Dysfunctional Chewing

OK. I've been chewing food now for well over 34 years. How is it possible that I bit my cheek while trying to enjoy a hot turkey sandwich. True, I was excited about the meal. I may have been moving more quickly with the fork than usual, but not to the point of recklessness. And even though I may have been guilty of "shoveling", I chewed the food at my normal pace.

Do I really need to concentrate when I'm chewing? I thought chewing was something instinctual, like blinking or swallowing. I don't have to concentrate on blinking, unless I'm in captivity and sending covert morse code signals to my rescuers. I don't have to concentrate on swallowing, unless it's a Centrum because they're big and they smell (Advil, however, is freaking delicious.)

I guess there's never a good time to bite your cheek, but I'd much rather it happen on a Monday or Tuesday. Now, I'll have to deal with this mouth injury all weekend. Oh well, TGIF anyway. Be aware of your chewing this weekend. Don't make the same mistake I did.

Potpourri

Idol Finale
So, Taylor won. Good for him. I hope the "first single" they wrote for him isn't indicative of what kind of music he'll do. It sounded like it was intended for Michael Bolton. They need to write stuff more suitable for Joe Cocker. Here is some free Taylor Hicks music where you can find some things he wrote himself.

Long, Cold Summer
The Cubs are officially done. Stick a fork in them. We took a family field trip to "Dolphins Stadium" on Tuesday night to see it for ourselves. I came back with a positive, visual ID. Whatever final gasp of air left in this team was just sucked out when they were beaten 3 straight by the Marlins, a team made-up almost entirely of rookies. Baseball season is over for me. I guess I'll just concentrate on nesting.

Pregnancy Update
As of Wednesday, Mrs. U is 19 weeks. Our due date was moved up one day to October 18, probably because of my son's massive brain. The boy is kicking a lot. He responds to music and sugary foods, just like his dad.

Nursery Theme Decision

Mrs. Undaground and I have discussed it, and we've decided on a nursery theme for Baby Wattsizname.

This was not an easy decision. There was definitely some back-and-forth involved with the whole process. Here's how the conversation went:



I am Dad.
I am Dad.
Dad-I-am.

I do not like those nursery walls,
I do not like those themes at all.

Would you like them Mighty Mouse?
Would you like them Mickey Mouse?

I do not like the Classic Pooh.
I do not like Hot-Air Balloons.
I do not like the Jungle Scene.
I do not like the Lion King.
I do not like the Peter Pan.
I do not like them, Dad-I-am.

Could we paint some baseball jocks?
Could we paint some boats and docks?

Not baseball jocks.
Not boats and docks.
Not Mighty Mouse.
Not Mickey Mouse.
I would not paint them Classic Pooh.
I would not paint Hot-Air Ballooons.
I would not paint them Peter Pan.
I do not like them, Dad-I-am.

Would you? Could you?
Trucks and Cars?
Paint them! Paint them!
Here they are.

I would not,
could not,
Trucks and Cars.

You may like them. You will see.
You may like some bumble bees!

I would not, could not bumble bees.
Not Trucks and Cars! You let me be.

A train! A train!
A train! A train!
Could you, would you,
paint a train?

Not paint a train! Not bumble bees!
Not trucks and cars! Dad! Let me be!

Could you, would you, paint a zoo?
Would you, could you, paint it blue?

I could not, would not, paint a zoo.
I will not, will not, paint it blue.

I do not like that Dr. Seuss!
I do not like him. He's no use.

You do not like him.
So you say.
Try him! Try him!
And you may.
Try him and you may, I say.

Say!

I do so like that brilliant plan!
Thank you! Thank you, Dad-I-am!

First Images

Here are the first images of our boy. After the whole birth thing, I hope to take some better pictures than these. Honestly, I didn't take these. It was somebody else. The lighting was poor at best and, from a photography standpoint, the pictures left a little to be desired. Have you ever heard of composition, lady?

We have not yet decided on a name. I don't think it's something we're going to reveal until the birth, so we can keep one thing secret. Just for kicks, though, I'm going to try out some names while describing the photos below. We'll see if anything sticks. Oh well, here they are (You can click on the photos for larger images):



This is a nice profile of our little Nathan Jessup Undaground. Notice the hand up near his eyes. While it looks like he may be playing an early form of peek-a-boo, he's really saluting us as if he were in the military. I was watching a Few Good Men a few weekends ago, so I'm thinking that's where he got it from.

This is another profile of our son, Genus Edition Undaground. This is the first photo where you can start to get a feel for the size of his enormous brain. I'm very pleased about this. For years, I have traveled the globe, trying to find somebody to beat me at Trivial Pursuit, to no avail. Now, I have created a son who will someday be the one to end my streak.

This is what I see when I close my eyes at night and try to picture an alien. No offense to our son, L. Ron Undaground.

Mitch Gaylord Undaground is very active and agile. Here, he has completely flipped in the womb to give us a shot of his other side.

This picture really brings up the whole nature vs. nurture debate. I thought I was going to have to teach my son how to eat a sandwich while lying on the couch. Judging by the photo, Chip Undaground has already figured it out. Atta boy, son.

Undaground Announcement

I'm pleased to announce

The ultrasound results are in.

I'm proud to say,

There was no doubt about it.

Just as I had hoped,

It's a boy

Nurse: It's a boy Mrs. Walker it's a boy. It's a boy Mrs. Walker it's a boy.

Chorus: A son! A son! A son!

Ultrasound pictures coming Tuesday.

Five Thoughts for Friday

1. Ear Worm
Is it just me, or is this little ditty stuck in anyone else's head?:

Swimming, soccer, ballet, oboe, and last but not least: KAR-A-TAY-A...
Swimming, soccer, ballet, oboe, and one more time: KAR-A-TAY-A.

Makes me want to eat some doughnuts.

2. Boy or Girl?
Today's the day, hopefully. Come on kid, show Mommy and Daddy and the ultrasound technician your "special place". From this day forward, until your 18th birthday, you should always keep that private, unless it's bath time. But today, we need you to cooperate so we know what color to paint your room and we can stop calling you "it".

3. American Idol
I wouldn't say I'm officially a member of the "Soul Patrol". I haven't paid any membership dues or joined any mailing lists, but I am pulling for Taylor Hicks. Let's hear it for premature gray!!! I'm slowly morphing into more of a salt-and-pepper guy, myself.

4. Tivo Alert
Going Tribal is back for its second season. Tuesdays 10pm on the Discovery Channel. Do yourself a favor and watch it. Keep an eye out for reruns. It is quite possibly the finest show on television.

5. Number 5
I should have named this post "Four Thoughts for Friday". I would have still achieved the level of alliteration I was going for, and I could have avoided this drivel about not having an appropriate thought for the 5th thing on this list.

Pregnancy Update: Week 18

Mrs. Undaground is 18 weeks pregnant today. In two weeks, she'll be halfway there.

The baby's been moving a lot and she feels it at some point every day. I'm waiting for that moment where I can feel it, but not really looking forward to the times when complete strangers ask to feel my wife's belly. I've heard that those things happen. I hope they ask before they do it. If so, I can jump in and respond with a question of my own:

Example:
Q: "Can I feel your belly?"
A: "Can I use your bathroom?"

Here's some more information on week 18 from this website.

Our little one is nearly half a pound now and very human looking.

This is comforting. First of all, we're now speaking in terms of pounds and not ounces. Also, we are hoping for a human.

