Food shopping together proceeds smoothly, for once

Note: This column appears in the 6/9 issue of The Glendale Star and the 6/10 issue of the Peoria Times

I do most of the grocery shopping. It is just one of the domestic roles I fell into, probably because a) I do most of the eating and b) I despise grocery shopping slightly less than my wife does.

I have a pretty good routine though. We make a list of the things we need, and then I will go to the store, forgetting to bring the list, and the coupons I acquired on the previous shopping trip, and our reusable shopping bags. My wife will call me as I’m on my way to the store to inform me that I forgot all those things, and to remind me to pick up an obscure item like scallions. She will say, “You know what scallions are, right?” and I will say, “Yes,” although I really don’t, but plan on figuring it out.

I will spend about 20 minutes in the produce section wandering around aimlessly before I call my wife and ask, “What do scallions look like?” Then I will breeze through the store, picking up items we enjoy eating and that are on sale. “Do I like that?” and “Is it on sale?” are the only two questions involved in my thought process when selecting items.

If the checkout lines are too long, I will attempt to use the self-checkout line, and will get halfway through the process before realizing I have vegetables to weigh. I will spend about 10 minutes trying to find the code for and accurately weigh bell peppers before cancelling the entire order in frustration, placing all of the items back into the cart as the machine yells repeatedly for all to hear, “ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO CANCEL? PRESS ‘I AM STUPID’ TO CANCEL,” and going to wait on the now longer line at regular checkout. I nonchalantly peruse the gossip mags as I wait.

When I reach the cashier, I will inform him or her that I forgot my reusable bags, so as to make it known that my intentions are pure. Also I forgot my club card. Can you look it up with my phone number? On the slim chance that I actually remembered coupons, I will forget to present them at checkout, and will only remember I have them after the transaction is complete and additional coupons are printed. I must then immediately walk over to the customer service counter, where no one is at the moment, so that I can get refunded the difference. If I deem the worker to be friendly, I will attempt to squeeze in several of the coupons I just received.

When I get home, we will empty the bags together as my wife periodically asks, “Did you remember to get (item)?” I will say, “Shoot. No. Sorry. Hey, did you hear Kate Gosselin had liposuction?”

This is not a perfect routine, but it works. In fact, its usefulness is best highlighted on the rare occasions we go food shopping as a family. I wait in frustration as my wife stands in front of yogurt for an eternity, inspecting each label and trying to determine which is the best deal per ounce, as I follow our daughter around picking up the things she has knocked over. My wife will ask me questions about items that aren’t so much questions that seek my opinion, but more her telling herself out loud she should buy something.

“Should I get this apple jelly? I can use it for lunch … ”

“That thing weighs 30 lbs. Last year you bought ‘pumpkin butter’ that’s still unopened in the pantry.”

“This is why I don’t go shopping with you. Just get what YOU want, and let’s go!”

Anyway, I bring this up only because last weekend we went food shopping as a family—at a megastore, no less—and nailed it. I agreed to everything, we split up to save time and generally knew the whereabouts of things, and our daughter waited until checkout to flip out (because, since you asked, I took away from her the plastic container of strawberries she was sticking her fingers through). It was surreal—the greatest, most productive shopping trip ever. It may never happen like that again, so I wanted to write it down to remember that it did.

I have been known to forget things.

Stuff my parents said

My parents made their annual trek from New Jersey to visit us here in the Valley last week. It was a great time as always, and it was especially nice for me to have them there at the book signing, because not only were they a great help in putting the book together, their idiosyncrasies provided for much of its content.

Speaking of ... because I love them, here is a list of random phrases that were heard during their visit.

- “Where do you guys keep sandwich bags that I can fill with ice for my foot?”

- “I was thinking, the indigestion may be because I drank so much pool water.”

- “Do you like onions? The recipe calls for onions.”

- “What do you want me to do with this ice pack I used for my foot?”

- “I put your alarm code into my phone. Here, let me show you. It looks great.”

- “I think I accidentally cleared all of the downloads on your computer.”

- “Is the microwave on? I don’t hear anything.”

- “The vet called. Brittany is eating, thank God.”

- “If you stand barefoot on concrete for too long, the bone in your foot will disintegrate.”

- “Do you want the pita bread with the falafels?”

- “I’m allowed 10-to-15 minutes of sunshine a day, so this is fine.”

- “Didn’t you Google us a pitch-and-putt place last year? Do you remember the address?”

- “Can the dog have chicken?”

- “The seafood guy at Safeway said we should definitely eat the shrimp tonight instead of Thursday.”

- "I figure, we're all gonna die of something, anyway."

- "It's 2.4 miles from your front door to the pool and back. Daddy checked."

Get the Cliff Notes version at Easter Sunday Mass

Note: This column appears in the 4/21 issue of The Glendale Star and the 4/22 issue of the Peoria Times

Easter, as we all know, is about springtime, bonnets, bunny rabbits, and the eggs they produce. Somewhere down on that list is Jesus being raised from the dead. Oooh, also, I almost forgot: chocolate!

This Easter is going to be a special one for us, because it will be the first major holiday shared with family here in AZ. Considering our respective Irish and Italian heritages, our family’s major holidays are, in order, Christmas, Easter, St. Patrick’s Day, the Day of St. Joseph, Saturdays, St. Blaze and the Blessing of the Throats Day, and every day named after a saint. If we forget about one, it’s okay, because my mother-in-law will call to remind us and say, “Don’t forget—today is the Feast of St. Lucy. So … don’t use the oven.”

Not only will my in-laws be here, but virtually the entire side of my mother-in-law’s family will be, too. That means Paul, Denise, Tony, Anna, Heather (pronounced “Heatha”), Liz, Carmine, and, of course, Salvatore. Ya’ know, the Irish side. Food and loudness and a general state of confusion will be prominently involved in our Easter celebration, as will, of course, Mass.

Last year we attended Easter Sunday Mass, just the three of us, which revealed, as it does annually, one of the more frustrating things about being a practicing Catholic/Christian: other Catholic/Christians. We left a little earlier than usual, got stuck in Easter Sunday traffic, and were forced to park in a neighborhood eight miles from church and walk. When we finally arrived, the church itself was, of course, full to capacity and we were relegated to one of the side buildings reserved for the “excess” crowd. This is pretty typical, as churches must account for the people who never go to church but consider Easter Mass a “tradition” and must show off that dress they bought at Target. As a result, I think we ended up in the cafeteria, listening to the Gospel through the same loudspeakers they use for Bingo.

So I’m a little concerned how this Sunday is going to work out. Church is about 30 minutes away, and our convoy will have a total of 12 vehicles, and according to family legend, Carmine once didn’t speak to Tony for two months after a failed attempt to follow him on a family trip to Sesame Place. When we get there and find out we’re standing in the boiler room, my father-in-law is not going to accept that, and there’s no telling what will happen as a result. Also, our daughter doesn’t sit still, ever. A scene will be made.

So yes, frustration will be felt. In Easters (and Christmases) passed, I have spent Mass tossing stern glances at all those people I do not recognize (it’s the same look I toss at regular Sunday Mass when I see someone wearing a football jersey), blaming them for the inconvenience of the holiday crowd. Where were you last week? You want to celebrate Jesus’ rising but not His entry into Jerusalem? GET OUT OF MY SEAT! Eventually I realized—that is not very Christian of me at all. So what if I’m here each week? You’re here now, and that’s all that matters. Even if you are wearing a huge, obnoxious hat and you are texting during the homily.

Let’s see if I can retain this peace of mind come Easter Sunday, when our daughter is dripping chocolate milk on her dress and I am trying to convince my father-in-law that he cannot parallel park on the church sidewalk. Yes, this will be a special Easter, hopefully for you and yours as well.

No cause for alarm—son-in-law is on the scene

Note: This column appears in the 1/13 issue of The Glendale Star and the 1/14 issue of the Peoria Times

Last week the alarm went off at my in-law’s house here in AZ. The alarm company called my father-in-law, who was back east, to inform him. Being that their house is in our development, he then called us, first to make sure we hadn’t set it off, then to ask if I wouldn’t mind going to check it out. The alarm had been deactivated and the police were on the way.

Assuming it was nothing, I drove over there. It was a sunny Saturday in the middle of the afternoon, and that is when criminals sleep, I figured (I didn’t study Criminology in college, but I know someone who did).

