. I took that to mean that they saved the world, but apparently there's still some superhero work to be done.

2. So Peyton Manning, the number one dork in all of professional sports, is now going to be in the Super Bowl. Ugh. At least I know I'll probably be able to see more of his side-splittingly funny, hilarious, laugh-inducing, witty commercials between now and the big game. That was sarcasm. He and Jared from Subway apparently do business with the same ad agency. I'm pretty sure the Colts will beat the Bears, but I will be rooting against them based solely on those stupid commercials.

3. I attended a 3-year-old's birthday party Sunday. I haven't been to one of these in about 33 years, so I had a good time. There was a full-sized bounce-house there. Honestly, when I arrrived at the party, I had every intention of bouncing in the house. First, I watched my friend attempt to bounce, and quickly changed my mind. After thirty seconds, he was red-faced, out of breath, and sweating. He's in slightly better shape than me, so I figured it might get ugly if I entered the bounce house. In fact, looking at the thing, I'm not sure I could have climbed into it without expending great effort and looking like a sea mammal flopping around on the pool deck at a theme park. I hope that years from now I don't regret the decision to avoid the bounce house. Something tells me I'll get another chance in three years.

Peace Frog

During my half-hour of "daddy-time" each morning before daycare, I've been entertaining my son with song.

He likes songs with "la, la, la's" and "do-bee-do's". The joy in his eyes is precious while I'm butchering the notes, and it's a look on his face that I'll never forget.

This morning, I sang a song I've always liked by the Doors called "Peace Frog". I've never paid any attention to the lyrics whatsoever; I think it's the baseline of the song that hooked me. Not knowing most of the words, my song went pretty much like this:

(Baseline) Do da-loo do, do do doobi doobi do, Do da-loo do, do do doobi doobi do

Blee Blah on the streets, it's up to my ankles

Do da-loo do, do do doobi doobi do, Do da-loo do, do do doobi doobi do

Blee Blah on the streets, it's up to my knees

Do da-loo do, do do doobi doobi do, Do da-loo do, do do doobi doobi do

(Bridge) Blee-dee blah, blee-dee, blah-diddy blah, blee blee blee-dee blah

(Pause) Then baseline again. (he loves this part)

Repeat until he spits up.

Since I have a thirst for knowledge, I decided to look up the lyrics this morning on my trusty internet-thingy machine so I may give him a more accurate rendition during tomorrow's daddy-time.

Oh my God.

Needlees to say, I'm appalled at how bad a father I've been. Turns out the song is about abortion, and there are few pieces of music out there with more graphic lyrics. I won't even print them here, but here's a link if you're interested:

Peace Frog lyrics

In the history of music, has there ever been a more inappropriate song to sing to a baby? I don't think so. Damned baseline! Why do you have to be so catchy? I won't be surprised if the department of children and families knocks on my door later.

"Good evening sir, we heard some pretty terrible things about your morning song-choices. Mind if we come in and take a look around."

The glass-half-empty guy in me is picturing a day years from now when my son looks at me and says: "Daddy, what is that song you used to sing to me when I was a baby? It's stuck in my head. Something about up to my ankles. Strong baseline. Was there any significance to it? You used to sing it so beautifully. It made me so happy."

What will I say then?

I guess tomorrow, I'll have to go back to something a little more about sunshine and babies and a little less about darkness and such. I hope I haven't scarred him for life. From here on out, all lyrics will be screened in advance before the actual performance portion of "daddy-time".

I'm wondering if "Lola" by the Kinks is appropriate for a 3-month old. I think he may love it, but I don't like what the glass-half-empty guy has to say about that.

Anybody have any songs I should definitely stay away from? Your comments are welcome. Peace out, peace frogs.

Odds and Ends

Good morning.

1. I watched the Golden Globes last night. It's pretty easy to predict the winner in each category. Normally, if there are 5 nominees and I'm familiar with 4 of them, the 5th will win. Too bad the Office got shut out. Since they didn't win the Globe, I will present them with the first ever Undaground Award for outstanding performance in a musical or comedy. I'm not sure that there will be an acceptance speech, since there isn't an actual statue, though next year I hope to have a nice tinfoil creation for the winner.