Meconium, the baby's first bowel movement, is accumulating within the bowel.

Because of this, I've been reading the newspaper to Mrs. Undaground's belly each day. I'm sticking with the sports section, just in case it's a boy. If it's a girl, she'll deny ever having a bowel movement.

If your baby is a boy, his prostate gland is beginning to develop.

Atta boy!

If you notice your belly making jerky movements in sync, don't panic; your baby may have the hiccups!

I have an uncanny ability to get rid of peoples' hiccups, but I've never tried it on a fetus.

If you're having an ultrasound to verify fetal age or for other reasons, your careprovider will probably schedule it between now and 20 weeks. It's often possible to determine your baby's sex at this stage, and you'll be able to tell arms from legs and all sorts of delightful details!

This is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon (Friday). We can't wait. We are hoping that the baby cooperates and we can find out the gender. If so, you'll read it here on Monday. Of course, if you're part of the phone tree or you personally know our ultrasound technician, you could find out before then.

Remembering Tom and Jerry

When I was just a young lad, back before the days of answering machines and microwave ovens, I enjoyed coming home from school and watching a television program called "Tom and Jerry". Maybe you've heard of it. It was a show about a cat and a mouse. It was great fun to watch these two natural enemies navigate their way through their cartoon world.

Sometimes I related to Jerry. The poor, little rodent was just trying to make a better life for himself, but he had to constantly dodge an angry, hungry feline who was out for blood.

Most of the time, I identified with Tom. On the surface, Tom was a simple cat. He enjoyed blues music, female cats with long eyelashes, and fresh-baked pie. Unfortunately for him, his owner had a pest problem and apparently didn't have the money to hire a trapper.

Deep down, Tom was as complicated as you and me. He had complex feelings and often struggled with ethical decisions. In animated form, these decisions manifested themselves as a little angel standing on one shoulder and a little devil on the other.

Often, when I am trying to figure out how to respond appropriately to a situation, I think of Tom and try to recognize what my little angel is saying versus what my little devil is saying. It's good to take the time to weigh your response before you say something you regret.

I'm not sure what made me think of Tom and Jerry. I don't really like cats. I'm allergic to them and they have a tendency to vomit on your couch whenever they feel like it. I also think all mice should be fed to snakes.

As for "Tom and Jerry" the television show: eventually, the show morphed into a piece of crap. Jerry began wearing a bowtie, Tom lost his ability to frown or get angry, and the two of them were suddenly best pals. It might be one of the worst cases of jumping the shark ever in television history. Whoever made the decision to take the show in that direction was obviously listening to the little idiot standing on one of his shoulders.

Cha-Ching

Happy belated Mother's Day to all mothers and mothers-to-be out there. We "celebrated" by taking our first family trip to Babies R Us. It was very sobering.

First, since I'm a big fan of gadgetry, we checked out the baby monitors. I like the video monitor, but it does cost a little extra. It would be nice to have the video thing. What if the kid decided to smile or clap his/her hands for the first time with no humans present to witness it? A video monitor would make sure we didn't miss it. Cha-Ching.

We then walked through the maze of car seats. These are very nice. Turns out we'll be able to start out with an infant car seat with a base for each car, then switch to two of the bigger car seats that don't come with individual bases. Cha-ching, cha-ching, cha-ching.

We'll need a stroller for festivals and parks, and a smaller stroller to travel with; possibly a third stroller if I ever want to take up jogging. Cha-ching, cha-ching, cha-ching.

The high chairs are cool. Mrs. Undaground and I like the Eddie Bauer model. Why not live it up a little for that first mashed potato experience? If you're going to smear food all over a piece of furniture, why not go top-of-the-line? Cha-ching.

One of the things we're looking forward to is decorating and furnishing the nursery. If I were a little more metro-sexual, I may have chosen a career as an interior decorator. Crib, changing table, dresser. Cha-ching, cha-ching, cha-ching. What's that Mom-to-be? You like the wall unit with the hutch? All of those pregnancy books tell me I should agree with everything you say for a few more months so you don't get stressed out, so I say "Let's go for it." Cha-ching.

Mrs. Undaground informed me that crib mattresses are sold separately. Cha-ching.

We definitely need a glider-rocker. Oooh, this one is comfortable. I could live with this thing. Let's just check out the tag. Wow! $600? Ottoman sold separately for $250? Who buys a chair without an ottoman? Wait, here's one for $150 for the whole set. Let's sit on this one. Feels like concrete. Cha-ching, cha-ching.

Ouch. I might have to dust off my waiter shoes and pick up a few weekend shifts at a local eatery so our baby can be rocked in a suitable chair. It turns out, babies are expensive. I had no idea. I can't even bring myself to write about the research we've been doing on the cost of daycare. It's too depressing. On the bright side, Mrs. Undaground is now actively encouraging me in my quest to win the World Series of Poker.

Whatever happened to the old days? I'm not talking about the 70's'; I'm talking about the covered wagon days. All a baby needed then was a blanket and a boob, and all was well. I guess there was a greater risk of being carried off by a coyote, so video monitors could have been helpful, but that's about it.

No wonder I washed my parents' cars and mowed the lawn when I was a kid. I owed them. I've already got a to-do list for this unborn child that I'll present to him/her on their 11th or 12th birthday. I'm thinking that by the time the baby's a toddler, I can teach him/her how to perform simple tasks like retrieving the remote control or brushing the dog. Until then, we'll just have to deal with a freeloader for a couple of years.

Survivor Finale

Blah. Disappointing. Actually, the last several weeks were kind of lame to watch.

To all future Survivor contestants: Even though you think this show is about winning a million dollars, it's not. It's about making good TV.

If you've been chosen for Survivor, you probably want to give up your old career and be a reality television star. Look at Boston Rob or others who've made "Good TV" on Survivor. They're still finding their way onto television screens, stretching out their fifteen minutes of fame beyond their Survivor experience.

If you ever make it on the show, keep this in mind. Alliances are boring until somebody flips. Giving somebody your "word" is only entertaining if you then go back on your word and stab them in the back. I'm not talking about real life; I'm talking about a television show.

Winning a million dollars should be your second priority; making a good TV show should be your first. Nobody ever remembers the winners as much as they remember those who strived to make memorable reality tv moments.

I'll watch the next season, no doubt, but I won't be happy about it unless somebody entertains me.

Undaground Cinema

As you've probably already read, my sister-in-law was in town last weekend. One of the activities we shared was a viewing of "Almost Famous". She had not seen it, and it is one of my favorite movies. I was inspired to make a list of the Undaground's top 25 movies not named Godfather I or II (those are givens).

All of the movies listed below stand the test of time with me. If I stumble upon them on cable or pop the movie in the DVD player, I can stay interested no matter how many times I've seen it. Some of these are wildly popular. Some are cult favorites. You've probably seen most of them. If not, I encourage you to go get them. They are listed alphabetically.

Almost Famous
One of two Cameron Crowe movies on this list. This is a semi-autobiographical account of his own teenage years. He uses music in his movies as well as anyone. I love this movie.

American Movie
The only documentary on this list. This was made just before reality TV became a reality. Go rent it. Unintentional comedy is hilarious.

Ben Hur
The oldest movie on my list. The chariot scene is a miracle considering when this movie was made. If you haven't seen it, carve out a couple of Saturday mornings and watch it one hour at a time. It's quite long.

