My Mid-Blog Crisis

Perhaps you've noticed. I hope you have, but fear you haven't. It's been a while since I posted here. In fact, I've gone 0-for-October, some of September, and half of November. If a blogger in an infinite sea of them stops blogging, does he make a sound? The answer is a resounding no. But for those of you who are wondering, I do feel the need to explain my absence.

I seem to have hit a wall. There are several reasons. I will try my best to articulate them below. But as one of them is DOUBT, I am no longer sure that I can. Here goes...

Trolls: The internet is crawling with nameless, faceless, spineless cretins who will twist your words, call you names, take you out of context, and not give a shit they're doing it. They disagree with you and degrade you. They call you a bad parent and a worse person. They do it, of course, anonymously. I used to be better at ignoring these people, rising above them, or shutting them up with my own brand of non-anonymous snark. But it's tiring. And unnecessary. I have better things to do.

This is my hobby. It's supposed to be fun. A release. Like running. Except when I'm running, I don't encounter asshole hecklers telling me I'm fat or slow or have bad form or ugly sneakers. If they are there, I don't notice thanks to my earbuds. Good old earbuds. But alas, there are no eyebuds for the internet.

I'm not here to fight. I'm not here to battle the trolls of the web's middle earth. This isn't about having thicker skin. I am the youngest of four in a no-holds-barred loud-mouthed Italian family. I got thick skin. It's about exposing myself and my family to unnecessary ridicule. For a hobby. Because, like my friend recently wrote here, too many people are unwilling and unable to just scroll by something with which they disagree.

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Watching the Waves

"Who's my good best friend I got?" -A question my Grandpa Sal routinely asked his 15 grandchildren, creating a very fierce competition.

My Grandpa Sal is one of my favorite people ever. Gregarious, loving, and loyal, he lit up a room even when he wasn't getting involved in everything going on in it. (We call my mom - his daughter - "Parsley" because she gets into everything. He was the original Parsley.) He and my Grandma Sylvia lived in the house behind us growing up. Our backyards connected. As a boy, I thought it was amazing to have my grandparents so close. We could eat meals at each other's houses any day we wanted. As a married man with in-laws, I realize my dad was a saint for buying his first home so close to his in-laws. And as a result he is certainly in heaven right now, having earned his place and then some.

Gramps with my niece, whose name he
couldn't pronounce. July 1985.

One of the most memorable things Grandpa Sal did was crash our swimming pool. We'd be in the pool in our backyard, and he'd stop whatever project he was working on in his, ambling through the gate between the two properties. Without saying a word, as we worked ourselves up into a frenzy anticipating the coming tidal wave, he soaked up our cheers and climbed onto the diving board. He'd proceed to perform a massive belly flop that was always meant to be a dive, swim to the shallow end while spitting water out of his mouth with every stroke, exit through the stairs at the opposite end of the pool, climb the slide and shimmy down it head first. Euphoric, my cousins, friends, and I would splash him and dunk him. He still wouldn't speak a word. The maestro of mayhem would then exit the pool, walk back to his yard, take off his swim trunks (yes, right there for all to see), hang them to dry, change back into his overalls and continue his work.

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How Fantasy Football Makes Me a Bad Person

The one thing that cushions the blow of summer ending, for me, is that it coincides with the start of football season. I am a big pro football fan. (The Jets are my team. Although they only occasionally resemble a pro football team.) Since the Jets more often than not make my Sundays miserable, since they more often than not make football irrelevant for me late in the season because they're usually out of it, fantasy football keeps me invested. And, most of the time, it keeps me happy as well. Recently I shared with you why I need fantasy football. I highlighted the positives that come from my participating in this annual Dungeons-and-Dragons-for-jocks exercise.

But it's not all a positive experience. There is a dark side. Yes, this game could certainly take a sinister turn. In fact, fantasy football can bring out the worst in me. Here's five ways how:

1. No compassion I root for people to get and stay injured. This goes against everything my dad ever taught me about sports. I remember one Sunday when the Jets were playing the Patriots. I was about 10 years-old. One of the Patriots' top players got hurt and I cheered. My dad yelled at me. "You don't cheer for someone to get hurt," my dad told me. "He's someone's son and father. Besides, you want to beat them with their best." From that point on, I didn't root for injuries. I felt compassion. Except...