When I arrived at the house the police were not there yet, and I suddenly realized I had forgotten the keys. This was somewhat of a relief because during the three-minute drive my mind began to race with possibilities. What if someone really is robbing the house? What will I do? The only weapons I had available were my cell phone and some coins from my car that I could have placed in my fist … to toss at the crook to blind him as I ran away.

The street was eerily quiet, too. Usually all of their neighbors are out and about, but no one was around. Inside job? Maybe. I called my father-in-law to tell him I was there but forgot the keys. He was so proud. I instead checked the perimeter. I had just finished jogging when he called, so I was wearing a hoodie, and with the way I was hoisting myself up on block walls and peeking through windows made me fear that if the cops had shown up then, I might get tasered myself.

I didn’t see any activity, but the thought of seeing a figure swoop by as I looked into the side window of the front door made me squirm. Realizing that I would be no help to the police without the keys—unless they kicked the door down, which would have been awesome—I rushed back home to get them. As I pulled out of our driveway my wife reminded me to be careful. “These are the risks you take when you marry a guy like me,” I thought. When I arrived back at my in-law’s, the police were thankfully right behind me.

Even with an armed officer of the law at my back, it was a bit unnerving to open the front door. I debated asking him to “cover me” before rolling on the ground as I entered the house, but he didn’t seem in the mood for shenanigans. And neither was I, really.

As we moved through the house, the freaky feeling I had confirmed that if I had remembered the keys in the first place, I would have opened the front door, yelled, “Hello in there?” and left. We made our way to the master bedroom, where the alarm had been triggered. The officer checked behind doors and looked for signs of entry. In an effort to be an active part of the search, I crouched down and looked under the bed. This later struck me as stupid, and I imagined that the officer thought to himself, “Rookie. Kid’s seen too many movies.”

The coast was clear, and nothing was missing. The officer figured the alarm had a glitch. I called my father-in-law to give him the good news: “That’s a negative on forced entry, Eagle One. False alarm. Over.” Man, I should have been a cop.

East coast ‘snowpocalypse’ delays flights, column

Note: This column appears in the 1/6 issue of The Glendale Star and the 1/7 issue of the Peoria Times

Just hours before our plane was supposed to take off, while I was sleeping, my phone buzzed. It was a text stating that our flight was canceled. That was it. “Flight 1535 is canceled.” No word of a rescheduling, or what to do next, or how we’d get home. Just … canceled. As far as Continental Airlines was concerned, I would be living in New Jersey again.

We had a wonderful time with family and friends during Christmas and were glad we decided to travel back east. My niece and my in-law’s dog had thrown up on the carpet on separate occasions, but those were the only barf-related moments of the week, and that’s all you can really ask for. Really, it was great, but we were ready to go home. Despite the blizzard that wreaked most of its havoc directly on our little slice of New Jersey, our flight from Newark was still scheduled to take off on time. It ended up being the very last one canceled. The main reason we left NJ in the first place—extreme winter weather—was preventing us from leaving now.

Besides the snow itself, part of the frustration of living back east was that every snowstorm—each winter brings several—is met with the calm, reasoned reaction of a community dealing with its very first snowfall. The minute flurries are in the air, cars drive off the road and burst into the flames, schools close, and supermarkets are packed with panicked citizens preparing for Armageddon. The fact that this particular blizzard came somewhat suddenly, with more wind and snow than expected, threw everyone and everything into a tizzy. The few plows that could be found were plowing out tow trucks that were towing other plows. As I write this, some local neighborhoods still haven’t been plowed, its residents waiting for spring to leave home.

Continental followed suit and responded to this crisis as most Fortune 500 companies would—by shutting down all means of communication. Due to “increased call volume,” they cut off their phone lines, decreasing it to “zero call volume.” Their website gave no instructions, and seemed unaware a storm had even taken place. We were stuck.

We were desperately missing our dog, who was probably not missing us as he was staying at Pet Smart’s Hotel Resort and Spa (when I called to extend his stay, my emotions got the best of me and I said, “Throw an extra ‘Doggie Day Camp’ on our tab.” I am pathetic). We were missing work. We had a million things to do. We spent the next 24 hours trying to reschedule our flight to Arizona, and eventually had to settle on leaving New Year’s Day morning.

After a lot of sulking, we eventually realized that there was nothing we could do, and enjoyed the extra time with family. More time for our parents to spend with their granddaughter and more of my in-law’s cooking wasn’t such a bad thing anyway.

When we finally did make it back, it was colder here than in New Jersey. It was 50-degrees in our house, several devices were beeping as they had lost battery life, and half of our plants were dead or damaged from frost. Didn’t matter. We exhaled.

We went home for the holidays, but man—it feels good to be home. Anyway, long story short, that’s why I didn’t have a column last week. So … sorry. Or, you’re welcome. Whichever.

To my dismay, family is gift that keeps on giving

Note: This column appears in the 12/16 issue of The Glendale Star and the 12/17 issue of the Peoria Times

Our entire family recently became involved in a long, drawn-out email discussion regarding Christmas gifts.

I started it. For the seventh consecutive year I attempted to, with the help of my courageous wife, steer the rest of the family away from an all-encompassing gift exchange and relegate things to a one-gift grab bag. For the seventh consecutive year, it did not work. Last year, before our own valiant attempts, my sister had taken the reins and suggested that donations be made in lieu of gifts, and she was excommunicated from the family for three days.

I realize that my attempts to shun gifts are sometimes viewed as self-righteous, but they are really not. If anything they’re a result of selfish laziness. You see, gifts are things, and things bother me. Especially now that we live far away from everyone else, and each gift is a package—a package that arrives at the front door while the dog barks like a maniac, and that I must first check for scorpions before opening. Then I open it and Styrofoam thingees go everywhere, and I discover that the gift is neither a thing I can eat or use as currency, so I must find a place to store it. That place will be the kitchen table for six months until I figure things out. Then I must remove our address label from the box and shred it—those labels are difficult to remove—and then break the box down for recycling, so as to make for a green and identity theft-free Christmas. The joy.

That’s just the burden of receiving gifts. Nevermind the hassle of purchasing gifts for others. This became an interesting aspect of family discussions for Christmas gifts in the year of 2010.

Compromise was in order, and we did just that, agreeing to a grab bag but also to traditional gift exchanges for those who wanted to take part. With regards to the grab bag, we struggled to decide whether the gift-getter should let it be known what he or she wants, or if it should be left to the gift-giver to determine.

I argued for the latter. I never really grasped the whole, “Get me this, and I’ll get you that,” aspect of a holiday gift-exchange. What’s the point? Why should Christmas be the middleman? I believe that if we really know and love that person, we should be able to figure out what to get. As part of the compromise, it was decided we do things my way.

For the grab bag, I drew a person who is obviously very near and dear to me, and who I know extremely well. And…I had no idea what to get. Foiled by my own mentality, I realized that knowing a person well does not necessarily mean that you know what that person wants or needs at a particular moment in time. In arguing my point, I ironically paved the way for the pointless gifts that I annually rally against. I now look forward to watching this person open their gift over video-chat on Christmas, as Styrofoam thingees go everywhere and they pretend to be excited. I will do the same.

This will all change next year. I’ve got some new ideas, and I think everyone should hear me out.

A parental breakdown

Note: An edited version of this column appears in the 10/7 issue of The Glendale Star and the 10/8 issue of the Peoria Times

My parents are falling apart. Physically.

This is mainly a result of them both being super active. My dad is an avid runner, and my mom -- though she became involved relatively recently -- has possibly passed even my dad in her commitment to running.

Unfortunately, their bodies are having difficulty keeping up. A few weeks ago, my dad’s knee went out while playing softball. For whatever reason, most of my fathers’ injuries involve something “going out.” Nothing is ever “tweaked,” or “pulled.” It just dramatically goes out, collapsing, I imagine, onto itself. I’m not certain what the exact medical terminology is for something “going out,” but my dad’s back has gone out so often, it’s a wonder that it’s not, at this point, being held together with duct tape and string. (Which is, by the way, how he would fix his back if it ever fell off, in lieu of going to the doctor.)

