I'm a Rock Star Thanks to @BloggerIdol

It's true. I am a rock star. It has nothing to do with my love of karaoke, my penchant to sing in the shower, or my talent to make a parody out of any song by putting my dog Luna's name in it. It doesn't even have to do with taking My Director to the Awesome 80's Prom for her 30th birthday:

This was 5 years ago.
Yes, that's a Smurf tattoo

No. I am a rock star because Blogger Idol told me so. The motto of this wonderful experience disguised as a writing contest is "writers are the new rock stars." As many of you who have been following DKL from the beginning may remember, this time last year I was knee-deep in Blogger Idol. I had made it to the finale in the first-ever season, only to lose by a handful of votes at the last possible minute. (Not bitter at all. Totally over it. Now please pass me that bottle of Jack Daniels.)

I've made a lot of friends in the blogosphere, forged a lot of relationships, learned a lot of things from a lot of really cool, special, interesting people. Blogger Idol was by far the most unique experience I've ever had in the year and a half since I took DKL public. The weekly challenges were at times frustrating, but mostly invigorating and inspiring. They pushed me as a writer to go places I've never gone before and explore topics I never would have explored. (Uh, there was a vampire week. Random but fun. And my post got top marks from the judges.) I have gained lasting friendships with some great people. My fellow contestants, actually. Roni from The Mommy in Law, Chris at ...from the Bungalow, and Derrick from Dad v. Autism, to name a few.

I'm not going to lie. Winning would have been very cool. But in hindsight, doing it - putting myself out there - was so much more rewarding. I was proud of the work I did, how I presented myself, and how I kept true to myself and the integrity of my blog and my writing.

Now Blogger Idol is back, it's bigger and better. The prizes are amazing. And perhaps most exciting for DKLers, I'm going to be a judge. How cool is that? For now, judge for yourself and check out some of my favorite entries from last year's assigments:

Here is my audition post that convinced the judges to put me into the top 12. The assignment was simple: Why are you the next Blogger Idol? So I drew inspiration from my Grandma Sylvia and told them What I'm Made Of.

In Week 1 of this 12-week journey, we were asked to introduce ourselves to the voters. So I wrote About Being a Dad

When I first saw the assignment for week two, my first reaction was, "Oh. My. God." We had to write about a day in the life as the opposite sex. So I made it an homage to the woman I know the best. Enjoy Freaky Friday.

The post I thought would win me the whole damn thing was a very emotional one I wrote for the finale about The Best Dad I Know.





Auditions begin TODAY. So I urge you to get involved. If you are a blogger looking to get established, to have your writing critiqued by bloggers who are established, and to showcase your writing to a new audience, this is a great opportunity. Follow Blogger Idol on Facebook and Twitter for updates. Even if you don't audition, I urge you to follow because you WILL connect with these contestants. I promise. They all will inspire you when they pour their hearts into their posts. Let the competition begin.

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Count the Similarities

"When I'm alone, I count myself. One Count." -Count von Count, Sesame Street

I have a cool job. I am a television news producer at a national financial network. Naturally when I tell people, they are curious. They want to know the behind-the-scenes gossip. "What is so-and-so like off camera?"

I am lying to them. Kind of. That's because I am a vampire. Yes... a vampire. Mwahaha. I am a producer... but for The Count. That's right... this guy:

So yes, I work in television. And yes, I work in news, in that I am providing essential information in an interesting way and with a certain, shall we say, spin. And being that my portion of the show involves counting, I consider that financial.

Let me tell you, it is a pleasure to work with The Count. He needs very little hand holding and requires very little research. He's just that good. Trust me, I have worked with prima donnas and jerks. I could tell you stories about Count Chocula that will make you switch to Franken Berry in a heartbeat. The guy's a nightmare. Literally.

We won an Emmy for this

The Count and I just jive together. We're always looking for new and interesting ways to present the content. Using the organ in his castle to reveal the number of the day? My idea. I was also the one who said we should work with Cookie Monster and try to count apples as he's eating them. The end result was TV magic.

When we're done taping for the day, and I'm finally back at my desk, I call my wife, the Old Bat.