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Why I Need Fantasy Football

"It's just a fantasy. It's not the real thing. But sometimes a fantasy is all you need." -Billy Joel
It's the most wonderful time of the year. You know that old Staples commercial with the dad dancing through the aisle as he shops for school supplies with his kids who are miserable because summer is ending and school is starting? Well that's how I feel about football season. More specifically, fantasy football season. I'm willing to bet most football-loving men feel this way about fantasy football. At the risk of sounding cliche, a majority of women I know - My Director included - have no idea why this is so important to us. Well, I have no idea what the allure of shopping without a purpose is. So until someone explains that to me, let me explain why I need fantasy football...

The winner keeps the cup for a year.
(It's engraved with the names of all the champs.
My name's on it three times.)

First off, I'm a Jets fan. My season is usually over before it begins. Especially this coming season. Fantasy football keeps football interesting for me. It also keeps me from crying in the fetal position every Sunday afternoon.

Second, there's the gambling. Whether it involves money or not, most men like to gamble. Not only does fantasy football provide an outlet, it is socially acceptable. (And perfectly legal.) So we're not degenerate gamblers, spending all night in a casino feeding our debit cards into the ATM because we feel a hot streak is coming. Speaking of legality, according to a recent ruling by a federal court in New York, poker is a game of skill and thus not considered "gambling," I am willing to apply the same reasoning to fantasy football. Sure, plenty of luck is involved. But there is also skill and strategy. Above all, money is on the line. And the only thing sweeter than hoisting that championship trophy in December is one of your buddies handing over a fat wad of cash to help ease the burden of the Christmas bills. (Yes. There is a championship trophy. Any respectable league has one.)

Third, there's the competition. It's healthy competition too.

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With Friends Like These

"No man is poor who has friends," - from It's a Wonderful Life

This weekend My Director and I attended my 20th high school reunion. Amazing that two decades have passed since high school. We were driving to the reunion and she noticed I was quiet. "Are you nervous?" She asked. "No. I'm just...I find this...surreal. I can't believe we're driving to my 20th reunion. Isn't that crazy?" She agreed. Aging is a wonderful, mysterious, inevitable, frightening thing. I also felt excited. To see all the guys again. There are maybe two times a year where we're all together. I don't care what were doing as long as we're all there. It's always a good time. Always brings back happy memories, and always creates new ones.

On our way home, My Director said how great it was that all of my friends had made it. And that we took this great picture together:

We're very handsome. And very plaid.

I am who I am today thanks to a lot of people - my parents, My Director, Peanut - but these guys have been just as instrumental in making me me. (So they have themselves to blame.) And to quote my mother-in-law, of all people, "You can tell a lot about a person by who their friends are." Well, then I must be one hell of an amazing guy. Not because I have friends, but because of who they are. I'm so proud of my friends. For their successes in life and love. But more, for their success in friendship. 

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Five Simple Words

"Because if that little kid likes me, how bad could I be?" -Wreck-It Ralph

Father's Day. I don't ask for much. I don't ask for anything, actually. Anything tangible, that is. I went for a run and took three naps during the course of the day. Peanut and I watched Wreck-It Ralph, my new favorite movie. She and My Director made me breakfast. We walked the dogs and Peanut rode her bike in the park. That's all I needed. Some time to myself and some time with my ladies.

The best part of Father's Day, to me, is the homemade gifts from Peanut. In previous years, she made portraits of us. This year, however, she channeled her inner blogger and wrote about me. Here's what she wrote:

I was floored. This is what my daughter thinks of me? These are the words she chose to describe me? I was stunned to the point of asking My Director, "Does she even know me?"

Nice: This, I guess, is relative. I am nice to her. I am nice to most. But I can be very not nice at times. I can only assume I have done an excellent job of hiding faking it around her.

