Deliberately Unintentional

Our National Christmas Tree Lighting Calamity

2011-12-01T20:36:00.026-05:00

We won the lottery this year - the lottery for tickets to attend the 2011 National Christmas Tree Lighting Ceremony in D.C. Participating in the nationally televised celebration led by President Obama and his family was supposed to be a memorable experience my family would cherish for years to come. It was memorable alright, but for all the wrong reasons.

After dealing with the dual problems of a full parking garage and empty Metro cards, my wife and I collapsed into our seats for the ride into the city. However, excited by their first ride on the subway, my boys were crawling around the seats like ants on candy crumbs.

It was only a short walk from the Farragut West stop to the Ellipse, the oval-shaped park just south of the White House, and the lengthy security lines we'd heard about weren't bad at all - but maybe that was because we arrived a full 90 minutes early. We passed through the metal detectors with nary a beep and found a dry spot on the lawn near some carolers.

Our tickets were standing room only, which meant we were far enough away from the action that we couldn't read the closed captioning on the "big" screens. Closed captioning would've been nice because I swear I've heard louder speakers in college dormitories. But I'm getting ahead of myself; we nearly left before the show even started.

The standing room within the snow fencing wasn't too bad, but my boys don't react well to being penned in. As the flag atop the White House fluttered in the distance, my boys dodged adult legs like traffic pylons and spun themselves dizzy in the warm sunshine. The boys' behavior deteriorated quickly, and no amount of threats on behalf of Santa Claus slowed them down. With the Washington Monument and the cops' mobile observation tower looming above us, my exasperated wife suggested we leave. Giving up and packing it in is normally my overreaction to unbearable public fiascoes, so I was quite pleased to play the calm and reasonable parent as I backed her off the ledge. (I seem to remember cheerleaders with pom-poms showing up out of nowhere and chanting my name.)

As dusk set in, the marble monument glowed orange and pink against the fading, cloudless blue sky. A circling helicopter nearly drowned out the seasonal songs of the carolers, but my boys were too busy fighting over iPhone games to notice. Although I couldn't hear the music and could barely see the screens, I assume the band was good. But the thing that caught the standing crowd's attention was the roar of the police motorcycles leading the Presidential motorcade of black SUVs. Smartphones and cameras were thrust into the air in unison with the hope of capturing an image of Mr. Obama's arrival.

As the gathered guests awaited the beginning of the program, my boys wrestled on the ground. I must say they created a nice perimeter for us, as no one wanted to stand too near. My two young heathens threw handfuls of grass at each other during the national prayer. As everyone reverently bowed their heads, my kids were giggling and rough-housing at their feet.

My wife and I boosted the boys onto our shoulders for a better view of the distant entertainment. Honestly, unless you were seven-foot tall with super vision you couldn't see much from where we stood. However, when the President was introduced the crowd showed respect and grew quiet enough for everyone to hear his address. The silenced crowd permitted a hushed chuckle when my four-year-old repeatedly screamed out, "I love you Obama! I love you!"

After the President and his family threw the switch on the big tree's lights, we threw out any plans of staying for Kermit the Frog or will.I.am's appearances and made an early exit. As we headed toward Potbelly for some sandwiches and a public restroom, my boys asked every cop about their gun. Our first National Christmas Tree lighting ceremony will be remembered forever, but maybe not for the reasons we had first hoped.

Find Your Christmas Tree at Buttonwood Farm

2011-11-27T20:43:00.015-05:00

Buttonwood Farm is the best cut your own Christmas tree farm in Northern Virginia.

It seems like only yesterday we were carving jack-o-lanterns and doling out cavities to costumed children, but twinkling lights and glittering snowflake ornaments have replaced glowing skulls and illuminated ghosts. With the Thanksgiving leftovers eaten or shared with the birds and squirrels, my family has moved onto Christmas preparations. Today we retired the Indian corn, twisted gourds, and other fall decor, and erected a six-foot Norway spruce in our living room.

Yes, a spruce - not our normal choice of a Scotch pine. Unfortunately, our preferred Christmas tree farm is being swallowed up by urban sprawl, so we headed a few miles further west to find a truly rural experience. A quick search on a local pick your own Christmas tree Web site revealed numerous alternatives for us in Northern Virginia. While my wife was drawn to the impressive environmental record of Buttonwood Farm, I was more enticed by the expansive view of the Blue Ridge Mountains from the Christmas tree field. Also, Buttonwood's location just north and west of Middleburg is easily reached from the D.C. suburbs along Route 50, which is good for families like mine with young children in tow.

Shortly after escaping the frustrating blockade of traffic lights in eastern Loudoun County, Route 50 becomes a two-lane highway. It can be very busy at times, but we were fortunate to ride the rolling hills soaked in Civil War history west without being rushed.

Unlike many of the agri-entertainment farms in Northern Virginia, Buttonwood Farm is unassuming and quaint. If you're looking for a holiday carnival atmosphere, keep looking because you won't find it at Buttonwood. Instead of bearded teenagers in orange parking vests, we were greeted by four curious dogs. Blocking the lane were two old Labs, a pregnant hound, and an exuberant Setter-mix puppy. I brought the man-van to a complete stop to allow the fearless foursome time to investigate the noisy intrusion to their peaceful home on the hill.

Since our arrival coincided with the farm's opening, we were the only family there. The farm's owners, Tad and Cathy Zimmerman, waved warmly as I parked the man-van near their wooded shelter. The pack of friendly dogs jumped and licked at my boys as we crossed the lane. Having dragged Christmas trees across vast muddy parking lots in the past, I appreciated the opportunity to park close.

A chimney pumped out puffs of sweet white smoke from a wood stove made from an old black barrel. Atop the barrel was a bubbling pot of freshly mulled apple cider. Two picnic tables were draped with traditional white and red checked tablecloths. Cathy told us the Norway spruces were ready to harvest, so I grabbed a measuring pole and a super sharp bow saw, and my family made its way to the stand of conifers across the field.

A half-dozen vultures soared above our heads as we and the dogs tramped across the field with the rising Blue Ridge looming in the distance. Cathy had told me that they were able to stop a neighbor from allowing a developer to build over 125 houses on the hill across the valley. Instead, the property was placed in an easement and only one log cabin was built. She bragged that there was only one paved road between her farm and the mountain, which impressed me.

Unlike our past experiences searching for Christmas trees, we really only had one species from which to choose, but the trees were all healthy and beautiful. After a short survey, the boys quickly settled on one for me to cut down. Due to the unseasonably warm high-60s temps, I didn't bother dragging a blanket out to kneel upon. I accepted the wet knees, lifted some branches, and brought the spruce down in a few minutes. Buttonwood's sharp saw blade made quick work of the often stubborn trunk.

The distance to the shelter and processing area was short. My boys were eating chocolate bells, gingersnap cookies, and candy canes by the stove before Tad had even shaken our tree. Once the excess needles and grass had been vibrated away, he clamped the trunk and the engine pulled our tree through the baler. I placed the tree against the fence and joined my family for snacks, cider, and a heart-warming conversation with Cathy.

Our visit felt more like spending time with family than a commercial venture to buy a tree. It was refreshing. Sensing my boys were growing restless with my deliberate knot tying as I carefully tied the tree to roof of the van, Tad informed me their pond was stocked with bass, channel catfish, bluegill, and large Koi. Unfortunately, it was lunchtime and we had to go. But I would have loved to spend a few more hours lounging on the farm with the Zimmerman's and their dogs.

If you live in Northern Virginia and you want to cut your own Christmas tree in a rural, family-friendly setting, Buttonwood Farm is an excellent choice. Not to mention the fantastic lunch awaiting you afterward in Middleburg at Fox's Den Tavern.

Buttonwood Farm is open weekends 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. between Thanksgiving and Christmas and weekdays by appointment.

Beach Lovers Embrace Bike Sharing

2011-05-23T21:35:00.007-04:00

If you follow this space, you know I'm a big fan of bike sharing programs. An old friend just emailed me from South Beach, Florida, where he stumbled across the City of Miami Beach's Decobikes. I'm sure he won't mind if I share his enthusiasm for their rental bikes.

"We are in South Beach, and they have the bike rentals like B-Cycle in Denver that you wrote about. This is freakin' awesome! We just cruise around, hit the beach, stop and get some beers at a sidewalk cafe, and do it all over again. They have a pretty sweet app for my phone, too."

That might be the most convincing testimonial for trying a bikeshare program that I've ever read. Thanks for sharing, Dirt-E Steve!

Decobike has an informative site. Check out the video. (The model is not a fat white guy in a floral print and flip-flops.)

La Tasca Does Vegetarian Tapas Right

2011-03-13T20:49:00.014-04:00

The American Dietetic Association is celebrating National Nutrition Month in March. The theme for 2011 is Eating Right With Color.

I recently published some suggestions to chefs on ways to provide more interesting vegetarian options on their menus. Although I don't claim to be a vegetarian, I am eating far less meat as part of a new low-cholesterol diet. My wife went vegetarian over a decade ago, and meals out are a lot more satisfying for both of us when she's able to eat more than just pasta, salad, and side dishes.

On Saturday night my wife and I hit the the streets of Arlington, Va., in search of a good meal. A Moroccan joint looked promising, but the lighting was too bright. The Thai place was empty and we were already familiar with the Indian restaurant. Then we stumbled across La Tasca, a local franchise that serves a sprawling menu of Spanish tapas (small plates of food to share). There are more options for meat eaters than vegetarians, but the menu does include a section dedicated to vegetarian dishes, and it didn't disappoint.

Our first experience with La Tasca in Alexandria, Va., was just average. The food was tasty, but sharing food between a vegetarian and a meat eater didn't work. In contrast, our affair in Arlington was fun and flavorful. We started with rustic bread and three olive oils for dipping. Then came the battered and fried eggplant slices and the delectable Cabrales cheese sauce.

We hadn't finished our appetizers when the multiple plates of tapas arrived. Everyone has had onion rings, but our plate of onion and red and green pepper rocked. The breading was light, flaky, and oh, so tasty.