Rare photo of me & Old Bat: Halloween 2002

The Old Bat works full time at a local college, the Vampire College of New York. She's totally turned VCNY around. Since she took over as head of student affairs, NTDs are way down. (That's neck-transmitted diseases.) She says it's all about educating the students to use protection if they're going to bite each other. They try to promote abstinence too, but let's be honest: how many horny young vampires given the freedom of college for the first time are really going to abstain from biting?

She's now tackling the problem of  preying on the human students at NYU and Columbia. Because there are few things a young mischievous vampire loves more than liberal student blood. So sweet and idealistic.

This particular day, the Old Bat tells me she had received a call from the Peanut's daycare. One of the teachers was reporting an "incident." An incident of biting. We were so proud. And at the same time, a little sad and disappointed. We had missed her first bite.

Apparently, another boy wanted to play with a toy hearse she was playing with. When he went to grab it, the Peanut flashed her fangs and sank them into his arm.

When I shared this story with The Count he shouted, "One! One bite from the Peanut! Mwahaha!" He was so excited. Such a good guy.

Just remember: you and I - human and vampires - aren't that different after all: 

I get up before dawn and go to work in the dark. (I work an early shift.)

I spend a lot of time every day with zombies (me and my sleepy fellow commuters on the bus and train.)

At twilight I roam the Earth with an imposing, dark-haired beast. (I walk my dog, Luna.)

I am a slave to my family’s unending thirst and hunger. (I do the food shopping and cooking.)

My family has an aversion to water. (We all despise bath time.)

See? Vampires are people too.

You can read my reaction to the Peanut's REAL "biting incident" here

This was my entry for Week 7 of Blogger Idol. The assignment: a day in the life of your family if you were vampires. I thought it was fitting to save it for Halloween.

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When Daddy Met Daddy

(In case you missed what me and Derrick did for our week 3 team assignment for Blogger Idol 2011:) 

Here's what happened when two ruthless, genius, and maniacal daddy bloggers (Dad v. Autism & Daddy Knows Less) started following, sharing, and - gasp! - talking to each other on the phone:

DKL: For all intents and purposes, I have only been part of the blogging community for four months, even though I've been blogging for four years. Only this past March did I open up my blog to the world outside of my family and friends. And thank goodness, because I've made countless new friends.

One of whom is Derrick, who blogs at Dad v. Autism. He's a more than a daddy blogger. He writes about life, its struggles and triumphs, as well as his family. He calls his blog Dad v. Autism because his youngest child, Noah, is high functioning autistic and he wants the world to know how awesome Noah is. He's doing a spectacular job. You should join me in following him.

Recently, he shared with his readers one of my posts. I had written about a long vacation my wife and I took with our daughter to Seattle and Vancouver. And how we decided not to say no to her during the trip. While I was honored that he thought enough of the post to share it, I was curious as to why. (Click here to read the post)

So I decided to dig deeper into his experiences with family vacations:

DKL: Time and money are not an issue: What is your dream vacation?

DvA: I'd love to take the Cheerleader to Paris...for like a year...no kids...no package deals...just live there for a year...soak it all in.  See the sites, sure, but mostly just experience what's it like in the Paris...without kids...

DKL: Why aren't your kids involved?

DvA: Why would I take the brood on a romantic getaway with the missus?  Like they don't intrude enough already!

Ouch!  Dammit!....I'm sorry, I take it all back...I love my kids...we'd go to Disney World, move right in with Mickey and Minnie Mouse, we could borrow cups of sugar from Daisy Duck and ride Space Mountain every day...

This isn't Clark, but it's close...just like me.

DKL: Have you ever traveled across country with an ultimate destination in mind, and planned stops along the way to see family, visit national landmarks, only to experience car trouble, have your great aunt die on the trip and your ultimate destination be closed for renovations once you've arrived? No? Well, then has anyone ever told you you look like Chevy Chase?

DvA: I've never been told I look like Chevy...although I have been accused of acting like him on occasion.  Funny, you should bring up a cross country trip..we've actually done that twice..but not as vacations.  We've done them as mind melting, mental trauma inducing moves.  The first time it was just the oldest...and it was no fun.  The second time it was all three and Noah was just a baby...and it was even less fun.

