Haircut part 2

The thing is that I have to get my hair cut. There's no way around it. So I ventured out to the same SuperCuts, expecting the worst. I'll give you the Amazon review:
Pros: Lady asked me how I wanted my hair cut, how to trim the neck, offered no gel.
Cons: Wasted a whole hour waiting and getting a cut.

I used to be able to spend a good hour reading Sports Illustrated back in College. It could've been because I was procrastinating writing a paper, studying for an exam, or something of that nature. But the most recent issue didn't cut it. The MLS Cup, CC Sabathia, the Steelers vs Pats pick, even No QB offense. That was the best it.

I rummaged through the magazine bin and was thinking about Glamor, but they called my name. I guess my make-over has to wait another couple of months.

A Snail's pace

I'm really into teaching my children new things. I like the way their eyes light up when they discover an object or a new way of doing something. I think some of the most fascinating stuff is just in your backyard. Luckily, here in Glendale, we have quite a huge backyard.

Yesterday was our first Thanksgiving dinner here. As I was going to get the hose spout to wash down the outdoor furniture, I noticed a little snail crawling across the brick walkway in the backyard. S was out with me and she was playing with her tricycle in the driveway. I called her over to show her the snail and told her that it doesn't have a shell like the pictures she has seen in the books.

She was very interested in the little thing and asked me a bunch of questions. Then she said "...and we can't touch it because it's yucky." or something like that. I told her that she could touch it if she wanted to but then she'd have to go wash her hands. As she sat there on the walk, she extended her finger and touched the snail very gently. "Slimy eh". I agreed and told her to go wash up.

I then continued on toward the hose. The stupid nozzle was on too tight. So I went back into the garage and got a wrench. I went back to the hose, undid the nozzle, and walked back to the garage and put the wrench back.

As I was coming out of the garage, I realized that the snail was still on the path and I wasn't careful about NOT stepping on it when I was going back and forth. ... Just then, S came back from inside, having washed her hands. "Oor eh khekhounjuh". Flat as a pancake under my sneakers?

I told her that it had crawled into the lawn and had gone home. Upon investigating whereabouts of the snail, she came across the tail-end of its remnants. Oh, a little snail. Yup, but it's sleeping now, so don't wake it up.

I love my kids. They are both smart and personable. Above all, they love learning new things from their old man. Even if I tell them a white lie every now and then.

iPod-itty

I managed to upload all the 300+ CD's I had onto my iPod last year. It took me a while, but I was very pleased with the clutter that the iPod replaced. I have created a playlist for S and play it often for the kids. On occasion, I let the thing go nuts on random, playing jazz, rap, metal, and whatever else I have on there.

As background: I call S my little monkey. About a year ago, while the iPod was on free-flow mode, Brass Monkey by the Beastie Boys came on. Although not a song in her repertoire, S recognized the word "monkey" in the lyrics and took a liking to the song. Ever since, she asks for me to put on "Chunky Monkey" on the iPod. What happens is that I select "Licensed to Ill" and Brass Monkey and we proceed to dance to it.

Last night was another Chunky Monkey night, but this time S had her drum that she had made in pre-school. It's basically a formula can with some stuff that she glued on during their music session. So she starts banging on the drum, dancing and having a merry old time. Of course, I have to play the song at least 5 times, before it's ok for the random function to select the next song on the album.

The next song that came on was Girls. S told me to stop the music. As I did, she ran out of the room and I could tell she was rummaging in her room. I went after her to see what was up. She told me she's looking for her xylophone!!! Can you believe that? She likened the beginning notes of the song to a xylophone and wanted to play along. This kid's a genius, I tells ya.

For those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about...


It makes a papa proud. sniff...

Brush with Greatness

I don't know if any of you remember the old David Letterman show on NBC. That was when he was on at 12:30 after Carson. He had some great skits with Chris Elliot and Larry Bud Melman. He also had a section, similar to Know Your Cuts of Meat, that he called Brush with Greatness but it was not scripted and people were more believable. It was basically people telling their stories of how they accidentally met someone famous, someone famous gave them the finger, so silly things like that.

So my brush with greatness occurred last Saturday night at the AYF reunion dance in Montabello. I was talking to a friend from the east coast, when this pudgy guy walks behind me and says hi to the person I was talking to. Then he keeps on walking. You know who the pudgy guy was? Ken Davitian. And for all of you who are too lazy to click on the hyperlink, he's Borat's sidekick.

So there you have it. I'm in LA less than 2 months and famous actors are saying hi to people that I'm chatting up. I know I'll be beating up the paparazzi staking my house soon. That's because Nicole Richi lives up the street from me. All I got in New York City was the bum on the stoop of the Russian church asking me for change every Saturday and Sunday. You've come a long way, baby!

For all you new readers of Armodad (there's at least 1 of you), if you didn't get the sarcasm in the above paragraph, please re-read it and roll your eyes as you're doing so. That should give you the full effect.

Drowning in "culture"

I have visited LA many, many times and I don't mean as a tourist. I had done grocery shopping, both at the chains as well as the mom & pop Arme stores. So it wasn't like I didn't know that shopkeepers and the people they hire converse in Armenian as their main trade language.

I have to preface this post by reiterating that I grew up on the east coast and, although fluent in Armenian, I conduct business in English. Unless I know that the person across the counter does not understand a word I'm saying. I get it that the person who has opened a deli and sells lavash or ghormeh sabzee may not necessarily be as comfortable with English as I.

But my recent experience at Supercuts has stuck with me. Like many people living in Glendale, I need to get my haircut from time to time. I don't need a fancy-shmancy salon to cut my hair. The Puerto Rican lady around the corner in NY did a great job and I figured Supercuts would be as good. Being new to the area, I looked up the nearest location on the web. Glendale Ave in Glendale (the double whammy), less than 3 miles from our home.

Let me back into the data here. Of the almost 200K residents of Glendale, 46% are non-white. If we then say that half of the rest are Armenian, we can safely asy that at least 25% of the city's population is Armo. Even simpler, if a while guy walks into you store, there's a 50-50 chance he's Armo.

So there I am walking into Supercuts and giving my REAL name. Odds are looking better for Supercuts lady to guess my ethnic origin. I get a copy of last decade's Sports Illustrated and start reading about how Lance Armstrong won the Tour de France.

"Armodad, jahn?"

I lookup, thinking that a friend/relative that I haven't seen since I was 8 has come into Supercuts and has recognized me. This was pre Halloween Freakout, but it could happen. It's the haircut lady! Quick, quick. Do I know this woman? Did she recognize me from my blog picture (LOL, ROTF)?

Nothing's registering. I get up and walk to the chair. She has obviously engaged me in Armenian, so what do I do? She asks me how I want my hair cut (in Armenian). I tell her number 3 on the sides and even out the top. I had to force it out in Armenian. What the hell?! I double check the sign on the door: "SUPERCUTS" not Armocuts, not Supermahz, nor anything like that. Whatever, go with the flow, dude. This is Cali...

Don't want to get into the conversation, but luckily it was minimal. I missed the Puerto Rican lady who speaks very little English. "You like numero tres on side. ¿No?" Then silence for 10 minutes. "okay". Love it!

The Supercuts lady actually does a good job, but she's not done. She takes a fistfull of jell and is coming towards me.

Armodad: No jell, please
Supercut Lady: No jell?
A: No
S: ok

She then wipes of most of the jell on a towel and then runs her fingers through my hair before I can say anything. I wonder if she would have done that if this had been NY, Boston OR if I was not Armenian. My guess is probably not.

What is up with that, people. Anyone care to comment?

Freaky Halloween story

Everyone has been telling us about Halloween on Kenneth Road. "It's huge!", "a big deal", "tons of people" they said. So I got 5 bags of candy instead of the usual 4. The 5th being a bag of Whoppers which I like. We're ready to go with S dressed as Cinderella and G as a frog. I decided to stay home and dole out the candy.

As a side note, Halloween is my least favorite commercial holiday. It's not because of the candy, the scary masks, or the death-centric theme of the whole day. It boils down to the fact that I'm a lazy bastard and don't want to get up every 2 minutes to answer the door bell. ESPECIALLY, when the older kids make no effort to get creative with their costumes; and I'm even less tolerant of the slackers who just show up with a pillowcase and a Freddy Kruger mask. At least wear a fucking striped shirt to show me you care. Horizontal stripes, you moron!!!

Kenneth Road on Halloween is like the Vegas strip on a weekend. No joke. A lot of scary/ugly looking people walking around with their kids. I even saw 2 Elvises (or is that Elvi). Needless to say we ran out of candy. I was going to go out trick-or-treating with S again just to get some more candy. Not to give out, silly, but to keep for me!

