Matching Wits

"Better a witty fool than a foolish wit." - William Shakespeare

Peanut should have a new name. If I were still blogging regularly and chronicling our daily interactions and experiences, I would have renamed her “Tweenut” by now.

You see, our dear Peanut Tweenut recently turned 12. TWELVE! And she is every bit the aloof, dismissive, self-centered know-it-all that we you were at that age.

Don’t get me wrong... I still love her to pieces.

And every now and then, we get to experience the Peanut we know is in there. The Peanut that will one day grow into a mighty oak. (Do peanuts grow into oak trees? I digress.)

Sweet, funny, intelligent Peanut.

This is the story of one of those times.

Tweenut said something so witty, so clever, that it prompted me to wipe away the cobwebs from DKL once again and fire off this blog post. We were in the car, just me and her. I was so proud and impressed that I had to call My Director from the car to tell her what she had said, after I was done laughing.

Luna and Matey now watch over us from
on top of the cabinet in the living room.

It all starts, as many of our stories so often do, with our dogs. Now, I haven’t shared this - or anything, for that matter - with you yet, so we’re gonna do it right now, fast and painful like ripping off a Band-Aid. Here goes: our two beloved dogs, Luna and Matey, have gone to the rainbow bridge. Luna in November. Matey in January. It was a very difficult couple of months. We still love them and miss them so very much and sometimes can’t believe they are gone. They were sewn into the fabric of our family. Still are. Despite their being gone in body, they remain with us in spirit. Always. And here’s an example.

So Tweenut and I were in the car, going from soccer to lunch to lacrosse on a typical busy suburban Saturday. Even though I was following the GPS, I was unfamiliar with exactly where we were and shouted, in Matey’s voice, “Where are we?!” (You don’t give your dogs voices? Shame on you.)

Matey’s voice is best described as laid back and matter-of-fact, like Thomas Haden Church’s character on Wings. But with a lisp. (Because when he lost his eye in a knife fight before we adopted him, it affected his speech. What, your rescue dogs don’t have a dark, made-up back story? Shame on you.)

“Where are we?!” I shouted in Matey’s lispy voice to make Tweenut laugh. Then I proceeded to remind her of a joke My Director and I made the previous weekend about Matey posthumously. (They still amuse us from beyond.)

Since Luna died first, and since she was the one true love of my life (apologies to My Director. She's aware), we asked our priest to come to the house to bless her ashes. It was a sweet little ceremony, if you could even call it that. I cried like a toddler who’s upset at the color of his fork.

Recently, Tweenut asked why we hadn’t come around to getting Matey's ashes blessed. (Typical second child syndrome is why.). This was refreshing thoughtfulness from Tweenut so I reached out to our priest again. But this time I told her she didn’t have to come to the house. She said just bring his ashes to church on Sunday and she’d do it after the service.

The first weekend after that we were away. The second was Tweenut’s Sunday birthday party with our families. The third we were just being lazy and didn’t want to go to church. And that is where our Matey shenanigans begin.

My Director had recorded all of the Jurassic Park movies for us to watch. So instead of going to church, we decided to lay on the couch and binge a little. (“Binge a little” being an oxymoron, of course.)

At one point during our sloth in this season of Lenten sacrifice, my Matey madness kicked in. So in full throated Matey voice I proclaimed, “Guys....” (Matey always starts his proclamations with “Guys...” I hope the PC police don’t take offense that he’s being hetero-normative or whatever. If they do, shame on them. He is a dead one-eyed dog, after all. Give him a break.)

“Guys,” Me-Matey said. “My ashes are sitting here in this cabinet, a shelf below Luna’s, mind you. Unblessed. That’s ridickerous.” (Matey couldn’t pronounce “ridiculous.” Another consequence of the pre-adoption knife fight.)

Matey's right. His ashes are on the bottom shelf.
Luna is perched on the shelf above him.

“And instead of getting me blessed today, you’re watching Jurassic Park?!,” Matey continued. (Jurassic, of course is pronounced “Jurathic” in Matey’s voice. Just so ya know.)

But he wasn’t done. “A movie that’s 25 years old! Daddy was a senior in high school when it was in theaters! Again...ridickerous.”

He was upset. And he had good reason to be. He sits there unblessed and physically and spiritually below Luna in the pecking order even in death. My Director and I had a good laugh at that one. I love that our dogs still bring us such joy even though they’re no longer with us. (And I admit, we’re a little crazy.)