Best in Show
I like all of the improv movies made by the original Spinal Tap crew. This, however, is the best of the bunch.

The Blues Brothers
The only musical on this list. It's a shame that they even tried to make a sequel, which I promise I will never, ever, ever watch unless John Belushi comes back from the dead and watches it with me.

Big
Forget Forrest Gump, Saving Private Ryan, Philadelphia, Apollo 13 or any of Tom Hanks' other critically acclaimed movies. They are all great films, but this is his finest acting performance, hands down.

Bull Durham
I like baseball movies. I loved Field of Dreams, Bad News Bears, Eight Men Out, but Bull Durham stands above the rest as the best baseball movie ever made.

Caddyshack
I defy you to play a round of golf and not hear someone in your foursome quote this American Classic.

Garden State
This was made very recently, but I think it will still be on my list a decade from now.

Goodfellas
I almost left this off the list because Henry Hill is a rat. Every time I watch it, I dislike him more. I wish they would make a movie from somebody else's point of view. I guess it's a cautionary tale about choosing friends wisely.

The Graduate
This is another classic made before I was born. If you like "The Graduate", then rent "The Pallbearer" starring David Schwimmer.

Groundhog Day
Rarely does a story come along that hasn't been told before. This is one of those stories.

Groundhog Day
Rarely does a story come along that hasn't been told before. This is one of those stories.

Groundhog Day
Rarely does a story come along that hasn't been told before. This is one of those stories.

The Karate Kid
I don't care if this is thought of as more of an 80's punchline than a great movie. This movie had a profound effect on me as a youth. Ask my mother, who had to pay for Karate lessons, or the poor Asian man down the street, whose fence I painted without his permission.

Meet the Parents
Great comedy. Skip "Meet the Fockers", because it's the exact same movie.

Napoleon Dynamite
If you didn't get it or don't like it, watch it 10 or 12 more times and it will get better each time.

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
Jack Nicholson's best movie, if you ask me.

The Right Stuff
This is another extremely long movie, but worth your time. It's educational, too.

Rudy
Every time Rudy sacks the quarterback, a tear rolls down my cheek.

Say Anything
Another Cameron Crowe movie. John Cusack is an 80's icon. This is more of a dramady than a comedy. See Better off Dead if you want wacky Cusack comedy.
Shawshank Redemption
Unbelievable storytelling.

Sixth Sense
I knew that there was a surprise ending, and I didn't guess what it was. It all seems so obvious now.

Stand By Me
This is another one of those movies of my youth that I watched over and over again. Just like Shawshank Redemption, this was based on a Stephen King short story.

Swingers
Probably my favorite movie not named Godfather. It's the guy-equivalent of a chick-flick. If you haven't seen it, indulge yourself.

Top Gun
That's right. I said it. The bald guy who plays the screaming officer on the aircraft carrier is my favorite character actor of all time. "I gotta send two of you bozos to Miramar!!!"

The Usual Suspects
Another surprise ending. Cool movie from top to bottom.

Questions? Comments? Concerns? Do you love any of these movies? Hate them? What did I miss?

Pregnancy Update: Week 17

Mrs. Undaground is 17 weeks pregnant today. Next Friday, we hope to find out the gender. I've consulted a couple of baby websites for this vital information, that you can see below in green.

This is a period of rapid growth as the fat begins to form underneath the baby's skin.

If the child takes after his/her father, this fat will be undetectable until sometime after the 23rd birthday. It's all downhill from there, though you can generally lose some of that fat by consistently travelling uphill.

The reflexes are probably in place now as the baby sucks, swallows and blinks.

Our baby doesn't suck. Knock it off. Your website sucks. There, how do you like it?

Have you felt any fluttering in your uterus? You may be feeling your baby move any time now if you haven't already!

Yes!!! Mrs. Undaground called me yesterday at work to tell me she felt the baby move for the first time. She said that, at first, she thought it was just gas. I happen to know that my wife doesn't get gas. (There was that one incident about three years ago, but we agreed never to speak of it again.)

Anyway, for the record, the first movement was felt at 16 weeks, 6 days. To celebrate, I enjoyed a beer and Mrs. Undaground had some vodka. Not really.

Your baby is approximately 5 inches long and weighs in at about 140-145 grams (5 ounces). This means that the baby now weighs more than the placenta.

This also means our baby weighs about the same as a regulation baseball. The same baseball that will be placed in the left hand of my first-born son just minutes after his birth. The world needs more left handed pitchers. Daddy needs a new house in 20 years. Go, boy, and make millions with that golden arm.

If you were to get an abdominal x-ray, your baby's skeleton would be visible. His/her movements become stronger and more frequent now. Reflex movements are fully functional as baby will regularly suck and swallow and loud noises outside the uterus may actually cause the baby to startle.

Guess I should stop hiding behind doors and jumping out to scare Mrs. Undaground. I might scare the baby.

Common Courtesy

Even though I generally dislike people, I honestly try to do my part to make the world a better place.

Yesterday, as the traffic light I was sitting at turned green, I stopped and let some guy pull out into the lane in front of me. I often do this as a sort of traffic karma gesture. I figure if a guy from Jersey lets people in, others will feed off of that positive energy and do what they can to make my commute more enjoyable in return.

Normally, when I give someone a gift, I don't expect anything in return; I get enough joy out of giving. However, when I give someone a gift in traffic, I expect a hand wave. I admit that I don't really benefit all that greatly from a hand wave, but it's nice to know that someone appreciates me and my car for the gesture.

In this case, the guy pulled out and didn't even look my way. Once he was in front of me, I decided to take the bull by the horns, and I gave him an exaggerated "you're welcome" wave, hoping he would catch it in his rear-view mirror. Still nothing.

I'm sorry to announce to the drivers of South Florida, that this self-absorbed jerk has now ruined it for all of you. For the rest of the work week, I will not be letting anyone into traffic. Find another sucker.

(Update: In moment of weakness, on the way into work this morning, I relented and let an old man pull in to traffic in front of me. He extended his hand in a wave and kept it out his window the entire time he negotiated his turn. My faith in the human race has been temporarily restored.

Thanks old man. I'll probably see you in the grocery store, when you run your cart into the back of my legs in the checkout line.)

Mid-morning crisis

How did I get to this point? It's 1130am on a Saturday, I'm sitting in a crowded room, picking fragments of half-chewed cookie from my face and my shirt. I look down at the shirt, and on it is a familiar cartoon character from the 70's. The rest of the people at my table are belly-laughing. The sight of other people laughing is enough to make me laugh. Have I been transported back to my days as a toddler? Am I in a high chair, eating my first baked treat? I guess for me to understand why I'm in this predicament, I'll have to retrace my steps and start at the beginning.

One of the things I enjoy doing is going out to breakfast on Saturday mornings. It's something I've always looked forward to, and something I'd like to continue doing for many years to come; even into my golden years.

As I inch closer to my 35th birthday, I understand that it's a milestone of sorts. First of all, in three weeks, I'll be legally able to run for president. I don't plan on throwing my hat in the ring, but it's nice to know I'll have that option. At 35, I'll also become a father for the first time. Those are two huge positives. There are, however, some negative feelings for me considering I'll be closer to 40 than 30. I don't have the money to go out and buy a corvette, but I heard that helps. In the meantime, I can only go by the mantra that you're only as old as you feel, and try to live that way.