The road was packed. People drive here to go trick or treating. That's really lame! C'mon folks. Too cheap to make your own neighborhood attractive for ONE evening? So there are cars all over the place and this guy is blocking my driveway just as our guests are leaving. When I approach the car to ged rid of him, he says "Hey Armodad! How are you doing?" It's someone who I hadn't seen in over 10 years. We were good friends growing up in Boston, but then he moved away and I moved 3 times after that. What are the chances of that happening? Freeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaky!

... OK, so he's Armo, too, and I now live in the middle (Northwest actually) of Armoville, CA. I suppose the odds aren't that off (7:5, maybe 5:3). Happy day after Halloween. Go wipe the chocolate off the keyboard.

Moving nightmare

Very appropriate title for Halloween. It's been a month since our stuff got to our place in Glendale. Well, almost all. It seems that the movers decided that we really did not need 3 physical checks and $8000. These bozos/thieves/good-for-nothings took these checks from 2 different check books and wrote themselves a couple of bonuses worthy of Wall Street (comparatively).

Luckily, I caught this and was able to get the bank to return the money to us, but the pure audacity of them doing this just pisses me off. Dealing with the bank was actually not that bad. I couldn't imagine saying this about Bank ofAmerica, but they provided good service in this aspect. I still have very little respect for BofA, but when it comes to fraud they know their shit.

I had to close my accounts and open new ones, get new checks, ATM cards, blah blah. And throughout I was glad that my bank was a national bank and I could visit any branch and take care of business. WRONG!!!

It seems that BofA is a loose federation of regional banks that operate under the BofA name. Which means that if you open an account in MA or NY you can't really close it in CA. The branch personnel are more than happy to call customer service for you tho'. I could have done that myself from home, in my underwear.

Remember when you opened a checking account and they had you fill out a signature card? They had me do that again for my new account!!! What's this for? Did anyone check my signature card when these crooks helped themselves to my money? Do you want to hear the response? "Well, no. Only if they come into this branch and try to cash a check." Are you fucking serious? What are the chances that someone is ging to steal a check and walk into the exact BofA branch that you opened your account?

With all the technology available to banks nowadays, you'd think they would scan my signature card and transmit it automatically to the screen of the teller that's about to hand over my money to a redneck from WV. But, Nooooooooo.

I coud go on and on about how these inept institutions are also getting a piece of my tax money because they are greedy little fuckers. Now I(we all) have to bail them out. Apparantly, the stupid monthly fees they charge me was wasted on their "investments" in CDS's or MBS's. Good going guys.

That's it for now, but I'll be back.

It's been a while

OK folks. I'm sorry to have let you down. It's been over a month since my last post, but I can totally explain. I moved cross country, started a new job, rented a house, not to mention that the Red Sox are still hanging on by the skin of their teeth in the play-offs. So as you see, I have good excuses for not even logging on to my blog.

I have a lot of material stored in the past month and I'll try to post somewhat regularly to catch up. I'm still in the comparison mode and hopefully it'll be good fodder for posts.

We'll see.

Step 1

We have selected the movers. I am already sick of thinking about the move and how much I am going to get screwed by anyone we pick. So Harrington Movers are going to pack and move us. They are part of National Van Lines. Bottom line is that MLW and I felt that they were going to screw us less.

After spending close to 30 minutes on the phone with a Mayflower affiliate in NY, I came to the conclusion that the estimate that anyone of these companies provides is basically complete BS. They either lowball you trying to get the business and then they stick it to you with "well, you never told us that you use these closets to store actual stuff" or they estimate high and give you a 1% discount at the end.

At the moment, I'm planning on asking for the exact weight of my shipment to try and minimize our pain. Let's see how successful I'll be. rest assured that there will be more posts regarding this, including any flaming of Harrington and its owner Jeff, who actually did the estimate.

I want a reality show

With our move to the west coast, I think I deserve a reality show. It seems like everyone living in SoCal has a reality show -- Snoop Dog, Kardashians, even housewives in OC -- so why not Armodad? As a side business, viewers can bet on what Armodad will do next. Odds on the cable guy showing up on time: 10 to 1. Odds Armodad will lose it when his internet doesn't work: 7 to 5.

Now you don't see that on American Idol. Of course Armodad will be the house, so it's a revenue stream for the show and there will be actual winners to keep the audience coming back.

I won't feel like I'm a true Angelino unless I get my reality show. So what are you waiting for Hollywood? You can start with the move as a pilot.

Moved by moving

Since 2001, I have moved 4 times and am about to move once again. Initially, I get really excited about it; planning the logistics, picturing myself in the new surroundings, and beginning a new chapter in my life. All very nice things. But as I get closer to the move itself, I begin to feel the same way when one stares up at the night sky full of stars.

When you move, you're forced to put all your belongings in boxes, inventory and number them. You get rid of things that you couldn't even remember getting in the first place. You have to make "life or death" decisions about objects and belongings; do they continue to live with you or have they given all they have. Your stuff shrinks and fits in boxes. It then gets loaded up into a truck and pulls away.

Does my life really fit in a U-Haul? Is that all I have to show for myself? That feeling lasts only for a couple of hours or beers, whichever comes first. I soon remind myself that the stuff needs to get un-packed at the other end. Oh boy! I hate unpacking.

First day of (pre) school

With great anticipation we welcomed September 2nd, the first day of school for S. We were running late so we skipped the bus and took a cab to get to school exactly at 9. Imagine our surprise when the Director of admissions tells us "you're too early". Apparently, one of the 239 mailings we received over the summer was the schedule for the first 3 days. As it turns out, we were not the only parents who had not gotten the mailing.

So we had to kill about 1.5 hours AND it was only a 30 minute session for kids to get acclimated. Granted our S has been attending summer camp and has no separation anxiety, but is this type of thing really necessary? 30 minutes yesterday, then 1 hour today, with the official first day of class being Thursday. Whatever, this is a Montessori school and I'll go along with it.

What really got to me was the way they "welcomed" us as first year student/parents. Their attitude of "you're early", "you should have gotten it", "the letter is somewhere in the pile of letters while you were away". Basically, it was our fault that we did not get the mailing and showed up early.

As I read this, it sounds whiney. This is my blog so I can whine if I want.

Shoulda gone all the way

I read on the BBC web site about a man in Nigeria who is going to divorce 82 of his wives. The kicker is that he's going to keep 4 of them. The report doesn't say who are the lucky 4; The first 4, last 4, or "the best" of 86.

I would hate, hate, hate to be in his shoes. Imagine if you will, wedding number 56:
Soon to be wife #56: How about a July wedding?
Bello: Aaaakh. What is it with you women and July weddings? I've gotten married in July TWENTY-SEVEN times already. I gotta tell you, it's hot in July in Nigeria. Really hot! How about January?
STBW56: Isn't Dora, your 17th wife's, birthday in January? I want our wedding to be special and don't want that skank's birthday to ruin it.
Bello: It will be special my little macadamia, but forget July. Let's make it September. That way little Stephie, my 23rd daughter, can be the flower girl and we'll have Aaron, my son from wife number 53, be the ring bearer. You see 23 and 53 are both prime numbers. Prime numbers for my primo bride. What do you say?

BTW this guy is only 84 years old, so must have married 2 women in the same year MORE THAN ONCE. Shit! US Governors of eastern states have nothin' on this guy!

So now the worst part: After many years of blissful marriage(s), Bello has to first pick the 4 to stay with and then tell the other 82 that things are just not working. Imagine this guy's legal bill. Hooooooly.....

AirBART sucks

Generally I like public transportation. I live in NY and don't own a car so by default I have to use the services that the MTA offers. I've been quite happy with the services offered in NY, with the exception of lack of direct subway service to the airports.

I was interested in taking the BART from Oakland airport to San Francisco yesterday. As you can tell from the title of my post, I did not think highly of it. To be more clear, these guys don't know what the hell they are doing. Sure they can take people form point A to point B without crashing the bus, but the whole thing sucks. Let me lay it out for you:

a) It costs $3 to ride the bus from Oakland airport to the BART station. No problem there, except you need exact change.
b) All the signs pointing you to AirBART make no mention of the exact change caveat. I would have appreciated a sign that says "AirBART <- $3 exact change required Change machine ->"
c) Which brings me to the fact that there is no change machine by the bus, in the terminal, or anywhere within a 3 mile radius of OAK. The change machine is conveniently located at the BART station, at the end of your bus ride!
d) There are no signs as you approach the AirBART bus that you need exact change. There is a little sign as you are boarding the bus that you need exact change.