If you like homefries, La Tasca's version is complemented by both a mild hot sauce and a garlic aioli. Crispy taters, spicy, creamy dips - how can you go wrong?

The wild mushrooms were fantastic. I've really grown to become a fanatic of funky fungi. The shrooms were nice and firm and the olive oil didn't drown out the earthy flavors.

I wasn't blown away by the paella, but my date loved it. Both of us were impressed by the spinach and pine nut croquettes. The balls were crispy on the outside and creamy and wonderful on the inside. Imagine a savory piece of Lindt chocolate. If you were driving, you'd have to pull over to enjoy the taste rush.

Our meal climaxed with a plate of Canelones de Berenjenas, one of the best vegetarian creations I've ever sampled. The La Tasca menu description says, "Eggplant rolls stuffed with herb-roasted roma tomatoes, grilled, sweet piquillo peppers, and a mild goat cheese." That just doesn't capture the volume of saliva generated by the scent and flavor of these magical rolls. Presented on the plate, they looked like they needed a drizzle of some sauce, but after a bite it was obvious that the flavors had their own legs. (Seriously one of the best things I've ever eaten.) We spent 15 minutes trying to figure out how La Tasca softened the eggplant to make it roll without being soggy, and still couldn't solve the mystery of this masterpiece menu item. Eggplants are pretty easy and fun to grow, so we'll be trying this ourselves this summer.

So if you're in the D.C. or Baltimore area, look for La Tasca for an awesome menu of Spanish tapas. Their selection of sangria is on full display in big vats and wine lovers will not be disappointed by the depth of the list. For me, the bottle of Alhambra Negro was the perfect beer to keep my taste buds moist.

Enjoy.
I'd love to hear your comments and suggestions on eating vegetarian.

Super Glue Saves the Universe

2011-03-13T09:33:00.008-04:00

Thanks to a bottle of Loctite Super Glue Ultra Gel by Henkel, a handful of broken Marvel heroes and villains will live to fight another day.

Over the past year, Venom and Red Skull lost their heads, Gambit was severed at the waist, Doctor Doom lost an arm, and the Spider-Man bubble wand snapped at his wrist. Since their repair, the action figures have withstood ferocious fighting and brutal battles at the hands of my young sons. The glue is holding up well.

It's been a long time since I purchased Super Glue. I remember the liquid adhesive running all over the place, bonding things together for eternity. Those days are over. The Loctite gel is more viscous, and the side-squeeze bottle allowed me to apply just the right amount of glue. It was nice to finish a repair project with my digits free and loose instead of stuck together like mutant penguin flippers.

March is National Nutrition Month

2011-03-06T09:15:00.019-05:00

In recognition of National Nutrition Month, I’d like to share some quick thoughts on eating healthy, low-fat meals, and staying fit. My wife, Angie, recently compiled this information for a family member, and I thought it was worth sharing. She’s been a vegetarian for over a decade, and, lately, I find myself eating less and less meat. Although I feel better when I don’t eat meat, I still love a juicy burger, a tender chicken breast, or a medium-rare steak. So without sounding preachy, here are some dietary and lifestyle choices that are working for us.

Size Matters

Pay attention to portion sizes. What does an average portion looks like? See what you’re eating by clicking here. Click on the food and it will show you a visual for one serving size. Cheese is the size of a die? NOOOOOOO! (It’s true.) When eating out, try splitting an entré with someone. Most restaurants serve way more food than you need.

Count Calories

Paying attention to portion sizes and your daily calorie intake becomes second nature once you start. If you decide to go big at breakfast, be sure to eat a light lunch and a reasonable dinner. You can’t go big at every meal. To see what it really takes to burn off calories, hop on a treadmill or a stationary bike. Even if you hate exercising in a gym, the experience will make you think twice about snacking on chips, candy, and soda.

Your body can only burn so many calories. Be aware of what you ingest. Here is a free calorie counter. Not only does this site track total calories, but the analysis section tells you your stats for the day: fat, carbs, Vitamin A, iron, etc. This site is pretty helpful.

What to Eat?

Avoid processed foods. If it’s easy, it’s probably not healthy. Don’t eat ingredients you can’t pronounce.

Spice it Up

Eat more grains, more veggies, and less cheese. Make average meals great by incorporating herbs and spices. We’ve been using lots of ginger and light coconut milk. When a recipe calls for water, we use homemade vegetable broth, which we make by boiling down vegetable scraps. (Avoid including asparagus stems, broccoli, and potato peels in your stock. Everything else is fair game – including apples and pears!)

Healthier Ingredients

When cooking, try including skim milk, low-fat sour cream, and low fat cheese. Try Cabot cheese. Their low-fat cheddar tastes almost as rich as the real thing.

Start with Soup

A great place to start is soup. Choose broth or tomato-based soups instead of cream. A big pot of soup can be portioned out and eaten all week long. Find some good soup recipes. Trust me; there are more soups out there than just chicken noodle, tomato, and clam chowder. Once again, try using your own stock. Spice it up with veggie tortilla soup. Try some new flavors and make a pot of curried butternut squash soup. If veggie chili sounds like bean soup to you, add ground turkey instead of beef.

Where’s the Beef?

A veggie stir-fry can be very filling. Who needs meat when the wok is overflowing with cauliflower, broccoli, potatoes, green beans, peas, onions, mushrooms, peppers, corn, zucchini, summer squash, and carrots? Add more flavor by using dried spices, or try a jar of stir-fry sauce. (Avoid sauces with high-fructose corn syrup) Try brown rice instead of white.

Ethnic Foods

After living on the East Coast for more than a decade, Angie and I have been exposed to foods from every corner of the globe. Grow your menu by expanding your menu beyond meat, potatoes, and casseroles. If you love Italian food, choose pasta primavera instead of a cream sauce. You can’t go wrong with veggies, olive oil, and a little Parmesan sprinkled on top. Try wheat pasta.

Most Indian and Thai dishes are healthy, and you can’t beat the aromas and flavors.

I picked up an amazing recipe for a Latin bean dish from a former coworker in Queens. It tastes great in a tortilla or in a taco salad. Contact me if you’re interested. It’s not just beans and rice. Also, cut out the cheese and sour cream from time to time and add guacamole instead. My guacamole recipe includes avocados, minced onions, garlic, paprika, cumin, diced tomatoes, cilantro, salt, red pepper flakes, and apple cider vinegar.

We Eat a Lot of Pizza (Pita Pizzas)

Pita Pizzas taste better than most chain pizzas. Simply spread pizza sauce on a whole wheat pita, add toppings, cheese, a drizzle of olive oil, and bake at 410 F for about 15 minutes. We like green/red peppers, onions, garlic, mushrooms, feta cheese, mozzarella, spinach, and grape tomatoes.

What's in Our Cupboards and Fridge?

Low-fat tortilla chips and salsa instead of chips and dip
Veggies and hummus dip
Happy Cow cheese - spread on crackers, it melts in your mouth.
Fruits such as apples, pears, pineapple, tangerines, and bananas
Cereal
Pretzels
Homemade bread
Pitas and tortillas
Breakfast bars or granola (make sure they are under 150 calories each)
Pistachios and almonds
Izze sparkling juice instead of soda

Meat is OK! Choose Wisely

When buying meat, choose organic, antibiotic-free beef and free-range chicken. It may cost slightly more, but you can taste the difference.

Change the Culture

If your family and coworkers enjoy celebrating everything with cakes and pies, insist yogurt or fruit is provided. You’ll be surprised by how many people forgo the sweets for the healthier options.

Simple Ways to Stay Fit

Skip the elevator and take the stairs.
Park far away and walk.
Take a walk at lunch.

A Note for Chefs

Try offering a vegetarian option other than steamed vegetables over rice or pasta. Salads and raw vegetables just don’t cut it anymore. As a cooking enthusiast, I find making quality vegetarian dishes challenging and fulfilling. There are literally thousands of recipes out there for amazing vegetarian dishes. Why alienate part of your customer base? Experiment with some new menu options and you’ll probably grow your clientele. Vegetarians are very vocal, and word spreads quickly about restaurants that cater to their dietary choices.

Educate Yourself

More information about National Nutrition Month and all things related to food and nutrition can be found on the American Dietetic Association's website.

A Taste of the Mediterranean in West Virginia

2011-02-27T21:05:00.008-05:00

We didn't know what we'd find on a recent day trip to historic Charles town, WV, but we definitely didn't expect to discover delicious Mediterranean cuisine.

Unassuming and easy to miss, The Mediterranean Cafe offers one of the more unique menus you'll ever see. The cozy restaurant on Washington Street features food from countries around the region including Greece, Italy, Spain, France, Lebanon, and Morocco. For fans of fresh tomato salads swimming in olive oil, feta cheese, and pine nuts, this is the place for you.

The list of appetizers and salads was deep and varied. But I may have skipped them had I known how generous the complimentary plate of feta, hummus, pita, and salads would be.

The service was warm and inviting. Would you expect any less from the owner? He certainly made us feel welcome, and he even told us where he purchases their pita bread. Hint: not in West Virginia.

I chose a simple vegetable kabob for my entree. Perfectly grilled tomatoes, red onions, green peppers, and zucchini were wrapped in a massive pita. The wrap was served with a side of mast o khiar, which is yogurt sauce flavored with mint. Mint isn't my favorite herb, but the sauce was a nice break from dill and cucumber based tzatziki.

I'm not sure what type of tea they brewed, but my iced-tea definitely wasn't Lipton. It was more aromatic than black tea. It was yet another nice surprise.

The Case of the Murdered Muppet

2011-02-16T12:24:00.001-05:00

Elmo's voice grates on my ears like nails on a chalkboard, but I never wanted to see the mangy Muppet melted and mutilated.
Apparently Sesame Street has seen sunnier days.

Mmmmmm.....Crow

2011-01-26T22:37:00.007-05:00

Months before Christmas, my wife had been talking about buying a bread maker. I was totally against the idea. Our shelves and cupboards are already littered with unused novelty appliances.