And that’s not to make light of his recent knee injury, which is pretty serious. In describing in graphic detail how it happened, he used the phrase, “ligaments re-attached themselves,” which I am also not sure is medically accurate, but do not care to find out. His frustration is not so much with the injury itself, but how it affects his status for the upcoming road race they are entered in.

This has pretty much been the routine with my parents of late. They participate in so many races -- my mom even does the Phoenix ½ marathon with me each year -- and they choose to prepare themselves for these races by running in additional races. In doing this, they inevitably injure themselves, and thus hope that they can be ready for the race that they were preparing to be ready for in the first place, until they got hurt.

My mom, though she battled through persistent foot injuries last year, is often forced to deal with less common ailments. She had, most recently, decided to prepare for their upcoming 10K by participating in the Philadelphia ½ marathon. Granted, this is like preparing for lunch by eating dinner, but no matter. She called me the following day to let me know how she did, which was, “not great,” but mostly because she hurt her shoulder as a result of wearing “the wrong bra.”

As a man, there is nothing quite like listening to your mother, over the phone, explain how she struggled in a recent road race because she wore an ill-fitting bra. Of course, any conversation with my mom includes the requisite update on my dad’s recent injury as well as an exciting recap of which random people, none of whom I can recall from my childhood, died. And so the conversation went like this:

Mom: So yeah, the bra was way too tight, and it really started hurting my shoulder. By mile 11, I was really struggling. I don’t know why I wore that bra. I had a different bra set out to wear in the hotel room, and I should have worn that one. I really should have.

Me: Uh huh.

Mom: Anyway, daddy’s doing okay. The chiropractor said he can start putting pressure on his knee next week, and if the swelling goes down, he can start going for short walks.

Me: Okay. That’s good.

Mom: Of course, you know daddy -- he tried to run a quick mile today and hurt it again pretty bad. And his back went out cleaning the bathroom.

Me: Wow.

Mom: Geez, I know. Oh, and that’s what I forgot to tell you. Do you remember Mr. Langerhans? Gil Langerhans?

Me: Uhhh, no.

Mom: He was daddy’s friend from work? But he’s a parishioner at church, too? I think he was at the party at the McAndrew’s house back in 1983? Remember?

Me: No, I don’t remember.

Mom: Anyway, he died.

(Ed. note: My mom, when speaking to me, still refers to herself and my dad, respectively, as "Mommy" and "Daddy." Just so you know. Because I'm 32.)

I feel kind of bad sometimes, being here in Arizona while my parents are back east, dealing with various injuries and the after-effects of wearing improper undergarments. Not that I’d be able to really help anyway, especially with regards to the latter, but still. At least my sisters are there, who are thrilled to get more frequent injury updates than I do, and who also get to feed the cats when my parents are limping through a race far from home.

I can still do my part though, I think, in an attempt to have my parents take it easy a bit. The next time my dad is here, instead of going for runs, maybe we’ll just have a catch. Father and son, tossing the ol’ ball around, hoping nothing goes out. Nice and easy. Maybe even while sitting down.

My mom? She’s already registered for the ½ marathon here in a few months. Maybe I can just convince her to prepare for it a little less intensively, as I certainly wouldn’t want her to miss it. In fact, it’s kind of become our thing to do together. And as any son whose mom is cool and active enough to come out to Arizona to run 13.1 miles with him would say: I hope she brings a different bra.

Is it not hot in here or is it me? Family edition

Note: This column appears in the 6/10 issue of The Glendale Star and the 6/11 issue of the Peoria Times

We have family in town for the next couple of weeks. This is not new –- our family visits us quite frequently -- so normally, this occasion would not be column-worthy. But this time is a bit different, for several reasons.

One factor that sets this visit apart is the amount of family that is here. Now that my in-laws have a house here, there is virtually no limit on the amount of people that will accompany them to Arizona. The word from back east is that every person that my father-in-law has informed about his new digs has also been cordially invited to stay there anytime. On this occasion, many have taken him up on the offer.

That includes my wife’s aunt and uncle, and their twin daughters. Now, for the men visiting, this trip is less about seeing us and more about their annual golf outing, so their excitement about being here is already through the roof. My wife’s uncle in particular – who works in the public school system in New York City and is literally counting the days until his retirement so he can move to Arizona, even (or: especially?) if he has to leave his own family behind –- can barely contain himself. Also here visiting is my father-in-law’s accountant, because, well, he’s Italian and he was invited. And obviously it’s not really a party until your CPA arrives.

(My wife’s cousins are staying with us. They are 20-years old, from Staten Island, and manage their tans year-round. Each of them has more friends on Facebook than people I have met in my entire life. It should be interesting to watch them adjust to our nightly routine of watching HGTV and being in bed by 9:30.)

The other mitigating factor that sets this trip apart is that they’re all here during the summer. In the past, if we so much as informed my mother-in-law over the phone of the temperature outside she would let out an audible gasp, nearly pass out, and remind us, again, that she’d never be here in the summer. And last week my wife’s uncle told us to “not even mention the heat” to his wife. So much of this visit will be spent pretending it’s not hot out, all while my wife’s cousins bake and sizzle on beach towels in the background.

Of course, the major attraction –- and the only person I know capable of motivating my mother-in-law to brave the desert summer –- is our hopefully-soon-to-be-daughter. My in-laws have been chomping at the bit to be with her again, and everyone else just met her for the first time. Everything she does is met with rousing applause and the popping of the cork of the nearest bottle of wine.

The next two weeks will include two houses full of loud Italians, euphoric from vacation, golf, a new family member, and the possibilities of the future -- not to mention the beginning of Italy’s defense of its World Cup title -– all among the 114-degree elephant in the room. It will be difficult to assess the damage, but that is why they brought an accountant.

Keeping family in the loop, and occasionally tossing them out

Note: This column appears in the 4/29 issue of The Glendale Star and the 4/30 issue of the Peoria Times

There has been a running joke in our family for years involving videos from Idaho. My uncle –- then stationed in Idaho for the Air Force -– and my aunt had just given birth to their first kids, twin girls. Armed with a camcorder and the anxiety that everyone back east was missing everything, my uncle countered by recording everything. When my aunt and uncle eventually returned east for good, our entire family was subsequently treated to hours-long, sound-free, grainy footage of my cousins doing mundane things amidst the appealing aesthetic of the flat and empty Idaho landscape. Having to watch those videos again is now a threat at family functions aimed at anyone who gets out of hand, which usually ends up being, ironically, one of the co-stars of those famous movies. They drink wine now.

I was so young when those videos surfaced, but even I have a faint memory of their monotony. Now, years later, I can sympathize with my uncle totally. Here we are, my wife and I, new parents and the rest of our family is across the country. How is everyone supposed to know how our little one is doing without aggressive and frequent documentation?

The medium has changed, of course. The process is less intrusive in that we won’t need to gather the entire family around in one place to observe footage of our little one’s progress. But it’s also much broader. Between online picture albums, texts, instant videos and iChats, there are plenty of ways to make our family back east aware that our hopefully-soon-to-be-daughter can army crawl.

Thing is, both my wife and I are cognizant of this. We’re both, I think, self-aware to a fault, in that we often choose not to overstep our bounds at the risk of depriving those who really desire to see these things. The result has been this constant struggle for my wife regarding whom to bombard this footage with.

Our respective parents? Forget it. We could have a camera on our little one Truman Show-style and my mother-in-law wouldn’t leave the house. After that it gets dicey. We get so much positive feedback about sending pictures, etc, but we’re always trying to interpret that as genuine versus being nice. Also, my wife is the type of person who responds to every email, text, forward, and wall post, so when someone doesn’t respond to her she interprets that as either a) I need to slow down, or b) that person is making fun of me right now.

A few weeks ago, after sending out another picture text, my brother-in-law responded with an innocuous joke about the amount of pics he was receiving. My wife took him off the list, didn’t tell him, and then reveled in the fact that he later lamented about not receiving any more pictures. She doesn’t mess around, my wife.

Last week we took our hopefully-soon-to-be daughter to the park for the first time. We put her on one of the infant swings and she loved it. She was smiling and laughing the whole time. We took a video of course, and we’ve both watched it at least twenty times since. “Who wouldn’t want to watch this?” I say to myself. And I think of Idaho. But ya’ know what? I don’t care. Something tells me, when the jokes come up, my uncle doesn’t care either.