I felt nice and young this past Saturday. My wife's sister and a friend were visiting to attend some concerts at Sunfest. They have both just completed their first year at college and, all weekend long, I was reminded what it felt like to be a college student, when concerts and Saturday morning breakfasts in a strange town were the norm. As I pulled on my Speed Racer retro t-shirt and a baseball cap and looked forward to a western omelette and another concert late in the day, I felt like a college student again, if only for a short time.

Saturday breakfasts in South Florida can be tricky. Sometimes, we have to deal with long waits. Other times, the service is less than adequate. Every time, we have to dodge elderly folks as they wander aimlessly in and out of our personal space with no regard for anybody too young to remember the Depression.

We were seated relatively quickly, and it was immediately clear that our waitress was having a bad day. She seemed slightly annoyed that we weren't ready to order the first time she asked. She gave us that look; that look that says "It's breakfast dummies... It's the same menu everywhere for breakfast. Eggs, pancakes, french toast... Why would you even need to look at the menu." In another life, I was a waiter at a country club and often had to work breakfast. I understood, so I didn't let it bother me that our server was less than cordial.

Feeling young and a little saucy, I took advantage of Mrs. Undaground's new willingness to order more stuff, since we're eating for three. In addition to the omelette, we enjoyed some potato pancakes.

Mmmmm.

Monday seemed so far away. Thirty-five seemed even more distant. Life is good, and so are carbohydrates.

The waitress dropped off our check a few minutes after the food came. We had all we needed, or at least we thought we did. She must have felt a pang of guilt for giving us a slight attitude, so as we finished up our breakfast, she returned to the table with a small plate. "I brought you girls some cookies from the bakery."

Oh, that was nice. I hope there's a cookie in there for the man at the table.

Sure enough, she continued, "And there's even one in there for (pause) Dad."

Gulp.

For one-tenth of a second, I asked myself, "How did she know that we were expecting? That's so sweet. "Dad" has a nice ring to it."

Then, in the time it took for my jaw to hit the paper menu in front of me, I realized the horror of what had just happened. The girls were giddy with laughter. Mrs. Undaground was trying to figure out whether she was "Mom" or another one of my daughters in this woman's twisted Bizarro-world fantasy.

I wanted to call the waitress back to pursue a line of questioning about her statement. What about my Speed Racer shirt? How old do you think I am? How old do you think she is, or her, or her? Why did you pause before you said "Dad"? Was it so you could look at me and confirm it? Did your parents have you when they were 13? Did you escape from a facility recently? Are you on any medication? What is an appropriate tip for someone who has just insulted you?

She didn't return to the table. I sat there for a moment, stunned. I watched the waitress as she stopped by a newly-seated table. What would she say to them? Hey ugly and uglier, can I take your order. She was no prize, herself. I'm not one to judge, but I was injured. People in glass houses shouldn't walk around naked (or throw stones, for that matter).

I lashed out like any young, impulsive person would. As my wife's sister bit into her cookie from across the table, I looked at all three of my dining companions and said "I can't believe I just got mistaken for middle-aged by someone who looks like they're from Middle Earth."

This struck my sister-in-law funny, and the cookie quickly became a comedy prop. She did a spit-take, that propelled cookie fragment across the table like shrapnel. I'm hit! I caught a piece of soggy shortcake in the forehead, one in the throat, and two more on my shoulder.

So there I was: humiliated, wearing a cartoon shirt, and topped with cookie crumbs like some kind of dumbass-sundae.

"You're only as old as you feel."

The day had barely started, and I had gone from feeling like a 34-year-old, to feeling like a college kid, to feeling like a 55-year-old father of three, to feeling like an overgrown toddler. I guess that's the thing about being in your mid-30's: Sometimes, you're not sure how to feel. Am I old? Am I young? Depends on who you ask.

For the record: That night, I partied like a rock star. Hey, if Mick Jagger can do it...

Pregnancy Update: 16 weeks (belated)

To anybody who's following along with the pregnancy updates, I must apologize that I didn't give an update late last week. No worries, here it is:

Thursday, our baby reached 16 weeks. The fetus is now emptying his/her bladder once every 40-45 minutes. I can relate, because whenever I'm out and drinking beer, I follow that same timeline (once I break the seal, of course).

The size is now about 4 inches long, weighing 3 ounces. That's the same weight as the adult pygmy marmoset, the world's smallest monkey. However, the pygmy marmoset still has a significant height advantage over our little fetus. Most of that is probably due to the monkey's long tail.

Although it would be a nice conversation piece, I'm hoping our child is born without a tail. I have no idea where we'd find an appropriate carseat.

People Watching

Wednesday night, as Kool and the Gang jammed their way through "Jungle Boogie", Mrs. Undaground asked me, "Do you see the guy playing air guitar."

"Of course, I've been fixated on him since the beginning of the song. You know, I like it when people think they're safe from public ridicule and they just let themselves go like that. When I see someone acting so carefree in public, I like to watch them and silently judge them the entire time. It makes me feel good."

Surprisingly, my wife, who's a much better person than me, agreed. "I do too. It's just people watching."

About 15 minutes later, I was grooving along to the band, and singing lyrics into Mrs. Undaground's ear.

"Try my best to do what's right.... Take it for a ride, everything's nice. Ooooooh Joanna."

I have no idea how I knew the words to these songs. They must have been burned into some remote area of my brain back in the day when I was a stupid kid who listened to a top 40 station. My feet were rhythmically shuffling back and forth, and my knees were bending along to the music. My hands may have been doing something expressive as well; I can't remember. Technically, I think I was doing what ancient civilations used to call "dancing".

It was at that moment when I realized that there might be some cynical jerk lurking in the area, watching me, and telling his wife to look at the Kool and the Gang groupie singing along. Whoever it was, I hope I made him feel good about himself.

Say No to Crack

My wife is just four months pregnant, and I can already see that I'm becoming more conservative and more protective of family values. I'm cursing up a storm these days, because I read that a fetus can hear sounds from the outside world at six months. To me, that means I have two months more to let the expletives fly before I invent some new words to use for emphasis or to express frustration. I've also begun taking a look at the world around me with a more critical eye. Even at this early state of parenthood, I've started to prepare myself mentally for when my child begins asking lots of questions about birds and bees and ass cracks.

In the late 70's and early 80's, our country was overrun by an epidemic frequently referred to as plumbers' crack. At the time, is was mostly portly gentlemen who happened to be handy with a wrench. The fashion industry has now come full-circle, and it seems that low rider jeans and pants are what the females are wearing. Apparently, belts are not required.

I see gratuitous butt crack almost every day. Whether it be at work, bars or restaurants, pixelated butt crack on MTV, or just about any other public place, it's everywhere. I'm not one to judge other people, but it's safe to say that very few of these exhibitionists are supermodels. Most have similar body types to the original plumbers in the 70's. Now that I'm bringing a child into this world, I feel like I need to let the world know that their butt crack is showing before I have to prematurely explain to my son or daughter that it's not OK to show strangers your ass.

But how do you let someone know? Next time I see someone's ass, should I just walk up and say, "Excuse me. I'm not quite sure how to tell you this, but your butt is showing?" I might get punched, or they might think I'm coming on to them.

I understand the need to keep up with today's fashion. I tried growing my hair like Ashton Kutcher, so I'm just as guilty as the next guy.