Fast forward to the aforementioned Saturday suburban car ride. After my impromptu, “Where are we?!” in Matey's voice I reminded Tweenut of the Jurassic Park gag with My Director and me and Matey's ashes. Like a true Tweenut, she had gone out with her friends by that point in our Lazy Sunday.

I started doing the gag and she chimed in immediately, adding in Matey’s voice without skipping a beat: “Monstey would be so offended.”

Monstey, you see, was Matey’s favorite toy. It was a dinosaur. He slept with it, played with it, he adored it. He even made sweet love to it one Christmas morning: (You can also hear My Matey voice in this video.) And therein, my friends, lies the genius in Tweenut’s comment. She advanced the story. She used wit and improvisation to do it. She was smart and clever and didn’t miss a beat.

I told her this. I then explained wit to her. “It’s humor with intelligence,” I said.

“Anyone can make a fool of themselves and be a clown,” I told her. “It takes brains to be witty. To be truly funny."

This may be a small thing. You may be reading this and asking me, “This is what you re-emerged from blog hibernation for?”

Yes. Because it’s up to me as a dad to recognize the little things that are actually big things. Because Tweenut is trying out her sense of humor. She’s pushing the envelope sometimes and crossing the line others. We tell her when she crosses the line. When she's decidedly not funny.

And I need to tell her when she gets it right. I need to see the extraordinary in the ordinary. Especially when she’s the one being extraordinary.

I’m not saying I'm going to hand out participation trophies. But as she navigates these awkward and sometimes unforgiving years, I'm the one who needs to realize that she’s still a child, even if she doesn’t want to admit it. Even if she doesn’t act like it because she’s not my baby anymore.

Especially with “Tweenut” in full force.

You see, a dad and his Tweenut don’t have a lot in common. At least, not this one. One thing we do have in common, if I may be so bold, is wit.

I am so proud of my witty daughter.

“Monstey would be so offended,” is proof that Tweenut is not going to be the clown. It's easy to be the clown. To get the cheap laugh. But she’s smart. She gets it. Wait for your comedic moment and pounce without compromising your self-worth.

I should stop and celebrate more when the future comes out of my child’s mouth and it’s a bright one. If I don’t, then shame on me.

PS: Our newest member of the family arrived for Christmas. Meet Mocha:

She has brought laughter and joy these past few months and even has her own voice already. 

We just came upon the anniversary of Matey joining our family, which reminded me of THIS POST.

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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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Along Came a Spider

What's the big deal about spiders, anyway? I'm ambivalent towards them. No issues. No phobia. Sure, I think they're kinda gross. But they do serve a purpose. A pretty important one, too. Like controlling the housefly population.

So I am here to announce that I am decidedly PRO spider. Despite My Director's objections. Just another thing we disagree on. (Many political issues too. But that's a subject for another blog post. One that will never be written. But I digress...)

Spiders. They're creepy but cool. And definitely bad-a$$. I've never advocated killing spiders just because they were there. Or "gross." After all, should we just arbitrarily kill anything we consider ugly? Or scary? Especially, or because, we are so much bigger and stronger than they? I say, emphatically, no. Although, I must admit, I have acquiesced to My Director's blood-curdling request many times in the past to ensure peace in my home and stability in my marriage.

But no more. I'm taking a stand. The spidercide stops now, despite My Director's pleas. Miss Muffett can find another tuffet on which to sit and eat her kurds and whey. (Who eats that anyway?)

The rest of spiderdom has this gal to thank:

She is SO cool.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Par for the Course

Playing miniature golf with Peanut is finally fun. She's able to play on her own. She's not a sore loser. And she genuinely enjoys it. But she does have trouble counting strokes. 

Let the video replay provide the evidence. Count the strokes, then see how many Peanut says she did it in:

She clearly completed that hole in four strokes, with an impressive shot to finish it if I do say so myself. There are two other videos just like this one. And I only started recording her antics after she had done this on several previous holes. I'm not sure if summer has sapped her counting skills, or if she's a cunning cheater disguised as a diplomatic, for-love-of-the game little girl. Either way, My Director and I are now vigilant, watching her every move on the golf course. 

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A Despicable Letdown

"Despicable Me 2" (Rated PG/2013)

I'm not going to make a lot of friends saying this, especially considering the two lovely ladies I live with disagree with me, but I'm going to say it anyway: Despicable Me 2, despite its smashing box office success, is not a fraction as funny, clever, or enjoyable as the first one. Not even close. There I said it.