My failed attempts to properly pick a girl up

Note: This column appears in the 3/11 issue of The Glendale Star and the 3/12 issue of the Peoria Times

What happened?

These are almost always the first words my wife utters when she comes home from work on those days when I am responsible for picking up our hopefully-soon-to-be-daughter from daycare.

Typically, her inquisition is a result of our little one wearing different clothes than my wife had dressed her in that morning, a small detail I consistently miss when picking her up. If she is wearing “backup” clothes that means she had either a spitting-up or poop-related accident, and so my wife’s follow-up question is: Where are her clothes? My response to this -– as was my response to the initial question and any additional ones -– is a meek shrug of the shoulders.

This has been a constant source of frustration for my wife. I know she thinks that if our hopefully-soon-to-be-daughter were wearing a potato sack when I went to pick her up, I still wouldn’t notice. And she may be right. Because besides wardrobe issues, I’ve been known to leave bottles, medical devices, and important paperwork behind. And that’s with virtually every person who works at the daycare –- all of them aware of my inadequacies –- trying to help me out.

I’ve managed to brush aside these occurrences in a “men are from Mars, women are from Venus” sort of way. What do you want from me? I’m a dude! I don’t know how to do things! But lately I’ve become frustrated with myself, especially on those occasions when I’m particularly proud or confident in my progress with picking her up from daycare, only to be thwarted yet again by some small detail I had overlooked. Like pants.

It all came to a head last week though. I picked up our little one from daycare no problem. But before we went home I had to stop at the grocery store to grab a few things. When I opened the back door to get her, I was taken aback. She looked so…weird. So weird in fact that I honestly and legitimately -– if even for a split second –- thought that I had taken home the wrong child. I assured myself that was not the case, and convinced myself that her strange look was a result of the way the sun was hitting her in that moment.

We got what we needed at the store and she even managed to charm everyone on the checkout line with her smile. We arrived home just a few minutes before my wife did, and you can guess what her first words were when she laid eyes upon our soon-to-be-daughter, who was happily playing in her jumper.

Turns out, the stretchable headband my wife had dressed her in had dropped from the top of her head to just above her eyebrows –- who knew? -- which had scrunched her eyes down and ballooned the rest of her face. “She looks like Rocky Balboa!” my wife screamed. Ah, so it wasn’t the sun after all. I assured my wife that nobody in Safeway noticed and she replied, incredulously, “You took her out in public like this?!”

When my wife removed it, the headband had left an imprint on our hopefully-soon-to-be-daughter’s forehead, and they both looked at me like I was from Mars. “But hey,” I said. “At least she’s wearing the right clothes!”

She wasn’t.

I need to get better at this.

The technological revolution hits home

Note: This column appears in the 2/25 issue of The Glendale Star and the 2/26 issue of the Peoria Times

The evolution of our family –- namely of our parents –- as it relates to technology has been an adventure.

She’s going to kill me when she reads this, but the first time my mother-in-law used email, she sat at the keyboard, typed her message, and then walked away. Having never hit “send,” she had just assumed that the email had reached its destination, like a prayer. Now, after a lot of hard work and admirable dedication, she has a Gmail account and texts us using modern shorthand that even we don’t understand.

My father-in-law, on the other hand, has always embraced technology. It is rumored that he owned the first car phone in Brooklyn, which was actually just a phone booth in the passenger seat of his car. Because of his business and hectic lifestyle, he currently owns approximately eight cell phones – two of which are Blackberries (!) -- several of which he will frequently misplace, and which he’ll have to call with one of the other phones to find. Last month while here in AZ he walked into a restaurant wearing a headset while talking on a different phone and texting on another. When asked where he’d like to sit, the waitress was told, “the closing is set for Tuesday.”

My parents are a different story altogether. They always try, often in vain. Last year they purchased a Mac so they could more easily video chat with us from back east. Macs, as you may know, are famously user friendly and low maintenance. My parent’s Mac however, has managed to befuddle everyone at Apple for the better part of a year. Subsequently, our video chats with my parents typically involve us looking at their foreheads and the words “you’re breaking up.”

Whenever they travel my parents feel comforted by their GPS device even though a) they never update the software for it and b) the only feature they use is the estimated time of arrival, which my dad will constantly observe throughout the trip as proof that the GPS is working. (As a side note, contrary to my father-in-law’s affinity for technology, the GPS is his worst enemy. His directional instinct always wins out. He only owns one because it’s technology.)

Currently my mom is enjoying taking videos with her iPod. Nevermind that she doesn’t know how to upload them or send them out. And pictures? My mom isn’t really sure how to upload those either or how to categorize them. So about once a year we’ll get sent an album that will feature pictures from Christmas 2003 mixed in with shots of the cats licking themselves.

But whether they’ve always embraced it, recently mastered it, or are still a work in progress, the fact that our family is using technology is what allows us to stay in touch from thousands of miles away. Last weekend we video chatted with my in-laws, which was pretty much just them happily watching their hopefully-soon-to-be-granddaughter eating jar food. Even when our family can’t be here, they’re here.

When my parents’ Mac gets out of the shop, we’ll video chat with them again, too. In the meantime they’ve recently joined the texting community. My dad’s first text ever was sent to my mom while she was here in AZ. But my mom had left her phone upstairs, so when I happened to call my dad he explained that he had texted my mom and never heard back and thus didn’t know if it “went through.” I assured him that it did, like a prayer, and then I said one.

Valley sports reach new demographic

Note: This column appears in the 2/11 issue of The Glendale Star and the 2/12 issue of the Peoria Times

I’ve mentioned before, ad nauseam, how great it is to be a sports fan here in the Valley. Yes, my favorite teams still reside back east, but that’s no matter, because I’m a sports fan first, and everything is so much more accessible here. The games are easier to get to, cheaper to go to, and never get canceled due to inclement weather. And if you want season tickets, you don’t have wait for 30,000 people to die.

So we frequently find ourselves going to sporting events, because sports are fun, and awesome. But I wondered –- how would having a hopefully-soon-to-be-daughter affect our sports fandom?

I always imagined that if we ever had a family, we’d get him/her started on sports early. I never wanted to be one of those parents who use their kids as an excuse to not do anything. But it’s different when you actually have that family, and everything revolves around a routine, and you fret about doing even the simplest thing because you’re wondering how she’ll react. Should I heat up this burrito now? What if the toaster oven “bing” wakes her up?

The first true test arose when our family came out to visit last month and my father-in-law surprised us with tickets to the Cardinals-Packers playoff game. I immediately envisioned us bringing her, but then I wondered if it would be too much. A four-month old? At a playoff football game? Surrounded by obnoxious drunks? I actually didn’t think my wife would go for it, but she surprised me –- she didn’t even think twice about it.

Our little one even tailgated with us. She observed the madness intently as we walked into the stadium. “Hey honey, check out that lady wearing a bra made out of cheese!” No reaction -- she doesn’t judge. By the time we got to our seats, there was so much for her to take in, she didn’t know where to look first. When the game was about to start, and the stadium was as loud as a stadium could be, I looked over and she was sound asleep on my mother-in-law’s lap. But she didn’t miss overtime. No way. One day I’ll explain to her how she was at one of the greatest football games ever, and I think she’ll be happy we brought her along.

That experience made us much less hesitant to bring her to the Coyotes-Rangers game two weeks ago. Except for a second period catnap, she couldn’t take her eyes off the ice. Even the obnoxiously loud blaring horn didn’t bother her. Plus, she managed to make instant friends with everyone around us. She has a way of doing that.

I think I was nine when I went to my first baseball game, mostly because my dad was understandably hesitant to bring his young son to the South Bronx in the mid-80s. If our already purchased spring-training tickets are any indication, our hopefully-soon-to-be daughter will be six- months old when she goes to her first ballgame. Talk about accessible.

Maybe she just likes looking at stuff move around, I don’t know. But I have a feeling that our hopefully-soon-to-be daughter likes sports. A lot. And while it may not be quite official yet by State of Arizona standards, I know one thing –- that’s my girl.

A move that strengthened, not severed, family ties

Note: This column appears in the 2/4 issue of The Glendale Star and the 2/5 issue of the Peoria Times

My wife and I made the decision to move here to Arizona on our own volition. The hardest part of the decision –- in fact, the only “con” on our list -– was saying goodbye to our family.