DKL: You have three kids, so you MUST have a vacation horror story or 27 to tell. Care to share one? No? Hey, you agreed to the interview, pal. The least you could do is answer the questions. Please?

DvA: When we lived in California we would take regular seven hour trips to see the in-laws in Nevada.  The Goob was only three or four and she really liked to hear the sound of her own voice...for seven straight hours.  I don't know which was worse her rendition of twinkle, twinkle little star...or the time she played with the Blue's Clues Toys for the seven hours back..."Healthy-Healthy-Healthy Snacks, Healthy Snacks.  Healthy-healthy-healthy..." It never ended.  The poor stupid toy couldn't get a single sentence out before she punched that button again and again...;

"The Sun's a hot...the Sun's a hot...the Sun--the Sun--the Sun--"

All of the while going through a snow storm on Donner Pass...I am amazed we survived...We did however have to seek counseling afterwards...for the toys.

DKL: Seriously, how the hell do you travel with three kids? Two of whom are "teenagery?" Do you drink A LOT on vacation? I have one child and I try to keep a constant buzz. Could be why I don't say "no" to her on vacation. Was there a question in there? Bartender!

DvA: We don't travel with three kids anymore.  First of all, we always drove...because flying a family of five anywhere requires a second mortgage.  Also, we usually travel to family, and there aren't many heavy drinkers...And we certainly don't travel with the teenagers anymore...they eat too frickin' much and I don't want to rent a cargo van to pack them all into...

DKL: Wouldn't it be nice if your wife didn't say no to YOU on vacation? Or at home for that matter? What do you think of THAT?

DvA: I like your thinking DKL.  I think that should be a movement!  I'll help make picket signs...what was that?  NO!  NO! I would never say that...out loud...my wife is entitled to her own opinions, aside from my own...even on vacation....(Yes, dear, I'm putting the markers back where I found them.)

DKL: I have this new thing. Whenever my wife says or does anything to aggravate me, I instantly say, "I love you soooo much." And we both start laughing right away. Is that passive aggressive? Are you passive aggressive? What does your wife do, on vacation or not, that aggravates you?

DvA: Yes, that's very passive aggressive.  And that's exactly how I am.

What does my wife do that bugs me?  Well let me tell you...oh, hi honey, I didn't see you there again...NOTHING.  My wife does NOTHING that bugs me...ever...

DKL: Somewhat serious question: Why do you refer to your daughter as "The Goob?" Does she like this name? And how do your older kids feel about you writing about them on the internet for the world to see (sometimes airing their crap)? I ask because this is something my wife and I talk about every time the "where do we want this blog thing to go" discussion comes up.

DvA: "Goob?" Well, we were doing our best to clean up our language, so we started calling each other "Noobs" as in "Newbies" who just don't really know what they're doing...so I wasn't thinking one day and I misspoke "Noob" for "Goob."  The Goob immediately laughed at me, so I played it off like that was what I meant to say anyway...as in short for "Goober."  At first she hated it, which is why I started using it in my blog...but after a while, she's really gotten used to it.  She signed my Father's Day card, "From the Goob."

You know, for the most part, my kids refuse to read anything I write.  I'm just not cool enough.  So there's never been any argument about it.  In actuality, I think it goes completely in line with what I've always told my children, "If you're doing something that you have to lie about or you don't want anybody to know about, you probably shouldn't be doing it."

I've also explained in a follow up blog that when I've really felt funny about talking about delicate issues, I'm really looking more for advice, both for myself and the kids. And frankly, I've never really written anything that wasn't public knowledge for all intents and purposes.

Now if they were counter-revolutionaries trying to bring down our real estate banking overlords...I'd keep their secrets...

DvA: Now let me ask you some questions, Justin.  Let me dig into your noggin for a bit, if you will.  You write a darn good blog over there at Daddy Knows Less.  I particularly like your catch phrase "Often wrong.  Never in doubt."  I can dig that...that strikes a chord if you know what I mean.  You were nice enough to pimp out one of my blogs once too.  It was all about my neighbors who have proven...um...less than friendly. (Click here to read it.)