So basically, I walked all the way to the bus, waited in line as people boarded the bus, got 10 feet from the sign that was obscured by the people waiting in line to get on the bus, and then had to go get change, come back and wait in line again for the next bus.

Yo, BART!!! Spend a couple of bucks and put signs up along the way that say:
AirBART $3
Exact change only

That's all I ask, people.

The Dark Knight

Word to all dads: do not take your sig-ot to a movie that she herself doesn't pick. I have done it a total of 3 times in 6 years and I hope to make my latest one stand. Suffice it to say that The Joker does not die at the end of the movie, robbing MLW of much needed closure.

Time travel

I thought August would be the month where I bust out with the blogging and claim my proper spot alongside Stephen King as a prolific writer. Where does the time go? The hours zoom by between the time the kids wake up from their afternoon nap and dinner time. It seems that every afternoon I take a 15 minute ride on a spaceship going close to the speed of light, returning to earth to find that 4 hours have passed. All you nerdy readers will get this. All others click here for a decent explanation.

So what's an Armodad to do in this situation? You got it! Have some cheloh kabob and continue with the early am boot(y) camp.

I gotta write something.

I was right!

I was out in the "garage" of my in-laws today where they keep their second fridge. The reason I was there was because I was putting away stuff that wouldn't fit in the fridge/freezer in the house. As I was trying to make room in the freezer for the 3 huge dishes, I noticed the Mashti Malone ice cream that I had written about earlier.
They were right there in the freezer!

After about 10 minutes of freezer Tetris, I dutifully threw the stuff in the garbage. I am not aware of a market for vintage ice cream. Maybe I should check on eBay or craigslist.

I know it's me, but I have to ask

Imagine you're invited to a wedding. For the sake of reality, let's say it's your cousin from your mother's side. It's at the Waldorf+Astoria and you probably know most of the people who are going, except for the old fogies that were invited by the parents on both sides, because ... well just because. In my case, you also have to pretend that you're female. For the devoted female followers of this blog, you have one less thing to imagine, yet you are more familiar with this situation.

You go shopping for a dress (black of course) because all the other dresses (black) that you have in your closet are a) not the right color, b) don't fit, c) out of style, d) all of the above. So after several trips to the mall or store, you find the right dress for the occasion, and if you're (un)lucky you have the shoes to go with the dress.

It's a sunny, pleasant Saturday afternoon as you arrive to the church, but as soon as you walk in you sense there is something wrong. From the corner of your eye you notice "the other woman". That B----! How dare she! What will you do? You hope that at least you will be seated at opposite ends of the reception hall, but do you take a chance. "She" has also sensed a disturbance in the force and is trying to a Jedi mind trick to shield herself.

But there is no escaping it. You are both wearing the same dress and neither of you is going to back down. It's a total catastrophe! Your whole night is ruined. Now if you were a guy and you actually noticed that someone else was wearing the same suit as you, the 2 of you would lock eyes, there would be an upward nod, and a tacit acknowledgment of both your good tastes in clothes. Heck you might even buy each other drinks at the bar. By buy, I mean order, because there better be an open bar. Otherwise, you wasted all this money on a suit and they don't even have open bar? C'mon, Shanto.

In light on these facts, why is it "cute" for my 2 girls to have and wear the EXACT same outfits, at the same time? And to boot, there are stores that specialize in mother-daughter outfits that are EXACTLY the same and are intended to be worn at the same time. I admit, the girls do look cute, but that's because I'm their Armo Dad.

My devoted female followers. I need answers.

Cheekehn

Today's dinner was Zankou Chicken. It had been a while since my last Zankou, so it was extra special. All due respect to Zankou, but the Dominican place on Amsterdam and 108 (El Rey de la Caridad) is a friggin' bargain: $14.95 for the family combo special gets you a whole chicken, salad, beans, rice, and 2 drinks. El Malecon is a close second, further south at the corner of 97th.

Maybe I should change my road trip idea to be chicken places. Nah! I love BBQ more than chicken.

Air travel

If you know me, you've heard this a million times. JetBlue rocks!!! Traveling from JFK to BUR is truly a breeze and now that S is older, the TV keeps her occupied for a long time. I don't care that they don't have first class or they only give you snacks. It works for us.

I guess I could have tweeted this instead.

Armenians and exercise

I went running around the reservoir for the 2nd time since my significant event. I was really hoping that the pain that forced me to quickly abort the first attempt would not recur. This time, I walked to the reservoir and started with a light jog. By the half-way mark, I was in full stride, sans pain. I did the whole 1.5 miles in 18 minutes; that's a 12 minute mile. Not bad, eh?

On my jog, I was happy to pass an older gentleman, about 10 years younger than my dad. Which got me thinking: Growing up, I never saw my dad exercise and to this day, exercising for my dad is when he has to walk down the 2 flights of steps to go outside for a smoke. And I don't know of any Armenian my dad's age that exercises on a regular basis.

Why is that? Answers please.

Playground Report

S has a new friend at the playground. The trouble is that I can't stand this girl's parent. S's friend is really nice and plays well with her. Nowadays, everytime we set out to the playground, S asks if this girl's going to be there. And I think to myself "I hope not".

I was telling a friend about this situation and he asked what is it about this parent that I don't like. I realized that it wasn't a "bad first impression" type thing. This person is not crass, loud, or dumb, yet after every interaction with this parent, I have a more negative impression. It's like watching a train wreck in slow motion. It's ugly and disturbing, but you can't stop yourself from watching it happen.

Example 1: It's hot and muggy in NYC and most playgrounds in the city have sprinklers for kids. S wanted to go play in the sprinklers so we put on her UV blocking bathing suit and headed out. We get to the playground and guess who's right at the sprinklers. I felt the temperature rise 10 degrees.

I get the additional sunblock on S (she's up to 2000 SPF by now) and she goes over to the next bench with her Dora ball to play with the girl. I turn to the stroller to put the can of Coppertone away, turn around, and this parent is leading S and 2 other girls to the middle of the playground so they can play with the ball. What the hell is going on? Since when is it ok to lead a child away from her parent without asking permission or at least hollering "Hey, dude, I'm taking your kid away. Is that cool?"

Example 2: Fast forward 20 minutes. The 2 other girls run for the tire swings. S is busy with some other kid but spots them and wants to go over. My 3 year old calls out to me that she's going over to the tires, or at least that's how my mind plays it back in my head. So she gets there and because she's a 3 year old she starts to climb on the tire swing herself at which point "the parent" picks her up and tries to put her on the swing. "By myself, by myself" S says to which "the parent" responds "we don't want to get the other girls dirty, do we".

WHAT!?!? You're at a fucking playground with dirt and mud and kids' snot all over. Just 30 minutes ago you had no problems when your kid was playing by the sprinklers. And your kid isn't dressed for a fucking cotillion, so chill out and let my kid get on the swing by herself!

Needless to say, my tolerance scale for this parent is hovering around 2 minutes.

Parent: "We're leaving to run an errand"
Me (to myself): Tanks gud
Parent: "We'll be back in an hour. Will you guys still be here"
Me: "We're leaving in about 45 minutes."
Parent: "OK then see you tomorrow"
Me (to myself): "I sure hope not"

Social Science of picnicing

In order to understand this phenomenon, we must first dissect the whole picnic idea. To picnic, you need:
1) Food - Food is the linchpin of the picnic. Without food, it'd be a bunch of dumb folks sitting on a blanket, otherwise known as a dimwitnic.
2) Space - Sufficient space to spread out your blanket. The space typically is a grassy area, with some trees for shade, ideally with a nice view (e.g. body of water, mountains, etc). And you need space for the kids to run around and play.
3) People - Usually family and friends.

So if you're white folk, living in the 'burbs, you can "picnic" in your back yard. It's the "ethnics" living in the urban setting that need to picnic when they want to get together with family and friends. Because,
a) no room for 30 (additional) people in their tiny apartment.
b) want to get away from the nosy neighbors who'll invariably want to mooch off their food.
c) can't cook for all your friends and family in the tiny kitchen of your tiny apartment.
d) want to get away from the urban setting and pretend for a few hours that they live on an estate.

Hence, picnicking was developed out of necessity by urban dwellers who live in small spaces, aka not-whitey.

Oooh. I'm gonna hear it now!

Zankou

Fascinating!!! Zankou Chicken has a Wikipedia entry.

Traveling Armenians

I was reading an article by Dave Demerjian on Wired online that describes how it is often more economical to ship your bags rather than check them in while flying. It references a web page that gives you the skinny on which airlines charge for luggage and the number of bags you can take on before the fees start piling up.