There's the pasta maker that has never seen a ball of dough. We have Pampered Chef gadgets tucked away in all corners of the kitchen. On most days our counter top is cluttered with a Foreman Grill, a toaster, a coffee machine, a bowl or two of tangerines and bananas, and a few glass jars full of pasta, flour, and sugar. Oh, and a bowl of bottle caps. So adding a gigantic bread maker seemed like a bad idea to me. I prefer a minimalist kitchen. Give me a sharp blade, a cutting board, a pot and a pan, and I'll cook you a meal you'll remember.

We received the bread maker as a hand-me-down. It had been used once. Just once. To me, that meant the thing would be a waste of time and space. But it was free, so whatever, I decided to give it a chance. If it had to be left on the curb, no hard feelings.

One Friday night Ang decided to bake a loaf. The accompanying booklet is full of recipes for all types of bread. But anyone who has worked in a kitchen before is skeptical of these types of recipes. True recipes don't need a fancy novelty oven to turn out right. Mix the ingredients, toss them in a pan, load the oven, and wait. So, obviously, I wasn't overly optimistic about the whole process. With more than a dash of indignance I even proposed to challenge her loaf with one baked the old-fashioned way. I just didn't think the thing would work.

She mixed up her ingredients and dumped then in the Hitachi. Immediately the machine started banging and bumping as it kneaded the dough. We were trying to watch a film, so I was both amused and irritated. I thought the annoying sound was the sound of future failure and some sort of affirmation of my distrust of the bread maker.

About halfway through the film, I noticed the machine had long gone silent, and my nose picked up an amazing aroma emanating from the kitchen. Our house smelled like a freaking bakery. OK, sure, it smelled like bread, but surely the loaf would be malformed and inedible, right?

Ang pulled the vertical bread pan out of the Hitachi by its handle and gave it a little tap. Out of the non-stick pan popped a perfectly formed, steaming loaf of white bread. The fresh aroma, the white steam, the even layer of crispy crust, the spongy goodness inside - simply delectable. I mean the bread was so damned good, I could've given the Hitachi a hug. Instead, I praised my wife. Although, I have to admit, my slice had a distinct flavor of crow.

Since that breakthrough evening Ang has baked a wheat loaf that toasted beautifully and she made New York style bagels. Granted, the Hitachi only mixed and kneaded the bagel dough, but still, the bagels were excellent. The Hitachi has earned its counter top real estate.

On a somewhat related note... Most Americans I know eat pre-sliced loaves of bread purchased from the local super grocery. But when I visited my friends in the village of Kippen in Sterlingshire, Scotland, I learned how to eat freshly baked bread. Leave the heel alone. On a loaf from which you cut your own slices, the heel acts like a lid to keep the freshness in. This wasn't obvious to me when I humbly offered to eat the heel in my cucumber and cheese sandwich. That was one life lesson I'll never forget. These days our homemade loaves stay fresher because of that experience. (Cheers, Jamesy!)

Commitment

2011-01-02T13:46:00.001-05:00

Because it takes commitment to ride your scoot-around to the bar in single digit temps and leave your oxygen tank in the basket.

Cruising Around D.C. with Capital Bikeshare

2010-12-31T23:58:00.007-05:00

To make up for another year with no hope for a raise, my employer gave us an additional paid day off to celebrate the New Year. Since I had no plans, I decided to tour around Washington D.C. on the new shared bicycle system operated by Capital Bikeshare.

The new system includes over 1,100 bikes parked at 110 docking stations around D.C. and Arlington. I found the system to be very simple to use, and very similar to the Denver B-Cycle network in Denver, CO. (read my post about that ride)

Like Denver B-Cycle, a 24-hour day pass can be purchased for $5. Rides less than 30 minutes are free. So the challenge is to pay attention to the clock and to reach another docking station before your 30 minutes expires and your credit card is charged a small fee. It's actually pretty fun, and I used the free Spotcycle iPhone app to find more bike racks. Once I reached a station I simply pushed the bike into the rack until it clicked and the green light let me know it was safe to walk away. Then I'd slide my credit card in the machine, take my printed code, and punch it into the bike rack to rent a bike for another half-hour.

Capital Bikeshare's docking stations were located near all the must-see sights in D.C., and in places that probably serve commuters and locals. The three-speed bikes are nice and stable and the gears shift easily. I was able to hit cruising speed from a dead stop without standing up to pedal. The seat posts adjust to fit all lengths of legs, too.

During the course of the day, I rode six different bikes and saw D.C. neighborhoods I probably wouldn't have visited on foot. Ironically, I borrowed my first bike at the L'Enfant station, which is directly across the street from the Department of Transportation. Because it was cold and early, the streets were empty and the dirt track around the Mall was my own personal racetrack until the museums opened. I saw a scrap of the Hindenburg in the Smithsonian Castle, saw the outstretched arms of the Titanic Memorial along the Anacostia River Walk, stopped by Nationals Park, saw the Trapeze School of New York's odd bubble building in the old Navy Yards, explored the Eastern Market and Old Capitol neighborhoods, feasted on some killer pizza at Matchbox with my wife, and tore through Chinatown like a kid on his first Christmas bike.

If you're visiting D.C., or just looking to do something fun and different, I highly recommend seeing the city with Capital Bikeshare.

Christmas Stories from the Plains

2010-12-23T18:10:00.002-05:00

My kids are criminal masterminds. Seriously, prison gang members would be impressed with their ingenuity.
My nearly two-year-old shanked his older brother in the eye with an oddly sharpened dog bone today.

Apparently, my nearly four-year-old is working toward a career in smuggling. On the way to bed we noticed he was scratching at his bottom. I assumed he just needed to clean up a bit. As we entered the bathroom he said, "Something's in there, Da-Da." I nervously helped him pull his drawers down only to find a foil-wrapped Christmas chocolate resting in the crotch of his X-Men underpants. Santa's shaking jelly-belly was a schoolgirl's giggle compared to our uproarious laughter.

A Noble Goal Indeed

2010-12-10T13:03:00.005-05:00

The theme in my son's daycare class this week is occupations. When asked what he wanted to be when he grows up my 3.5-yr-old replied with conviction, "Batman!"

Whew! What a relief to find that I'm raising a future vigilante instead of a criminal. It's hard to tell some days. And since Batman doesn't have any real super powers, the goal to become him is entirely possible. Aspiring to become Superman would simply be a waste of time.

He's a smart kid. Confidence is built by achieving your goals, and he already understands not to set the bar too high. Look out Jokers of the world!

Shhh, Everyone is Sleeping

2010-11-23T23:21:00.004-05:00

My living room is boobytrapped. It's late and I'm trying to pick up toys in stealth mode, but Handy Manny's tools are singing and trying to teach me Spanish. Startled, I step on a puzzle piece with a tiny plastic handle and curse the world through clenched teeth and crossed eyes. I reach for the toy that perversely celebrates mining and am greeted by beeps, alarms, and explosions. Light reaches the transportation puzzle and myriad motorcycles and automobiles fill the dead space with tinny sounds of revving engines. The damn duck pool gets stepped on and the mechanical current begins to swirl. The overturned robot beeps for aid like a stranded turtle. Rocket, the vehicle powered by the patted thighs of Little Einsteins - and hordes of toddlers on couches around the world - begs for a mission, even though it's missing a front wheel and any hope of following directions. Bert complains from his sidecar about Ernie's motorcycle driving skills. Chickens, pigs, cows, and horses berate me from the farm. Mary tells me about her little lamb, and the ambulance siren screams as the wheels spin fruitlessly in the air. The toy dog yips a pathetic bark as I step on its ridiculous face. With the lights off, an unholy alliance of Cars movie characters and miniature X-Men ambush my bare feet with admantium claws, clinched, painted fists, and exaggerated rear spoilers. Mission Impossible characters couldn't sneak through this room. Every night the traps have moved, but they're there, waiting....

Oh, Me So Dumb

2010-11-10T21:49:00.005-05:00

You can read the title of this post to the tune of 2 Live Crew's classic jam, Me So Horny, or in your best imitation of one of the worst Star Wars characters ever created, Jar Jar Binks.

I'm testing my Google Analytics software. If you read this post, please comment or call me a name. Let me know you're out there.

Old Town Winchester, Virginia

2010-10-24T23:29:00.001-04:00

Word, PowerPoint, Excel - I Own You!

2010-10-20T21:59:00.006-04:00

I found this gem while looking around my completely unorganized folder of Word docs. To put this in context, my wife and I moved to D.C. from Portland, Maine in 2006, when her marketing company offered her a promotion. We'd never even visited the capital before, but decided to make the move. I temped for a couple months before finding my current gig. The following thoughts were written down after an interview with a staffing company. I'd never heard the word blog back then; I was just angry and wanted to remember how I felt that day.

What I didn't write down at the time was that I ended up at the Tidal Basin during the peak of the Cherry Blossom Festival. So the office temp tests nearly broke my will, but I experienced one of the signature D.C. events by accident - and in my suit, I looked damn good doing it.

I am 30 years old and I suck at Excel. I suck at PowerPoint too. And for the record, I suck at Access. Am I going to let my abysmal test scores define me? Is my entire post-college existence going to be measured by my knowledge of Microsoft Office software? Am I doomed to fail because I haven't become a paper-pushing automaton?

These were the questions I contemplated as I stared at the crumbling grout between the bathroom wall tiles. The faint smell of warm chlorine permeated the air. Damp with perspiration, my heart raced, a vein throbbed in my neck, and I silently muttered a profanity-laden tirade and seethed with frustration.

My registration session with the staffing agency - my first attempt at finding a new job in our new city - had not gone well. I had been humbled by the software tests. My recruiter didn't listen to a word I had said; she'd already read my resume and pigeonholed me in her mind. The glaring fluorescent overhead lights and the tiny, windowless meeting space felt like an interrogation room. A woman erased and replaced figures on a dry-erase board with foul, pungent markers. Occasionally a bell would ring, celebrating a successfully completed task; clapping and muted cheers emanated from the cubicles. I felt claustrophobic, nauseated and out of place. I wanted to run.

Hola, Amigos!