2. Speaking of television, another season of "24" has begun. I watched the first season and half of another season, then I abandoned the show and vowed to never go back. About 8 episodes into the last season I watched, I read a newspaper article that the writers were still trying to figure out "where to take the storyline". That drove me up a wall! How can you begin to tell a story, and not know where the story is going? Ridiculous! I felt like a 4-year-old with the 24 writers as my daddy, reading me a bedtime story and making it up while they go along. "Then, the evil mastermind took over the controls and destroyed Air Force one. Then, a fairy princess kissed Jack Bauer, and he became a real boy." I know "24" is a popular show, but I've got too much TV in my life to spend time watching something that they make up as they go along. Listen up, "Lost", you're next!

3. American Idol begins this week. The auditions are always fun. Yes, the people who know they're bad are very annoying, and I hope they minimize them in the show. I assume many are like me, and watch for those people who think they're the next American Idol, until the judges slap the delusion out of them. There's a lesson to be learned here: If you have a family member who thinks they're good at something, but you know they're not, tell them before they embarrass themselves on national television. Or, better yet, don't tell them so I have something to watch on Tuesday nights.

4. I'm going to go on record and say that meatball is the most underrated pizza topping there is. Try it.

5. Finally, if your eating habits require you to have a snack at some point during the day, may I suggest the "Nature Valley, Sweet & Salty Nut Granola Bar (Almond flavored)". It is quite simply the greatest freaking granola bar ever made (with all due respect to the original Kudos bar).

TGITDAT

Thank God it's the day after Thursday.

• Big weekend of pro-football. Year in and year out, the divisional playoff weekend (this one) is the best of the year. If you're reading this on your laptop from a casino in Vegas, here are your straight up winners: Eagles over the Saints, Bears over the Seahawks, Ravens over the Colts, and Chargers over the Patriots.
• We're no longer a Tivo family. We're now a Directv HD plus DVR family. I have decided to keep referring to it as Tivo, for the same reasons that later today I will wipe my nose with a Kleenex while I Xerox some copies.
• Just in time for the weekend, the Undaling has adjusted to the daycare schedule. This is a good thing, but I'm not sure we'll feel the same way when he's up and ready to go at 6am Saturday morning.
• Speaking of the boy, his favorite toy in the whole world is a stuffed dog that wears a Santa hat and barks along to Jingle Bells. Since all of the other Christmas paraphenalia has been removed from plain view, I'm not sure when to take this away from him and replace it with another seasonal toy (anybody know where to find a singing Groundhog?) I guess that I should take the Christmas lights down from outside before I even consider removing the Yuletide pup. I hope he's not confused when he figures out that Christmastime is not a year-round thing. Since our lights were up until April last year, I'm not sure that I've even figured that out yet.

Hooked on a Feelin'

Now that Mrs. U is back to work, we're hoping to take advantage the opportunity to set a routine for the Undaling.

With a definitive drop-off and pick-up time at daycare, it should make things easier. After a few days, maybe the baby will know what to expect and when.

One thing that he's going to hopefully look forward to is the time between 7am and 730am. This has become "Daddy time" on a daily basis. Mrs. U gets him ready for daycare while I get ready for work. She leaves the house at 7am, and I basically have one half-hour to entertain the child.

Just me and him.

So far, so good.

I've found that I spend most of this half-hour making strange faces and noises. Most make him smile big and wide. Some make him break into his baby laugh, that is still in development. He is currently a big fan of the raspberry fart noise. This proves my theory that boys begin finding farts funny in the first three months of life. There's a fine line between comedy and horror, because some faces or noises make him stick out his bottom lip and wind up to cry. In these instances, I need to quickly summon some of my best material to turn him back around and get a smile.

This morning, I sang "Hooked on a Feelin" three times to him. I've read somewhere that baby's like repitition, and that seemed to be the case. Honestly, I don't really like that song. Personally, I could do without it. Somehow, I just started singing it. For the record, he really seems to appreciate the "uga-chucka, uga-uga, uga-chucka, uga-uga", so I may be able to drop the rest and just stick with that, but we'll see tomorrow.

As for today, he rewarded my pitch-perfect singing with a giant dolyp of spit-up down my shirt as I was getting ready to strap him in the carseat. Everybody's a critic.

Ummm, Congratulations?

Another major national championship game, another Gators victory. I would like to take this opportunity to congratulate my wife on her alma mater's latest shiny trophy.

I'm not going to lie. I am dealing with one of the seven deadly sins this morning. No, not gluttony (but I did go a little nuts on the chips and dip last night). I'm experiencing a slight case of envy.

