Announcement

The Undaground blog will return from summer blogging vacation on Tuesday, Sept 4.

Until then, please enjoy the rest of the internet, and, as always, cook your chicken thoroughly before eating.

Tuesday Tidbits

Weigh-In
Starting weight: 243.2 (July 2)
Current weight: 230.4 (July 30)
Total Weight Loss: 12.8 pounds
Weight Change this week: -1 pound

Just one pound this week. I wonder if that was a "plateau". I guess we'll see. All in all, I'm pretty happy that I survived the week, considering I was out of town for two days at a conference. I ordered room service in the hotel and there were some unexpected french fries on my plate. I have prided myself in strong willpower over the past month, but that was a little too much temptation. I ate half the fries. I stayed within my "points" for the week, but I may have slowed the weight loss a little with those delicious fries. This weekend, I'm off to Key West for a bachelor party so I'm anticipating another slow week. Blame it on the beer.

Age of Love
Did anybody watch this show? It ended last night. It was a very predictable ending, since the guy had to choose between and 48 year old and a 25 year old. (He is 30). Throughout the whole show, I've been telling Mrs. U that there was a much better way to do it. They pitted a bunch of 40-somethings against a bunch of 20-somethings. They should have made it a bunch of 40-somethings against a bunch of 19, 20 and 21 year olds. That would have made his decision much more difficult than it was.

Baby Talk
The baby is picking up a lot of language lately. He attempts many words and mimics our own words. Right now, he's really into learning and saying animal names.

Also, he had his first haircut on Sunday. He now looks more like a little boy than a baby. This is good, because I'm ready for him to be a little boy (since I'm not a big fan of babies).

Frank

Baby Frank

Welcome to the world, Frank.

Born at 2:53am. 7 lbs, 12 oz. His father says he has a big head (more evidence that he has Dad's genes). 19 inches long.

Mom and baby both doing great.

I will post a photo tomorrow morning, assuming they're able to get one to me.

Monday Weigh-In

Starting weight: 243.2 (July 2)
Current weight: 231.4 (July 30)
Total Weight Loss: 11.8 pounds
Weight Change this week: -3.4 pounds

Good week for weight loss. That's nice because I have some upcoming danger spots, like a business trip out of town and a bachelor party in Key West. I'm happy to report that my jowls are gone. I was developing some very impressive basset-hound type flaps on my face and I think they've completely disappeared. (I wasn't sure if it was my weight or aging, so this is a nice surprise).

In other news, still waiting on the birth of the Undaground nephew in New Jersey. I think yesterday was the actual due date, so he's late (which makes me believe he takes after his father).

The Undaling is obsessing over Elmo these days. Elmo's cool, and I can accept that. I'm so happy it wasn't Barney. We've done our best to shield him from that purple freak. He's still cruising furniture and I think he'll take his first steps sometime in the next month. No pressure, son. Honestly.

He's also experimenting a lot with language. He has his own words for cat, dog, monkey (Bob), and Moooooooo. Dada is still his favorite word, but Mama is his favorite person.

Live Blogging from Daddy Daycare

Just me and the boy today... at home.

Daycare lady is on vacation for 2 weeks, so I'm taking one day and Mrs. U is taking 9.
That sounds fair, right?

Oh, first things first. I weighed in at 235.0 today. I'm going to get on the scale again in a little while and see if I can't get a lower starting weight this week. I have to blame the low weight loss on a great dinner at a friends house Saturday night. It's hard to count points when the host plates the food for you.

Here we go:

7:14am: Mrs. Undaground sneaks out the door and leaves for the day.

7:30am: I heat up an Eggo for the boy's breakfast. Then, over the course of 30 minutes, he puts tiny pieces into his mouth and quickly demands more. If I gave him the whole thing, he would most certainly shove it all in his mouth at one time. Apparently, at this stage, putting food in the mouth is much more fun than chewing and swallowing.