2010-10-14T18:07:00.001-04:00

Thanks for checking in on my blog. I've got stories in the upcoming I Am Modern holiday special and their winter edition. I'll let you know when they're available online. You may have heard that I'll be guest blogging on DullesMoms.com during the final week of each month. Set your Outlook calendar! I'm also working on an artist profile at the moment. I'll introduce you to the talented guy playing the piano in the YouTube feed to your right. And, finally, MLB is coming to an end which will leave me bored and restless. Expect more frequent posts soon.
Thanks for your time and comments.
K

Autumn Sunrise

2010-09-26T16:53:00.001-04:00

Guest Blogging at DullesMoms This Week

2010-08-29T23:25:00.005-04:00

I've got a new story posted on DullesMoms.com this week. Look for And You Thought Curious George Was Naughty.

Thanks for reading and sharing.

Big City, Small World

2010-08-08T22:08:00.011-04:00

We knew the pizza and pong would be tasty and fun after seeing Comet Ping Pong featured on The Food Network's hit show Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives with Guy Fieri, but who knew date night would lead to a chat with a Pulitzer Prize nominated author about the Maharishi School in Fairfield, Iowa over Peruvian cocktails and beers in D.C.

It happened just like that. On a whim we decided to book a babysitter and take a night for ourselves. So with the man-van parked at the Springfield Metro station, we took a carefree train ride into D.C. to sample some new pizza and battle for ping pong bragging rights.

Comet's neon sign may be visible from the moon. I've never visited the lunar rock, but the sign is a bright beacon to any and all crispy crust, wood-fired pizza lovers in our corner of the solar system. Seriously, the pizza was awesome, the beer selection was more than respectable, and the ping pong action was hot.

Comet features three full-size tables and one mini table in the back, and one full-size table outside- yes, outside. The outdoor seating area was packed with pizza people! So dinner was a rockin' success, except that the online review we read had us hop off at one Metro station too soon. Luckily the cabs were prevalent and we caught a relaxing ride north. Last thing about the Comet: have fun finding the restrooms. I mean it - have fun!

So the pepperoni and cheese of this blog post was our bartender at Los Andes in Adams Morgan. The basement bar beneath the Peruvian restaurant Los Canteras caught Angie's attention because she saw a lone patron through the barred windows. Well, barred windows, dark stairs to a subterranean bar, and anything in Spanish is usually enough to draw us in for a drink.

The lone patron turned out to be the chef, and he quickly withdrew to the kitchen to prepare for the dinner rush. (We're parents, so date night starts around Boca del Vista time, i.e. early) So with the chef cooking, we had the barman's full attention. He slid me a bottle of Cusquena, which he described as a fuller beer than Peru's alternate hopped beverage option, Cristal. (Cusquena's slogan is "the gold of the Incas") My wife went with a Macchu Pisco, an egg-free twist on the bar's signature Pisco Sour cocktail.

My wife shared a story about our friends, who married themselves along the Inca trail on the way to the mountain ruins of Machu Picchu. The barman listened quietly, a knowing smirk forming in the corners of his mouth. After listening to her story, he divulged that he was co-owner of a B&B in a small Peruvian village near the Machu Picchu trailhead.

As the conversation flowed on, we learned that he had been a travel writer for the Washington Post and Time magazine. In fact, he once ran the Post's Moscow bureau in Russia. I didn't learn until later, during a Google search on the way home, that he was fluent in five languages and had been nominated for a Pulitzer for his writing. He was much too modest to brag about such an honor.

Maybe the most interesting thing to us was that one of his brothers had run a restaurant in Ames, Iowa, where we had gone to college. He couldn't remember the name of the joint, but we left our email address in case it came to him. After reading his profile on a travel writers Web site, I think he'll follow through. As a former Post reporter, I'm sure he won't be able to sleep until he knows the restaurant's name.

What a great night out! The best thing about living in and around big cities is meeting fellow transplants. Everyone has a story to tell. We were just lucky enough to be served by a well-traveled, professional storyteller and Pulitzer Prize nominee from Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Love That Setting Sun

2010-08-06T23:44:00.003-04:00

Mourning Naptime

2010-08-02T20:01:00.003-04:00

My latest story for I Am Modern Magazine was just published in their Fall 2010 issue. Read it, share it, and let me know what you think. Read it online here: http://www.iammodern.com/mourning-naptime.html.

Meltdown at 30 Thousand Feet: A Flying With Children Fiasco

2010-08-01T20:59:00.005-04:00

As first published by DullesMoms.com

If you’ve ever seen a pair of scampering squirrels chasing each other up and down a tree at dizzying speeds, you may understand what flying with young children is like. Now take those two squirrels, stuff them in a paper sack, give it a shake until their good and mad, and then ask them to sit quietly on an airplane. Now you know what flying with my two sons is like. On a recent flight home from Colorado to D.C., they had a very public meltdown, and my response was about as effective as using gasoline to extinguish a fire.

When it comes to flying, I’ve become THAT guy at the airport, the guy with the rental cart piled high with a massive, over-stuffed, family-size suitcase, two backpacks bursting with toys, books, blankets and diapers, a cooler full of sippycups, and two car seats stacked precariously on top of it all. The carefree, pre-children days of traveling with a single backpack, a book and a buzz are a distant memory. So by boarding time, after loading and unloading the taxi, checking in to the whining demands for more juice, the usual headache of being processed by security, multiple bathroom breaks and an excessively long line to buy bagels; I was already worn out and ready to relax. I just wanted to find our seats, point the little jet of cold air on my face, and close my eyes. Of course, that turned out to be a ridiculously naive fantasy.

After gate-checking the jogging stroller, we were welcomed aboard by grinning flight attendants. Their insincere Barbie smirks couldn’t mask their true thoughts as they sized us up. They knew with one look - This family is going to be a problem. My wife carried our 16-month-old and a backpack, and I had a bag and my three-year-old’s hand. The apprehensive looks on the faces of the other passengers as we ambled past them down the aisle bordered on dread. I could almost read their minds as their fearful eyes moved from our procession to the empty seats around them: Please don’t sit next to me.Please...

With one bag stowed above and the other stuffed under the seat, it wasn’t long before my sons’ cheerful disposition dissipated and their behavior became unruly. Poor ‘Lil C was too young for a seat of his own and just wanted to lie down in his crib. He writhed and screamed and threw his Nuk and sippycup on the floor over and over. Then like the flip of a bi-polar switch, his wailing briefly turned to laughter and he sat still for a page or two of a story before returning to his sonorous assault on my ears.

Big C continuously pulled the window shade down. He unfastened his seatbelt during takeoff and banged his tray down repeatedly. The woman in front of us had her seat kicked multiple times as he whined, cried and threw tantrums over the most infinitesimal things. I tried to point things out the window like rivers, fields and clouds, but he wasn’t interested. My patience was gone and the end of my rope was tattered and frayed. I was screaming at my son through clenched teeth, yelling and gesturing at my wife in frustration, and generally making everything worse. The unfolding scene drew sympathetic looks from parents and irritated glances from others. The cacophony was so invasive, so crushing that I’m sure everyone was secretly praying that the mild turbulence we were experiencing would increase, tear the roof off, and suck them out into a blissful freefall.

There’s nothing worse than sitting near an irate parent. The offending parent’s hostility is contagious. A dark cloud of revulsion and hate spreads from them throughout the cabin and taints everyone’s mood. The recycled air tastes more stale than normal. People take long, hopeful looks at their watches. The merchandise in the Sky Mall catalog seems junkier than ever, and the already completed crossword puzzle feels like a personal insult. Passengers normally tolerate misbehaving children, but they loathe the hotheaded parent that loses their cool and makes things worse. I had become the irate parent.

I was nearly institutional. After being scolded by my wife for losing my temper, I was in a near catatonic state, staring blankly at the graphic of the airplane traveling across the screen mounted on the seat in front of me. The plane was moving slower than eastbound traffic on Hwy 66 on a Monday morning. Slugs inch across the sidewalk faster than the animated plane moved. As we hovered over the Midwest, Washington might as well have been in Europe. My mind filled with fantastic visions of escape. Maybe if I kicked over the beverage cart, the anonymous Air Marshall would choke me out of my misery with a headlock. I wanted off the plane one way or another.

And just as I was about to commit a felony at 30 thousand feet, my baby boy fell asleep and his older brother’s attention was captured by a surprise gift. The remainder of the flight had its challenges, but the worst was over. When it comes to flying, I learned not to expect too much from the kids. After all, they were out of their element and out of their routine. Their sleep schedules had been obliterated by the switch in time zones, and ‘Lil C was forced to sleep in a Pack n’ Play all week. Like their father, I’m sure they just wanted off that plane, too.

Guest Blogging at DullesMoms This Week

2010-07-26T00:00:00.008-04:00

If you've ever been stuck in a bus with wings with angry kids, check out my story Meltdown at 30 Thousand Feet: A Flying With Children Fiasco at DullesMoms.com on Monday, July 26.

Thanks,
K

Snowmageddon Remembered

2010-07-24T10:07:00.005-04:00

The mercury is boiling today in Northern Virginia. The back-to-back blizzards of 2010 don't sound so bad in comparison. Anyone else melting out there today?

I'm Guest Blogging on DullesMoms.com Again

2010-07-21T23:12:00.006-04:00

DullesMoms.com has invited me to guest blog again. (Thanks, Elizabeth!) Check out a new daddy story on Monday, July 26. In case you missed my June 28 posting on DullesMoms, I've posted it below.

Elmo Has Never Punched Anyone

I should really think twice about some of the characters I introduce to my sons. Kung Fu Panda is one of my three-year-old’s favorite animated films. He’s fascinated by Tai Lung, the evil snow leopard determined to terrorize the inhabitants of the Valley of Peace. Today he acted the scene where Tai Lung breaks his bonds and escapes from prison. Our living room blanket was cast aside like shattered shackles and my boy growled and proclaimed, “I’m Tai Lung!” The menacing scowl on his little face was so frighteningly cute that I totally dropped my guard and took a stiff left jab to my right eye. Lying on my back wondering if my kid had just given me a shiner, I couldn’t muster any anger toward him. We play pretty rough, so it was just a matter of time until he beat my defense. But still, I asked myself why he couldn’t impersonate Elmo, or even Barney the lame dinosaur. Those chump characters never do battle.