Here's a tip. Next time you sit down somewhere or bend down to grab something, put your hand on your lower back where your belt loop is. If you feel your butt crack, it's probably visible. Maybe try the buddy system. When you and a friend are out in public, do them a favor and check their crack, then they can check yours in return... for the kids.

Odds and Ends

American Idol
I made a prediction after they picked the 24 finalists that the final two boys would be Taylor and Chris and the final two girls would be Katherine and Paris. Unfortunately, I didn't put it on this blog; I just said it to my wife. Taylor is my favorite, but I don't know why I even bother because I'll never own a CD from any of them anyway. The problem is that the songs they sing on the show are a lot better than the crap that will be written for their album.

A Baby Story
Have you seen this show? It's on TLC and Mrs. Undaground has started to Tivo it each day. It's safe to say that, based on this show, she's going with the epidoral. We've seen three or four women on there who said "I'm going natural. No drugs whatsoever." Then, they show them screaming during labor. Next, they cut to commercial (usually for pull-up diapers or something). When they return from commercial, they show the expectant Mom lying in bed with a smile on her face. "I just caved in and got the epidoral. It's good. It's real good."

I promise to be as supportive a husband as I can be. But, make no mistake, I'm elated that men don't get pregnant. If that were the case, I'd grow old with a house full of cats.

Hockey
The season is over for the Philadelphia Flyers. They were beaten 7-1 last night. I've improved my own ability to deal with the hockey playoffs. Instead of suffering through the debacle, I flipped over to something else when it was 2-0, checked back when it was 3-0, then abandoned it and checked the internet in the morning. This marks the umpteenth time in my life that the Flyers have been preseason Stanley Cup favorites and have failed to win it. I can't complain after WVU and the Steelers years, but it's painful nonetheless.

Tonight
Do you know the answer to this question:

How you gonna do it if you really don't wanna dance?

(Answer: By standin on the wall)

Mrs. U and I are going to see Kool and the Gang tonight as part of West Palm Beach's Sunfest.

Get your back up off the wall.

Fetal Heart Rate

Mrs. Undaground got to hear the heartbeat again on Friday. 150 bpm. The child is obviously taking after me because that's about where my heart rate is after a few minutes on the exercise bike.

Internet research shows that the whole fetal heart rate as a gender predictor thing is just an old wives tale. One site does say that a faster heart rate means there's a 5% greater chance that it's a girl. 150 bpm is about 10 bpm above the average, so there you have it. Vegas odds are set at 55/45 that it's a girl.

In 3 weeks, we'll both attend the ultrasound and know for sure, assuming the baby cooperates and gives us a look.

I've been telling everybody that I have no preference whatsoever. I'm not saying this to be politically correct. I mean it. I can find so many great things about having a boy and having a girl. I'll take either. Mrs. Undaground, on the other hand, has a preference. I won't say what it is, because I don't want our son to read this some day and get mad at his Mom because she wanted a girl.

Bigger than a plastic Wookie

Yesterday, our fetus reached the age of 15 weeks. According to the book, he/she is now about the size of a softball.

I've been tracking the size analogies, and we've gone from beans and nuts, to small fruits, to a fist, and now sports equipment.

I think that these comparisons are sometimes difficult to grasp. What good is it to know that your fetus is the size of an apple? I've seen apples that come in all kinds of different sizes. Granny Smith is not necessarily the same as Golden Delicious. It's all so confusing.

I'd like for the baby book industry to consider my idea. I suggest that they revamp the size comparisons to reflect more human characteristics. Instead of going from kidney bean to peanut to small plum to peach to apple to fist to softball, why not try this:

Week 5: Your baby is the size of an adolescent sea monkey.
Week 6: Your baby is the size of an adult sea monkey.
Week 7: Your baby is the size of a shrinky-dink after it's been in the oven.
Week 10: Your baby is the size of a Star Wars action figure.
Week 11: Your baby is the size of the Chewbacca Star Wars action figure.
Week 14: Your baby is the size of a bobblehead doll.
Week 16: Your baby is the size of a Barbie with a large head.
Week 17: Your baby is the size of a Ken doll with a large head and more defined genitals.
Week 23: Your baby is the size of a Smurf, but not as blue. (3 apples high)
Week 36: Your baby is the size of a cabbage patch doll.

Moonlighting

I'm a spender. I look for reasons to spend. My wife is somewhat supportive of my spending, but is mostly responsible for keeping me responsible. Just after we announced our "news", I came into a little bit of money courtesy of a few generous individuals who I like to get together with to play cards every two weeks. Typically, when blessed with a windfall, I like to go spend it before we have a chance to do something more responsible. With a new baby on the way, my interest in photography, and an inferior digital camera, it made sense for us to upgrade the mega-pixels and make a major purchase.

When we purchased our old camera, it was great. Now, it's outdated. I'm sure that in three years, I'll be writing about how my new camera is inferior, but at this moment it's everything I could ask for. Here it is:

Here are a few photos I've taken with it.

Now, I've been commissioned to take some professional headshots for a good friend of mine who happens to be an actor.

When he called me to ask if I'd do it, he said "The only rule is that you're not allowed to coach me like a photographer would coach a model. There will be no 'work it' or 'show me your angry muskrat look' or 'you go, girl' or any of that stuff."

I stuck to my guns, and used my poker skills to call his bluff. "I'm sorry. I can't do it, then. My only condition is that I can say whatever I want to you while I take the photos."

He quickly backpedaled. "OK. You can say whatever you want."

I guess he didn't have a backup photographer with a new camera waiting in the wings.

"And, when you come to the photo session, I want you to bring me a paper bag containing the fast food of your choice."

"Done."

"One more thing. I may ask you to wear a couple of funny hats."

"Fine."

The negotiations are over. I probably could have asked for more, but he's a friend. It will be a few weeks before we shoot the photos. With his permission, I will post some of the photos on this blog when it's all over. Maybe it will land him a juicy role.

Big Bucks, No Whammies!

According to a Gerber commercial I saw yesterday, the 300 millionth American will be born this October, and Gerber will be there for the baby.

Excellent! We are due in October.

I immediately went to Gerber's website to see what we can win. They directed me to another website, gerber300.com. As far as I can tell, there is no prize (other than the gift of life, of course). There is a counter, though, that keeps track of all of the babies born and I guess they've calculated that October is when the magical moment will happen. Are we supposed to call Gerber when our baby is born so they can update their website? This is the first I've heard of that. Who else do we need to call? Can we just call our immediate family and have them pass the word to second cousins, former neighbors, and baby food companies?
I'm a little irked that there's no prize. What did the 200,000,000th kid win? My estimation is that the 200 millionth birth happened sometime in the early 1900's, probably during prohibition. It couldn't have been an iPod, because they weren't invented yet. It was probably just a cotton gin or something, but at least they made an effort. I was hoping we could win a million dollars, or 300 million, or a lifetime supply of baby food. Maybe our baby's photo could replace the old Gerber baby on all of the jars of strained carrots and liquid turkey. Can we at least get a tote bag?

Maybe there is a prize and they're just not announcing it, in an effort to prevent fraud and deception. Technically, some unscrupulous parents-to-be could schedule a C-section, collude with their doctor and deliver one minute after the 299,999,999th child is born. I pledge that Mrs. Undaground and I will not do that. If we win this thing, we're gonna do it on the level.