I never found it necessary to describe how close we are to our family until I realized that our bond seems, at times, abnormal when compared to others. As an example, my younger sister is married to my wife’s younger brother (legal in only 48 states, of which New Jersey is one). And when I say family I include not only parents, siblings, and in-laws, but also aunts, uncles, cousins, cousins-in-law, and lifelong family friends. And when I say close I mean that we all legitimately enjoy and prefer each other’s company. I’ll like, hang out with my uncle. My mother-in-law will have lunch with my aunt. Our wedding party alone consisted of twenty people. Considering that many simply tolerate family, we are, I suppose, abnormal indeed.

So it was difficult to leave that behind. Of course, we secretly hoped that at least a few would follow us out here. Nary a phone call home went without a casual mention of the weather here, or how we just returned home from a spring training game, or -– less subtle in the context of a normal conversation -– what we pay in property taxes.

But the decision to move here was ours and ours alone, and who were we to expect others to even make an annual visit here, much less start a new life. No one was happy to see us go, and I have to believe that some, if not most families would rather hold firm to spite, and simply await our humbled return. That is why I’m so thankful that we don’t belong to most families.

A few months back my in-laws purchased a home near us. They won’t be so much “snowbirds” as just “here when they can be.” And they were here, for virtually the entire month of January, and their new home allowed others to be here too.

Over the span of the past month Arizona has hosted my mother-in-law, father-in-law, brother-in-law, other brother-in-law and his girlfriend, my own mom, and several very good family friends. Some of them experienced a cross-country road trip in the midst of horrendous weather. Most of them took considerable time off of work. All of them got to meet our hopefully-soon-to-be-daughter, who may have just provided a little more motivation for them to come back soon.

So what did we do for a month? A bunch of us went to the Cardinals-Packers game, which was the greatest game any of us had ever witnessed in person. Some of us ran in the Rock & Roll Half-Marathon because, why not? We wined and dined, golfed, shopped and enjoyed every second of it. All because I happen to belong to a family that would rather be with us than be content missing us.

I think about our “pipe dream” of having family follow us out here whenever I drive past my in-laws’ new house. I’m feeling pretty blessed these days. I can only hope that your family is as abnormal as ours.

Gaining party experience for my family’s benefit

Note: This column appears in the 1/14 issue of The Glendale Star and the 1/15 issue of the Peoria Times

I have been on the 1st birthday party circuit for the past month.

This is mostly all new to me. Sure, I have been to 1st birthday parties before. Most of them, I imagine, when I was one. But I do recall attending my niece’s 1st birthday party a couple of years ago. I even, rather appropriately, brought a couple of my ol’ college buddies, partly because they were staying at our house at the time and I had no other choice, and partly because they really know how to party.

Nevertheless, things are different now that we’re kind of, unofficially, parents. Whereas before at non-family 1st birthday parties we were shunned as “childless acquaintances,” we are now members of an exclusive club, with a laundry list of privileges, not the least of which is acceptance. And cake.

Case in point: While in California over the holidays visiting our friends, we tagged along to a 1st birthday party that we weren’t even invited to. Normally, this would be frowned upon by a society that is largely unwilling to dole out goodie bags to strangers. But it was cool, because we had our hopefully-soon-to-be-daughter with us. We belonged. We didn’t even bring a gift and I’m pretty sure I was first on the buffet line.

I am also beginning to understand 1st birthday party etiquette, my buffet line escapades notwithstanding. And this is good, because I had many questions going in, namely: Is it okay to ask for beer? Also: What am I supposed to do there? I have come to understand that it is okay –- encouraged even –- to accept beer if it is offered. (As a side note, at the party in California, I was offered hard liquor. I declined, as that would be a faux pas.) And your main responsibility while you are there is to smile and make sure your own child doesn’t get hurt. This is easy when you’re boasting a largely immobile four-month old. Less so when you have an almost two-year old and the birthday features a giant party bouncer, as my friend Rashad can attest.

This experience gave me confidence going into yet another 1st birthday party last weekend, which was for the daughter of our good friends around the block. Like a true professional –- and because I know my wife can hold her own at such an event -– I made sure to carry in our hopefully-soon-be-daughter myself, as I knew this would be an instant ice-breaker and conversation-starter. After I was offered a beer, I located the other men at the party and talked about baseball. Then I sang “Happy Birthday.” Acapella. I even talked to some of the other kids there, which is not required, but I was feeling it.

I have also been taking notes, because God-willing we will be able to plan a 1st birthday party of our own sometime down the line. So far I have: 1) don’t invite ol’ college buddies and 2) no peanuts. We also need a theme. Which is why I hope she likes baseball.


Goodie...box? Pfftt.

Christmas spirit comes better late than ever

Note: This column appears in the 12/17 issue of The Glendale Star and the 12/18 issue of the Peoria Times

It hadn’t really felt like Christmas.

For one thing, my wife and I decided weeks ago that we wouldn’t be going back east for the holidays this year. Knowing we wouldn’t be with family subconsciously and adversely affected our Christmas spirit.

Having to return our two foster kiddos just before Thanksgiving didn’t help either. And all of the chores, purchases and appointments that we’d avoided in the past months as a result of being too busy had kept us too busy to notice the holidays were, in fact, here.

(It should also be mentioned that, in my annual attempt to force myself into the Christmas mood, I started listening to the “Christmas music only” radio station way too early yet again. If I hear another version of “Jingle Bell Rock” I am going to bash my car radio with a baseball bat.)

But all that changed last Monday. We had a storm come through here that brought overcast skies, rain, wind and cold (at least by Arizona standards). I was off of work that day and my wife didn’t have to go in until the early afternoon. Our television was tuned to the holiday station and we had our coffees and all of our decorations were up.

None of those things however, served to explain why it finally felt like Christmas. Because the best part of that day was spending it with the three-month old baby girl who we hope to call our daughter one day very soon.

Allow me to explain. The week our foster kiddos went back we received the amazingly great news that we were chosen to be the prospective adoptive parents of a baby girl. The process that ensued served to explain why the holidays had gotten away from us. Of course we were thrilled at the joy this Christmas could bring, but we were also anxious to meet her and find out more about her and have her in our home.

It had been a whirlwind of car rides here and there, meetings, phone calls and paperwork. Everything felt right to us from the beginning, but meeting her was better than we ever could have hoped for. And while nothing is quite official and won’t be until at least the middle of this upcoming year, there’s no going back now. It’s already too late. There was no going back when we first laid eyes on her.

We brought her home on Sunday and last Monday was her first full day in her new home. The wind howled outside and the rain pounded the windows, but for most of the day she slept peacefully in her boppy on the couch. When my wife left for work I had her all to myself, and we played and I fed her and we watched bad Christmas movies on TV until she would doze off again.

All of a sudden it felt like the holidays more than it ever had back in the cold and snow of New Jersey. And even though we won’t be back east this year for the first time in our entire lives, it turns out we’ll be spending Christmas with our family after all.

You can go home again…but hurry up

Note: This column appears in the 6/4 issue of The Glendale Star and the 6/5 issue of the Peoria Times

We decided to make a last-minute trip back east over Memorial Day weekend to see our families. We even brought along one of our foster kiddos. To say that this trip was amazing and well worth it is an understatement.

The major influence behind us returning home for a few days was that we discovered some of my wife’s relatives from Italy would be there for her cousin’s graduation. On top of that, this was also the weekend of an annual popular Jersey Shore road race that we used to take part in. You may recall that this was the race I collapsed at due to dehydration two years ago. Therefore, this trip served two purposes: 1) see the Italians, and 2) redemption.

First up was the graduation party, where we got to see my wife’s Italian relatives, henceforth known simply as “Italy.” Italy was indeed thrilled to see us. But it was our little one who stole the show, and who, due to all of the attention, had assumed that the whole affair was her birthday party. It might as well have been. The night ended with a wet pull-up and a “timeout,” which is how most of our family functions end, with or without kids.

The next night we went to my sister and brother-in-law’s house to hang out with everyone again, and to spend more quality time with Italy. That is, until we discovered that Italy had opted to go down to Atlantic City instead for the evening. Couldn’t really blame them. And besides –- we’d see them again in 15 years. Also, we needed our rest, because the next day was race day.