Battles and who would win them is a normal conversation around our house. “Daddy, no one can beat Spiderman?” “Daddy, no one can beat Chewbacca?” “Daddy, Obi Wan Kenobi took care of business when he blasted General Grievous?” Yes, our living room is full of Marvel, DC and Star Wars characters. At bedtime, I often share YouTube videos from my iPhone. I learned pretty quickly that the Emperor in Star Wars is too scary for toddlers. Seeing Yoda sizzle and shake from the lightning crackling from the hooded Sith lord’s fingers was a little much. We still watch YouTube videos, but we stick to cartoon clips of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Transformers, Spiderman and Batman.

Speaking of Batman, my 15-month-old’s third word was Batman – right after ma-ma and da-da. Sure, he calls every superhero figurine Batman, but it’s still a point of pride with me. I love it when his older brother corrects him, too. “No, that’s Wolverine, not Batman.” Like most younger siblings, he is infatuated with his older brother and imitates his every move. Needless to say, I’m fighting off attacks from both boys these days.

I hope my boys learn to appreciate my wife and I for sending them to daycare dressed in Spiderman shirts, Power Ranger hats, Lighting McQueen shoes and camouflage shorts. During a recent daycare drop-off, I witnessed my three-year-old comparing shirts with his classmates. Even at his age the kids are assigning status to branded clothing. Plain or striped shirts just aren’t cool enough for these guys. I remember as a kindergartner faking a need to use the bathroom just so I could shed my long-sleeve, pearl button, flannel shirts and reveal my A-Team, Dukes of Hazard and Spiderman Underoos. I guess things haven’t changed that much in thirty years.

We’ve watched the final battle between Chuck Norris and Bruce Lee in Enter the Dragon about a zillion times. It’s a great fight. One of the most rewarding experiences I enjoy as a father is when my oldest son tears off his shirt and declares, “I’m Chuck Norris!” I may have to dodge imaginary webs, absorb left hooks, shin kicks and head butts, but sharing the wicked delights of pop culture with my sons is so worth it.

Remnant Storm Cloud Illuminated

2010-07-19T18:55:00.001-04:00

Soul Mountain Saves the Day

2010-07-18T23:16:00.009-04:00

What do you do when the thermometer reads 95+, the sweating, singing pirate cuts out 20 minutes early from his free children's performance, and your kids are angry at the world from a lack of sleep? No, not the bar. We headed west to the Blue Ridge and enjoyed a tasty meal at Soul Mountain restaurant in Front Royal.

When we left the house, I actually had planned on only catching the second half of the singing pirate's show, based on my kids' attention span at a similar event. So Ang and I were fairly irked when the dude in the soaked puffy shirt began his signature kick line with the kids on stage with more than 20 minutes left of his scheduled performance. The sun was roasting, all four of us were tired and hot, and the morning's plans were slipping down the porcelain slope like many other failed outings. Luckily, we were in a district park and the playground was new and just down the path from the amphitheater. After 15 minutes of conquering the volcano climbing wall, sliding, swinging, and saying hi to the turtles in the nearby pond, it was time to go. I overheard conversations from other parents in similar predicaments. "Come on, time to go. We don't have any sunblock." Apparently they were also victims of the singing pirates musical mutiny.

I love my oldest son, so I won't dwell on the walk up the hill to the parking lot. I will, however, give props to my 15-month-old for slogging up the slope unassisted. Once in the car, the situation was dire. Nemo on the DVD player and sippy cups full of cold milk bought us enough time to formulate a plan. We decided to take Hwy 66 West toward the mountains and leave the naptime battles for another day.

The short, one-hour drive to Front Royal was relaxing and a welcome break from our normal routine. We spotted our favorite apple orchard, Hartland, and a favorite winery, Naked Mountain. The hills got bigger, the traffic lessened, and the temperature dropped by a few degrees.

Front Royal is the northern access point to the Blue Ridge Parkway in Shenandoah National Park. The historic downtown is scenic and bustling with wine bars, a coffee shop, antique shops, a cheese and wine store, and other vendors catering to tourists and locals alike. East Main Street is anchored, though, by Soul Mountain, a quirky restaurant with a Caribbean menu.

Our second visit to Soul Mountain was just as enjoyable as the first, over two years ago. I love it when you can find a restaurant's owner toiling in the kitchen. That's the sign of a passionate chef. A wife/husband combo worked the floor as the server and bartender, respectively.

Natural light illuminated the seating area from the large glass windows, and reggae tunes played in the background as modern art mingled with tribal prints on the walls. I was set to order a funky chicken wrap with a ginger sauce, but our waitress sold me on the special BBQ bacon burger of the day (see the pic; don't drool on your screen). The sandwich and krinkle-cut fries were flavorful and filling, but the little dollop of herbed orzo pasta salad made the plate.

People make a restaurant great, and there was no shortage of humans at Soul Mountain. Nearly every table was full by the time we asked for the bill - and they were almost all locals. A retired pediatrician approached us and shared some advice about raising boys - stop at two. Ha!

The friendly staff, personable patrons, ocean-themed restrooms, amazing menu, refreshing taps, and all around great vibe make Soul Mountain a must-stop oasis for Blue Ridge Parkway cruisers, hikers, locals, or exhausted refugee families from the D.C. suburbs.

My URL Will Give You Carpal Tunnel Syndrome

2010-07-18T22:39:00.004-04:00

Seriously, what was I thinking when I chose the URL www.deliberatelyunintentional.blogpsot.com? I type fast and accurately and I still get tripped up. It's an obscene amount of characters to type just to see if there is any new content to read.

If you read my stories or look at my photos more than once a year, try subscribing by RSS (Real Simple Syndication); you'll never have to type that obnoxious URL again. If you're not familiar with RSS, it's really, well, for lack of a better word, simple.

In Internet Explorer (MSN), RSS Feeds are bookmarked just like Favorite Web sites. You simply click on the feed title to see if any new content has been posted. If not, you click away to be entertained somewhere else on the Web. There are plenty of other RSS readers to follow your favorite Web sites, including Outlook. Even if you don't subscribe to Deliberately Unintentional, I highly recommend using RSS to manage the information you want to digest online. New content is sent to you in an unobtrusive manner and, if you follow sites with horribly long URLs like mine, you just may save yourself a trip to the physical therapist.

Click on "Subscribe by RSS" at the top of the page and never type my blog's URL again.

Strange Sighting

2010-07-17T21:51:00.003-04:00

I once saw a baby manatee swimming in unison with a dolphin near the mouth of the Monkey River in Belize. I thought that was pretty cool. Today I saw a black cat with no tail fraternizing with two deer in the middle of my local stream valley trail. I had just finished a punishing run in sweltering conditions, so I blinked a few times to make sure the heat wasn't playing with my mind. Acting as if I'd stumbled upon a secret meeting, the three conspirators scattered into the underbrush before I was able to snap a pic of their furtive forest gathering. #

Click On The Cloud

2010-07-13T22:42:00.003-04:00

Check out the new feature on DU! I really like label/tag clouds. If you're visiting a blog for the first time, it's cool to click on words that catch your interest. So kick chronological order in the face and click on the keywords floating in the cloud to be transported to old posts. Comments are encouraged. Make it public, email me, or send me a tweet. Thanks for stopping by!
K

Praise for Denver B-Cycle

2010-07-11T21:31:00.012-04:00

Denver's B-Cycle program is awesome. Simple. Cheap. Efficient. Fun. I just spent a week in a downtown Denver hotel with my family and couldn't resist the funky red bikes I kept seeing in racks around the city. Denver B-Cycle has 500(!) three-speed bicycles parked around the metro area for residents and visitors to ride. With over 300 days of sunshine, Denver is the perfect place for a green bike project like this.

With two kids napping, I finally had an opportunity to sneak out and explore downtown without a stroller. My goal was to see the new Denver Art Museum. The architect is the same guy who designed the first version of the Freedom Tower, which will replace the World Trade Center towers. The multi-faceted facade feels out of place at first, but the edifice's crazy angles actually suit the city's alternative personality.

Anyway, knowing that my me-time was limited, I decided to rent a Denver B-Cycle and see more faster. I'd seen the bike racks all over the place and really wanted to try one. It was so simple!

Members are charged for the time the bike is checked out, similar to a metered cab ride. Non-members just run a credit card, pick a bike, and enjoy cruising the streets for $5/per day. (Update: Courtney from Denver B-Cycle informed me that there are usage fees for rides longer than 30 minutes. Click here for rates.)

The front end was a bit heavy, but I still managed to get over a curb or two. Denver has bike lanes and drivers are respectful, so I didn't have to fight for my right to ride like in most cities.

The three speeds were just enough to keep up with traffic and to get off the line at stoplights. I doubt I could do a wheelie, but my buddy Shark probably could. I think he could pull a wheelie on a recumbent bike if he was challenged to do so. I digress....

So, after seeing the sights I wanted to see, the light rain I had been tolerating picked up and became annoying. A 16th Street Mall security guard politely told me I wasn't allowed to ride in the shuttle lanes, but he didn't know where I could ditch the bike. I rode around for a bit getting wetter and wetter, still having a great time, but finally pulled under an overhang to avoid getting totally soaked. I gave the number printed on the bike a quick call and was given directions to the nearest bike rack by a very helpful human. Turns out I was only a half block away! The rack made a satisfying clicking sound as I pushed the front wheel in and a little light blinked "success." I walked around the corner to my the entrance of my hotel with a smile on my face.

What a great program. Sure, Denver has an excellent climate to support community bikes, but there are plenty of other cities that would benefit from such a service. I saw racks near all the major sightseeing destinations, the convention center, the train station, and at the best spots to grab a beer or a burger.

If you're ever in Denver, rent a red bike and enjoy the city. And if you have any problems, call the customer service number and speak to an actual person! Friendly, too.

UPDATE: http://www.myfoxdc.com/dpp/traffic/vast-bikeshare-network-coming-to-dc-and-arlington-071610
D.C. is replacing their Smart Bike program with Bikeshare. $5 rides! Excellent!