Calm: Huh? Me? Maybe I outwardly project calm. But she's never seen me in the control room at work. Dropping eff bombs like I'm getting paid a nickel per shot. On the inside, I am a whirlpool inside a tornado.

Kind: See "Nice" above.

Funny: Ok. Now she gets me. For example, instead of calling it "Father's Day," she mimicked me and called it "Fahz-sha's Day," like in the Austin Powers movie Goldmember:


Ticklish: Guilty as charged. But I will have you know that I am currently undefeated in tickle fights in my household. You mess with the bull you get the horns.

As amused and touched as I was by Peanut's words, I still had a difficult time believing them. Even though My Director insisted Peanut chose them herself. No coaching or coaxing from her teacher. Then I read what My Director wrote in her card to me:

Your daughter will always allow you to see yourself in the best way possible. Believe in what she sees.

Someday I hope to be half the man my daughter thinks I am.

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The Sweet Smell of Success

"Smell is a potent wizard that transports you across thousands of miles and all the years you have lived." -Helen Keller

Not only is Peanut NOT happy to see me when I come home from a run, she cowers with fear at my mere presence. It used to be, I'd walk through the door and ask loudly, "Who wants sweaty kisses?" And Peanut, as I'd hoped, would respond with horror. It came to a point where all I had to say was,"Sweaties!?" And she would shriek with dread. Now she's been pre-conditioned, Pavlov-style, to wail and frantically stomp her legs on the couch the moment I've turned the doorknob. I never do kiss her. Nor do I have the intention. But I wouldn't be doing my job as a dad if I were not torturing her at every opportunity.

Me hugging Peanut after a 5K race, circa 2009.
She was horrified.

I'm sure it's not just the soggy, uncomfortable, tactile sensation of wet, sweaty skin on smooth, dry skin that Peanut wants to avoid at all costs. It's also the smell. Let's face it, I can work up quite a stink after logging a few miles with the old sneakers. And Peanut's told me so. "Daddy," she says. "You can't kiss me until you shower." Fair enough. But the threat of the sweaty kiss will always loom until the day I die.

Sometimes I catch a whiff of myself and can't believe it's even possible that a man who showers twice daily, manscapes regularly, and grooms and conditions properly could produce such a stench. Not so much a stench, but a musk. An odor. A lingering scent that must be wiped out with fresh water and Dove body wash as soon as I've inhaled some fluids and a banana.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: A Running Start

"Find the level of intolerance you can tolerate and stay there." -David Horton, Ultra-marathon runner

When Peanut did this all on her own one day as a baby, my heart melted:

Couldn't you just eat her?
Look at that face.

That, my friends, is photo proof of why you don't sweat putting stuff away as soon as you get home. If I didn't forget about my sneakers after just kicking them off and leaving them by the stairs after my run that day, this spontaneous toddler deliciousness never would have happened. (Speaking of deliciousness, she'd even stopped scarfing down that box of Annie's chocolate bunnies to try on my size 13s.) In that moment, I secretly dreamed of a day where Peanut and I would wake up early on the weekends and go running together. I dreamed of her eventually beating me. Of her forcing herself to slow down so I could keep up, but not say anything to spare my feelings. It would be one of our things. Just us.

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One Piece of Advice for Graduates

"I used to be young and cocky like these kids. Now I'm old and cocky." -Me, to My Director, as a group of graduates stood at the front of church one Sunday for a special blessing.


I have some words of wisdom to impart to the class of 2013. Because despite my receding hair line and expanding home equity line, it wasn't too long ago that I graduated from high school. Alright, so it was 1993. Two years before most of this year's graduates were even born. You happy now? I'm old. There. I said it. And I drive a minivan. Can we move on to the advice?

There is a line I write in every high-school graduation card that My Director hands me with the assignment of "be inspiring." Here it is: "Don't do anything you can't tell your mom."

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Is College Worth It?