I love this table, because it shows why the airline industry is so fucked up. Let's pretend all airlines are charging people for bags because of the extra fuel necessary to carry the clothes travelers will need once the airlines graciously take them to their destination. So why would it matter when someone pays for the extra fuel? (See Airtran)

Then scrolling down the alphabetical list of airlines, you quickly come to the details on Delta airlines; "D" being one of the first 4 letters of the alphabet. There is an editorial comment, suggesting that nobody travels with 8 (or more) bags. Obviously, there is a disproportionate number of Armenians flying Delta and those whipper-snappers at Delta have done their math. Here's the breakdown for a week-long holiday for your average 4-person Armenian family:
Bag 1: clothers for child #1
Bag 2: clothes for child #2
Bag 3: clothes for mom
Bag 4: clothes for mom (cont)
Bag 5: clothes for dad + leftover clothes for mom, child1 and child2
Bag 6: chargers for phone, camera, video camera, laptops + leftover clothes for children
Bag 7: lahmejune, boreg (2 kinds), nazouk, and Syrian bread + picnic blanket (if not staying at hotel)
Bag 8: towels (if not staying at hotel), shoes and other footwear
Bag 9: car seat for child #1
Bag 10: car seat for child #2

Then for carry-on we have food for children and adults for during the flight (maybe a couple of Zankou chicken sandwiches if you're traveling eastbound from LA), books, activities/toys, diapers, wipes, change of clothes, and extra socks.

Obviously for comedic purposes I glossed over the fact that there are at least 2 adults so there will only be 5 bags per person. Of course once either child is over 2 years old, they would need their own ticket and the number plummets to 3.33 bags per person. Then again, you're paying $500 for your 2 year old who weighs less than your lahmejune luggage.

The Feast - another example

We went to the Cloisters yesterday for a picnic with the family. What did I see? A Puerto Rican picnic. So, yet another example of a culture where a feast is key. These guys had tables setup with folding lawn chars all around. People were just hanging out waiting for the birthday girl. Young and old hung out and enjoyed each others' company.

I felt like I was in the minor leagues with my green blanket and foldable cooler of leftovers. But anyway....

"Why don't 'white people' picnic?" MLW asked me on the way back to the car.

My answer next.

The Feast

We were invited to our friends' place in PA on Saturday. It was an easy drive from NY with very little traffic. It was the first time we were visiting their new home and everyone was totally into it. I, specifically, was looking forward to the spread that they usually put out for friends.

The art of the spread is truly one of the lost arts of our times. People either don't care to be "hosts" or don't know how to do it right. There are those who put out bags of chips (still in the bag) and bottles of soda on a tablecloth. I love chips and there is nothing wrong with chips and soda, but it ain't a feast. Then there are those who have this elaborate 7 course meal planned out that requires them to be in the kitchen for 95% of the time that the guests are at their house. Although the meal itself might be wonderful, there is no opportunity to converse and hang out with the hosts. At the end of the night the hosts are exhausted and the guests feel awful for having put them through such an ordeal.

A feast IMHO is an opportunity to eat, drink, and be merry. It's a combination of good food and good company. And Saturday was a great example of a feast. There were 5 kids combined in attendance, yet I felt we were able to have adult conversation and the families had a good time. And the food was great! It was a Southern themed meal and everything from the cole slaw to pulled pork burgers were delicious. Did it matter than our friends are Armenian? Yes and no.

Armenians, in general, are a social bunch. We love our food and drink, especially meals that last for 4-5 hours. I remember going to my cousin's for brunch and not leaving until after kebab dinner. I am happy that MLW's family has a similar entertaining style. I'm sure there are other ethnicities that have the same feel for a feast, but look at the title of the blog! On the opposite end of the spectrum, are Armenian friends who, for whatever reason, have not embraced this cornerstone of our culture.J Sure, I don't want to make a big deal of every get-together, but c'mon dude/aper/agas, how about some plates for the buffalo wings that you ordered in. And would it kill you to buy a bag of celery and a tub of Aunt Marie's blue cheese dip?

Our experience this past Saturday reinforced in me the power of food and the importance of being a good "feast master". I hope I never disappoint my guests and if I do, please let me know. I will not be offended.

Sexy Armenian Girls

OK. So I want to make a couple of bucks with this blog. That's why I have ads on the site, served by Adsense. But I highly doubt anyone reading this blog is interested in dating Sexy Armenian Girls, because we already have ours. Yeah! Nobody can handle more than 1 (some are barely able to keep up with the one) Sexy Armenian Girl.

Adsense, this page is not going to bring you (and especially me) any clicks to the dating site.

On becoming like our parents

This particular event happened a month or so ago and I have been thinking about it since. I'm sure most people want be different than their parents, especially when it comes to raising their children.

Although neither my dad nor my parents in-law read this blog -- and even if there is Internet in the afterlife (if there is one), my mom probably is unaware of this major accomplishment by her eldest -- I want to state that there is nothing wrong in the way they raised us. In fact, I am very proud to have had the parents that I do, and want my children to grow up knowing who their grandparents are. It's just that we don't want to become them.

We know our parents' flaws, because we live them daily. They are part of who we are. And that's the good and the bad of it. We want the best for our kids as our parents wanted the best for theirs. We make do with what we have, no matter which generation we belong to.

So ... after a meandering path through fluff, let's get back to the story. MLW ordered Fresh Direct and I was home to receive it. I was trying to remember how much stuff was already in the Sub Zero as I was signing for the 5 boxes that the guy dropped off inside our door. When I talk about the Sub Zero, I am referring to our one and only fridge that came with the apartment. I'm not saying it for status (maybe), but to give the reader an idea of the physical space that I was required to stuff the 5 boxes of Fresh Direct.

I was in high school when the Rubics Cube craze was at it's peak. This guy from Nor Seroond in Boston showed me a solution that was not in any of the official books. I could solve any cube in under 2 minutes. What a geek! But some of the same skills were needed to arrange the contents of the Fresh Direct delivery into our Sub Zero that was already half full of stuff.

Thinking about the Rubics Cube took me back to our house in Lexington, where like any self-respecting Armenian family, we had a spare "ice box" in the garage. In our case, it was a standup freezer full of next months meals. At some point it also housed a couple of vials of bovine DNA (I'm not kidding you) that my cousing had brought to show to US firms the purity of biotech work in Armenia. My in-laws have a 2nd fridge in their garage and I bet the ice cream that I bought 8 years ago from MashtiMalone's is still sitting in the freezer. Talk about bovine DNA!!!

As I was trying to fit the frozen pizzas in to the freezer drawer by completely rearranging the frozen vegetable section, I was soooo wishing we had a 2nd fridge/freezer. Maybe we can put it in the storage bin downstairs? There's electricity down there and we won't have to pay for it. OK, so that would mean that we'd have to get yet another storage bin to put the crap (most of it, except for my skis and comic books) we have down there in another place.

I'd always considered a 2nd "ice box" a waste or an indication of lack of discipline on my family's part. But now, I see the wisdom that needs to be passed down to the next generation. I don't recall my grandmother having 2 fridges, but my aunt and uncle did live downstairs from her, so I guess that counts.

Total robbery

I can't take credit for this video (shooting it or finding it on YouTube), but for some very sick, odd reason, I find it hilarious.



Thanks god it's not my kid!!!

Rebranding the blog

I've been thinking about this for a while. I need to focus the content of this blog to reflect more of what I am. So from now on, it will be known as "Confessions of an Armenian Dad". Don't worry. You will still get the same culturally rich content and witty repartee that you have gotten used to over the past few months. I will post more about how my culture and background shape the way I perceive the world and judge its content.

So sit back, relax, and read on.

Rip Van Winkle awakens

This is really sad. I have been away for so long that blogger actually asked me to log into my account! That's pathetic.

Anyway, one of the blogs that I follow is DaddyTypes. The most recent post on that blog referred to another blogger from Park Slope who has started a declaration of co-dependence. Not for the faint of heart but really funny stuff. I'm going to add him to my links down the left hand side of the page.

Idea for a road trip

A few years ago, I got the idea of traveling cross country on a road trip. I asked MLW if she'd be interested and got the "Did I really marry this guy?" look. Which means that I have to find someone to do the trip with me. There's a delicate art to recruiting a semi-willing travel companion.

In June of 2000, my friend Armen and I got tickets to 8 games for the Euro2000 in Holland and Belgium. A 2-week party with the added benefit of watching soccer, live and in person every other day. We had all our hotels booked for the two weeks and had a rental car. We stayed at 4 or 5 cities in Holland, plus did an impromptu side trip to Germany. That was a good road trip. We both were into the sport, driving, visiting new cities, and of course the drinking. We concluded that you can find an Irish pub in any major city in Europe. And the bonus is that the bartender at least speaks English.