Tuesday Stuff

Blogger Down
This network was down for some reason yesterday, and I couldn't post the Shakespeare insult generator til late in the afternoon. Sorry, for those of you who needed an insult and had nowhere to turn. If this ever happens in the future, remember the Sweathogs. Yes, I'm talking about the rag-tag bunch of misfits from Mr. Kotter's class. "Up your nose with a rubber hose" can bail you out of almost any situation.

Glad Hockey is Back
I forgot what it was like to watch the Flyers get blown out in a playoff game. 8-2 last night... not fun to watch. Honestly, I bailed out in the middle of the first period, when it was 4-0. Maybe it's the pregnancy, or the Steelers Super Bowl win, or the WVU Sugar Bowl win, or that there was no hockey season last year, but a Flyer's playoff loss just doesn't hurt like it used to. If they lose the next game, though, then I'll be pissed.

For all you American Idol Fans
Andrea Bocelli will be on the show tonight as the remaining contestants sing the greatest love songs of all time that Fox was able to get the rights to. Bocelli's the Italian pop-opera guy (not to be confused with rock-opera, or bluegrass-opera). Meanwhile, Ace is on the talk show circuit. I'm pleased to announce that he's still trying to stare into my soul through the camera, even though the last votes have been counted and he was eliminated. At least he's "staying true to himself, dawg".

Thou bootless fat-kidneyed puttock!

Looking for a comeback? Been insulted?

"I know you are, but what am I" and "I'm rubber, you're glue" will only take you so far.

Here's a Shakespeare random insult generator. Enjoy.

Helper Monkey

Very busy and a little under the weather today (It's probably just a cold, but there's a chance I have bird flu or the mumps).

Here is a story about a very special monkey.

Click Here

Just think of the household magic this animal could work if teamed up with The Clapper.

If I ever win the lottery... Helper Monkeys for Everyone!!! Of course, for myself, I will get a helper monkey to feed me jellybeans while I watch reality television.

...and I shall call him Steve.

Potpourri

Pregnancy Update
Mrs. Undaground is 14 weeks today. The baby is about the size of a fist, according to the book. There is a significant difference between the size of my fist and my wife's fist, so I guess the baby's size falls somewhere in between.

American Idol
I, for one, am elated that Ace is gone. I'm tired of his attempted eye sex with me and other viewers every Tuesday night. Maybe he and Constantine can start a boy band.

Love Ya
Mrs. Undaground left me a note last night to tell me she had fed the dog. She signed it with a doodle of a heart, followed by the word "ya". This morning, I saw the note again and decided to tease her about it.

"Love ya? That's so yearbook."

"I always write that."

"Three people from my 10th grade chemistry class wrote the same thing."

"I didn't have to sign anything, you know. You would have known who the note was from."

I guess she has a point, unless strange people are breaking into our house and feeding our animals.

No Instruction Manual

This weekend was an opportunity for Mrs. Undaground and me to "practice" with a small child. I prefer the term "babysit", but for our purposes, we'll call it practice.

The lucky child was the Undaground nephew. He's 9 months old now, and is at the crawling and standing up stage. This stage is probably a lot easier than it will be in a few weeks when he's walking.

Everything went very smoothly with our practice run. We took him to a restaurant, because that's something that we'll want to do with our own child. We also took him to church on Sunday, and he slept through most of the service. While he was awake, he just stared at the lady sitting next to him (I think he likes redheads). I am a regular viewer of Supernanny, so I explained my expectations to him before we entered both establishments. I'm not sure that he understands these things yet, but it seemed to be effective.

He ate everything we put in front of him. Mashed up green beans, baby food, bottle, water, veggie puffs, etc. He napped when it seemed appropriate (as did I), and he entertained us all weekend. I even took a little bit of time to practice my mock enthusiasm voice. I have a long way to go with that. The practice run was surprisingly easy. It was almost effortless. For Mrs. Undaground, I think it was nice for her to see that the morning sickness will ultimately subside and we will be left with a little human being. It energized both of us.

Even though everything went swimmingly with the child, the equipment was a different matter. There was nobody around to explain how to "shut" the stroller before we left the house. After about 15 minutes of trying to do it, Mrs. Undaground relieved me to take her second run at it. Just as I was about to figure out a Plan B, I heard my wife call out that she had closed it. Then, she said "As soon as I did it, it all seemed so simple." As a college graduate, I was a little frustrated by the whole stroller incident, but I figured it would someday be something to look back and laugh at, as I performed some baby task with great dexterity. Besides, without an instruction manual, some things are difficult to learn on your own. That's why they make instruction manuals.

After our visit to see the Easter Bunny (we were late and missed him), we rolled the stroller and the kid back to the car to go back home. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mrs. Undaground struggling with the stroller again. Apparently, whatever she had done to close it up the first time had happened accidentally. There we both were, for about 15 minutes, in 93 degree heat, struggling like a couple of idiots with the stroller. We pushed every button, yanked on every piece of plastic, and even tried the Fonzie maneuver by punching it (that was my contribution). At one point, a bitter, childless, arrogant woman walked by and threw back her hair. "You two must be new at this", she said.

"Do you know anything about strollers", I asked.

"No, sorry. I know nothing about them."

I was too busy to bother, but normally what I would say here is "Then please shut the hell up and go about your business". Instead, I just chuckled because I like to take abuse from stupid strangers.
Finally, I threw the stroller in the trunk in its open position and drove home with the trunk slamming up and down and my hazard lights on.

The next day, after church, an eerily similar incident happened as we tried to remove the car seat from the car. Eventually, my wife was able to extract the base of the seat after some minor surgery on the car and a great deal of teeth gnashing. My dental hygienist says that teeth gnashing can cause tunnel vision and forehead acne, so you can probably imagine how frustrated we were.

This weekend, we both learned that caring for a child is extremely simple. On the other hand, operating all of the equipment and accessories is extremely frustrating and much of it involves manic persistence, teamwork, and a willingness to be publicly embarrassed in order to get it right.

I guess that's irony, since we will soon find the exact opposite to be true.

(Editor's Note: I will not attempt the "Fonzie maneuver" with any living thing, just jukeboxes and strollers)

Namibian Birthing Suites

It seems like everybody's pregnant. I don't think it's any more people than usual, it's just that we notice it more. It's kind of like the movie "They Live" with Rowdy Roddy Piper. He gets a new pair of sunglasses, and when he wears them he can see all the aliens. We've seen a lot of pregnant women lately.

Mrs. Undaground has taken a greater interest in the supermarket magazines. With PittJolie and HolmesCruise (I refuse to conform) also pregnant, many of these publications have focused a lot of their attention on babies.

People Magazine is reporting that Brad and Angelina are planning to have their baby in Namibia. I'm guessing they don't do epidorals there, so I'm not sure we'd be interested in something like that. Apparently, they will also give their child a Namibian name. Mrs. Undaground has four baby naming books and there are countless websites devoted to the subject, but I can't find the top 10 most popular Namibian names. I did come across this website, where a writer discusses Namibian names and their meaning. I'm a little partial to "Kalambeehamba ". It rolls off the tongue.

Meanwhile, Tom and Katie are planning a "quiet birth". This is where there's no talking in the delivery room. I kind of like this idea for television viewing between the hours of 8 and 11, but I'm not so sure it's for us in the delivery room. I'd like the opportunity to commend Mrs. Undaground on her fine work and throw some trivia questions at her to distract her in between contractions. It is interesting in the article that Tom says if Katie needs pain medicine, she gets pain medicine. I thought Scientology forbids it, but I guess he'll make an exception. That's love. The article also reveals that Tom is attracted to Katie because she loves cupcakes (sources tell me that Nicole Kidman was more partial to twinkies). "Loves cupcakes" was just above "Will convert to Scientology" on his list.