Denver Drummers

2010-07-11T21:12:00.004-04:00

As mentioned in a previous post, I appreciate street musicians. Some people just walk by without taking a second to listen to the tunes. Whether it's because they feel like they have to throw a buck in the hat, or because they think the performers are bums, they just duck their heads and pick up their pace. Conversely, I've let trains go by just to hear the crescendo of a steel drum band on a subway platform in NYC. Sometimes I throw them some change, sometimes I don't. On this particular day I didn't throw any coins, but only because the lady on the left didn't get in on the act. The other two guys were rocking, though. Enjoy.

Elmo Has Never Punched Anyone

2010-06-27T22:10:00.003-04:00

I was invited to guest blog on DullesMoms.com this week. Stop by to read my story, Elmo Has Never Punched Anyone.

One Blended Ground Squirrel, Please

2010-06-22T21:54:00.004-04:00

How do you like your friendly, neighborhood ground squirrels? Fuzzy and cute? Curious and coy? Frisky and fun? How about sprayed all over the back of your house?

Feeling so fresh and so clean-clean from my morning shower, I was ready to tackle whatever the day had in store for me. But then just as I buckled my belt and turned off my electric toothbrush, my wife called up to me, "Honey, I think something is in the air-conditioner outside. I heard a knocking sound and turned it off. It looks like there might be some blood, too."

Oh, there was blood alright. And gooey guts and clumps of fur and sinewy innards sprayed and splattered all over the inside of the air-conditioning unit, up the siding and dangling from the wire grill. The only thing missing was the source of the mysterious knocking sound, which I can only imagine was the poor rodent's skull. I looked for it, albeit tentatively, as I hosed down the whole area, but never found it. I really didn't want to make eye contact with a decapitated ground squirrel, anyway.

Once the remains of the pureed grinny had been washed away, we flipped the air back on and waited for the knocking sound. Thankfully, the skull must have fallen to the floor of the air-conditioner's housing. The unit is over 20 years old and due to be replaced. I'll have to ask the installation guy how many skulls he's found lying beneath the whirring blades of death.

Bangin' Buckets

2010-06-21T15:19:00.005-04:00

These guys were jammin' outside Nationals Park on Father's Day. I always enjoy street music.

Life Socks

2010-06-15T22:28:00.006-04:00

As first seen in I Am Modern Magazine's Summer 2010 edition.

I saw a baby blue sock with an orange stripe, and a white one with a gray toe. A camouflage sock peeked out from beneath a discarded, outgrown onesie. But where was the bleepin’ match to the sock in my hand? The cliché needle in a haystack would be easier to find than a matching sock in this stack of singles. After rummaging fruitlessly through the pile, I accepted defeat thinking, “Who sees his feet anyway? They’re in his shoes all day.” After all, the clock was ticking and the daily daycare drop-off circus routine waited down the road. Mismatched socks were a minor casualty in the pre-dawn battle to move my two young boys out the door.

The morning began as most do, with my one-year-old’s cries blaring from the monitor on the nightstand. Why I bother to set the alarm clock, I don’t know. I felt my way blindly through the dark hallway to his room, scooped him up from his crib and delivered him to his mother. As she consoled him with coos and whispered hushes, I descended the stairs to the kitchen to retrieve a sippy-cup of soothing milk. Just as I was about to climb back into bed, my three-year-old appeared in the doorway demanding to drink “juicy” in Mommy and Daddy’s bed. Once again I was dispatched to fetch a beverage, and dreams of slipping back under my warm covers were dashed for the day.

Some mornings I handle parenting challenges gracefully. Other days I’m growling like a rabid raccoon and kicking toys across the room in frustration. My patience was tested on this day. I managed to wrap a diaper around my writhing child despite his best attempts to thwart me. My victory was rewarded with the need to repeat the process three minutes later. Hunger had apparently driven my older son mad, as he whined and cried alternately for cereal and milk and Disney’s Phineas and Ferb cartoon. I retrieved the pacifier from behind the diaper table where it had been intentionally tossed. I administered medicines to pouting, pursed lips. I pounced over the couch like a cat and wrestled a hooded sweatshirt over an uncooperative head. I praised the inventor of Velcro as I fastened the straps on size-9 Spiderman shoes. As a final insult, before climbing into the back hatch of the man-van when the automatic doors opened, my son whacked his ride with a stick.

With the boys finally buckled in, I felt like a caricature of a dad from a Sunday comic strip: bloodshot eyes, slumped shoulders and mumbling obscenities. When I later crawled into the office, a gas station coffee in hand, I realized that though my socks were both black, they weren’t an exact match. How fitting.

Skateboarding Still Isn't A Crime

2010-05-13T22:01:00.008-04:00

My cracked Santa Cruz skateboard still has life in it! The coned Slimeballs may need to be rotated, though, after tonight's session. Those old wheels were practically smoking as I carved big, beautiful, beefy lines down the hills in my hood.

It's been awhile since I felt the raw fear that the death wobbles deliver. My trucks and deck turned to Jello beneath my feet as the shadowy forest whooshed by. What a rush!

My foot was off the board as I contemplated bailing, but it would have been suicidal to try and slow my rocketing momentum at that point. All I could do was keep my creaky knees bent and flow down the concrete slope.

For a skater born in the mid-seventies, I was pretty pleased with my ollie, but my flip tricks need a little work. Maybe I'll have to settle for just surfing sidewalks in style. Nah, I don't think so.

New Features

2010-05-09T21:53:00.004-04:00

Deliberately Unintentional doesn't get updated as often as CNN or MSN; however, I have added a Twitter feed, so scroll down and see what I'm yappin' about. Or better yet, just follow @kattmaiser on Twitter.

Also, you may have noticed I added a Picasa slideshow box to the right side of this blog. If you don't see a new story or a recent tweet, scroll down and see if there are any new snaps floating by. The iPhone's camera isn't the best, but it does the trick.

Thanks for your patience and support.

Monkey Bars, Handlebars and Rock Bars

2010-05-07T18:08:00.014-04:00

Last weekend was a nice mix of my new reality and a taste of the old days thrown in for good measure. Although we visit a lot of parks as a family and I sneak away for a run every other night, it's nothing like the pre-kids days of 36 holes of disc golf, three-hour bike rides and 10-mile hikes. Not to mention Sunday morning mimosas.

On the way home from work I stopped off to crush a bucket of golf balls at the driving range "rapid fire" style, as I had to pick up the boys from daycare. The driving range has been my proxy for a real round of golf for the past few years. Sending a few dozen beat-up balls for a ride with the swing of a loaner driver always satisfies.

Following an evening of beers and Nationals baseball on the couch, I took the boys up to the local elementary school's playground. It has a nice mix of slides, platforms, swings and climbers. Plus the playground is on a hill next to a big open athletic field, which affords some nice sky views. I love the wooded hills here in Virginia, but sometimes it's nice to emerge from the trees.

After a rejuvenating nap, we piled into the man-van for a short ride to a local lake for a stroller/backpack hike. The wind was ripping, but the sun was warm on our faces. Having my little guy babbling and pointing things out along the walk was pretty cool, too.

Our family is beginning to outgrow our little shed. Bikes, trikes, gardening gear, inflatable pools, baseball bats and balls, skateboards, snowshoes, camping equipment, tools, toys and old car seats are hung and piled in every available space.

So now I've laid the groundwork for why I took my wife's bike for a spin instead of my own much more masculine two-wheel, steel horse. The chick bike was simply the easiest to retrieve from the cluttered shed. I promise, it wasn't because her seat is like sitting atop a mountain of cotton candy, or because all 21 of her gears work perfectly. Nope, it was just easier to reach....

Speaking of chicks, we enjoyed a really good Mothers Day brunch in a D.C. neighborhood called Adams Morgan. The venue, the Asylum, was pretty interesting. At night it hosts rock bands, but their kitchen has a really diverse menu including vegetarian/vegan options. Needless to say, my wife was quite pleased with her meal and my huevos rancheros were fantastic. The mimosas kept mommy and daddy smiling as a certain three-year-old acted his age.

The National Zoo is just down the road from Adams Morgan, so we parked the man-van on a side street, loaded up the strollers and walked a few blocks to the entrance. For those of you who have never been to D.C., the National Zoo is a Smithsonian institution, which means admission is free. You really can't beat seeing prowling tigers, lounging lions, climbing gibbons, playful orangutans and pandas for free. The season is still young and it was early, so the crowds weren't too thick.

I had planned to end the weekend with a grilling session and a few beers in the backyard; however, a frozen pizza the size of a hula hoop had forced the freezer door ajar while we were out. The pork chops and corn-on-the-cob had to wait.

All in all it was a very fulfilling weekend. The right balance was struck between me time and family fun, which isn't always an easy thing to do these days.

The Boys of Summer

2010-05-04T21:58:00.010-04:00

I think I should quit my job and just focus on preparing Cannon and Colton for the Major Leagues. Social Security is moving toward bankruptcy and who knows how long it’ll be before Wall Street gambles away my meager retirement savings. I figure training a couple kids to play professional baseball is probably the safest bet for my long-term security.

However, there is one small hole in this plan - I stunk at the game when I was a kid. I was always a fan of the game, but I never applied myself. Maybe it was because my first coach was always in court or jail for drinking and driving, or maybe it was because I found early success on a skateboard. Either way, baseball was part of my life growing up - and still is - and I hope the game is part of my sons’ lives.

I remember playing tee-ball, utterly clueless to the complete rules and nuances of the game. Yet I understood “see ball, hit ball, run.” I remember playing Optimist baseball at Galloway Park and watching Darin and Jeremy crank moonshots deep into the field over the hapless outfielders (there weren’t any fences back then). I remember playing catch with my father in the backyard on hot, muggy afternoons with the scent of freshly cut grass wafting on the breeze (we still do our best to break out the mitts when I'm in town). And as awesome as it was to see the St. Louis Cardinals play at old Busch Stadium, hanging out under the bleachers at a Waterloo Indians game eating dogs and salted peanuts in the shell was almost as fulfilling. The glare of the lights, the smell of stale beer, the crack of the bat in the cool evening air, and the roar from the crowd as a foul ball looped over the grandstands and smashed a windshield are all very vivid memories to this day.