Based on this experience, I think the cross country road trip needs a theme. I came up with the theme while watching the Food Network: The Barbecue Road Trip. Now you're talkin'. I figure we can drive down to the Carolinas, over to Tennessee, continue on to St. Louis and Kansas City, then down to Texas, and make a dash for the coast (with a quick stop in Las Vegas). I may even get MLW to sign up for this one.

Any takers?

Back from a hiatus

It's been a while since my last post. Don't really know why I haven't but it's probably because I watch Euro2008 football at nights after the kids are down. It's been a fun tournament, although my underdog team, Croatia, screwed themselves against Turkey. I am still stunned at how Croatia lost the game literally in the last minute. It really sucked! I was up until 3am last night just being brooding.

We had a great morning today. Nice hearty breakfast and off to the playground with the kids. FoML1 is really a happy kid and I love watching her play with others. She's feeling more at ease with her English and can keep up a decent conversation. FoML2 is still doing a great impersonation of a sack of basmati. I've been trying to get her to stand on surfaces other than her dad. She actually planted both feet on the park bench today. I'm calling that progress even if it lasted less than a minute.

Euro2008

In case you don't follow soccer, Euro2008 tournament started yesterday, with the Swiss hosting the Czech Republic. I was surprised to find out that all the games are being carried by ESPN, which means I can turn on my TV and catch a real game of football for the next 3 weeks or so. The only kink in this plan is the fact that we don't have cable. We haven't had cable since we moved from San Francisco. And the only reason we got cable in San Francisco was because the World Cup was on in Japan/Korea and I had to tape the games to watch after work.

Being a Verizon DSL subscriber, I have access to ESPN360 which lets me watch these games live on my computer for free. It works fine, but the resolution is crappy and I have a 15" laptop monitor. Not exactly the same experience as watching it in HD on a 42". On a tangential note: HDTV was created for watching sports. Period.

Yesterday's match recap: Czech 1 - Switzerland 0 and Portugal 2 - Turkey 0. I took great pleasure in watching Portugal kick some Turkish ass. Of course Ronaldo is one of the best players out there and Portugal is the European Brazil. Great football, but a letdown when it comes to tournament elimination. Although I thought they had a good chance in 2004 but Greece played well above their heads.



I put this YouTube thing in there just to see how it works.

Today Austria, the other host of the tournament, takes on Croatia then Germany and Poland play what should be a great game.

Why did someone throw up in the pool?

Excellent question from a 3 year old at the dinner table.

Z: They were probably sick and could not get out of the pool in time.
S: They were sick and couldn't get out of the pool to go home and throw up in the Tupperware.
Z: Exactly.
S: But why didn't they puke in the Tupperware? Why throw up in the pool?
Z: They were probably too sick, or didn't know they were sick.
S: Because you don't throw up in the pool. You throw up in Tupperware.

Cry me a pool

We're going up to the pool at Normandie Court for S's Friday afternoon swim class. People get on at the Penthouse level -- one level below Club Level where the pool is -- and ask us if we're going to the pool. S has her goggles in her Hello Kitty backpack and I have everything else she'll need for after class; towel, change of clothes, and snacks. Before I can say yes, one of the penthouse ladies says "The pool eez cloze."

Ding! The doors open to the Club Level. We check in at the reception desk and I'm told the pool is closed because someone threw up in it. I ask whether the Take Me to the Water people called the class participants to let them know of a)puke in the pool and b)rescheduling. Of course I know the reception chick is not part of TMTTW, but I gotta vent. She tells me that the barfing incident happened less than 10 minutes ago. Either she's full of it or news travels really, really fast at Normandie Court.

As we're walking down to the pool area, I tell S that the pool is closed because someone got sick in it. If you ask me, they should have scooped up the puke in a large garbage can, double the chlorine, and you're done. I mean how much puke could there have been. Was this person doing laps while puking so it's all over the pool? I hardly think a little bit of vomit should close down a 25 yard, 6 lane pool. But then again, I'm not the one with the swimsuit.

As we make our way to S's "coach", we're told 3 more time that the pool is closed. Thanks, thanks, thanks. I explain to S as we're going around the pool that the pool is closed and there is no lesson today. She says "aha" and keep on walking, holding my hand. We get to the coach and she also says that the pool is closed. While I'm asking what her schedule is so S can do the make-up classes (one from last week and this one) S is digging into her backpack. I know what she's doing, but there is no way for me to stop her. She gets to the goggles and pulls them out, showing them to coach with a triumphant smile. The coach repeats, as do I, that there is no class today because ....

The 15 seconds that it takes S to finally realize the ramification of the pool closure almost brought me to tears. I put down my Dunkin Donuts ice coffee to pick her up. The coach's attempt to console her by telling her that she can swim twice next week has no effect. "Ma-ma!" is all S can say. I walk away from the pool with her and try to get her out to the sun deck. She wants none of it. Not being familiar with Kubler-Ross, she's simply in "mama" stage.

I carry her out of the pool area on my bum knee and make it to what has now become our refreshment room upstairs. She's skipped Depression and thankfully is in Acceptance. No story is complete without a typical Hollywood happy ending. I call TMTTW and am told that the class is being rescheduled at a building a block away!!! Happy-happy, joy-joy!

Uplander update

I actually did more research on the Uplander and I'm sorry to say that it just will not do. 16 MPG city and 23 MPG on the Highway?!?!?! I'd need a second job just to pay for the gas on this sucker.

I guess I have to wait until 2010 when GM rolls out its first, um, "next generation" cars with better gas mileage. Not gonna happen.

I Don't KEA

We got the Kritter bed from IKEA over the weekend. We trekked out to Paramus, NJ in our lovely Chevy Uplander. Although I used to own a Chevy Beretta, I am a Euro car snob. Having traveled on business for a good part of 10 years, I have rented many cars, most of them American made. Except for a handful, I hated driving any car made by Detroit. I have to admit, though, that the Uplander minivan was quite comfortable. If it had a little more Japanese or European trimmings on the dash, it would be the perfect car for our LA lives.

On the other hand the IKEA experience, Swedish and all, pissed me off. The Kritter, like other beds from IKEA, uses slats to hold the mattress. I'm sure for some good reason, the slats are packed in a different box than the bed frame. Therefore, in order to purchase a COMPLETE, USABLE BED, you have to pickup 2 boxes from the "marketplace". This fact is not mentioned anywhere in the showroom nor in the warehouse, but it is on the website "SULTAN LADE slatted bed base is included in the price, but is packaged separately."

So when an unsuspecting shopper approaches the checkout counter with a single box marked Kritter Bed (with bar codes facing the cashier for quicker processing), shouldn't the fancy-shmancy computerized system flash some sort of idiot light letting the cashier know that there is a piece missing from the order?
"Warning: dumb customer forgot the slats"
"'Scuse me Jethro, you gotta pickup the slats if you're figuring to use this bed for sleeping purposes"

But, noooooo. We walk out quite happy with our non-functioning purchase and make the trek back into Manhattan, via the 125th Street McDonald's drive-thru.

The next morning as I begin to put the bed together with mt 3 year old, we get to step 6 where I'm supposed to lay the slats on the bed frame. Slats, slats. Where are the slats? So of course, the Paramus IKEA is closed on Sundays and we have to drive out to Elizabeth in our rental Uplander. The customer service number we get is 51 and they're serving #34. Fuck! Executive decision by MLW to pay $10 and get the slats (if sold separately) and not wait. She wisely gets a couple of hotdogs from the food court. As we load up the minivan, "Serving #42." Best 10 bucks ever spent.

I ask you, Ingvar Kamprad: Don't you think that purchasing a bed frame by itself would be a tad silly without being able to hold the mattress in place? I'm sure even in the small village of Agunnaryd in Sweden, people sleep on mattresses and a bed frame is not a decorative furniture item.

I'm going to be the customer from hell at my next visit to IKEA. "Does that chair come with legs or are those packed in a separate box?" "Are there 6 lightbulbs in this six-pack of lightbulbs?"

Vicious cycle resolved

Many parents of 6 month old babies can relate to this scenario: Your child is ready for solids and you begin by giving her rice cereal. This results in happy & proud parents, new experience for your baby, and often, constipation for your 6 month old. So for the next few days she pushes and squeezes that lump out of poop out. In the mean time parents are conflicted about feeding more solids for a growing baby and watching the poor thing struggle with digesting the cereal. You give her water, prune juice, and perhaps laxatives to help her out of the predicament.