Don't get me wrong. I laughed at times. But at others, I was stone-faced. Or eyebrow-raised. Or worse, BORED. And that's just not like me. Maybe I went into it with high expectations. Either way, I was let down. Here are my gripes:

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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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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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My Dying Wish

"He would make a lovely corpse." -Charles Dickens

Till death do us part. It's in the vows, yo. The only thing that will separate me from My Director is a dirt nap. Marriage. When you think about the whole thing, committing yourself entirely to one person for the rest of your life, it's pretty freakin' deep. I love it. Until you're six feet under. And that's pretty freakin' shallow. I don't love that.

This photo is just dripping with irony, is it not?

So shallow, in fact, that it creeps me out. Since I first experienced death with my Grandpa Sal when I was 11 years old, the thought of being buried totally gave me the heebie jeebies. The thought of dirt and bugs and just laying there rotting...gross. I can't handle it. Just mentioning it makes me nauseous. I decided at a pretty young age that I wanted to be cremated. I didn't really think about it until decades later when my dad died, and was cremated. "Oh yeah," I thought. "That reminds me. Sign me up for one of those too please."

Over My Director's dead body. Whenever the subject of our final resting place comes up, she puts me in my place.

"You're not getting cremated," she insists. "I want to be buried and I want you next to me. So you're getting buried." 

"Not if I go first," I counter. 

"You wouldn't," she shrugs. 

"No. I would respect your wishes because I love you," I admit.

Yet, she would not do the same. The sad and frustrating part of this whole morbid mess is that it's inevitable that I will die first. The man almost always does. You know why? Because we're tired and eventually we just want quiet. Some uninterrupted sleep.

"I can't believe you would do that to me. Deliberately go against my wishes," I protest. Meekly. 

"What do you care?" She says. "You'll be dead." She's cruel is what she is. 

"If you go first," she reasons, "I want a place to go and visit you. With a headstone and a bench. Maybe under a tree somewhere. So I can talk to you and tell you about my day."

It's a little worrisome that she's planned my death in pretty vivid detail, don't you think? I'm rethinking my recent purchase of an axe for chopping firewood. While that sucker might come in handy during the zombie apocalypse, maybe My Director has other plans for it first.

"If I'm in an urn, you can take me with you. Wherever you go," I tell her. "I'm so portable." 

"No." 

"We can BOTH be cremated and Peanut can spread our ashes somewhere special. Somewhere we love. Like the beach at LBI. Or Venice. Or at Syracuse." 

"It's too cold at Syracuse. I don't want to be there for eternity." 

"But it's where we met." 

(Shakes her head and wrinkles her nose in disgust.)

Now she's just being unreasonable. So I give in, with a quid pro quo.

"Fine. Bury me," I say. "But no open casket. I don't want to be preserved or put in a box. If you're going to bury me, just dig a hole and dump me in. No chemicals. That way I become one with the earth. You know, the circle of life."

"No. That's gross." 

"Right. Which is why I want to be cremated in the first place." 

"I'm putting you in a coffin." 

"Please don't. I'm claustrophobic. And it's such a waste of money. You're gonna need that money." 

"You're insured."

WTF?!

When I do die, she will have final say. She will make the decision and I will be powerless to stop her. She handles our finances. She plans our social calendar.  She even gets to control the television most of time. Now she's got her sights set on my afterlife.

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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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Rest in Pink

It is with minimal sadness that we inform you of the death of Pinky, our hermit crab. She lasted a lot longer than we ever wished. Pinky arrived in our family on the 4th of July during a beach vacation last summer and proceeded to become one of its more high maintenance members.

Pinky's shell serves as a gravestone.

Upon hearing the news of Pinky's passing, Peanut immediately asked, "Can we get another one?" When we pushed her about the moderate seriousness of the situation - death - she then became sad and blamed My Director for not taking good enough care of Pinky.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Pinky was fed nightly leftovers from our dinner table, much to Luna's chagrin. In fact, she often got to exercise ON the dinner table during dinner. She even inspired her own Christmas song.

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Dude Looks Like a Matey

"Every day is a production. You wake up to produce that day." -Norman Lear

I never thought I would see the day. Ever. The day when two dogs were living in my house. I would have told you I had a better chance of owning an alligator than owning another dog. After all, I'm not really a dog person to begin with. Then again, I guess I can't say that anymore now, can I? Another dog was never even a consideration. Luna, it's been well documented, is my soul mate. How could I ever do that to her? Then I saw his face...