What makes a good neighbor? Do you consider yourself a good neighbor?

I'm no Mr. Rogers, but I'm close.

DKL: A good neighbor is someone who is helpful, not intrusive, and not annoying. And when they are annoying, they either warn you before the fact or apologize after the fact. A good neighbor shovels your walkway if you're away during a snow storm.

I'm a good neighbor. I take my neighbor's cans in if they've forgotten. If I see newspapers piling up on their front walkway, I pick them up and put them out of view so no one sees that they're away. And I don't let my dog crap on their lawns, even if I think it may actually help their lawns look nicer.

DvA: Have you ever had a "bad" neighbor? If so did you retaliate against said bad neighbor? If not, why not? If so, how?

DKL: I didn't know I had a bad neighbor until I was, coincidentally, walking the dog one evening. I live on the corner of our block, which intersects with a busy two-lane thoroughfare in our town. Luna and I were crossing the street right in front of our house when this jerk came roaring around the corner with his music blasting. He came within two feet of hitting us.

At first, I thought it was a teenager. I glared through the windshield at whomever was driving. When I reached the sidewalk, the neighbor revealed himself. He is an older guy and is known on the block as a cranky jerk. I just never had any such experience with him. Until now. He had the nerve to ask me why I looked annoyed. "Because you almost hit us, Dennis." And I walked away.

When we returned, I wasn't satisfied with my response. So I called him. I reminded him we live on a street that dead ends into a park, with lots of kids and people walking their dogs. "You don't need to tell me that. I've been living here for twenty years," he barked back.

"Then you should know not to drive like a maniac."

Now I've upset him. He went on to describe my phone call as unnecessary and say I should cross in the crosswalk and no I'm not going to apologize so I guess this conversation is over.

I did have the inclination to post a sign on his car that reads, "Please slow down" every day for the rest of our lives. But cooler heads have prevailed and I really don't have much if any interaction with this guy since he lives at the other end of the street. So screw him. Let him be miserable.

DvA: Have you ever snuck through the second story window of your bad neighbor's house, overfed their fish and stolen a six pack of beer from their fridge so they'll be forced to blame their teenage kid for the theft?  No?  Me neither.  What kind of a freak would do something like that?

DKL: Actually, I have been pool-hopping before. Does that count? But that was back in my teenage days. I never understood why we did this. Most of us had swimming pools. My father was in the swimming pool business. So not only were we trespassing on our neighbors' property, we were jeopardizing my dad's relationship with his customers. Foolish kids (shakes fist in disgust).

DvA: Have you ever had a policeman next door neighbor who had a security light that shone every night into your master bedroom and kept you awake all night and it turned out he was a complete psycho and tried to kill your whole family?  Oh, that was a movie?  Did you see it?  What'd you think?  Because that's never happened to me either.  Hollywood has a way of ruining everything...excuse me while I throw this script out....

DKL: No. But I did have a neighbor who called the cops on me every time I had friends over, whether we were drinking or not. Once they did it at my birthday party sophomore year in high school. Because all the seniors showed up and were loitering in the street, thinking it was a drinking party. But it was just a bunch of horny Catholic school guys trying to snap underwater pictures of the girls in their bikinis. (Incidentally, guys are perverts and they suck and I am going to be a psychopath when my daughter is a teenager because of everything I know.)

Actually, this WAS a drinking party. Sort of. Me and one of my friends were walking around with rum and cokes the whole time. We were hammered. And my mom's one cousin became suspicious because I had bloodshot eyes. I blamed the pH level in the pool (the pool boy's knowledge comes in handy once again).

DvA: Have you ever had a neighbor have a Mexican salsa band blaring across the street for 48 straight hours? And it wasn't even on Cinco de Mayo?  What would you do about something like that?

DKL: If I could hear it, and it was interrupting mine or my daughter's sleep, I would go absolutely apesh!t bananas. I would be that guy. I would call the cops.

DvA: Have you ever borrowed any yard tools from a neighbor?  Do you still have it?  Did you ever have a garage sale and try to sell it?  Have you ever had a neighbor borrow anything from you?