7:52: Three loud baby farts and some grunting. This is officially the first time in the day that I panic. Please make this a slow-metabolism day, Undaling.

8:00am: OK. Changing table no good since baby is in phase where he fights diaper and clothing changes with everything he's got. I move to the living room floor. I am armed with a diaper, wipes, diaper rash cream, and a strong resolve. He is armed with underdeveloped fists of fury and a baby mean streak that would predict a future in cagefighting.

8:03am: Getting the diaper off is the easy part. What a treat! The grunting and gas was a false alarm. He's just wet. Nonetheless, he treats the changing like a warm-up sparring match and definitely gets the better of me. If that had been an actual emergency, our walls would be painted with baby poop. Note to self: I might have to change poopy diaper while he sleeps.

8:07am: Baby is happy and toddling around in walker. I blog. Now he's looking at me for direction. I must find something to entertain him until morning nap time (approx 930am). I shall fire up the tivo and try Elmo. (to be continued - time permitting_).

8:50am: Early nap. I attribute this to his hour-long opera aria this morning from 4am-5am. Just as I got him down, the lawn guys arrived and are now buzzing past his window with a weed-whacker. If he wakes up from that, it will surely upset the balance of the rest of the day and I'm in for it. Note to self: step one: invent a quieter weed-whacker, step two: tba, step three: profit. Despite my dread from the lawn guys, I must remark on the overwhelming feeling of freedom that occurs as I slowly close the door of the baby's bedroom. It's not unlike the feeling you get in college when you show up to class and the professor is nowhere to be seen. When that would happen, we'd go to a bar and enjoy fried food and beer. With my current momentary freedom, I will use the bathroom and eat a weight watchers 1 point carrot cake. My, how times have changed. (to be continued).

9:05am: If I go more than three hours between now and 430pm without updating, it means I'm in trouble. If this happens, somebody please call Supernanny, stat. Baby still napping. Weed whacker is gone. Phew.

After a "moment of personal reflection and positive thinking", I now weigh 234.8, and will accept that number as this week's starting weight. So, here's the official update:

Starting weight: 243.2 (July 2)
Current weight: 234.8 (July 23)
Total Weight Loss: 8.4 pounds
Weight Change this week: -1.4 pounds

(to be continued)

9:40am: Baby woke up at 9:30. 40-minute nap. Still no poopy diaper. I think I just changed a clean one. Nothing like throwing diaper money away. Oh well, maybe he had a "not-so fresh feeling". Somehow, I miraculously got him dressed and ready for the day, and now he's chugging a bottle. As soon as that's done, we're going to take a father and son trip to Walgreens to get some baby Ambesol for his aching gums. I'm not sure if his clothes match, but I still look at him being dressed as a win for me.
(to be continued)

10:56am: The eagle has landed. Wow! We got back from Walgreens with Orajel in hand (not ambesol, orajel). We started playing on the floor, then, I smelled it. I had a mini-panic attack and all the blood rushed from my face. After a few minutes of rocking back and forth and singing Swing Low, Sweet Chariot, I scooped up the soiled infant and pressed on. I decided to use the changing table and strapped him down (even though that doesn't stop him from rotating around like a rotisserie). I made every goofy sound I could and then started talking in a Swedish accent, telling him I'm the Swedish nanny, Sven. He was distracted and amused just long enough for me to get the job done without incident. Some higher power took over my hands as I was changing him, and, just for a moment, I was like a diaper-changing ninja (a Swedish diaper changing ninja). I thanked him profusely after the event and we have moved on.

FYI: If Mrs. Undaground asks, the poopy diaper experience went horribly. I pulled a hamstring and shouted every swear in the book. The baby's possibly scarred for life. I accidently kicked the dog, and I broke the knob on the dresser. I am no good at poopy diapers. I repeat... NO GOOD at poopy diapers. Carry on.

Now, as I prepare to publish this update, I think he's pooping again. (to be continued).