Peanut's first year of Kindergarten is coming to an end soon. Another school year behind her, if you include daycare. Twelve more years to go. So many things still to come. So many more milestones and memories. Firsts and lasts. Yet, there's something else that keeps popping up in the back of my mind. It's nagging me like a piece of prosciutto stuck in my tooth. I'm worried about college. Yes, college. Specifically, paying for college It's something every parent thinks about, worries about, frets over, from almost the moment of conception. Now that Peanut's actual education is underway, I feel the savings clock is ticking. And it frightens the hell out of me.

A recent study by Fidelity Investments shows most families fall far short - not even 25% - of the money it takes to pay for their child's college education. It shows parents don't do enough to save for college, or they wait too long. I must admit that My Director and I are in the same boat. More than six years into our daughter's life, we haven't put away nearly as much as we would have hoped, or thought we would have by now. Things always come up. Bills, debt, home improvements, illnesses, job changes, a life-saving surgery for our dog. Even vacations, because sometimes you have to actually enjoy life. So the issue isn't as clear cut as the black-and-white facts and figures of a study. 

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All in the Family

"Don't make fun of your mother. It's a sin against your soul." -My mom.

I don't call my mom as much as I should. Timing is mostly to blame. That's lame, I know. But sometimes when I think of calling her, it's too late. I know she's either asleep or...

Mom and I at a family wedding a few years ago.

One of the things I find most amusing, but sometimes most aggravating, about my mom is that I can tell how many glasses of wine she's had on a given night by the number of times I have to ask her the same question before I get an answer. The later I call, the more glasses of wine that have been consumed. And the more likely the conversation is, shall I say, colorful. This not only leads to a lot of repeated questions during the conversation, but repeated conversations the next time we talk.

For instance, she actually called me on the Monday AND Tuesday after Easter, to ask me how our Easter with my in-laws was. "Mom," I said on the second call. "What is this, Groundhog Day?" Then she insists we didn't talk yesterday, and the conversation becomes a blow-by-blow account of what we had discussed previously. A little bit of this is age. A lot of it is wine.

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Tough Egg to Crack

"Speaking words of wisdom, let it be." -The Beatles

Peanut is indeed her father's daughter. Sometimes, like in the case of her cartoonishly large feet, it's to her detriment. Often times, however, it is to mine. Ya see, you can't hide a personality flaw in a pair of snazzy shoes. One of the biggest challenges I have faced and continue to face as a parent is raising a child who is just like me in so many ways. For even I have no idea why I do some most of the things I do. How am I expected to know how to react when my daughter does the same thing?

While Peanut has inherited many of my positive attributes: humor, intelligence, good looks (ok her mom has a lot to do with those), she's unfortunately also picked up my most negative one. No, not narcissism. But thanks for your concern. Peanut and I both have the ability to affect the mood of a room - of a house - all by ourselves. If one of us is in a bad mood, everyone knows and feels it. The worst part: there is no getting us out of it and very little if anything we can do about it. How charming.

Ouch.

Her most recent mood swing took place when we were dying Easter eggs at my mom's house on Saturday night. Peanut was having a great time with her cousins and her Mema, creating works of art on this rare medium. My nephew was playing some festive music. Syracuse had just clinched a spot in the Final Four. All was right with the world. Then the mood dramatically came crashing down with one act of clumsiness. Peanut was meticulously placing stickers on a purple-speckled egg she had patiently waited to dry after coloring. Instead of completing this oblong and delicious masterpiece, she dropped it. The sounds of holiday merriment were unceremoniously interrupted by the crackling thud of hard-boiled shell on ceramic tile.

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For Goodness Sake

Let peace begin with me. 

Let this be the moment now. 

With every breath I take 

Let this be my solemn vow.

I didn't give up anything for Lent this year. Growing up Catholic, I've participated in this annual rite with equal parts enthusiasm and dread since I can remember. Recently, I gave up Facebook for two straight years. (I'm on it a lot.) Two years ago I gave up chocolate. Last year it was swearing. (Success was relative.) I would approach this as an annual test of my resilience and willpower. Like most people I know, I never had a problem sharing what I was sacrificing with anyone who didn't ask. And that's why I hesitated this year.