DKL: I have borrowed an axe for chopping firewood, and an extension ladder for hanging a tire swing. Actually, my neighbor is the one who climbed the ladder and hung the swing because I'm afraid of heights. Well, I'm actually more afraid of falling than of climbing, but you get the point.

I have always returned everything in a timely and efficient manner (see above about being a good neighbor). Although, I did have a baseball bat that one of my neighbors brought over for a pinata at a Halloween party for the better part of nine months. But that was more forgetfulness. And it's not like I tried to sell it.

DvA: Lastly, in my research, I discovered that you may or may not work for a MAJOR television network...well, I've got this awesome idea for pilot....no, it's so much better than that last one...that last one was crap!  This is solid gold, I promise...

DKL: This is true. I am a television news producer at a major network. But I ask you please do not make any assumptions about my political beliefs or the scope of my influence based on where I work and the title I hold. I'm really just another brick in the wall. But I'm sure your script is awesome.

DvA: Of course, it is...so where can I send it?

DKL: I'll ask Uncle Rupert and get back to you.

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Where I Want to Be

This was my Week 6 entry for Blogger Idol: my answer to the age-old question: "what do you want to be when you grow up?"

I'm a big kid.

Remember those old Toys R Us commercials? "I don't wanna grow up. I'm a Toys R Us kid..." That's me.

I want to run in the sprinkler with my daughter. I want to play Candy Land with her even though Candy Land is the never ending bane of every parent's existence. I want to ride the rides with her at the boardwalk all night and then eat funnel cake until I'm nauseous.

I want to ride my bike to the deli and play Mr. Do while drinking Yoo-Hoo. Just like I did when I was a blonde-haired, skinny kid.

I want to be that chunky, uncoordinated pre-teen  who dreamed of playing football in the NFL, of quarterbacking the New York Jets to a Super Bowl championship. I want to be that cocky but still unsure teenager who thought he could be the next legendary play-by-play voice of the New York Yankees.

I want to be a kid again so I can dream impossible dreams that aren't so impossible.

Now that I am grown up, I know exactly what I want to be. I want to be a teacher. I want to be a dream keeper. I want to teach my daughter and the still-to-be-conceived second child that we keep talking about having, yet keep putting off, the error of my ways. I want to tell them it's ok to dream. I want to encourage their dreams. Nourish and nurture them.

What do I want to be when I grow up? A dad who sits in the stands, or the audience, or the pew with pride in his heart and tears in his eyes.

I am a grown up. My dreams are now the dreams of my children.

My path has brought me here

Make no mistake: I have no regrets about my life. I have a wonderful wife, an amazing child, a great house and I get paid to do something I truly enjoy. Sure, a little more money could ease some of the stress. Yes, we'd like more living space downstairs. But I have no complaints. I'm here because I chose to be here. There's no place else I'd rather be.

And while the path I chose to get here may not be the one I'd choose for my child(ren), had I not traveled it I would be somewhere else. I would be someone else. And maybe not as happy. Maybe not as content.

My dream is simple. It's for my family to live long happy healthy lives. To love and to be loved. To laugh and to make people laugh. To enjoy the simple things and endure the difficult ones.

What do I want to be when I grow up? A granddad, surrounded by my children and grandchildren, listening to the next great play-by-play voice of the Yankees, or watching the next great young quarterback lead the Jets to another Super Bowl championship.

Happy. Proud. Content. That's where I want to be. I'm well on my way.

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The Write Stuff

This was my week 4 assignment for Blogger Idol 2011: "Why do you write/what does it mean to you?"

Why do I write? That's like asking why I breathe. I can't help but to write. I need it to survive.

Writing is my catharsis. I want to let out my aggravations to put them behind me.

When I witness something out of the ordinary, or I find something extraordinary in the ordinary, I need to write about it. Whether I am happy or sad, angry or frustrated, writing is my outlet. I want to share my joys and document them forever. 

Nothing can stop me from writing

I need to see it written. Sometimes my hands can't type fast enough. That's how passionate I am about writing.

And yes, I want to become a blogger with a huge following and ink a book deal and all of that. So, there is part of me that does it for some kind of validation. To stay relevant at least to a modest group of followers in this gigantic world. Maybe I think what I have to say matters. That it might make someone's day or change someone's perspective.