The following morning we surprised the rest of our family who had yet to be surprised by showing up to the annual pre-race gathering at my aunt and uncle’s house. Hugs and kisses all around. My wife tried to take a picture of everyone, but half of the family had already left for the starting line. Then everyone was gone, leaving me, my wife and my cousin to walk alone, while I carried our squirmy 32-lb question machine the whole way. Only our family races to a race.

We finally caught up to everyone near the starting line. It was at this point when my father-in-law asked if we could run together. I said sure, and was comforted that I’d have a running partner, considering that, ya’ know, the last time I ran in this race I finished in an ambulance. When the gun went off I looked to my left and my father-in-law had sprinted 50 yards ahead of me. I never saw him again.

We had now been officially ditched by everyone in our immediate family and the entire nation of Italy. Quite humbling, indeed.

Nevertheless, I finished the race without collapsing, thus accomplishing the second goal of our trip. Afterwards, as our family shuffled off to the post-race party, my wife and I took our foster kiddo to the beach so she could see the ocean for the very first time.

I sat there in the sand, thankful for this time with our family and marveling at their go-go-go lifestyles. I wondered if that used to be us, and if we’ve settled into a more “laid back” Arizona lifestyle. I watched our little one challenging the waves to catch her feet, and I quickly realized that this trip had a third goal. So we stayed for a little while.

A couple of out-of-towners take in Arizona

Note: This column appears in the 5/15 issue of The Glendale Star, and the 5/16 issue of the Peoria Times...and has nothing to do with sports

My parents came to visit my wife and I last week from New Jersey. They were here for about nine days, and in that time, they managed to experience more of Arizona than we have in a year.

Much of Arizona they discovered while searching for the 10 East from the airport in their rental car. When I called my mom to find out where they were -- roughly three hours after they landed -- she said they had finally found the 10E, and were going straight to the nearest divorce court. Then they’d get something to eat.

Once everyone was settled in, it was time to experience the desert. After a weekend that included a D-Backs game, several stints at our development pool, and a few tastes of fine, local cuisine (the Peoria “Chili’s”) my parents were on their own once the workweek started. Luckily for them -- because our section of Arizona is largely bereft of street signs, though with a surplus of construction cones -- they had their trusty GPS.

Their first stop was the Cibola Vista Spa in Peoria. This was negative one point for the GPS, which directed them to drive straight into a cactus one mile away from the spa. Nevertheless, they found the spa, and they loved it. It was good for them to relax and unwind after a nine-hour flight, five hours of which were spent sitting on the Newark runway. And while they were lounging outside on the spa balcony, soaking in the sun, they noticed a horse farm across the street that offered horseback rides. When in Rome…

The next morning they had their horseback ride bright and early. Keep in mind that I, personally, have never been on a horse in my life. I actually just fed a horse for the first time two weeks ago. His name was Buckwheat. Anyhoo, their guide recommended that they wear helmets, although my dad, kindly, I’m sure, refused. My mom did wear her helmet, and looked like the exact opposite of John Wayne in the photos that their guide kindly took of them. (I find it intriguing that this state has no helmet law for people riding motorcycles at 75mph, yet they recommend wearing one while riding a horse.) They had an absolute blast though.


Hi, Judy? I found your horse. It was in the ocean. Good thing you were wearing a helmet.

What’s the next logical stop for two fun-seeking tourists who just experienced beautiful Arizona on horseback? The local chiropractor, of course! Yes, my parents -- a little sore now -- walked into Parkway Chiropractic for some quick treatment. Not only was this experience, in their words, quicker and cheaper than back home, but also Glenn, the chiropractor, was from New Jersey. Good times all around.

Feeling refreshed and less arthritic, the next day they traveled around Peoria with our fabulous real estate agent (plug alert!) Ryan Richter to get a read on the area. Not that they’re thinking of buying or anything (yet), though this did provide my dad -- a recently retired plumber-pipefitter -- a chance to ask many questions about vents, roofs, outlets, and other blue-collar stuff that his own son had been previously answering with a shrug of the shoulders.


Yes, Dad -- the supply air ducts in Arizona ARE different...I think

Later that night, with us, they discovered their favorite Arizona restaurant, North in Glendale. Then they traveled to Sedona. (The GPS was banging on all cylinders now.) Then we all went to the Shrine of St. Joseph in Yarnell, and finally to Westgate and the Yardhouse for our last meal before they left.

Last Saturday morning my parents, sadly, boarded the plane back to New Jersey -- no word on whether my mom was wearing her plane helmet -- acutely more aware of why we moved here. In fact, they talked about coming back as soon as possible. When they do, maybe they can show us around.


I wasn't kidding about Buckwheat

On finding Bigfoot, and losing my hearing

Note: This column appears in the 9/13 issue of the Glendale Star, and 9/14 issue of the Peoria Times

By the time you read this, the Arizona Cardinals will have won or lost their season-opening game against the 49ers. Because my deadline is Monday, I cannot expound upon that result. Instead I’ve decided to stick to my lifelong journalistic rule: If your deadline prevents you from writing about the team you halfheartedly cover, do the next best thing -- write about Monster Trucks.

This past Saturday night, the University of Phoenix Stadium hosted the Monster Truck Thunder Drags event. My wife -- Monster Truck enthusiast that she is -- decided to come with me. Also, I am joking about her being a Monster Truck enthusiast. Neither of us had ever attended such an affair. I’m not saying that New Jersey didn’t have Monster Trucks, but if they did, nobody ever told us.

I feel like I should begin the recap of our experience appropriately. Ahem…Saturday, Saturday, SATURDAY night we attended our first ever Monster Truck rally. I didn’t really know how to handle myself during such an event, so I immediately purchased a $10 beer and sat down.

The night began with an emotional video tribute to the original Bigfoot -- no, he’s not dead, just in the shop -- and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. (Wait, did I say “eye?” I meant cup.) This night however, was going to feature the latest installment of Bigfoot -- Bigfoot 16 -- thus further extending the lineage of the “first family of Monster Trucks.” The Bigfoots are like the Mannings of Motor sports, and every son is Peyton.

Each of the trucks was then introduced to the crowd. There was “Obsession” (not a fan -- I don’t like my Monster Trucks sounding like cologne), “Raminator” (more like it), which was not to be confused with “Ramunition,” and many others. One of the crowd favorites was “Jurassic Attack,” which featured one of the only female Monster Truck drivers on the circuit. Her truck looked like a turquoise Triceratops, and proved that you can drive a skull-crushing, remorseless machine, yet be fashion-conscious at the same time, which was nice. The announcer mentioned that each of the vehicles was “injected on alcohol,” which was a coincidence, because so was I.

The Monster Trucks raced each other around the track, while the crowd cheered on in delight. I should also mention that nobody informed my wife and I that earplugs would have been a good idea, so we spent the entire next Sunday yelling to each other from two feet away: “I SAID, ‘WHERE ARE THE FRITOS?’” Anyway, one of the better matchups featured Ramunition going head-to-head with Raminator. I don’t remember who won, but there was a surprising lack of ramming. Of course, it was all for naught as a confident Bigfoot destroyed the competition with grace and precision. And by “grace” I mean that he kicked the living crap out of everyone and everything in his way.

In the middle of it all, the crowd was informed that a local truck from Glendale was about to perform some feats of magnificence. The truck revved its engine, stalled, and then eventually had to be removed by a bulldozer. Apparently, the truck’s drive shaft broke. I hate when that happens.

The highlight of the evening was the Monster Truck freestyle, where each of the trucks took their turn rolling over stacks of cars, and then doing donuts in the dirt. That was, oh what’s the phrase I’m looking for?…bonkers. And yet again, Bigfoot stole the show. Ya’ know, Bigfoot may not be as flashy as the other trucks, but he definitely handles his business. If I learned anything from this event – and I learned a lot -- it’s that Bigfoot is not to be messed with.

Oh, and earplugs. Gotta have earplugs.


Stupid drive shaft...