1:18pm: Lunch time was a success. Turkey and vegetables for the boy (in jarred form). He doesn't like to be fed from a spoon ever since he can feed himself with his hands, so this was another major victory. I had to fool him into every bite by doing the airplane sound and then making an explosion noise with my mouth each time a spoonful landed in his gullet. I don't have some twisted fascination with plane crashes; I just do what I need to do to get the boy to eat. Besides, I don't believe the little spoon-shaped planes carrying turkey and veggies were actually crashing. They were just making hard landings in his mouth.

The grunting earlier was a false alarm and he wasn't pooping. I think he is now, though, but I hope I'm wrong again and he'll save the second one for when Mom comes home. The boy sure does grunt a lot. Wonder where he gets that. (to be continued).

2:17pm: This will more than likely be my last update. The boy has been asleep for his afternoon nap for about 20 minutes. That gives me anywhere between 20 more minutes to an hour before he's up. Bottle is locked and loaded and ready to go in the fridge. I've eaten. All is well.

There were a few casualties today that I'd be remiss if I didn't mention. I am wearing my third t-shirt of the day because of various fluids and substances that I somehow like to wear. Also, it looks as if a tornado hit Babies R Us and then hovered over our living room for a little while. Other than that, I'm proud to say the child is fed, clean and well-rested and nothing happened today that will have him bitching about it in therapy when he's twenty.

Seacrest, out.

Monday Weigh-IN

Starting weight: 243.2 (July 2)
Current weight: 236.2 (July 16)
Total Weight Loss: 7 pounds
Weight Change this week: -2.8 pounds

Not bad. My spare tire is now one fit for a family sedan, rather than an oversized SUV.

Sorry the blog updates have been few and far between. The dog days of summer have been busy.

Happy Birthday to Third-Born. The big three-oh... and, about to become a Dad any day now. "Feliz Cumpleanos Hermano", which, of course, means "Happy Birthday Herman."

Good Monday Morning

Accountability
Starting Weight: 243.2
Current Weight: 239.0
Weight Loss in Past Week: 4.2 pounds

Not bad for a week that included two barbeques and a trip out of town. Plus, no real exercise to speak of besides carrying the boy around in his car seat and bending down repeatedly to pick up items he's thrown on the floor.

Tooths
Speaking of the Undaling, his top two front teeth are coming in now. I think I can feel the bottom ones as well. He seems to be doing very well with the teething. We really haven't noticed any difference in his mood. He is fascinated by these teeth, and constantly feels them with his tongue. His favorite word is now "Aaa". Sounds like the "a" in "cat" or "hat". To him, "Aaa" seems to mean all sorts of things, including:

"Hey, look at me."
"Hey, look at that."
"Hey, give me another piece of food."
"Good morning."
"Good night."
"This is a good television program."
"I seem to have soiled my diaper."

And much, much more.

Viva Kobayashi!

Did you watch the Nathan's 4th of July hot dog eating contest yesterday? If not, I feel for you. It was one of the finest dramatic moments in sports that I've ever witnessed. This will be a match that I'll tell my grandkids about. For my grandkids, it will probably be the first sign that Grandpa's losing it, but that's besides the point.

Joey Chestnut defeated Kobayashi, by eating 66 hot dogs and buns in just 12 minutes. (that's one hot dog every 10.9 seconds.) For a moment, it looked like it was going to be a photo finish, until Kobayashi had what they call a "reversal" in the last 10 seconds of competition. That's a fancy sports term for puking. After watching it, I almost had a reversal of my own, but was able to keep it together.

The Undaground blog would like to honor this great champion, Kobayashi. He won the contest the previous 6 years. He is the Lance Armstrong/Tiger Woods/Babe Ruth of competitive eating, and he went out like a true champion, besting his own career record by more than 9 hot dogs. On this day, Joey Chestnut was just better.