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An Instrument of Peace

A statue sits in one of our flower gardens in the backyard. It's a small statue. Once the garden is in full bloom, you have to look for it to see it. But it's there. I know it's always there. I can see it no matter what. It's there for a reason.

During our backyard Halloween party last fall, I thought about picking it up and putting it in a safe place. But I didn't. I figured, who runs through a garden that's in the corner of the yard, away from all of the activities? And wouldn't you know it, a boy ran where he wasn't supposed to run. He broke the statue. I then proceeded to take that boy on a guilt trip that would have made my mom proud.

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Touching My Foolish Heart

One of my crazy before-I-was-a-parent goals was to introduce Peanut to real music, early and often. I couldn't fathom her being one of these kids who doesn't know The Beatles or Motown, Springsteen or Sinatra. This is one of those goals I actually followed through on, and this story is proof that my musical education method worked.

Frank Sinatra is especially significant since he was my dad's favorite. He remains one of my favorites. And now, through serendipity and osmosis, one of his songs is one of Peanut's favorites. I began to love Sinatra in high school, believe it or not. Some of my friends did as well. It was one of those things none of us admitted to each other until we all realized we had this one thing in common one day. Soon thereafter, My Way would play late-night as parties were winding down. We'd put Luck Be a Lady on as we drove down to sneak into the casinos in Atlantic City. Here's to the Losers was a song we'd play just because we thought it was funny.

Then there's The Way You Look Tonight. What made this song cool for a teenager in the early 90's was its use in a Michelob commercial around that time. This song, though, doesn't need any advertising. It's cool no matter what because it is the perfect love song.

Some day when I'm awfully low.
When the world is cold.
I will feel a glow just thinking of you.
And the way you look tonight.

Baby Peanut certainly touched
my foolish heart.

The love song became a lullaby once Peanut arrived. Those words would be the last words I would sing to her after late-night feedings. My Director would wake up to feed her while I slept. I would sing her back to sleep as My Director went back to bed. These were my nights, my moments. Our nights. Our moments. I will never forget the way she looked those nights. Magical and memorable.

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The Joys of Homeownership: I Love Trash

It doesn't take much to make me happy. I find joy in the simplest things. Conversely, the most inane things can potentially ruin my otherwise satisfactory world. Inane things like this:

This foul creation was ruining my world.

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The Song That Officially Means It's Christmas

There is a song that I have to hear to officially mark the beginning of Christmas season. Our tree may be up, our halls may be decked, our presents may be purchased and wrapped, but if I haven't heard this song yet, it just doesn't feel like Christmas. And in this digital age when you can play whatever song you want with the click of a mouse or a spin of a wheel, I don't cheat. It needs to happen naturally, like when I was growing up. It has to come on the radio. (Or Pandora.)

A few years ago, I didn't hear it until the morning of Christmas Eve while I was riding around town running last-minute errands. I called My Director, put her on speakerphone, and made her listen along with me. With tears in my eyes I sat in the driveway and listened to rest of the song, singing along hysterically.

Why did we not own this growing up? No idea.

It's Santa Claus Is Comin' To Town by Bruce Springsteen and the E-Street Band.

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#JerseyStrong: Healing Takes Time

Eventually, there will be healing, but the scars will remain. The broken will be torn down, rebuilt, replaced. When the new rises, we will notice it's not the same as it was before. Never will be.

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We Survive and Rebuild Because We're #JerseyStrong

"Tonight I'm gonna take that ride. Cross the river to the Jersey side... 'Cause down the shore everything's alright." -Tom Waits

At the very worst, Sandy has inconvenienced the DKL family. I use the word "inconvenienced" specifically here because so many others have it dramatically worse. In our house, we lost power for two days.

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My Hometown #JerseyStrong

"Troubled times, they had come... to my hometown." -Bruce Springsteen

Most of the images you've seen from Sandy's impact in New Jersey have been from the shore. And rightfully so. The destruction is unimaginable. Gov. Chris Christie says some of those towns, beaches, and boardwalks may never be the same. It could take 6-8 months just to get the gas turned back on in Seaside Park alone, for example. That's June.

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