As I continue to track high school sophomores who may eventually help the West Virginia Mountaineers in the 2011 season. As I learn more about the likes and dislikes and family history of our third-string weakside tight end on the practice squad, it pains me more than a little to have to live vicariously through my wife's sporting good fortune. This feeling is somewhat enhanced when she looks up at the television at random moments and says "Oh, we scored again? Cool! Go Gators!" Then she grabs my infant son's arms and forms them into an animal pantomime move that is supposed to be an alligator opening and shutting his jaws. All the while, the Undaling smiles happily, knowing that he was born into a collegiate tradition of winning.

Of course, this whole scene takes place just 10 months after we sat at a sports bar and watched the same university's team win the basketball national championship. Yes, as I pored over reading material about my team's vaunted 1-3-1 zone defense and used the word "Pittsnogle" as a verb, Mrs. Undaground looked up from her fried bar food and said "Oh, another three pointer. Awesome! Go Gators!"

Forgive me if I'm a tiny bit bitter. I am happy for my wife. I can't come up with a suitable analogy for her to describe my feelings. I guess the closest scenario I can invent is one where I'm sitting in Oprah's studio audience while my wife waits for me in the parking lot.

I envision a day where I can look up at a Mountaineer game and say "Oh, we scored again. Another national championship. Cool. Go Mountaineers!" Then, I can teach my son how to properly and safely burn a couch.

Strong Resolve

I've looked over last year's New Year's resolutions. They can be found here. Turns out, I did a pretty crappy job of following through on all of these.

For the record, I didn't exercise in 2006 much more than in 2005. I did get the stationary bike, and it has remained "stationary", except for a three-week period in September when I used it five or six times. I'm going to carry that resolution over to 07. I think just having a small child around requires me to do enough lifting and other physical activities that I'll burn more calories. Plus, maybe we'll use the bike sometime.

I didn't find a suitable pet name for Mrs. U. I think I've been calling her "babe" alot, instead of "baby", since there's another baby in the house. I'm still shopping for a good secondary pet name until the kids are past toddler age.

I believe I accomplished the embarassing #4 on last year's list. At some point, I'm sure it happened. Mrs. Undaground can't seem to remember any specific incident, but I can recall a few.

Since there doesn't seem to be a whole lot of personal accountability when it comes to following through on my New Year's resolutions, I've decided to aim a little higher this year, armed with the knowledge that nothing bad will happen if I don't reach these goals. So, here are my New Year's resolutions for 2007.

1. Learn how to solve the Rubik's cube. I saw the Will Smith movie, The Pursuit of Happyness, over the holiday. He got a pretty good job by doing this. A guy at work has a Rubik's cube, and I've been able to solve it using the internet. Now, I have 11 months to memorize how I did it, so I can impress the boss at some future job interview.

2. Get a tattoo. That's right. I'm getting ink. I'm planning on putting one on the upper arm, so nobody will really see it unless I'm shirtless (not a very common occurence in public, except for that one unfortunate incident at Sizzler steakhouse).

3. Teach my child how to walk. I figured I'd throw a gimme in there so next year I can check at least one of these things off the list. If all goes well, I will also show him how to turn that walk into a saunter.

What are your resolutions? I'd like to hear them.

Happy New Year!

The Undaground holiday hiatus is over. Looking back, I think I could have done a better job of communicating my absence. Next year, I'll take a cue from "Lost" and "Heroes" and try to leave a thrilling cliffhanger at the end of the fall season.

Oh well, spilt milk.

Here are a few updates from the holidays:

• The Undaling is now 3 months old. He's wearing 3-6 months clothes now and is very excited that he's moved up in size. I've tried to explain to him that someday, he'll dread moving up in size, but that's a long way off.
• We've confirmed that he absolutely hates being in the car. While most lucky parents out there can strap a kid in the carseat and drive around the neighborhood to get him to sleep, we're the opposite. If there's ever a day when we need to put him in a horrible mood, then we can try the driving around the neighborhood thing. I'm not sure when we'd want to put him in a bad mood. Normally, that technique is limited to parents of defensive tackles or cage fighters (the Undaling is neither, but he does throw a mean left jab).
• Mrs. U goes back to work Monday. This week we have been doing the daycare dry-run. Today will be his second day staying at daycare for a few hours while he and Mrs. U adjusts. So far, so good. There are few times in life when the term "dry-run" can be used while talking about an infant. Little of what he does results in anything dry.
• Mrs. U and I are the proud owners of a new television. The only thing better than watching Notre Dame lose another bowl game is watching Notre Dame lose a bowl game in high definition.

Happy New Year to all.

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.