A few personal (and non-political, believe me I’ve got plenty of those) thoughts and updates on life over the last few weeks.  We’re healthy and stable so far, thank goodness, but there’s always something interesting in the mundane.

• I’ve been harboring a quiet little secret that even my family has yet to notice.  The jeans that I’ve worn nearly every day for six weeks have developed an enormous tear that’s fraying right in the upper thigh / crotch area.  It’s providing a nice cooling breeze as the weather turns warmer.

• Normally I’d throw them out, but there’s something about this tear that is making me happy.  Not only is the timing great (let’s be honest, you’re probably not even wearing pants as you’re reading this), but the location of is nearly perfect – it’s hidden by my legs when standing and just enough on the backside of my pants when seated.  

• What can I say, I just like knowing it’s there when you don’t.  It’s freeing, in a way.   It’s like my own private cul-de-sack (misspelling intended), and I’m not changing until I’m literally exposing myself.

• Speaking of clothing, my daughter has decided to enlist me as a contestant on a daily game show she’s calling “Guess The Athleta”.  Each evening, she asks me to look at my wife’s attire and determine how many pieces of Athleta brand apparel she’s wearing at any given moment.  

• Since our quarantine time together has begun, the correct answer has yet to be “zero”.

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On a blustery summer day, as I stood somewhere between the bouncy house and the block party’s food table, a group of three young girls sheepishly approached me… but were clearly more focused on my dog Chauncey.  They stood a few careful feet away, staring only slightly above eye-level at my dog, who obediently if impatiently stood by my side. After a brief conference, one emboldened girl stepped forward, a cautious advance to establish her leadership credentials.  She gazed at Chauncey, her eyes a bit widened, before looking up at me.

 “Excuse me sir,” she queried.  “Can we pet your pony?”

 ——-

Chauncey was big. 

He was officially a Goldendoodle by breed, a hypoallergenic cross between a Golden Retriever and a Standard Poodle that had quickly become cliched by its status as a suburban designer dog breed.  Chauncey was a bit different, bred from a Standard Poodle mother and a Goldendoodle dad, which seemed to elongate his legs. The breeder online listed him as “slightly above average” in size, which would only be true if the average height of a Goldendoodle was similar to a supermodel.  Before long, we began to realize that our kitchen table would peak well below our dog’s eye-line, leaving most of our meals extremely vulnerable to direct attack.

No matter.  Chauncey became an instant member of the family.  My kids, initially terrified of the excitable and nippy pup that we brought home one evening, soon learned to love the gentle giant that grew in its place.  My daughter in particular became inseparable from her new canine companion. She wrote elementary school fables about his evening adventures working the overnight shift at Taco Bell, and painted regal portraits of his face that admired his presence and stature.

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I recently attended a workshop that focused partly on the concept of gratitude.  If the sound of that already makes you want to vomit, I hear you. When I saw the item on the agenda, I groaned so loud that I had to apologize to the person sitting next to me.  

But something got to me that day, and now I’m here, typing an essay with “Gratitude” in the heading.  Because I’m either ignorant or possibly a narcissistic jerk, I haven’t properly thanked the people who have stepped up for me over the years.

Of course, my wife, kids and parents are at the top of that list.  But they know how I feel (I hope), and no one wants to read about how much I appreciate the fact that my wife doesn’t kill me when I forget to take the garbage out.  Which happens weekly, by the way, including this morning.

So, I decided that from time to time, I’d write some stories of thanks, post them here, and (when possible) reach out to the subjects to make sure they see it. Thanks for indulging me (see, this gratitude thing is working out already!).

—

“Follow me to see your babies.”

The nurse stood in the doorway of the operating room, pointing towards the exit.  I looked to my wife, sweaty and exhausted after just delivering twins. She gave me a nod of approval, so I kissed her on the forehead, told her I loved her and followed the nurse out the door. Continue reading

Every now and then, I get asked to write a piece to appear somewhere other than this homegrown and provincial blog of mine.  So I hope you don’t mind if I let you all know when I do have something published elsewhere.

Like right now!

The fine folks at Fatherly, the leading digital media brand for dads, have published a couple of my pieces now, including this new one.  It’s about how excited I was to pass on my passion for sports (especially my beloved New York Yankees) to my eager and fawning children.  Needless to say, things didn’t work out quite as I had planned.  And maybe that’s for the best.

Click here to read the story.  Hope you enjoy it!  I love your feedback, so feel free to write me at michael@toolazytowriteabook.com for your thoughts.

New essay to be published here soon!

Here’s a news flash for you:  if the response to my last post is any indication, it turns out that Jews love to argue about food (among other things).

When I set out to write My Definitive And Absolutely Correct Ranking Of 40 Jewish Foods, I was really just working out my own inner feelings about my “native” cuisine.  Instead, and through no fault of my own (or entirely my fault, depending on your stance on sour fish), I unleashed a Hebrew hurricane.

The story spread quickly beyond my small fan base of family members and fake Twitter followers from Russia to a much larger community of whitefish lovers and kasha defenders.  True, most people seemed to find my descriptions both humorous and nostalgic, but many took great umbrage with the rankings themselves.  The most common criticisms:

• I ranked chopped liver way too high
• I ranked chopped liver way too low
• I ranked gefilte fish way too high
• I ranked gefilte fish way too low

So now I’m confused.

Others were too.  Steve Benowitz wrote:

Undercooked chicken?  Who ever heard of a Jewish mother (or, g-d forbid, your bubbe) undercooking anything?  They all learned to cook practicing on brisket, which is always overcooked.

Many wrote in about their own versions of specific recipes (sorry, none of them will make me eat pickled herring).  Some added interesting ingredients, like Barbara Lee Silverman’s secret potato pancake addition:

As for the latke, pre-Cuisinart, a little blood from the four-sided grater never killed anyone!

In related news, I’ve cancelled my Passover plans at Barbara’s house.

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“I hate you, Dad.”

I’ve heard this line more than a few times over the last few years, typically directed at me by my teenage son and most often followed by a dramatic exiting of the room and a house-rocking door slam.

But this time, just before the departure/door amplification crescendo, my son turned around to add an impromptu verbal coda:

“Oh, and by the way, when I apologize tomorrow and tell you that I love you, I want you to know that I’m lying.”

In a way, I kind of admired him for that line.  In the inevitable power-grab of parent/child relationships, that statement effectively put our status into a Matrix-like vortex, with its “what is real and what is an illusion?” framework keeping things in doubt at all times.  Clever boy, that one.

(Side note:  I know that even the possibility of discussing the complications of one’s parenting journey is hair-raising, and that some of you may be shocked that I’d express any concerns at all.  Rest assured that I love my son, I’d do anything for him, etc etc. But if any of you think of fatherhood as a non-stop blissfest that provides nothing but constant joy and happiness while love bunnies float magically in the air sprinkling candy dust on your eternally happy children…well, good for you.  Call me the first time your teenager tells you to fuck off.)

I’d like to say that every one of our disagreements/arguments/apocalyptic meltdowns are my son’s fault.  

I’d like to say that, so I will. They’re all his fault. Glad that’s settled.

But really, I know there are more complicated factors at play.  I may not always show the most self-control in those moments (I can actually visualize my wife spitting up her protein shake as she reads this).  My choices to elevate a conflict to “make a point” are well known in my domicile. My wife has read every parenting book ever published in the US (and Canada), and has heeded advice from every single one of them.  But the chapters on “Choose Your Battles” and “Be The Adult In The Relationship” seemed to slip through my limited cognitive abilities.

So yeah, some of this may be on me too.

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