The good folks at Earth's Best Organic, have come up with the perfect solution: Prunes with Oatmeal! What a great idea. Now you can feed your baby the oatmeal and counteract its unwanted side-effects. These guys are true MBA marketeers. Never has a company capitalized on such cross-over promotion. First you make a name for yourself an organic cereal company and then spin-off a product that helps you sell more of your products. This is on par with Mary Tyler Moore/Rhoda and All In the Family/Maude/ Jeffersons.

And let me tell you something: This shit works! No pun intended. Just a couple of days of serving this to our 8 month old and blamo! I've been thinking about double-bagging her just in case she has an extra spoonful without me knowing it. The DEA and US customs should use this stuff to "unpack" the mules smuggling drugs into the country. Administer one jar and wait 2-3 hours.

This is not a blatant plug of a product. I am not an actor and I really do use this product at home. I was inspired to post on my blog because I just finished the cleanup of this product's aftermath. Use at your own risk.

Post-op recovery

I had my first session of Physical Therapy (PT) last Wednesday. I'll be going 2 times a week for the next few weeks. My knee feels OK but gets tired easily. The therapist explained that any damage to the knee causes the thigh muscles (quadriceps) to "shut down" and PT is intended to awaken the muscle and build strength.

I have been doing PT at home at least once per day, sometimes twice. I'm supposed to do it 3 times, but have not been able to make the time. I'm able to bend my knee 120 degrees which is pretty good compared to my good knee (135 degrees). I do feel that my knee buckles from time to time when I'm walking but I'm told that will go away when the quad is stronger.

Life's lessons

I consider myself a student and love learning new things. Throughout life we are taught lessons, either by our elders or through experience. It's great to see my daughters learn new things and add to their repository of knowledge. With every passing day they absorb new information, process new material, and store them for future reference.

We all earn from good and bad experiences. For example, we quickly learn not to give our drooling baby a superman flight right above our own heads. Especially as we're looking up at them and yelling "Yeaaaah" with our mouths open. Even if you haven't done it, you can learn quite quickly from another parent's retelling of how they first tasted their child's saliva. The second time is when you kiss your baby's feet not realizing that they were in her mouth 2 seconds before you turned to look at her. Actually, I may have that in reverse order, but I'm sure the reader gets the idea.

Unfortunately for MLW and I, S has not been feeling well the past couple of days. Fever, sniffling, coughing, the works. We were awakened last night around 4am by her calling for "mama". I forced myself out of bed a split second before MLW and went over to see what was wrong. I brought her some milk and of course in the mean time G wakes up. While I was feeding G, S started calling for mama again and the ruckus made us feel like it was 4pm instead of it's nocturnal counterpart.

As I stated earlier, we learn many things throughout our lifetime, not knowing when we will use them. I'm sure there have been numerous party nights at college where I was up at 4am (perhaps even on a school night) drinking with friends and laughing on about an episode of The Young Ones. While feeding G, I was able to draw on one of those party nights, and quickly identify what I heard coming from S's room as the noise of someone puking.

While unable to see into the room, I imagined (correctly) that the projectile must have caused collateral damage outside of S's bedding. I put G down in our bed and reported for cleanup/consolation duty.
Initial Report
The blankets: direct hit!
Sheets: secondary damage, not salvageable.
PJ's: Need complete overhaul.
S: Wondering what came out of her mouth and excitedly telling me about it.
Conclusion: Sleepless night.
Supplemental Report
MLW: Trooper as always. Minor "shrapnel" on PJ's

We'll file this experience away in our brains as well. At least I now know that the drinking has not damaged all my brain cells. Although there's still time left on the clock.

Restaurants

Last night we went to Landmarc at the TimeWarner Center. There was a row of strollers outside the door, a great sign of its kid-friendly approach. There's plenty of room around the tables so you can pull up a stroller next to the table and not feel like the pasta from the next table is going to fall onto your kids head. The music was a bit loud and it could use a little more light (shit, I sound like an old man), but overall it was a nice experience.

Coincidentally, I came across this article on Slate. http://www.slate.com/id/2191912

There are other practices at restaurants that I do not care for. Top of the list is when the bus boy starts clearing your plate before everyone else is done with their meal. Why do they do that? Is it to hint to the other person(s) that they are taking too long with their meal? Do they think they are doing me a favor by giving me more elbow room? How would you feel if you were invited to someone's house and they take their plate into the kitchen while you still have food in your plate? It's rude and serves no purpose other than making you eat faster.

Whatever the reason, I don't like it and from now on I will tell the bus boy that I want to hold on to my plate until everyone else at the table is done eating. Let's get back to a more civilized dining experience.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch

I had to take a couple of days off. I decided against continuing with the description of my surgery. It's all in the past and quite anti-climactic. Synopsis: I woke up, waited a long time, went home. I have a couple of pictures which I'll scan and post later.

I am recovering nicely. I shed the crutches today and started putting weight on the right knee/leg. I even went for a walk with the family to Ciao Bella on 92nd. That's half a mile back and forth but on the way back the knee was getting tired. It was downhill to boot and I had G in a stroller.

My PT is Wednesday and I see Dr. Gladstone on Thursday. I am going to do everything I can to have a speedy recovery. I won't push too hard that I hurt myself, but I'm 42 and every day out of the lineup counts against me.

The procedure

I'm in the elevator with Dr. Resident. "Busy day?", I say. "Everyday is a busy day", he says with a smile. Quick trip, the doors open and we walk out onto the 3rd floor. We go through the doors and there's the pre/post-op area. There's a gurney right there next to the nurses' station. Your table, sir.

I hop on and Dr. Resident confirms all the information. You might think it would be annoying, but I'm actually glad that everyone is confirming the procedure and the side. Right knee arthroscopy. No I have not had anything to eat or drink. No medications. The gurney is enclosed by curtains and I'm asked to take off the top gown. He exposes my knee and marks it and puts his initials on there. Nice. I tell him to call MLW as soon as I'm out. That she's a physician and will get worried if too much time passes and nobody has called. He says Gladstone will call.

Then the anesthesiologist slips into our cocoon and he's also a resident. Any crowns, caps? No. Then the nurse shows up and introduces himself. It's getting a little crowded around my bed and I feel like a presidential candidate being mobbed by reporters. What's your economic policy regarding NAFTA? Are you allergic to anything? How would you address the sub-prime problem? Any prior surgeries?

Then Gladstone walks in, takes a look at the knee and orders the nurse to shave it. I ask him to call MLW as soon as I'm out of surgery to let her know. He writes the numbers on the leg of his scrubs. I remind him that she's a physician and will get worried. He gives me a non-committal ok and leaves the cocoon. By this time, the nurse is already half done shaving my knee. It looks naked.

Resident 1 leaves with him and resident 2's boss shows up and asks the same set of questions. He then leaves, so I'm there resident 2 and his job is to start the IV. He puts the tourniquet on my arm and pokes my arm. He misses, but plays it cool. He even tries to hook up the IV and then try to move the needle back and forth. Luckily for me, he decides to abort and go for the back of the hand. I got better veins there anyway.

Resident 1 shows up and says that he's going to wheel me into the OR. If he ever decides to give up this orthopedic surgery gig, he'll be a great cab driver. This guy was whizzing through the hallways and making left and right turns with the gurney as if he was riding a scooter. He almost took out a doctor who was standing a little too far outside a doorway. All the while the anesthesiologist is running behind us with his bag o' goodies.

We went quite far. I think it was all the way to 5th Ave, the very last room down the long hallway. Once we got there he collected my IV stuff and we walked in. Of course the room was not ready so resident 1 volunteered to help. They locked the table and had me lay down on it. Resident 2 went to work on setting up his magic and resident 1 started drawing on my knee and explaining what he was doing to a medical student to whom I was not introduced. They put the oxygen mask on my face and resident 2 told me to take deep breaths.

They exposed my leg and removed the non-skid hospital sock from my right (and correct) foot. I asked resident 1 how long the procedure would last and was told 20-30 minutes. He then grabbed a BIG-ASS needle from the table. My eyes must have given me away because the medical student motioned to resident 1. He looked at me and from under the oxygen mask I said "That's a big-ass needle." "Oops. I should really hide this from patients, but we don't use it until you're totally under."

I then felt cold and wet on the back of my hand where the IV was. I asked resident 2 if I was supposed to feel cold where the IV was and he said, "Yes. That's the medication."

That's the last thing I remember from the OR.

The Waiting - Part I

I'm in this exam room with a couple of plastic bags for my belongings. I'm told to take off all my clothes and put on 2 gowns. The first tied in the back and the second in the front. The nurse will be in shortly.