Just for kicks, I added up the Weight Watchers points for 66 Nathan's hot dogs and buns. In 12 minutes, Joey Chestnut ate 726 points worth of food. Under my current plan, that's the equivalent of what I'm allowed to eat in 19 days. It would take Mrs. Undaground 36 days to eat that much. Incredible.

In a related note, I ate 8 Tostitos Baked scoops with salsa last night in under 5 minutes. Weight Watchers points: one.

I fully expect Kobayashi to train even harder this year, and return next year to try to reclaim his mustard yellow belt. I'm not sure anybody will ever hit 66 again, but fans of the sport once thought 40 hot dogs was impossible.

D-day

243.2.

That's my starting weight.

It's easily the most I've ever weighed in my life. It's about fifteen pounds more than my weight on my wedding day. It's a few pounds more than the height of my "pregnancy weight", when I went on a crash diet and lost 15 pounds (only to gain it back while celebrating the joy of fatherhood).

My wife is doing Weight Watchers for a month. She wants to lose 8 or 9 pounds to get back to pre-pregnancy Mrs. Undaground. I've decided to join her. I had two choices: go on a diet, or gain another 100 pounds to qualify for gastric bypass surgery. Even though gaining 100 pounds would be fun, it would probably have a negative effect on other aspects of my life (like my range as a softball shortstop and having to buy a new "fat guy" wardrobe.)

The Biggest Loser resumes on NBC in the fall. Last year I watched as a 400 pound guy lost weight week after week. When there were about 4 episodes left, he passed me, then continued to lose weight until he weighed 75 pounds less than me. I don't want to go through that viewing experience again.

So, every Monday morning, I will step on the scale and report my weight here, for accountability.

Stay tuned.

Goal weight? I don't really have one, but in a perfect world I'd hover around 200-205. I'd be able to buy pants at Old Navy again if I lost 20, so that's my immediate goal. Until then, I might have to visit Big and Tall man store.

They say it's a lifestyle change. I'm fine during the weekdays. It's the weekends and the evenings where I need to change. No more TGIFridays fried macaroni and cheese, unless I'm willing to use up an entire day's worth of "points" on them. As long as my wife is making whole wheat tortillas wrapped around rabbit food for dinner, I should lose some weight.

When I arrived at work this morning, you guessed it, there were donuts. I looked right at a little glazed bastard, took a deep breath, and told him, "go f*** yourself". That's willpower, baby. If I don't get called upstairs to human resources later, I'll consider it a small victory.

If you'd like to jump onboard the Undaground weight loss challenge, post your weight in the comments section and join us. Go ahead, I dare you (I'm talking to you, third-born).

A Word of Caution

I learned something last week, and I'd like to pass the nugget of wisdom along to you.

When a heavy thunderstorm is bearing down on your home, unplug your DSL or cable modem from the wall if you're in a position to do so.

My wife called me at work last Tuesday to tell me that the power was out and the dog had run away. By the time I got home, the lights were back on and the dog had returned muddy and soaked. Later, we found out that those were only minor and temporary annoyances. The bigger, longer-lasting problem was that our modem, wireless router and computer were all fried. Normally, I'm a big fan of anything fried, but not this time. Whatever happened came through the phone line and destroyed everything in its path. (I'll be sure to stay away from the phone during a storm from now on as well.)

I've since replaced the modem, thanks to the good folks at AT&T and UPS. We have internet service again, but only on our laptop (and not wireless). I guess next I'll have to buy a new router, then begin to assess the damage on our desktop computer. What a pain in the ass.

I would also implore those who have large amounts of personal items like photos, videos and music on their computer, to back it all up on an external hard drive or on CD. I would hate to lose all those years of memories because of a stupid electrical storm. Thankfully, no matter how damaged our computer is, we have an unharmed, external hard drive that houses all of our photos and my collection of 80's power ballads. (Phew, don't know where I'd be without "Sister Christian" by Night Ranger.)