That makes all the sense in the world to me. In fact, I love Mrs. Undaground first and foremost because she loves pancakes.

I look forward to the time where all of our kids get together for a multi-cultural, non-denominational playdate. I'm not sure that I'll allow any children or parents to jump on our couches, though.

Nursery Theme

Apparently, you need a theme for a room these days when you bring a child into the world. Simply splashing some pink or blue paint on the walls is no longer acceptable. Mrs. Undaground and I are currently negotiating this process.

"I have a great idea for a theme, and best of all, it's asexual", said my wife.

"If you say it's asexual, then that means it's for a little girl."

"No. This could be for a boy or a girl."

"I'm listening."

Wait for it...

"Hot air balloons", she said, proudly.

"Yep. That's a girl's room."

"How is hot air balloons only for girls?", she asked.

"I can't bring my boy into this world and then put him in a hot-air balloon room. We might as well just buy him dolls and call him Mary Anne or something."

"I don't think so, but maybe I will buy him dolls."

"If you want to do air travel, that would work for a boy's room. We can put a hot-air balloon in there, right next to the fighter jets, rockets, and scud missiles."

"What's wrong with just balloons?"

"I don't know. I can't put my finger on it, but when I close my eyes, I can see our kid in therapy 20 years from now saying 'They put hot-air balloons all over my walls as an infant'".

And so it begins. This process might take awhile. Feel free to post your suggestions here.

Pregnancy: Week 13

Mrs. Undaground's pregnancy hits 13 weeks today. The fetus is about 3 inches long, or about the size of a peach (but not quite as fuzzy). I found some week-by-week pregnancy sites on the internet here and here, and this is what they had to say about week 13:

As our baby continues to develop, the vocal cords begin to form. The face is looking more and more human each day as the eyes begin to move closer together instead of being on the sides of the head and the ears move to a normal position.

I'm glad this happens during fetal development and not early childhood. I doubt kids would be so cute if they had eyes on the sides of their head. Their peripheral vision would be excellent, however.

It would be possible now to determine the baby's sex by looking at the genitals if we could only get close enough. (We usually can't "guess" via ultrasound until around the 16th week.)

Stop looking at my baby's genitals. I'm serious.

Your high-risk period is over, and it's time to begin sharing the news. Hooray! Your morning sickness should be starting to subside.

Not so fast. Mrs. Undaground has perfected the spontaneous bathroom sprint, a maneuver usually reserved for Moroccan restaurants.

Yes, you're really having a baby! Now that the high-risk period is over, you probably have some pregnancy announcements to make. That is, if you've been able to keep the big news a secret.

We were expert secret-keepers. Water in a beer bottle and fake gin and tonics at parties can work wonders.

You should be seeing your doctor again: Make sure to track your progress in your pregnancy journal.

Journal? People are blogging nowadays.

If you haven’t quit smoking make today the day. That’s right. Take that pack and break it in half. If not for you, then do it for your baby. Find out why your body should be a smoke-free environment.

What!!! So smoking is OK through the first trimester? I've never heard that before. Maybe I should pick a different website for these weekly tips.

Meow! Who’s changing the cat box? Not you, I hope. Cat feces and raw meat can contain toxoplasmosis, a disease that can cause birth defects.

I've assumed cat litter responsibility on behalf of the family. I tried to pay a neighbor kid to do it, but they started a union and are currently picketing in front of the house. Now I'm convinced that I have toxoplasmosis because I've had some joint pain and a ringing in my ear.

For Dad
The joy of telling friends and family the news really helps settle in the reality that you're going to be a dad. Enjoy this time! If at all possible take a romantic weekend away to celebrate the victorious second trimester.

Thanks for the tips, but maybe you should warn Dads that Moms might start crying during Lowe's Home Improvement commercials. I'm very proficient at planning weekends but have a tendency to freeze up when my wife is crying about a hardware store.

Congraats

I worked late last night. Can't write much today. Tomorrow, an update on the pregnancy.

In the meantime, I saw that actors Peter Saarsgard and Maggie Gyllenhaal are expecting their first child.

Let me be the first to say: Congraatulations to both of them on their engaagement and on expecting a baaby, who should probably be named Aaron. Maaybe our kids can have a plaaydaate.

Dentist Chair Theater

As much as I dislike having my teeth cleaned at the dentist's office, I have to give my hygienist some credit. She programs her procedures much like the host of an FM radio show would.

Yesterday morning, as I sat in the chair, preparing for another serious breach of my personal space, she started her show.

"Let me just go put your information in the computer and I'll be right back to tell you about King Tut."

"OK, sounds good."

I'm not sure what I just agreed to. Immediately, I thought that she was going to take the opportunity to try to sell me some new dental service that may or may not involve gold teeth and lots of gauze wrap. I'm usually edgy as it is when I'm sitting in the defenseless dental chair position, so I started practicing my affirmative and negative responses knowing that I would soon have two hands and several sharp instruments in my mouth. "Uh huh." Good, that sounded like a clear "yes". "Uh uh." That could definitely pass for "no". Alright, I was ready for her sales pitch.

She came back and started poking around in my mouth. "So, I went to the King Tut exhibit down in Ft. Lauderdale."

Oh, I see. This isn't a sales pitch at all. This is a story. She clearly thought about what to talk about while she was driving in to work today. That's kind of cool.

"They found that King Tut had four impacted wisdom teeth, but he died when he was 19. If he had lived longer, he would have had some serious pain."

I said "clearly", but it sound like "eeee-eeee". I guess it could have passed for "Tee-hee" because she forced a laugh as well. I don't know much about King Tut, but being a King of any kind would probably be tough enough. Throw chronic mouth pain into the mix, and I can only imagine the difficulties he would face.

She continued. "And, did you know that DNA showed that his father was not actually his father. His real father was his grandfather." She removed her fist from my mouth so that I could respond.

"I didn't know that. That's incredible."

I was enjoying the break from the mouth-work, so I considered saying more about it, but I didn't have anything additional to add, so I opened wide again and tilted my head over so she could violate me a second time.

Over the next twenty-minutes or so, my hygienist ran through her list of stories as if she was reading the morning paper to me. For those of you who didn't have any dental work yesterday, or if your hygienist is less informed than mine, here's a few other facts I learned while in the dentist's chair.

• Tallahassee police are tougher than other police. Once, when her daughter was walking to a party with an unopened six-pack, they jumped out of the bushes to ask for her ID.
• I should use a soft brush all the time, never a medium brush.
• South Dakota is working on a new abortion law. Someday soon, it won't matter because there will be artificial wombs and they won't need people at all.
• Sensodyne is good, but Colgate for sensitive teeth is cheaper, and works just as well.
• A man in Texas paid $1 million to have his dog cloned. The dog looks the same but could end up with a completely different personality.
• When rinsing after a wisdom tooth extraction, it's one teaspoon of salt for every cup of warm water.
• Even when they say there's new technology to avoid locking keys in a car, it's still possible to do it, so you should always give a spare key to a friend or family member.
• Floss every day, not just before you get your teeth cleaned.