I am also grossly self-absorbed, needy, and narcissistic. This is also why I write. 

Sometimes your writing won't be received the way you wanted it to be, the way you expected it to be. These times are borderline devastating.

On the other hand, when a piece that you're not crazy about gets rave reviews, it's exhilarating.

Good or bad, there is no time I feel more vulnerable as a writer than when I know one of my pieces is out there being read for the first time.

I experience this every day, not only in my writing, but also in my job as a television news producer. I am fortunate that I get to do a lot of writing at work. I challenge myself to be funny, or interesting, or both. I want to captivate my audience. I want to compel them to sit through that three and a half minute commercial because you absolutely have to find out the one thing you need to leave at home if you're traveling with a child this summer. (Don't worry, the answer is at the bottom.)

There are times when I think I've nailed something I wrote for my show, and in the commercial break my anchor will look into the camera and simply say, "that didn't make any sense." And I want to jump through the screen from my seat in the control room and smack him. But maybe he's right. Sometimes he is.

The beauty of writing, and of working in television news, is that there is always another piece to write or another show to produce tomorrow. So it's non-stop. You're always getting another chance.

It's also so subjective. The same amount of people can love and hate this piece. I want to high five the people who love it and ask them what they loved about it. I want to shake the people who hate it by the lapels and ask them what they hated about it. I want to try again, harder, for both groups tomorrow.

Writing is a part of me. As a boy I would go on adventures with my imaginary friends. As a teenager I would write song parodies to "Piano Man" based on our drunken escapades on the weekends. I've written wedding vows and eulogies. When I finally decided to propose to my wife, I wrote her a poem that contained a scavenger hunt that led to me with the engagement ring. I now write my wife blog posts instead of birthday cards. And I take the two or three lines that I write in a wedding card, a graduation card, a sympathy card very seriously. I want it to be memorable.

As for the one thing you need to leave at home when you're traveling with a child this summer: it's the word "no." I wrote about that here.

Writing. It's what I do.

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Freaky Friday

"The most important thing a father can do for his children is to love their mother." -Theodore Hesburgh

The alarm sounds. The bright green numbers read an ungodly hour. Ungodly even though it's an hour and a half later than I normally wake up: 6:00. Did I oversleep? Wait... that's not my alarm clock. And what am I doing on this side of the bed?

I rub my eyes, thinking I must still be dreaming. I'm not. Something feels different. My hands feel smaller, smoother. The knuckles are less hairy and clunky. I think I'm just overtired. Imagining things because I would swear I feel different.


Smaller. Prettier?

I go to scratch myself, as I would any morning. Left hand to right 'groin' is always the opening move of my personal game of scratch-and-wake Twister. And... it's different. It's not there.

This is every man's worst nightmare. Worse than the naked-in-front-of-an-audience one. Worse than the haven't-been-to-class-in-weeks-and-finals-are-coming one.

My man parts are gone. Not only are they gone... they've been replaced. By lady parts. Holy good God, what have I done? What did I say? Did I touch a cursed idol and recite the wrong thing at the wrong time? Did I switch bodies with someone? Who?

I jump out of bed, panicked. I throw on the switch, and look in the large picture mirror that hangs over our dresser.

In it, a familiar face is staring back at me. Oh. My. God.

The face in the mirror

I'm gorgeous. I love this person so much.

I pinch myself. I'm definitely awake. This is no dream. Ok... where is she? For a brief fleeting moment, I think of the ridiculous statement I've made the few times my wife and I have joked about 'being each other for a day.'

"I wouldn't leave the bedroom," I've said. "And I'd have a lot of fun."

I now know how ridiculous that statement is. I've got so much to do, so much to figure out, and the last thing on my mind is sex... let alone with myself.

At that moment of clarity, the phone rings.

"We got our wish," she says. I hear her grinning as if she were planning this all along. "What? Where are you? Are you me?

"Yes. I'm in the city, on my way to work. Your work."

Once again...Oh. My. God.

"How the hell are you going to do it?"

"Like you always say," she answered. "We'll figure it out. We always do."

"You're actually enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Yes," she says. "Immensely."