Bigfoot 16: Not as powerful as Bigfoot 8, but with more torque than Bigfoot 12

I almost died at the Spring Lake 5, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt

For the past couple of years I had written “preview” columns for the Spring Lake 5, a popular Memorial Day Weekend 5-mile road race in Spring Lake, NJ. All these columns really consisted of was me doling out “advice” on how to best to run the race, what to wear, and when to go to the bathroom. Ya’ know, stupid stuff…the usual. Before the race last weekend, my wife asked me why I hadn’t written a column for this year’s race. I told her that there really wasn’t anything left to say. Well, I ran the race this year, and as it turns out – there’s a lot left to say.

I did not finish the Spring Lake 5 this year because I freakin’ collapsed near the finish line. Fantastic. Allow me to explain.

As usual, my entire family was running in the race this year – parents, wife, sister, aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws…everybody. And as usual, we all met at my aunt and uncle’s house (they live in Spring Lake Heights) beforehand. There were donuts, muffins, coffee…all kinds of stuff that I prefer not to inhale minutes before running a race. Twenty minutes till race time! Wait – is that chocolate frosted?! Not for me. A bottle of water was all I had that morning. This was no different than any year I had run the race, because I really don’t like to eat before running, and I’m not very hungry in the morning anyway. Most important meal of the day? Pffff. Well, you can probably sense the foreshadowing here already – I immediately regret that decision.


The last recorded picture of me standing...notice the empty stomach
(I'm the one in the middle...with mom and sister)

We were running a little late this year as well. Trying to pry 20 family members away from donuts so we can walk a mile to run five miles is pretty difficult, and this year proved darn near impossible. So my dad and I walked ahead of everybody, and barely made it in time for the start of the race. I very unpatriotically tried to weasel my way towards the front of the pack during the National Anthem, because I didn’t want to cross the starting line at the five-minute mark. Normally, we get to the race at least twenty minutes before it starts, giving us all time to stretch and mentally prepare (and by “mentally prepare” I mean stretch). Not this year. Two minutes after I got there, I was running. I hope you are still sensing the foreshadowing.


Bye Mike! See you at the banana stand! Or hospital! Whatever!

Now, last year for the Spring Lake 5, it was hot. I’m a fairly decent runner, I guess – I run a couple times a week, two miles here, three or four miles there. But I struggled last year. I don’t really set lofty goals for myself when it comes to running, but I always try to beat my time from the previous year’s race. Well, this year is was hot. Really hot. Last year I finished in 38:something, and this year I wanted to break 38 minutes. And at the risk of ruining the surprise, I didn’t. In fact, the clock is still running.

I was through the first mile marker at seven minutes, and feeling okay. I was still on pace at the second mile marker, just under 14 minutes, but feeling a little less okay. I still maintained my pace at three miles, 21 minutes. It was at this point however, that I was saying to myself, “Holy expletive, expletive. This is going to be the hardest thing I have ever done.”

I didn’t know what was going on. The previous Monday, in the hot and humid afternoon, I had run four miles outside no problem. I was totally ready for this race. Now, I had no legs underneath me, I was sucking wind, and people were passing me left and right. To make matters worse, keeping constant pace with me was a 60-something year-old dude, who was wheezing and gasping with every step and every breath. I didn’t think this guy was going to make it past the first mile, and now he was still there, making me feel like I couldn’t breath. I even said to the runner next to me, “Man, this guy is killing me!” No response. Just ran right ahead of me. Jerk.

Four miles at 29:30. I was losing it, but still on pace to beat my time. I’m barely moving at this point. People are blowing by me. I feel like Vince Carter in the fourth quarter of a playoff game, except I am actually trying.

Now, there’s a very defined homestretch of the Spring Lake 5. During the fifth mile, you turn a corner onto Ocean Avenue, and you can see the finish line ahead. Good times! This year? Bad times. The problem is, that finish line – although it appears right within reach – is still just under a half mile away. You still have to pace yourself. Regardless, this is the part of the race that I exert myself the most. Usually, I have something to exert.

I can see the clock ahead. It’s approaching 37 minutes. I still have about a quarter mile left. I’m running as hard as I can, but I feel like I’m dragging Rosie O’Donnell behind me. I start to notice that I’m running completely upright, like freakin’ Forrest Gump, and my body is starting to stiffen up. Now I’m veering off uncontrollably to the right side of the road. Still veering. Then, all of sudden, like the 2007 Yankees, I collapse.

I can’t imagine how this looked to anyone who was watching. It must have appeared as though a sniper got me from across the street. 10,000 people run this race every year, so the odds that not one of them saw me lose all coordination and end up on my butt were already stacked against me. Then, I find out the next day that my brother-in-law was caddying for a guy who had run in the race. After my brother-in-law described what had happened to me, the guy said, “Wait – tall guy? Lean? Wearing blue? Yeah, I saw him! I saw him go down!” Awesome. Hopefully, youtube was there too.

Also, I didn’t really collapse. I just couldn’t stand up anymore, and plopped to the ground. (Okay, fine…I collapsed.) A paramedic sees me and rushes over. I’m trying to get up, but I can’t. I’m two seconds away from passing out, and fighting it. I’m watching the runners pass, hoping that nobody I know – hey, only my entire family was behind me! – sees me like this. I’m pleading with the paramedic to let me finish, but meanwhile, I can’t even move. The paramedic picks me up, and we have to go to the freakin’ ambulance. To the left of me, I spot a woman whose entire face is covered in blood. Apparently, she didn’t eat her muffins either. At this point, the theme from “Platoon” is playing in my mind as I’m trying to cross a street of runners to get to the ambulance. What the hell is going on here?

Of course, I can joke about this now, but I kid you not – by the time I reached the ambulance, I thought I was going to die. I cannot stress this fact enough. Whereas my initial emotion upon this occurrence was pure embarrassment, the heightening of the situation was very dramatic. I literally thought I was dying. Not good times. I was a hairsbreadth away from losing consciousness, and I thought that if I did, I was a goner. I was screaming out prayers. I was scared as heck. My whole body was completely numb.

Now I’m inside the ambulance, on a stretcher, with an oxygen mask on (!). I’m still watching runners pass by, only now it’s out of the two small windows of the back of an ambulance. I still can’t feel my body. My mind is racing, but I’m slowly starting to realize that I’m not going to die, which was nice. I can hear the paramedic on his walkie-talkie describing me as “aggressive,” mostly because I arrived at the ambulance kicking and screaming, demanding that they “hook me up to something!” Now I’m more subdued, but still delirious. I can remember saying a few things, one being, “I’m either going to die, or this is going to be the best story ever.” Then, I noticed a “No Smoking” sign inside of the ambulance, and told the paramedic that I was “going to try not to light up,” at which point he laughed, and then told me to stop talking. Then I contemplated the ridiculousness of a “No Smoking” sign inside of an ambulance until I slowly started to feel my extremities again.

I felt like I was inside the ambulance for hours (it was actually about an hour and a half). Two paramedics hovered over me - talking to each other about their plans for the evening while occasionally taking my pulse and blood pressure - while I stared into oblivion. They also asked me repeatedly if I wanted to go to the hospital, to which I nodded no. They suggested I should definitely eat something as soon as possible, which struck me as odd, since we were parked about twenty yards from the finish line, where there were about 25 free banana stands. I’m wondering why one of them can’t get out and walk two minutes to get me a freakin’ banana, but I don’t have the strength to actually say it.


We need 20 CCs of water and two bananas! Stat!
(Dramatization)

Heat exhaustion and dehydration were the reasons given for what happened to me. Actually, according to the paramedics, people were dropping like flies at this year’s race, which made me feel a little better. But not really. It took me about twenty minutes to summon the strength to stand up. I managed to remember my uncle’s cell phone number (which was good, since he was the only one who would have had it on him), but I couldn’t even dial – the paramedic had to do it. Hi, is this, ummm…Uncle Dave? Yeah, this is the paramedics. We have your nephew. Over.

So my uncle came and picked me up. The rest of my family, after a two-hour long search party for me that only ended with the false hope that I was already back at my uncle’s, was still walking back to the house as we passed them in the car. Beep! Beep! Mike’s alive! So don’t worry - the barbeque is still on!

Of course, everyone was very concerned, especially my wife, who was among the handful of people that actually thought to eventually contact the first aid booth (to no avail) when they couldn’t find me. Actually, among the reasons given for my whereabouts before approaching the first-aid booth were: a) I went to a bar, and they were gonna kill me! (there are no bars in Spring Lake, by the way), b) I got tired of waiting for everyone and went back to the house (apparently, I’m Carl Lewis), and c) I had to take a humongous dump (the most feasible explanation, courtesy of my cousin John).