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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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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Small Moments

Peanut came home from school yesterday with a stack of her writing work. Over the past few months, she and her classmates have been working on writing about "Small Moments." Here's how her teacher described the assignment:

"We taught the children to value tiny moments from their lives. We taught them that as writers we hold these moments in our minds and hearts, then we make a story about them."

Basically, for the past two months, Peanut has been doing in class what her dad has been doing on this blog since two months before she was born. I thought that was pretty cool.

Here are some of my favorite highlights:

"I was going to the American Girl doll store."
I love how she spells American: "uy mirikin." And how she
went there in a motor home with duck lips.

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Pre-School Stress, Part II

In the town where we live, we have what is called a Magnet system for the public elementary schools. Each school has its own specialty. (Environmental studies or global studies, for example.) There are seven elementary schools. Each spring, parents whose children are entering Kindergarten in the fall get to tour the schools, rank them in order of preference, and in theory get one of their top two or three choices. This all started in the 1970's as a way of integrating all of the schools and making sure each one is as good as the next, since our town is so socioeconomically diverse. This is the second in a series blog posts I wrote for a local website last year, as My Director and I went through the process:

It's taken me two weeks to collect my thoughts and decide what I took out of the first round of school tours, and what I wanted to share. That's right. I said "first round." Since my wife and I both work, we were only able to tour the schools at night. So we'll be taking a day off to visit our favorites while school is in session. Because we're gluttons for punishment.

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Pre-School Stress

In the town where we live, we have what is called a Magnet system for the public elementary schools. Each school has its own specialty. (Environmental studies or global studies, for example.) There are seven elementary schools. Each spring, parents whose children are entering Kindergarten in the fall get to tour the schools, rank them in order of preference, and in theory get one of their top two or three choices. This all started in the 1970's as a way of integrating all of the schools and making sure each one is as good as the next, since our town is so socioeconomically diverse. This is the first in a series blog posts I wrote for a local website last year, as My Director and I began the process:

"My head is swimming."

That's the sentence I texted My Director after spending an hour listening to parents who've been through the Kindergarten selection process. Peanut's daycare was nice enough to set up this informal meeting, featuring at least one parent from each school. I sat. I took it all in. I asked questions.

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You Can't Fix Stupid

I've been having a little fun with the New York Jets' Facebook page recently. You see, I'm sort of a stickler for grammar. (I hold myself to the same standard here on DKL and kick myself when I catch a mistake in a published post.) The reason why I've been having fun with the social media team of my favorite football team is for none other than pure amusement. Few people dislike their favorite sports teams more than I do. When it comes to the Jets, after years of frustration and disappointment with their losing, or coming this close and still losing, or not coming remotely near the neighborhood of close and losing badly while doing so, I've revolted. And the way I do it is by calling them out for grammatical and punctuation errors on their Facebook page. Very passive aggressive, I know.

Last week they posted this image with a misplaced apostrophe on it and I pounced:

Seriously with this? I really hate them.
Or, I hate to LOVE them.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: The Dog Ate My Homework

Peanut turns six this week. Can ya believe that nonsense? But before she hits that number, she hit another, less-significant but still mind-boggling one: 100 Days of School.

Apparently this is a big deal now. Such a big deal that a project is required. For Kindergarten. And being the forgetful procrastinators we are, we had to scramble together said project at the last minute on Sunday night:

That's 100 Cheerios made
into the number 100. Fancy.

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THE PEANUT GALLERY: Puppy Love

There are not many certainties in this world. Not may things we can really bank on. But when the chips are down, and I'm down and out on the couch, sweating out Man Cold, I can count on this:

I had two days of this.

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Birthday Party Politics

"We are constantly invited to be who we are." -Henry David Thoreau

We are currently planning Peanut's 6th birthday party. (Sixth?! When the hell did THAT happen?) It'll be a small affair for a movie night at our house. Peanut picked eight girls, because that's her favorite number. Like five year-olds are prone to do, she insisted we stick to the number eight for no other reason than she likes the number. We added two more girls we thought should be included anyway. As her parents, we decided that actual friends of hers shouldn't be excluded simply because of Peanut's stubbornness, OCD, and love for the number eight. Let those things cost her friendships when she's older. Not yet. But ten is our limit. And no parents. I don't need to amuse parents anymore.

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