It's fair to say baseball has been a big part of Cannon's first three years. After all, he did walk out of Camden Yards in his diaper on Fathers Day a two years ago, and he was at RFK Stadium for the final Nationals game before they moved into their new digs. Both Cannon and Colton accompanied Angie and I to a Single-A Potomac Nationals game on Fathers Day last year, which was really a lot of fun and very reminiscent of a Lootown Indians game.

The past couple weeks Cannon has been making consistent contact with the ball off the tee, but he’s also been consistently hitting me with the bat. In case you’ve forgotten, the thin, yellow whiffleball bat really smarts. The stinging pain is a small price to pay though to watch him square up to the tee and take his hacks.

His younger brother Colton’s temperature is also rising with baseball fever. When he’s not scurrying off with the bats or knocking the ball of its perch, he can belt the big plastic ball all the way to the fence with a little help from me. From the way his little eyes light up and his toothy smile that spreads from ear-to-ear, I can tell he likes the feeling. Catching the ball is still a bit like playing catch with mannequins, but at least one of the two boys has a glove. I'll just keep throwing balls at them until they figure it out.

Now would be a good time to thank my old friend Rob for adding to our collection of soft baseballs, because we've had a few good living room dodgeball battles since we saw you in March. My sons are welcome to throw every ball in the house at me and hit me with their bats, just so long as they give me free tickets to their professional games in the future.

It may be a tad premature to discuss the placement of their plaques in Cooperstown, but I have much more confidence in the Baseball Hall of Fame voters than the U.S. government or my financial broker. In the meantime, I'm going to enjoy every backyard pitch, every ball smacked off the fence, every slap to the shins and every ballgame I can share with my boys.

Stop the Train! Our plans have changed.

2010-04-12T21:02:00.014-04:00

The Metro is a great way to get around the D.C. metro area. The cars are clean, the riders are polite, the stations feel safe and many of the outer lines are above ground. It's usually pretty reliable. Usually. But I'll think twice the next time I gamble the success of a date night on the reliability of its service.

Hiring a babysitter is a rare occasion for my wife and me. At $15/per hour, we choose our nights carefully. So when our train crawled out of the Springfield station slower than a sunburned drunkard on a Jersey beach, we began to doubt our chosen mode of transportation. The conductor's voice crackled over our car's speakers. It was hard to make out what he said, but it sure sounded like he said all Blue and Yellow trains were terminating at Crystal City due to police action at the Pentagon City station. Though the cherry blossom trees ringing the Tidal Basin across the Potomac River were merely a couple miles away, they might as well have been in Japan. This train wasn't going to D.C.

Our plans had been fairly modest but had promised to forge some new memories. We were going to experience the cherry blossoms at dusk on the final weekend of the festival, and then walk to The Pour House on Capitol Hill to find out who the true Skeeball champ was. Now we were trapped one stop from where we'd started, the clock was ticking, the frustration was mounting and the train wasn't moving.

The night could have been ruined before it even began, but we decided to take control of the situation. A quick look at my iPhone revealed that there was indeed a police situation ahead and it was a bomb threat. After living in New York City for four years and around the D.C. area for five, we knew that this wasn't going to be resolved quickly. Suspicious packages aren't taken lightly, especially ones near the Pentagon. So we bailed on our D.C. plan and hopped out to catch the next train to Old Town Alexandria.

Just across the street from the King Street station we saw a Hilton Hotel with an attached bar called Seagar's. We needed to regroup, relax and relaunch our date night. Upscale hotel bars are always fun. The bartenders are always professional and the wine and beer options are plentiful. Well, almost always. We should have recognized the impending disaster when a large vase full of cut cherry tree branches greeted us in the lobby. Slap! Thanks for the reminder, Hilton!

So we bellied up to the posh bar on comfy stools and admired the back-lit bottles of expensive booze and exotic wines. I ordered a bottle of beer an Angie chose a nice red. I don't know what ever happened to my beer, but the bartender returned to tell us that Angie's wine was out of stock. This was not a short process. We sat there for ten minutes empty-handed, our night teetering on the brink of disaster, and we began to wonder why we had left the house to begin with. The barman finally returned (without my beer) and asked Angie for a second choice. We politely declined and told him we'd try another watering hole.

Luckily, O'Shaughnessy's, a true drinker's pub, was only a block away. The bar is located above a deli on King Street and seemed like the answer to our prayers. Unfortunately, the bar was one of the few that still allows smoking, but the windows were open and a good breeze was keeping the air fresh. The portly barman said he was doing me a favor when he discouraged my attempt to order the house ale. A game of pool would have been nice, but an almost comical "Out of Order" placard informed us that pool would not be played this evening.

We looked at the Washington Post's Going Out Guide application on my iPhone to locate a good restaurant. We were surrounded by options, so we knocked back our Sierra Nevadas and joined the throngs of early evening revelers on the street below.

We popped into Tiffany's Tavern for a quick one and asked if anyone had heard of The PX, a modern speakeasy we'd just read about. The first woman hadn't heard of it, but her coworker had. With loose directions to look for the blue light on South Columbus Street, we headed down the road.

After a firm rap on the door, a well-dressed woman opened the door a crack and I told her we were there for The PX. She opened the door and allowed us to enter, but I was disappointed she didn't use the traditional sliding window to check us out first. She escorted us up steep stairs past a hardwood bar to a small sitting room. An ornate chandelier dangled from the high ceiling. A smartly dressed couple sipped cocktails on one couch. A pair of women chatted quietly on another sofa. Angie and I settled in for some nice red wine. The atmosphere reminded me of some of the eastern European lounges in Astoria, Queens we used to frequent.

After being escorted back down the stairs, we headed to the Overwood for dinner. The wood-fired kitchen is off the normal tourist route by a couple blocks. I appreciated the large glass facade and enjoyed a potent pint of Old Rasputin Imperial Stout and some spinach artichoke dip before my steak arrived. Our meal provided a nice cap on an evening that nearly never started. The episode reminded me that good food, good drinks and good company can rescue a date night from the ashes. And I'll ride Metro again, but if our plans begin in D.C., our vehicle may be parked there too.

Ragin' Against the Machine in the Man-Van

2010-04-01T22:02:00.006-04:00

My one-year-old is now a punch dancer. Oh, you're not familiar with punch dancing? Punch dancing is simply headbanging from the safety of a car seat. Shoulder harnesses and lap belts seriously restrict spontaneous physical reactions to heavy metal. But the punch dance channels the driving double bass beats of hard-hitting bands through clenched fists. My sons have taken Dad's lead, pumping their little fists like mini-pistons in a powerful V-8 engine to the rocking tunes blasting over our humble man-van's Infinity surround sound system.

Now that my one-year-old is facing forward and has joined our rolling party, he's interacting with his older brother and learning the nuances of the man-van. I'm always revved up to finally get my boys buckled in for the short ride home from daycare after a long day of work. Hanging out with these two is always a blast and helps keep me young. I miss their enthusiasm for life as I navigate the sad, stale office life of adults. And I could play with X-men characters and Matchbox cars all day, everyday.

So when my three-year-old asked for a jam, I changed the station from NPR to the rock station faster than guitarist Kerry King picks out crushing chords for Slayer. A glazed look fell over his face as he found the beat and started punching the air to Rage Against The Machine's Killing in the Name. I know, the song title is a tad inappropriate for young kids, but lead singer Zach de la Rocha growls most of the lyrics. Don't judge me. Ever seen the fight scene at Toad Hall in the finale of Disney's Wind in the Willows? Spoiler alert: Pistols, battle axes, throwing knives and murderous weasels. Yeah, 1949 was a boom year for quality kids' programming. Barney would've been hunted to extinction.

Headbangin' dads out there, let me tell you there's nothing more special than hearing your oldest son say, "He's doing the punch dance! He's punching!" Their combined laughter was like super premium fuel for my punching fist, and I bashed the air and nodded my head to Rage's beat with unbridled pride.

Leprechauns Don't Wear Togas

2010-03-17T21:44:00.004-04:00

Chicken souvlaki and a Greek salad on St. Patrick's Day? The horror! Sadly, our plans to introduce the boys to the joys of Irish folk music, Irish stew, soda bread and Guinness mustaches proved to be about as elusive as a leprechaun.

Maybe it was naive to think we'd find a table at Kate's Irish Pub on their busiest day of the year. But I was surprised to see the cluster of eager entrants bedazzled in cheap party favors and plastic shamrocks waiting at the door. A sign in the window noted the $5 cover charge, so the party had already begun by the time the man-van rolled to a stop in front of the gaudy crowd and Angie hopped out to assess the situation.

Almost as soon as she penetrated the heaving, green crowd, she was back again. "It's packed and F-bombs are dropping left and right." Immediately we knew our St. Patty's Day plan was a bust. So much for singing along to the Irish Rover with a mouthful of beef and carrots.

Fairfax County has a dearth of bars, especially traditional Irish pubs. Looking back on our neighborhoods in Queens, NY, we really took for granted the plethora of good watering holes found on every block. Real Irish bars staffed by real Irish bartenders were never more than a stumble away.

So rather than return home as my son so adamantly requested, we settled into our usual table near the windows at Saratoga Pizzeria. My son's green, plastic top hat was crinkled and dented from wearing it all day at daycare, but he still received a number of compliments on it.

I guess the night wasn't all bad; the feta cheese was fresh, my chicken was seasoned perfectly, my Greek beer was served in a frosty mug and the pita bread was grilled just right. Still, St. Patrick's Day should be celebrated in a pub with Guinness, Irish pub grub and lots of singing. And, I'm pretty sure no one has ever seen a leprechaun in a toga.

Priceless or Worthless?

2010-02-15T22:49:00.006-05:00

The recent This American Life podcast, House on Loon Lake, got me thinking about the idiom “one man’s junk is another man’s treasure.” The narrator told a story about breaking into an abandoned New England home as a bored adolescent. Confronted with rooms full of personal effects, he and his friends imagined the fate of the family who had lived there. I don’t want to give away the ending to the story, but the kids’ exaggerated explanations for the abandoned home were far more bizarre than the sad truth.