We hang up. OK... focus. I can do this. Can I? I have no choice.

Shower. Do I need to shower? She doesn't shower every day. She's that clean and pretty. I shower twice a day. I'm that dirty and disgusting. I decide to shower, just in case.

This exercise is a maze of confusion and tribulation. I wish I had the time to enjoy myself loofa-ing my wife's body. But I need to get myself to work and my daughter to daycare.

Holy crap... the peanut. How am I going to trick her? Nothing gets by her.

I decide not to wash my hair to save time (knowing that my wife does this is very helpful). I throw my hair in a shoddy ponytail. I get dressed. I choose an outfit from the year I was adventurous enough to go into Anthropologie and buy her some clothing for her birthday. She loved all of it. Still does.

I put on a white skirt with green floral designs on it. A matching blouse. A pair of blown glass earrings that we bought on our honeymoon in Venice. A necklace that matches that. Shoes? Definitely not heels. Sandals.

Makeup. Makeup? My wife is pretty enough without it. I skip the makeup.

Do I look fat? That's something I ask myself every day. She has no such issues.

Of course not. I think I look amazing. (I think she looks amazing.)

The peanut stirs. Luckily, I know enough about their morning routine to get through without incident. I get her into the car. I've offered her a cookie to distract her from my awkward and petrified state. Drop off goes smoothly.

Now off to work. On the bus ride to the city, I look at my hands. Still perfect, but I wish I had time for a manicure. Same with my feet. A pedicure would be nice.

I think about my rushed time with the peanut. And the doubt starts to creep in. Do I pay enough attention to her? Am I working too much? Do I spend enough time with her?

Am I doing the right thing?

These are the things a working mother must think of before she tucks away the family obligations and starts focusing on the career ones.

The work day is, luckily, uneventful. It's summer and my wife works at a college. While there are a few issues to deal with, they are all by phone and email. There are a few strange interactions with her assistant. I actually snap at her with some of my trademark sarcasm at one point. Then quickly cover it up with an apology. "Don't mind me," I say. "I'm not myself today."

Literally.

It's still a full work day. Midway through the afternoon, I realize I hadn't even peed yet. Another mini adventure since even when my daughter goes, I have no idea what the hell I'm supposed to wipe. And if I am causing irreparable emotional damage as a result.

On the bus ride home, all I think about is how badly I want see my family. I enter the house around 6:00 pm, exactly twelve hours after I boarded this roller coaster.

She's a momma's girl

My daughter excitedly yells "mommy!" as I come through the door. And despite the unfamiliarity of this affectionate greeting, it still feels good.

We hug. We kiss. We snuggle.

Then, the moment I've been waiting for. I go out the back door to find my wife, grilling hamburgers. But I'm staring at my own face. I look a lot more put together than I normally feel I am.

We smile. Hug. And I say, "You're pretty impressive."

"So are you."

Somehow we manage to endure the motions of the rest of the evening. Dinner, bath, walk the dog, bedtime.

We close the door to our daughter's room after 'one last hug and kiss.' My wife turns to me and asks, "Shall we turn in too and end this craziness early?"

"Actually, why don't we watch last night's Grey's Anatomy on DVR and then go to bed?

A lot in common, a lot in love

An hour or so later, as my head hits the pillow after an exhausting day on so many levels, I reflected on my day in her shoes.

She works hard. She worries sometimes she works too much. She loves her family more than anything.

She would like a manicure and pedicure.

She looks forward to new episodes of Grey's Anatomy.

Turns out, we're not that different after all.

I originally wrote this post for my Week 2 assignment of Blogger Idol 2011: "If I were the opposite sex for a day."

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About Being a Dad

"Any man can be a father but it takes someone special to be a dad." -Anne Geddes

Last week was Father's Day. I didn't write a traditional post about it. Instead, I wrote one about me and my dad. I wanted to take a step back and reflect on the actual day.

Since my daughter is now four years old, Father's Day is starting to really mean something because she's old enough to be aware that there is a special day for me. And right there is where I have trouble.

While I certainly appreciate the wonderful cards (I actually choked up reading my wife's card because it was so spot on. How does she do that every time?), the gifts, the chocolate chip pancakes, the extra attention and affection, it makes me uncomfortable.