There. That's the end of the useful information. Now back to the mindless drivel that will do nothing to enhance your life.

I Knew It!

To the first-born, go the smarts.

I have to thank my younger brother (a third-born) for sending me the article linked above. I'm guessing, based on the subject matter, that he wants me to call him back and read it to him. I am impressed that he figured out how to send an email, considering his birth order.

This explains so much.

I neglected to mention that, last Friday night, I extended my lifetime unbeaten streak at Trivial Pursuit. There is nothing fun about playing Trivial Pursuit anymore. It's too much pressure. As an undefeated folk-hero of the game, I have nothing to gain and everything to lose each time I roll the dice "for the wedge". Based on the article linked here, I guess I increase my chances of winning by playing a sibling. I've "retired" from competition three or four times in the past, but have come out of retirement each time to answer a well-worded challenge.

Thanks, Mom, for having me first.

Heard any good jokes lately?

I haven't.

Recently, I wrote about the personal angst involved in having "Happy Birthday" sung to me. Sunday evening, I was reminded that there are much worse things that could happen.

After the baby went to bed, Mrs. U stepped outside for a moment and ran into the neighbors across the street. They're nice people who I enjoy having a beer with from time to time. I hadn't stopped by in awhile, what with the whole fatherhood thing going on. My wife walked back in and told me the neighbors wanted me to come over for a beer. It sounded like a nice way to end Father's Day, so I pulled my sneakers on, grabbed a beer, and sauntered across the street.

Their home was in the final stages of a "race day" (big Nascar fans, the neighbors). Immediately, I found a new friend in the form of a drunk brother-in-law, simply because I was wearing a Steelers hat (I knew I should have gone with the Flyers hat -- Nascar fans rarely trickle over into hockey). I surmised that the drunk guy had already annoyed everybody else at the get-together, and I was the fresh meat walking across the street.

As I looked for a place to recycle my Coors Light bottle and freshen up with one of the neighbor's Bud Lights, I found myself cornered on their front patio with the drunk brother-in-law.

"F'in this, f'in that, possums, pickup trucks, Freebird, Earnhardt."

I'm not sure exactly what he said, but that is what I heard. Nice to hear all the profanity as his wife and one-year-old son traveled back and forth, loading up the car for the inebriated ride home.

"Hey, I got a joke for ya."

Oh, God.

I hate this. This is much worse than the Happy Birthday thing. Not only do I have to listen, I have to give him some sort of validation in the form of fake, forced laughter.

He began to tell some joke about a foul-mouthed parrot. I didn't bother trying to listen, I just stared at my feet, then his feet, then shot a quick glance up to his bloodshot eyes. There's nothing going on in that brain, I thought. The Nascar race had ended just two hours earlier, but the little cars racing around in his head had crashed long ago, and no amount of Crown Royal was going to save him. I started planning my response. I'd have to give him something, but not enough to encourage him to tell another joke. I knew it would be impossible for me to genuinely laugh, unless he suddenly climbed and then fell off a ladder, or a bird shit on his head.

"Blah, Blah, parrot, fat lady, mother-f'er." He nodded his head and smiled like he just got a great deal on Yosemite Sam mudflaps. That must have been the punchline.

Here was my big moment (or his big moment). I ended up forcing out a half-moan, that started with an "H".

"Haaaa......."

Apparently, that was good enough for him. Unfortunately, it was too good.

"I love that damn joke. Hey, did you hear the one about the..."

Just then, his wife called him. She was impatiently waiting by their truck. It was time to go.

Thank you, thank you, drunk man's wife. You've obviously made horrible decisions in the past, but I applaud this one.

"I'll have to tell you that one next time," he said.

I felt like the governor just spared me from the execution. "Way to keep a guy in suspense", I said. Why am I so nice to people?

"Drive safely." I meant that.

I would appreciate it if people would ask me for permission before telling a joke. It's just too uncomfortable, especially when the person telling it could only be funny if they fell down.

