Tailgating with Grandpa Sal's Sausage and Peppers for #SundaySupper

This recipe reminds me of one of my favorite people ever: My Grandpa Sal. He and my Grandma Sylvia lived in the house right behind ours. Our backyards connected. As a little boy, it was great to have my grandparents live so close. (I'm sure my dad thought otherwise of having his in-laws 100 yards away.)

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Man Cold: The Next Pandemic

This is no laughing matter. Despite the efforts of wives and significant female others across this country to sweep a growing health problem under the rug, I am not afraid to speak out on behalf of my gender.

The warnings were there

Man Cold is here, it is serious, and it needs to be stopped. Research funding needs to be reallocated before it’s too late. We already know from The Walking Dead that the CDC has no answer for the coming zombie apocalypse. (That show should serve as an instructional video and not just as a cautionary tale.) But at least we know Man Cold is here, now. So it’s time to stop ignoring it. It’s time to stop kidding ourselves. It’s time to act.

Take me, for example. I have been sick since Wednesday… last Wednesday for crying out loud. I’ve taken a sick day from work, spent virtually an entire weekend in my pajamas, have been in bed by 8:30 most nights, drugged myself with NyQuill, Tylenol Cold, Afrin, and Ibuprofen. I’m drinking plenty of fluids. I haven’t blogged in a week. (Yet despite my weakened condition, I’ve managed to fire off this little ditty for you. You’re welcome.) I haven’t worked out or run in almost two weeks. I had to call out sick on a day I had a job interview for Godsakes. What the hell is wrong with me?

This is me, sick and angry, making my family a
delicious frittata while they lounge on the couch

And I’m still waking up every morning with a peach pit-sized ball of mucus in my throat. I still sound like my grandma Sylvia, with her hacking nicotine cough. And another thing: tea? Soothes the sore throat, sure. But it also clears up the internal plumbing a lot faster and more effectively than coffee, if you know what I mean. This would be welcome news if I were in fact having issues in that department. So add that symptom to the sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, and stuffy head. (No fever.)

I must say, Mucinex has been a Godsend. It has even inspired a new term for my Man Cold vocabulary: “Gary Mucey.” That’s who I sound like when I try to speak before the Mucinex has kicked in:

An amusing side effect.
Unlike what I get with the tea.

To dismiss or laugh off the Man Cold Pandemic would be a huge mistake and have serious repercussions for our economy. Heck, for our society. You can’t have babies without men, ladies… yet. So we can’t keep populating the world and blogging about it unless we eradicate this horrible disease.

My therapy puppy

You know who’s taking this seriously? Luna, my loyal and loving little dog. Staying by my side as I lay on the couch. Joining me when I go upstairs to the bedroom for a nap. And Peanut too. Taking a break from playing Candy Land with My Director - who laughs at me - to gently kiss me on my forehead as I nap. She even pretended to play as me, green gingerbread man and all, as I slept. And every night when we put her to sleep, she tells me, “I hope you feel better, daddy.” Such hope. Such awareness. Such concern.

We need more women like Peanut in this world. Women who will see that men are not overreacting when we’re sick. We really feel this badly. And don’t give me this nonsense about how men are such babies when they're sick, proving  they could never handle childbirth if they had to. You ladies get an epidural. What do we get? Over-the-counter drugs that simply treat the symptoms, not the debilitating virus that fuels them.

Well, it’s time. Time to move toward a viable treatment. A vaccine. A cure. Are we being babies? Maybe. But keep this up, and there won’t be any babies anymore.

Cure Man Cold. Our future depends on it. Until then, I'm gonna take another nap.

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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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Long Winter Snap

"A lot of people like snow. I find it to be an unnecessary freezing of water." -Carl Reiner

Snow days used to be fun. Remember those days? The anticipation. The hoping. The jubilation the moment you learned that school was cancelled?

We built a fort when we were iced in.

What made snow days so much more special was how rare they were. Growing up on the Jersey Shore (don't call it South Jersey please), we hardly ever saw significant snowfall. When snow was expected, it would mostly disappoint. But school would still be cancelled because it was icy. Where's the fun in an ice day?

Maybe the Miser Brothers are to blame.

My how times have changed. I don't know if it's global warming, or climate change, or just another sibling dispute between the Heat Miser and the Snow Miser, but this winter has been a real pain in the ass. And we're expecting another storm tomorrow... on April Fool's Day. No kidding. Pun intended.

Snow days used to be fun. But that was before I become a working father.

Snowed in after Christmas

This is what you have to deal with as a working parent in the suburbs on a snow day: Will daycare be open? What time will we know? Will we get the peanut to daycare? What if they close early? Who will pick her up if they do? Can we get someone to watch her? What time should they get here? Should they leave now to beat the snow? Who should it be? Does one of us need to stay home from work? Who should that be?

It causes nothing but stress and uncertainty and you aren't even close to picking up a shovel yet. Oh, and you have to get yourself to work, too.

So the snow comes and you wake up extra early to shovel so your wife can have a fighting chance to get out of the driveway. You also have to give yourself enough time to walk to the train station because a) you're a one-car family and b) the buses might not be running because the roads aren't plowed yet despite the growing amount you pay in annual property taxes.

Snow gear: a popular look this winter

Even when you clear the driveway and brush off the car, there is no guarantee your wife won't have to do the same an hour and a half later. But you have no choice. You have to put on your snow gear and hike a mile to catch the train to make sure you get to work.

Then your wife has to deal with the snow and the child. And more questions: Are the roads plowed? Will they cancel daycare? Should I bring her to work? Can I afford to stay home?

Are we doing the right thing?

And why the hell does it keep freakin' snowing?

Now, I am not one to complain about the weather. I have lived in the northeast my entire life... four of those years in Syracuse, NY. It used to be that winter was just a nuisance... but this winter I've elevated it to "brutal."

Luna finds the snow challenging

I haven't even talked about the illnesses yet. The vicious cycle that starts with a cough or a sniffle, then blows up into a full fledged case of strep throat that knocks out every member of your family except the dog.

Oh - and the dog... she won't poop in the snow. Wonderful. She's more high maintenance than the 4 year-old.

The illness has been non-stop. And while it's been mostly a functioning illness, I am not exaggerating when I say I've been coughing since the day after Christmas. It's nearly April. I'm not a smoker... yet I sound like my Grandma Sylvia after she's just inhaled a half a pack of Pall Malls for breakfast.

It's not just me... the peanut too. She's a mini Sylvia herself. Covering her mouth with the inside of her elbow like a good little girl. It's constant. It's part of the soundtrack of winter - and now spring - in our household. The crackling fire, the shovel on pavement, the cough of Sylvia.

Peanut pitches in as best she can.

And just when you're feeling better it snows again, which makes you sick because I was foolish enough to buy a corner property which means it takes me two hours to shovel. You shovel, you sweat... outside in the cold... for two hours.. because it snows in feet, not inches, where I live.

I have no idea what my wife and I will do if we wake up to a winter wonderland tomorrow... but we know we'll figure it out eventually. We always do.

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