Holy Moses

Gwyneth Paltrow and the guy from Coldplay had their second child. Like many, I have been waiting to hear what they named this child, since the first kid is named Apple. This one was named Moses, but will forever be known by the nickname "Oranges".

Whoever tried to compare Apples to Moses? It doesn't make any sense. I respect that you went with a popular fruit to name the first child, but as Dr. Phil would say "You have to own it." Own it by following through. This child should be named after a delicious, healthy snack as well. How about Mango, Papaya or Seedless Grape?

Very disappointing.

Monday Morning

Good morning. In addition to a Monday at work today, I have a teeth cleaning and a trip to the DMV. Wow, those are three things that I strongly dislike. Maybe I'll get a paper-cut at some point today and go shopping at the grocery store right next to Century Village, then on the way home I can get stuck in traffic and change a flat tire.

I love Mondays.

For those of you who are paying attention, the Chicago Cubs at 4-1 and just swept the Cardinals. I know I've said this before, but this might be the year. If not this year, then next year, or definitely 2008.

You sure got a perty neck

So, it's been two-and-a-half months since I announced that I had Greg Brady hair. Since that day, I've waited. The hair was becoming a running joke among my family and friends. People began to look forward to seeing my "wings" more than they looked forward to seeing me. I had a Matthew McConaughey thing going with the hair and the voice, just not the pretty face or gym-built physique. I was looking less like the bunk-bed Greg Brady and more like the Greg Brady that moved into the attic and installed beaded curtains.

Last night, as I was driving home, something made me drive past the neighborhood to Supercuts. I think that something may have been my reflection in the mirror and the increasing time it's been taking to get ready in the morning. Lately, I've been doing less brushing my hair and more taming it.

I waited for my turn and sat down in the chair. The hairdresser/barber/whatever said "So I guess you're a scissor-cut?"

Clearly, my long flowing locks made her think that I'm a long-haired guy who just needs a trim. "No, I'm a clipper guy. This is a big job. I haven't had a haircut since October."

She could barely contain her amusement, but pressed on and began shearing my head.

I watched as the curls fell down the smock I was wearing and on to the floor. The gray-to-brown ratio had predictably increased once again. Feeling saucy, I engaged the woman cutting my hair in conversation. This is very unlike me; to incite smalltalk, but I guess I was relieved to be actually getting a haircut.

"I think I looked younger with the long hair. Problem is, I looked like a young slob."

"You're right. You did look like a slob. I was thinking that when you walked in here."

Wow, brutal honesty. You don't see that every day. Mercilessly, she continued.

"If you think that hair was doing anything for you, you're wrong."

Ouch. I get it. I'm in the chair. At least I can write about this conversation. OK, I'll play. "I thought that's how the kids were wearing it these days."

She quickly answered me: "Not on this planet."

I followed up with "Haven't you ever seen Ashton Kutcher?"

"Not in this chair."

After about 15-minutes, the transformation was complete. The hair was so long that I could have saved it for a makeover show or something. I think I'll have to keep it short now for awhile because I don't want my child's first vision in this world to be that of a hideous, bushy-haired old guy trying to look younger.

As dramatic as the haircut was, it only cost $12. I gave her $20 and told her to keep it. "That's for your honesty. Don't stop telling the truth. I'll be back in less than 6 months."

Sad Clowns

I was having a serious pregnancy craving, so Mrs. Undaground and I went with another couple to a hibachi place last night. We're both very fond of this style of food, and we've enjoyed it together once every 6 months-or-so since we started dating.

In addition to the delicious food, It's really just an entertaining treat to have it prepared in front of you. The chef is usually a cross between a skilled grill-man, samurai warrior, and circus clown. I've been mesmerized by this style of restaurant since I was a small child. I would choose Benihana as my "birthday dinner" not only to enjoy the good food, but mostly to see the ancient art of precision knife-work right in front of me.

I think there was a time when I was 11 or 12 where I wanted to be a Benihana chef for a living. I realize I'm not Japanese, but neither was "The Last Samurai", and they accepted him (even with the whole Scientology thing). I thought they could take me in and teach me, and I could help raise their kids and contribute strong ideas at village meetings, all the while learning to chop off shrimp tails at lightning speed and flick them anywhere. Maybe some sort of exchange program would have worked. My parents could have housed a Japanese boy for a few years and tought him how to become skilled with the remote control, win at Trivial Pursuit, and to use sarcasm more effectively.

So last night, I was very encouraged by our table. Shortly after my soup and my first Japanese beer (when in Tokyo....), another family joined us and there was a young boy there. Excellent. They always do all their tricks when there's kids involved. We'll get the works. Ha! Look interested boy. Don't screw this up.

The samurai arrived at the table and put some oil on the grill. He made smiley faces out of the oil. Cool. Keep it comin. Then, he did the egg thing where he flips it up with the spatula and catches it while it's spinning. I golf-clapped for him. The boy looked uninterested. Maybe he had a vision problem, or he was malnourished. I don't know. The chef then made the onion slice volcano, and fire shot from the grill. Woo-hoo. The boy was not impressed. Maybe his father's an acrobat or fire-eater and spinning an egg is too elementary.

I was rooting for the chef. It was the equivalent of a stand-up comic bombing on stage. I was doing my best to cheer him on, like the comic's brother-in-law clapping in the back of the room and offering courtesy laughter at a high volume. Nothing. Somewhere after the onion volcano and before the shrimp appetizer, the chef's spirit was broken, and he gave up. He never performed another trick. Yes, the steak, shrimp and chicken was awesome, like a party in my mouth, but underneath it all was a layer of sadness.

Some entertainers would push harder in a situation like that. Maybe they'd try a dangerous new trick, or fall down to get laughs. Not this guy. He had too much pride for that. Hibachi chefs are nothing if not proud. They've spent too many nights bandaging their fingers and treating minor burns to have to embarrass themselves. I respect him for that. Here's to you, clown.

Jumping the Shark

Yes, the Page 6 rumors are true. Access Hollywood's speculation is correct. Mrs. Undaground is officially with-child.

I'm guaranteeing that this won't make "The Undaground" jump the shark. I know that the introduction of a child has marked the beginning of the end for many American classics such as Married With Children, Friends, and The Cosby Show (after Rudy got too old, they brought in a cuter, younger model).

I am convinced that, from this day forward, I will have instant blog material for life. I had no idea how easy it is to make a pregnant woman cry. I'm just now learning this, yet each day I somehow stumble over one of the buzzwords that bring on the tears, like "griddle", "notepad" or "fern". I know, who would be so insensitive to utter griddle in front of a hormone factory like that?

For the record, our due date is October 19th. I have plans to golf that day, so I hope Mrs. Undaground can hold out til early evening.

Song Lyrics

"With Arms Wide Open"

Creed

Well I just heard the news today

It seems my life is going to change

I closed my eyes, begin to pray

Then tears of joy stream down my face

With arms wide open

Under the sunlight

Welcome to this place

I'll show you everything

With arms wide open

With arms wide open

Well I don't know if I'm ready

To be the man I have to be

I'll take a breath,

I'll take her by my side

We stand in awe, we've created life

With arms wide open

Under the sunlight

Welcome to this place

I'll show you everything

With arms wide open

Now everything has changed

I'll show you love

I'll show you everything

With arms wide open

With arms wide open

I'll show you everything ...

oh yeahWith arms wide open..wide open

[Guitar Break]