I envision a world where the drunk brother-in-law would say, "Do you mind if I tell you a joke?"

"I'd rather you not."

Wouldn't that be easier?

Howdy

Bada Bing
Three days later, and still people are talking about the Sopranos finale. I've read a bunch of theories and opinions, and have enjoyed hearing everyone's take on it. Personally, I liked the ending and found it very satisfying. The best theory I heard and the one that I choose to believe is that the audience got whacked. That's why the screen went to black and the music was silenced. If you choose to believe Tony was shot, you are correct. If you choose to believe he went to prison, you are correct. If you choose life goes on, you are also correct. Many are angry that David Chase, the writer, didn't make this decision himself. I like it better that way. He obviously had a lot of fun with the end and ratcheted up the tension to a very extreme level. Mrs. U and I were on the edge of our seats until the very last frame, and that's the most I can ask for from a television show, especially since we are both usually falling asleep on the couch by 930 each night.

Baby Talk
We have lowered the crib to the bottom rung, so that the boy doesn't get any ideas about escaping. He's pulling up on small objects now, and we expect that he'll be cruising around the coffee table once he figures out that he can. He went to the pediatrician yesterday and is 17.5 pounds and 27 3/4 inches (or almost 2 foot four). Still no sign of teeth. I wish they'd come soon so he can enjoy a few more solid foods. Plus, it's always nice to have the option to flash a toothy grin.

I've edited a new video of the boy crawling and put in on my private youtube account for friends and family. If you'd like an invite and a link, please email me at theundaground@gmail.com and I'll send it to you.

Paris Hilton
Who cares, really?

Chubby Puppy

OK, that's not actually my dog, but my dog is officially overweight now, according to the vet. It seems that I'm not the only one in the household who gained sympathy weight during Mrs. U's pregnancy. The Undaground dog, Wrigley, has gained 10 pounds in the past year.

Whoa.

The vet suggested baby carrots instead of biscuits. Last night, I threw her a baby carrot and she happily caught it in her mouth and began to chew.

"Wow!", I was thinking. "If I knew she liked them, we could have been giving her veggies all along."

Then, she proceeded to open her jaws and sadly let the carrot hit the floor, where it remained until I picked it up a few minutes later. I told her there were starving kids in Africa who would appreciate a baby carrot, but this didn't seem to have any effect on her as she stared impatiently at the dog cookie jar that houses her milkbones.

Goodbye Kibbles and Bits, Hello Science Diet. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to walk her, either. That's something that kind of went away when the baby arrived.

I've always kind of hoped that the dog would put on some weight. I thought maybe a few extra pounds would make her less hyper and annoying. Nope. Now she's just fat, hyper and annoying. But we love her anyway. That's why were going to start feeding her stuff she hates.

Birthday Post-Mortem

Is anybody else really uncomfortable when a group of people gather around them to sing Happy Birthday? It might just be me. What am I supposed to be doing when people are singing to me? Where should I look? Do I look at the cake, or do I focus on somebody's mouth and enjoy the music? What should I do with my hands? Should I keep them by my sides, or should I wave them around like a conductor? For the record, I kept my arms at my sides, and watched my wife's mouth. She rarely sings in front of me, so I figured I'd look for evidence as to why. When the song ended, I quickly vogued for a not-so-candid photo, then blew out the candles immediately.

"Did you make a wish?", my wife asked.

"Yes. I wished that you wouldn't sing to me next year."

In hindsight, I think this might have hurt her feelings, so I'd like to clarify. Honey, it's not you, it's me.

I found nothing wrong with your singing. I think you should sing more. You have a lovely voice. You're more of a "performer" than a "singer", but you allright dawg. You worked it out. That was hot! You're a member of the dawg-pound tonight! Woof, woof, woof. I heard some pitchiness on the other side of the room, but you stayed on key and brought it home at the end with the glory note. You're a star. You almost made me cry. Round one goes to Mrs. Undaground.