So I decide to call MLW at home to tell her that I'm in the back. So I pulled out my slick Blackberry to call (and maybe I'll twitter, too) and saw that I had no signal. Those bastards!!!! So I left the room and went all the way out to admissions to call. I told her that I'm going in the back. I'm pretty certain I told her to stay put at home until the doctor calls and says I'm out of surgery. Now it can be argued that I still have chemicals flowing in my system and, yes I did take a Percocet at 1:30pm, but I believe that my recommendation was for MLW and the kids to stay home, maybe nap, go to the park, something and NOT come to the hospital and wait around for hours.

So I go back to the exam room and put on the gowns. By now it's 9:15 am and all my belongings are in 2 bags, I'm reclined on a pretty comfortable armchair, reading my magazine. By 9:30, I have stooped so low as to read about how Gossip Girl is the best teen drama on TV, ever! I am feeling pretty bored and restless. Where is that nurse? So I open the door and step out in the hallway. I find the first person with a badge and tell her that I've been waiting for over 45 minutes for the nurse. I get some polite, yet lame excuse about the nurse making her rounds. I go back into the room and leave the door open. There is foot traffic in the hallway, mostly to and from the bathroom at the end of the hall.

Another 15 minutes pass. I've given up on the Gossip Girl article and am reading the Patient's Bill of Rights. I'm looking for the loophole that entitles me to bitch to the CEO of Mt Sinai about my intolerable wait. No luck. I'm entitled to a bunch of things that at this point I don't care about.

Then the nurse comes in. Tries to pronounce my name, butchers it, takes my blood pressure, and verifies the procedure. She asks when I had my last meal, blah, blah-blah, blah-blah-blah. At this point I am so craving a cup of coffee that I just want them to cut me up, send me home, so I can have some caffeine. As she's finishing the resident (Dr. somebody who works with Dr. Gladstone) walks in to take me upstairs.

Here we go. It's gonna happen now.

Admissions

I walked through the doors of the Mount Sinai Guggenheim Medical Pavilion a little after 8:30. The security people were acting more like WalMart greeters and directed me to the 2nd floor. Surgical admissions was buzzing with activity. The Maître D' took my name and gave me a beeper, ala Chili's, and told me to come back when it started buzzing. Just then I realized that I forgot to pickup AM New York for the Sudoku and crossword.

So I scrounged around the area and found a New York magazine from a month ago. There were a couple of articles I hadn't read and it would keep me occupied. The thing that was starting to worry me was the multitude of hardcover books on the tables. I'm talking 2.5-3" thick. How long would the wait actually be? I wouldn't consider starting one of those books unless I knew I was going to be waiting for, I don't know, .... a week?

Luckily, my buzzer went off before I could think more about the reason for having all these books. I was then escorted to a cubicle where they took down my insurance information and verified that I was actually the person who was scheduled to have a procedure. Then the person took me to the waiting area.

Significant event's Eve

Tomorrow is the day that I go in for my arthroscopic knee surgery. The procedure, as I like to call it, will take place at Mt Sinai, 3 blocks away. I feel pretty calm about the whole thing, which I think is troubling some people. Should I be more worried? I really don't see why and it may be because of ignorance about being put under and having surgery. Ignorance may be bliss.

One aspect of this whole thing that is really bugging me is the fact that every entity involved in this procedure is only looking out to get paid. They don't give a damn whether I'm going in for brain surgery or wart removal. Last week the orthopedics department called and asked for a "deposit". I'm not renting a fucking clown for a birthday party. What am I going to do cancel because of rain? I know, I know. Bad analogy. But it's still pissing me off.

They all want to make sure that they get paid and make their quota. Being in sales, I know what that means. I am really frustrated about the fact that medicine is not about healing but about business. It's the business of medicine and I'm sure that more than a couple of deadbeats have walked through the doors of Mt Sinai. Still, it doesn't make it right. They required a pre-op physical with labs to make sure they covered their ass in case I croak on the table. Maybe they should also run a pre-op credit check.

What's next? "Sorry sir, but we can't operate because your FICO score is too low." or worse yet "It's our Presidents Day appendectomy sale. No credit, no problem. Only $100 down with our low, low financing". What the hell is up with that?

So we'll see if they operate at 10:30 tomorrow morning. I will have my banker on alert and make sure I have a balanced portfolio with no CDEs. Oh, and I have to remember to bring my own crutches, because apparently the hospital does not provide you with these post-op necessities.

My next post will be under the influence of Percacet. That should be a doozey.

Politics of toddlers

S turned 3 in March and in my unbiased, completely objective opinion, she's way smarter than the average 3 year old. You do realize that close to 75% of people think they are above average, so 25% of them are wrong. I assure you that I am not the 1 among my 3 peers who has an error in judgment.

But enough about me; let's talk about my smart daughter who has benefited from my genes. (Please note that I did not say smart genes, just that my daughter is smart and there is a 50-50 chance that I had something to do with it). OK. Now that we have that out of the way, I can continue with my story. [yeesh]

S knows about "please" and "thank you" and "excuse me" and all the stuff that would make Judith Martin proud. Her smartness comes in at using these words to get what she wants from her at-first-unsuspecting-and now-totally-on-to-her parents. So at first you ask your child to say please when she wants something. Then you give that thing to her. "Please, can I watch some TV? " "OK. Since you asked nicely..." So she learns the power of using the right words and parents act like they've been sucker-punched when these words come back to bite them.

"Please, can I watch some TV? Please?" Now the 2nd use of the magic word is the first hint that your child has gone for the nuclear option. She wants that Curious George and she's not messing around with a single please. These smaller version of yourselves are quite smart (although mine is smarter than the average, especially from the offspring of Mr&Mrs 25% over there) and know what to do.

We constantly get bombarded with words-as-weapons; the "please" cluster bomb is the most deadly, frustrating one of all. And there is no reprieve. There is no Osama bunker in our UES apartment to which we can escape. No Viet-cong tunnel with booby trapped entrance conveniently situated in our bedroom. No escape hatch to whisk us off the Death Star while Luke Skywalker (Jr.) has dropped the smart bomb.

So what do we do? We go on walks, alone, by ourselves, without kids (One at a time of-course). Or we go out for a drink with a friend. Or go to the movies by ourselves.

And what do we do during these self-imposed exiles? Think about all the wonderful things that these mini-me's have done that enrich our lives, make us smile, and make us want more of them. The latter only happens after a loooong walk -- I'm talking 5-7 miles, not a stroll around the Jackie O. -- and perhaps a few pints of lager.

Random thoughts about skiing

I was downloading the digital camera pix into Picasa today and came across some pictures from this winter. As I'm getting ready for my knee surgery (T-3 days) , I can't help but think back to the great fun I had skiing with S. It was a great experience for me from many perspectives.

First, I had the opportunity to pass along to my offspring an activity that I enjoy. I hope this becomes a family thing for us, them, and their children. Some families get into golfing, fishing, camping, vegging in front of the TV, or flying kites. I want us to tbe the skiing family. "Look at that skiing family over there. They are such ... skiers." I've decided that I'm keeping the ski gear that I got S this winter. She'll probably get another season's use out of both the boots and the skis, then it'll be G's turn. Like it or not, she'll be strapping on skis and sliding down that hill.

Although the skis that you see in these pictures are not the ones I'm keeping. These orange ones were the rentals we got from McAfee's Ski & Snowboard on the first day out. The ones she used for the rest of the season were from Ski Barn in Wayne, NJ and they're brand new; both boots and skis. They didn't have her size boots and skis in the rental department, so they pulled new Rossignols ones and gave it to me for the lease program. The boots match the skis with pink hearts and bears and flowers. A total ski bunny package for S. Gotta love it. In a few years, she's going to kick my ass down the steeps and will be waiting at the lift with this "what took you so long, old man" grin on her face. All I know is head to head on a straightaway, I can still go faster than her. I have an advantage that she's unlikely to match: I weight more than she does.

Second, the time we (as a family) invested in doing the activity was worthwhile. Although on a couple of occasions the total ski time was far less then travel time, I enjoyed spending time as a family. We logged a dozen or so hours with the kids in the back, MLW as my co-pilot, and me, the man of the family, at the wheel; speeding down the highways of New Jersey, listening to the sounds of snoring from all three sides, with my trusty cup o' joe getting us safely back to Manhattan.


Third, although we live in an urban environment and love it, I enjoy getting out in the country. The cold mountain air is exhilarating and calming at the same time. It's my version of nicotine. I am a green person at heart and want to make sure that there will be ski areas and snow for my kids when they grow up. I'm hoping that by seeing what we now have, they will also work to preserve it and enjoy it when they are my age.

So, I'm being a little nostalgic here, but it's my blog and I can say whatever I want. If I want I can even say Sheboygan, just like that.