You can sense the concern as the search for Mike vehemently begins
(cousin Cara, sister Jill, cousin Kate)

So, not only did I not beat my time from last year, but I hung a big “DNF” atop my 2007 Spring Lake 5 overall performance. I came to find out later that, among the participants that officially beat me this year were a) everybody, b) my lovely wife, who runs as often as the Spring Lake Five rolls around, c) Larry the Lighthouse and Wendy the Windmill, a “couple” that ran inside of a giant lighthouse and windmill costume, respectively, d) my mom, who was once, during a 5-K race, handily beaten by a guy on crutches, e) several pregnant women, and f) the wheezing old man that I hold personally responsible for this entire turn of events. Geez, that guy really did almost kill me.

Honestly, as I’m writing this, I still haven’t fully recovered. I have no idea what happened out there, but I’m very thankful that I’m still alive. Apparently, as it turns out, I am not the one to give advice on how to run the Spring Lake 5, unless, of course, you are suicidal, in which case, I would reiterate my original point that breakfast is for losers.

And speaking of breakfast, my wife later informed me that after he finished the race, Larry the Lighthouse was eating a banana through the mouth hole of his giant lighthouse.

My banana.


Un. Freakin'. Believable.

RFK, Nats blown away, what else do I have to say?

Our baseball trip this year did not stop in Philadelphia. Since we were staying local, my wife and I decided to kill two birds with one stone and head down to Washington, DC, and catch a Nationals game as well. I had never spent significant time in our nation’s capital, and subconsciously associated the city with only two things: a) the President, and b) murder. Since I don’t delve into politics here, I will not make a joke wondering whether or not those two things are mutually exclusive.

Nevertheless, because of the murder part, we were trying to be careful about where we were going to stay. My original intent, quite foolishly, was to stay as close to RFK Stadium as possible, since, during our four-day stay in DC, we would be going to one game there. I know, it makes no sense, and I’m glad somebody alerted me to that beforehand, because when we did go to RFK, the surrounding area looked considerably less presidential than one would think. We ended up staying in the Dupont Circle section of the city, which I came to learn is the San Francisco of DC, if you know what I mean. And that was fine with me. Also, we stayed at the Hilton Hotel, a.k.a. “the Hinckley Hilton,” which is where Ronald Reagan was shot. This, of course, seemed to reaffirm my original impression of DC, since it included both presidents and murder, even if the murder was only “attempted.”

We had three days to spend in the area before the Nats game, and like any two upstanding American citizens, we decided it would be great to see the sights. To my surprise, one of those sights was going to be a smorgasbord of cherry blossom trees that only bloom once a year, and then are destroyed by an army of bulldozers when they stop being pretty. It was always my lifelong dream to walk amongst the cherry trees, so this trip was going to be better than I thought! Unfortunately, Lucky for me, people came from far and wide to see the cherry blossom trees, and as anyone who has spent significant time in a touristy area knows, people definitely know how to walk, act, and how to control their children in such an environment. Yep…definitely. Also, my likeness is now in approximately 2,500 pictures currently being developed in Asia, because I had the audacity to walk while other people were trying to capture a moment in picture form instead of experiencing it in real life. But I digress. Honestly, the cherry blossom trees were really beautiful, and actually ended up being the best attraction of the week. Plus, I would later learn that inanimate cherry trees can actually hit better than the Nationals, but I’ll get to that later.

I should also mention that the reason we chose this week in particular for this trip is because my wife works in a school as a Speech Pathologist, so her Easter break is the week we go away each year. Probably because I associate vacations with summertime, I always think in the back of my mind that we are the only two people on earth that are on vacation that week. Well, Washington, DC, was a wake-up call, because every single person in the universe who had the week off decided to go to DC - and bring 12 kids with them - which was just fantastic.

We tried to see the sights. Honestly, we did. But everywhere we went was crawling with hoards and hoards of confused people, yelling, screaming, crying, pushing, shoving, eating, walking aimlessly in the middle of traffic…absolute mayhem. Our first stop was the Museum of Natural History. Trying to walk through that place was like trying to get on the subway during rush hour. I learned absolutely nothing. In fact, I think I walked out of there dumber, since the only verbal correspondence I had to relate to what I was seeing were passing conversations about how Billy just pooped himself, and needs to be changed. It was like Disney World in there, but instead of waiting in line to get on the Tea Cups, you waited in line to read a paragraph about the origins of the wooly mammoth, but you couldn’t even do that, because some kid sneezed all over it. And don’t get me wrong – I love kids. I really do. I just don’t like a lot of kids, in any situation, but especially when I’m trying to learn about dinosaurs.


A stegosaurous? I have no idea...

As if that wasn’t bad enough, the National Air & Space Museum was like Woodstock for 7-year-olds. We pretty much walked through the museum in a circle, and then walked right out. And that took about three hours. To boot, all of the cool interactive stuff was crawling with kids, which meant that even if I waited in line to try it out, I would look like a complete moron doing it, a 6’3” tall idiot in a “gravity-sphere” amidst a sea of fourth-graders. Whatever.

The Lincoln Memorial was very emotional, especially the part where a group of kids bounced a rubber ball off the foot of Abraham Lincoln’s perch. I think I shed a tear on that one. And watching kids race through the hallowed grounds of Arlington National Cemetery certainly added to the somber, reflective mood associated with being present in such confines. Seriously though…love those kids.

But enough about the sites. The fact of the matter is that it was great to finally see all of the stuff I had only heard about, no matter the circumstances. DC also has some great restaurants, and their Metro system is second-to-none. Now, you may be saying to yourself, “Wait, this is supposed to be a sports column. Why are you talking about subway systems and dinosaurs?” Well, truth be told, when it comes to the Washington Nationals, there’s just not much to say.

This was our first trip to RFK Stadium, and also our last, since the stadium will be no longer be used for baseball next year, and the Nats will move to the their new home, “Hillary Rodham Clinton Field,” or whatever they decide to call it. The draw of the Nationals among the locals can best be summed up by two factors: a) we were among the 117 fans who showed up for the game, b) they were selling Robinson Cano jerseys outside of the stadium.


The fans pack it in to watch the Nationals practice not hitting...

It was the Nationals versus the Diamondbacks, a potential NLCS preview. For 2023. If the Nationals make it that far. Two of my friends from college met us there – bumping up the attendance 12% - and one of them, my friend Mike, hooked us up with tickets. They were really good seats, which was cool. Bad news? It was freezing. I mean, literally, it was freezing. Like, 25 degrees, maybe. I don’t know how the players Diamondbacks played in such conditions.

Consider this when it comes to the Washington Nationals: The team finished in last place in the NL East in 2006, a full 26 games out of first. Since then, they lost Alfonso Soriano, Jose Vidro, Russ Ortiz, and Hall of Fame manager Frank Robinson, receiving an ol’ “atta boy!” in return. They have a first-year manager in Manny Acta, and their best offensive player – Ryan Zimmerman – is only in his second year in the big leagues (and has zero protection in that lineup). Their best player, arguably, is their closer, Chad Cordero, which in nice, since he should get about three save opportunities this season.

I was content however, because I was going to see two of my fantasy players in this game: Zimmerman, and Diamondbacks’ rookie shortstop Stephen Drew. Drew did not play because of the flu, and Zimmerman went 0-for-4 with two strikeouts, one coming with the bases loaded during the Nationals’ only recognizable attempt at a rally. The Nationals lost to the D’Backs 7-1, and were shut down by a guy named Micah Owings. The highlight of the game came in the fifth inning, when four giant-headed presidential mascots raced to home plate, with Teddy Roosevelt earning the victory. We even met him afterwards in the stands. He was nice.


Zimmerman gets the "strikeout" sign from the dugout

I would end this column with a point, if I had one. Instead, I’ll just reiterate that my wife and I had a great time in DC, despite the mayhem, and that the Washington Nationals have the opportunity to be really, really bad this year. Like, historically bad, which is appropriate, since they play in DC. Apparently, there’s a lot of history there.


Told you he was nice