As stated above, I just have some personal issues to work out that are associated with being sung to.

Truth be told, that wasn't my actual wish. I wished for a piece of cake. Since my wish was quickly granted, I feel that I can talk about it now.

Undaground, out.

It was a very good year.

Yes, once again, I'm celebrating a birthday. Overnight, I went from being in my mid-thirties to my late thirties. My brother just called and asked if I was aging gracefully. I think a more appropriate adverb is "clumsily" or "painfully", but I'll take it. Thirty-five was good to me. I was blessed with a son who will be 8 months tomorrow. I hope 36 is half as gratifying as 35.

This is what Frank Sinatra crooned about being 35:

When I was thirty-five

It was a very good year

It was a very good year for blue-blooded girls

Of independent means

We'd ride in limousines

Their chauffeurs would drive

When I was thirty-five

If you replace "blue-blooded girls of independent means" with "blue onesies with spit-up on the sleeve", and then replace "limousines" with "mini-vans", Frank and I are on the same wavelength.

Here's a link to last year's birthday post, which features my mother's account of my birth (she was there). FYI: Mom's chicken curry is also on the menu tonight. Any dish with with mayo as the main ingredient will always be special to me.

Last year's birthday post

This has to be it, right?

Many times in the past few months, we've theorized that our son is teething. So far, we've been wrong every time. His gums are as bare as the day he was born. Along the way, many people who've been through this child-rearing process have said to us, ominously "you'll know when he's teething... you'll know -- bwahahahahaha."

Late last week, the pediatrician said for the first time that he is, indeed, teething.

Now, there's more evidence that supports that.

The boy has developed a very loud scream, which I can only describe as blood-curdling. It's my brand new, least favorite sound in the world (overtaking the sound of metal flatware scraping against a terra cotta dinner plate).

Unfortunately for us, his puffy-eyed parents, he seems to enjoy the sound of his own terror and has gotten in the habit of doing it just for the sake of good theater. Each morning we wake up and approach his mouth, hoping to see a few new white caps popping up. None so far. It's sometimes difficult to get to his mouth while he's practicing his new horror scream (not unlike turning off a smoke alarm when it's been activated, or trying to move a lawn sprinkler without clamping the hose first).

Baby Orajel seems to be working. I hope he's actually teething, because I'd hate to think we're numbing his mouth for no other reason. Although I've experimented with this myself, for the sake of science, and have found that it's harder to scream when I have no feeling in my bottom lip. I'll keep you posted.

In other baby news, his first word is officially "up". He said it late last week, one day before he said "da-da" and meant it. Mama is still number one on his favorite people list, but "Dada" is much easier to pronounce.

Wondermutt

I just saw an interesting story on the Today show about how to tell what kind of breed your mutt is. Here's an article about it.

I followed the link and it turns out, the test is $71. Expenses are tight, so I'm not sure this is the wisest investment, but it would be good to know what kind of dog we have. The vet identifies Wrigley as a "hound". We've always thought she was corgi mixed with something else (maybe yellow lab). Is it worth $71 for an answer to the dog's question "Where did I come from?"

Drive-thru on the Horizon

As a man who is both equipped with Tivo and very handy with a remote, I rarely see commercials anymore. However, last night, something caught my eye that made me hit the reverse button very quickly and watch. As good as the Heroes finale was, this 30-second advertisement was the highlight of the evening for me.

It seems that KFC has a new product. From what I can gather, here's how it's done.

Take a small bucket
Layer of mashed potatoes (KFC mashed potatoes are quite good)
Layer of corn
Layer of fried, boneless chicken
Layer of country gravy
Layer of shredded cheese
Served with a buttermilk biscuit (and a diet coke, of course)

I know I've said this before, and I'll probably say it again, but sometimes I think that Colonel Sanders can read my mind.