To me, every day is Father's Day because I am a dad every day. It's why I didn't mind planting some shrubs in the front yard and trimming the hedges on Father's Day. We don't get a day off. And while I truly cherish the rare opportunity to sleep in, I actually look forward to waking up early with my daughter on the weekends... most of the time. I work twelve hours a day, including commute. I get to see her for three hours a night during the week... maximum. And those hours are usually jam-packed with obligations like dinner, potty, teeth brushing and bath time.

Don't get me wrong, I find sleep to be a wonderful thing. We used to get along swimmingly. There was a period of time where we were best buds. Now? While I sleep well, I just don't sleep a lot. Fine.

There is something inherently magical about sipping a cup of coffee while sitting on the couch in her play room. She is immersed in her Calico Critters, asking you to help her dress them. Then surprising her by saying "Let's go to Dunkin' Donuts" because it's 7:30am and you've already been awake for an hour and don't know what else to do. And no, you don't have to change out of your Dora nightgown first.

Sure, I teach her the rules and the manners and the traditions and I discipline her and protect her. But I love having fun with her the most.

How she sees me
(apparently with one mutton chop)

What does my daughter think being a dad is all about? Well, she knows I am her ultimate playmate, I'm the guy she can knock around and - for the most part - get away with it. She knows that when I'm serious, she's in trouble.

She even knows what I wear to work. One morning recently I went into her room to kiss her goodbye and she was already awake. So I pounced on the unique opportunity to spend a little time with her. She asked me why I wasn't wearing a tie. And thus began our introductory lesson to casual Friday.

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What I'm Made of (My Blogger Idol Audition)

"You have to grow up straight." -Words of wisdom from my Grandma Sylvia, who would always emphasize that last word and use her crooked, arthritis-riddled finger to illustrate her point. Just to be clear, she wanted me to grow up strong, confident, and with a good head on my shoulders. She was not referring to anyone's lifestyle.

I slowly walked to the door. It was open, but I still knocked lightly on the frame. My grandmother laid there on her hospital bed. She turned her head. She was so weak at this point she couldn't move much. I asked her, "you want me to come in?" She smiled gently and nodded her head yes as little as she needed to.

I bent over and kissed her and told her I loved her, knowing this would probably be the last time I ever saw her. She was a little hard-boiled, but I always managed to make her smile. And just by showing up, I made her smile this one last time.

Grandma Sylvia. "Sealie" is what I affectionately called her. She had a saying when you were feeling sorry for yourself. "What are you made of sh!t?" She would bark it through her raspy, nicotine stained smoker's voice. You had no choice but to answer "no."

And that's why I am entering Blogger Idol. For Sealie. Because not only am I NOT made of sh!t, I am in it to win the whole damn thing. Why not me? I am constantly attached to my laptop, iPad, or blackberry... blogging, tweeting, or Facebooking. I am the daddy blogger who blogs while shirking his duties as a husband and father. No, not really. But I do blog from the bathroom, tweet at weddings, and I'm on Facebook while walking the dog.

Perhaps, since "writers are the new rock stars (as the Blogger Idol motto goes)," you're looking for a diva. Well, just call me Whitney Houston. But not the coked up Whitney. I'm talking about the belting-out-her-amazing-cover-of  "I Will Always Love You," I-demand-a-Tiffany-glass-full-of-fresh-spring-water-at-room-temperature-in-my dressing-room Whitney.

Seriously, if you read my blog, you know that I am honest, raw, and real. I take my experiences as a husband and a father, and spin them into gold. Anyone who is a dad, has a dad, loves a dad, or knows a dad could enjoy it. My goal is to make you laugh, cry, and think... not necessarily in that order, and not necessarily all at once. I tried to do it in the brief amount of time I had in this entry.

And in all honesty, Sealie's dying wish was that one day I would win an internet writing competition. Even though she died in 1989, and the internet hadn't taken off yet, I told her I'd do it. Because I'm not made of sh!t. (See what I did there?)

Don't miss out on any of the Blogger Idol action. Click here to follow, audition, or get involved.

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