Finally

I've been trying to post an entry for a couple of days. Every time I get in front of the laptop, there is something that pulls me away. I like having time to spend with the kids, especially when we do an activity. Yesterday S and I went to a playground on the West Side. Although that wasn't my initial idea.

I was planning on going to Rite Aid on Broadway for paper towels and wipes. I know they usually have good deals on both. When the bus dropped us off at Broadway, my engineer brain ran some quick calculations and informed me that if we did the shopping at that time, we would be back too early. So I decided to go to a playground. S kept asking if we're going to the "dinosaur playground" and I did not want to commit lest she throw a fit when it turned out to be just a simple pedestrian playground.

Indeed she knew what she was talking about. It was the Dinosaur Playground. I guess she's been to more playgrounds than I have. In the past week S has matured from a social skills perspective. She is yearning for playmates and at any playground she looks for someone who she can play with. Today, it was a 2 year old girls and her 4 year old brother. S properly introduced herself and asked the girl what her name was. Then she said, "let's play" and they were off on a chase around the playground. The kids' mother and I trying to catch up and help them up on the rings, the structure, the dinosaurs, etc.

After a while the little girl wanted some juice, otherwise S can keep playing without taking a break. She had a few bites of the chicken fingers and some water. All the while, S's interacting with the other kids and wanting to play. I felt very good about the whole thing. I am proud of the way she conducts herself, her self-assurance, her empathy, and her fun-loving personality.

And what about the paper towels and wipes? My engineer brain was out of commission and we had to rush back home. Who needs wipes anyway?

Significant event- update 2

Got my pre-op bloodwork done. I didn't have to fast for it which was really good. Primary will send the results to the surgeon tomorrow. I got my script for Percocet filled and I know where I'm going to get my crutches. The surgeon said the anesthesia will be done via a mask and no intubation will be required. If I want I can get a local and watch it on TV. Not a big fan of that, although it does sound interesting. Maybe I can ask him to TiVo it and I can watch it later, or post it to my blog.

7 more days to d-day. I'm all ready to go. Now only if G passes the golf ball she's been cultivating in her bowels...

Night Off

I saw Iron Man last night and I was very impressed. They did a great job of building the Tony Stark character and Robert Downey Jr was a great casting decision for the role. The best line in the movie belongs to Gwyneth Paltrow with "I occasionally have to put out the trash".

Of course I am biased in liking a Marvel movie as I have a collection of over 2000 comic books. They are mainly Spiderman and X-Men, but I do have a considerable number of Avengers, The Incredible Hulk, and I think I have the complete set of Alpha Flight series. Probably the only one south of Canada ;-) Iron man makes appearances in many issues of the Avengers.

It was good to have a night out, even if it was by myself, alone, in a dark theater. Sounds kinda sordid, like Pee-wee Herman, except for the movie genre. With the exception of being able to ask "So, what did you think about the movie?", I actually don't mind going to the movies by myself.

I am looking forward to the Indiana Jones and Batman movies coming out. Although the previews for the Hulk looked promising. Seeing Edward Norton as Bruce Banner might actually be a draw for me.

Significant event - Update 1

For those rabid followers, who have been begging and pleading for an update on my surgery.

I called my primary to setup an appointment for a "pre-op". That's Dr. speak for running blood tests and getting a release from a Dr. who supposedly knows me better than the specialist/cutter. I have a call into Dr. Gladstone to see if he will be on call Memorial Day weekend (just in case of complications) and to find out whether they're going to put me out or administer a local anesthesia. Never having gone through a real surgery, I completely forgot to ask about that.

Mothers' Day

It is a wonderful day in NYC. The weather is great, the kids are still sleeping, I have time to myself. What more can one ask for. For her day, MLW had asked that I give her just that: a day, by herself to do whatever she wants. So I decided to take the kids to see the Statues of Liberty. Only S would be able to enjoy it, with G along for the ride.

[Sidenote: 3 hours have passed since I finished the above paragraph. As I was typing "still sleeping", I heard stirring from the girls room on the monitor.]

If you have not had the "pleasure" of riding the NYC subway on a weekend, I invite you to take part in this form of masochism. During the week, the subway is the lifeline of the city, but on weekends it turns into a mess of confusion. The poorly posted and unclear signs join the chorus of garbled announcements to drive you nuts. Just to cut this short, I took the 1 train which on any given day is supposed to take you, albeit very slowly, to South Ferry. Having trekked down to John and Hera's on 14th street last night, I knew the 2 and 3 are running local to Chambers St. I figured I can take any one and change at Chambers to the 1 train.

So the first train was the 1, which we took. We switched to the 3 at 14th St to Chambers, because of construction. At no time during the 45 minute trip from 96th Street to Chambers Street did I see a sign, hear an announcement, nor did I get a psychic vibe that THERE IS NO #1 SERVICE TO SOUTH FERRY. We had to get on a shuttle bus at Chambers to South Ferry. All in all, it wasn't that bad, but the whole going up and down steps with S, who insists on walking, by herself, unassisted, holding the grimy handrail was a bit tiring.

The Ferry ride was very nice and S did get a kick out of getting on a "boat" and seeing the SoL. We had snacks on board and even G had some formula. We did the roundtrip on the same boat and this time we sat on the lower level at an open window. You can see the SoL at the top of the B on S's Red Sox cap.


Much easier to get back on the 5 train. We even helped some tourists form Prague get to Chinatown.

Another thing we'll miss about New York

We just got back from J and H's. It was a lovely time. The kids played very well together and nobody got hurt. Not even the adults; although J and I may be feeling the hurt of the 4 beers that we had tonight. We are such light-weights!!!

Tomorrow being mothers' day and all, we both will have our hands full with the kids, I'm sure. If both moms decide to do some alone time activity -- MLW for sure has asked that I give her a day off as a mothers day present and by golly she's going to get exactly what she asked for -- J and I may get together for some playground time in Central Park.

We really enjoy getting together with J and H. They are great people and are easy to hang with. We can sit around for hours and talk about nothing in particular, while the kids play around us. I'm sure if the kids were at it all the time, I would feel differently.

S's haircut

MLW has given me the day off. It's been great so far. I messed around with this blog business, setup my twitter account, and made myself some foul (pronounced fool), which is baked chick peas with cumin and garlic. It was a very lazy morning and I appreciate getting the time to do some stuff for me.

When I called MLW, they were on their way back and looking to get S a haircut around the corner. I went downstairs to join them and captured these shots of the glam-girls at Prestige Salon:


It seems they had a great time at the Metropolitan Museum and were ready for some girly-girl things. I was the official photographer for the event. We then treated ourselves to some pizza at La Famiglia.

Significant event

This is not something new, yet it's something that is significant. I am going under the knife on May 21, 2008 at Mount Sinai to fix my knee. It's long story...

My right knee has been bothering me since July of 2007. I got an X-ray which was negative and the pain was not consistent, so I let it go. Then around January of 2008, I decided to go for a long overdue physical and asked my doctor about the knee. He referred me to an Orthopedic surgeon. This new guy ordered another batch of X-rays and then sent me to get an MRI. The MRI showed "an oblique undersurface tear in the posterior horn of the medial meniscus."

He said that the way to fix it is to cut out the torn part by arthroscopic surgery. He explained that there is minimal risk involved and that I can resume normal activity shortly after the out-patient procedure. He then sent in his nurse to schedule the operation. Bang-bang-bang!

At first, I thought that they had their shit together and it was good that this guy was going to do the cutting. But after walking out of the room and thinking about it, I decided that a) I needed a 2nd opinion and b) I did not care for the off-hand way the whole thing was handled. I mean, if I was taking my car into service and the guy told me I needed to replace my struts, I'd take it to another mechanic just to make sure the first guy hadn't overlooked something. More importantly, I felt like a piece of meat being put through the machinery at this place. Slow down there, doc. Let it sink in and let me make a decision not based on your next availability but my comfort level at letting someone rip through my flesh. (technically, they only puncture your flesh, but I thought "rip" was more dramatic) So I got my MRI images (I posted 2 of the 134 images on a CD) and got a 2nd and 3rd opinion. It was unanimous: To get rid of the pain, I would require surgery.

So, on May 21, Dr. James Gladstone is going to do the honors. I have to say that I really liked the way Dr. Gladstone handled the interaction. He answered all my questions and was actually expecting me to have questions. He showed me the MRI images and the tear (that's how I knew what to put on this blog) in the meniscus, which is what I did not get from the 1st guy. I asked about scheduling the procedure and I already have my prescription for crutches and Percocet.

I suppose this is the countdown. 11 days away.