So, sitting here on my worn, black leather loveseat, staring at my kids’ toys, I wonder if the things in front of me, my family’s things, are worth anything more than the original price tags. Look around your own abode. If you vanished today and someone stumbled across your deserted belongings, would your stories be worth anything to anyone? Will the material things that describe your life be featured in a future museum exhibit or just junk destined for the local landfill?

My mother bought the toy farm set. The silo was attached briefly before it was unattached and used as a vertical garage for Matchbox cars and “bad guys.” I purchased the 36” Toshiba TV with my first commission check earned by selling classified advertisements a decade ago. My good friend Yahroo helped me haul it home from Best Buy. The crooked, miniature glass lampshade was originally part of a pair given to us by our late great grandmother – an incredible woman who is much missed. The warm glow of the two tea lights set the mood for many good evenings. My baby boy’s first birthday is approaching, yet a tourist photo of my wife, first son and me, still sheathed in plastic, rests behind the Panasonic speakers purchased with United airline miles. A white tag on a Smurf’s rear end points toward the ceiling. An exquisite hummingbird, hand-carved and purchased from an artist in Belize while on our honeymoon, defies gravity as it balances on its impossibly narrow wooden beak. Yellowed and dying leaves cling to the sad tendrils of a lush and waxy vine, a remnant of the thirty-some healthy houseplants that used to fill our home(s).

A Pirates of the Caribbean folding chair is stashed beneath the dark stained coffee table turned toy station. The hand-me-down Leapfrog electronic reading device rests limply against a wall, unused; the purple plastic learning cartridges are scattered behind me. The temperature-telling rubber ducky lies on its side. Mac Truck’s trailer, the one that accidentally deposited Pixar’s superstar racing sensation Lighting McQueen near fictional Radiator Springs, is parked harmlessly next to the red, rectangular toy bucket now decorated with Spiderman, Superman, NASCAR and T-Rex stickers. A yellow taxicab lies on its side. A foam baseball separates the Frankenstein bathtub ducky from the recycled plastic recycling truck. The Honda Ridgeline Matchbox truck is parked behind the purple viewfinder with its crumpled photo disc. The empty bucket on the extension ladder of the oversized red fire truck leans against the wall; the cab is stuffed with Marvel action figures. An unused inflatable mattress peeks from a green box leaning against the wall. The pull-along puppy from PAMIDA, a sweet gift from another great grandmother, lies motionlessly on its side, the red pull cord draped forlornly across its snout.

The always left-turning ambulance rests upside down in the dark-stained wicker book box. Blue and red cardboard bricks, hand-folded a year ago, lie buried beneath the rubble of other toys. The furry, green, belching T-Rex’s yellow foot protrudes over the rim of a woven basket. Squeeze, Handy Manny’s animated pliers, stares blankly with never-blinking eyes. A plastic dinosaur mocks its own species extinction as it lies prone. The Thing, Thor and Plastic Man grace the side of a Marvel Super Hero Squad inflatable ball. The homemade rice rattle hides behind the newer, more annoying Handy Manny drill. A bathtub squirt toy peeks from beneath the entertainment system. My firstborn son and his now way-too-small KC Royals cap stares back from a black and white photo taken in Savannah, Georgia.

Is this junk? Are my family’s memories meaningless? Are yours?

The yellow dump truck with no dump box looks as if it crashed into the sometimes face-eating squirrel. A plastic penguin, an overturned toy motorcycle, a yellow choo-choo, a lone fuzzy bear slipper, an insatiable, stuffed yellow pelican, a Raccoon Brewery growler from 2003, an oddly peeled roll of silver duct tape, a tie-dyed tapestry, a hand-built shelf, mini Princess Leia, photos of a first ocean visit celebrated, a bottle of flat bubbles, a bouncy ball with suspended glitter, C3PO, a glow-in-the-dark skeleton, a wooden keepsake box, my youngest' first shoes.

And that’s just what I can see in front of me. I can only hope that if my family had to disappear into the night and leave behind all our worldly possessions, unsorted and unfiltered, that curious kids will someday climb through a broken window and scare themselves with imagined stories of our demise.

Are your family’s heirlooms priceless or worthless?

Snowmaggedon Strikes D.C. Metro

2010-02-09T19:33:00.010-05:00

Apparently snow is Kryptonite to Superman. At least that’s what came to mind while watching my new neighbor wield a shovel in his too-tight Superman t-shirt. Seeing him helplessly hurl shovelfuls of snow into the wind nearly had me in tears. But after watching defeat set in on his sad face, I thought he might be the one to cry. Bewildered by the enormity of the task ahead, his laser vision fizzled and his angry glare was the only thing hot enough to possibly melt a snowflake or two.

Snowmaggedon? Snowpocalypse? Snowverkill? Possibly exaggerated, but it is true that we received two feet of heavy, wet snow in a storm big enough to silence the jets in the sky. It was by far the most snow I’ve ever experienced in a single event, and certainly the most I’ve ever shoveled. After digging out, I now know how John Henry must have felt when that shaft of sunlight pierced the hole left by the final swing of his mighty sledgehammer: relieved, proud, and triumphant.

I love a good snowstorm, especially a record breaking storm. Everyday life can be so regimented; every minute planned and scheduled. A snowstorm breaks up the monotony like a garden spade through ice. Sure there are highlights to illuminate each day, but the routine is a rut in which the wheels of novelty spin fruitlessly. Big weather events like blackouts (electrical not alcohol), 100-year floods, and blizzards shake things up, disrupting routines. People suddenly snap out of their malaise as if they have just been pelted in the face with a snowball. They’re forced to communicate with neighbors who’ve been hiding behind closed doors since Thanksgiving. People take up shovels and unite behind a common cause, lending a helping hand or sharing a laugh over a shovelful of snow. Heads nod and “mmm-hmmm’s” are heard as broad, pointless statements about the weather and the world are made. Snowstorms also remind us haughty humans that our place in the pecking order is much lower than we care to admit. Because whether it’s Mother Nature blanketing the land in misery, or someone close to us delivering an icy insult, sometimes it’s good to get knocked down a peg or two. Snowstorms, like all major natural disasters, put life back into perspective.

Buried beneath the snow with all the headlines about power outages, lost productivity, and bad drivers is the fact that my sister-an-law and her man have been stranded here since Sunday. Their bosses back home can’t complain about their absence when the snowstorm is the top story on the evening news each night. We don’t see them but a few times each year, so we’ve enjoyed their extended visit. Their nephews have loved the extra attention, and my future brother-in-law is a bulldozer with a shovel in his hand.

And now February Fury (to borrow The Weather Channel’s malevolent moniker) has arrived. In a matter of hours we’ll be pushing a fresh foot of snow to the muted sounds of winter. If the roads are impassable and cabin fever sets in, we’ll once again don the backpacks and trek to the bodega for a “bag of nice” – more beer. Half-Tail the backyard squirrel’s loyalty will once again be rewarded with scraps of wheat bread flung like Frisbees from my sliding glass doorway. I’ll be more than happy to help dig my Vietnamese neighbor out - so long as she brings her Toro snow blower and fresh pork spring rolls to the party again! And poor Superman is next door staring blankly out the window at the accumulating snow, quaking in his shiny red boots.

Check out a slideshow here:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/46185260@N02/show/

I Feel Pretty, Oh So Pretty

2010-02-04T07:46:00.002-05:00

When the night began, the plan had been to enjoy an Italian meal and some wine while the boys watched a movie at Kindercare during the center’s monthly Parents’ Night Out. If asked the odds of agreeing to a professional, spa-style pedicure that night, I’d have answered, “HA! Zero chance, no way.” And yet there I was, my pasty white feet a blur beneath the bubbles, and an Asian woman kneeling before me quietly preparing a bucket of lotions, balms, towels and strange clipping tools.

Warm water bubbled up between my toes. My chair vibrated and hummed as a mechanical roller rearranged my vertebrae. A calming heat rose from my lower back and radiated outward like the morning sun crossing the lawn. One would think sitting in that massage chair with my feet submerged would have been relaxing; but, in fact, I was not relaxed at all. Whether it was the full moon, the cheap Chianti, or my recent lack of sleep, my wife had somehow convinced me to join her for my first pedicure.

The food next door had been awful. The Kalmata olives were mushy, the olive oil bland and runny, the fresh mozzarella had the consistency of a wet eraser, the Chianti was overpriced, the gnocchi was chewy, and the pepperonis were nothing more than salty islands floating in a sea of greasy orange globules.

The conversation had been nearly as bad. After a full work week and less than an ideal amount of sleep, the two of us had trudged past exhaustion into the realm of zombies. We struggled to make eye contact, our red-rimmed eyes lazily settling on such exciting things as the back of a spoon or a crust of bread. Sentences were started with hopes of finishing them, but most trailed off into unintelligible mumbles. After 45 minutes of forced pseudo-socializing, we paid the bill and, to the obvious surprise of our waitress, declined boxes for our leftovers. I’m not sure Half-Tail, my backyard squirrel, would have accepted such noxious faire had I offered it.

So it was in this weakened state of mind that my wife asked if I’d be up for a pedicure. “Come on, it’ll be fun!” she had promised. Not wanting to squander what little adult time we had been allotted, I reluctantly said yes and entered the salon.

Angie made the arrangements as I helped myself to the bowl of candy on the counter, plopped down onto an overstuffed chair, and began thumbing through some headlines on my iPhone. A minute later, I was being ushered over to a brown, vinyl chair, similar to a barber’s, but with a bubbling cauldron beneath the foot rest.

The blinding overhead lights and the mirrored walls were disorienting, and I didn’t know where to store my shoes and socks. Was I to take them off, or the attendant? I followed Angie’s lead and set my footwear next to the chair and climbed into the seat. Sensing my discomfort, she slipped me a copy of Washingtonian magazine and gave me a reassuring smile. Seventy-five top bars were featured in the cover story. Sweet.

It occurred to me that watching a barber cut hair in the mirror was far less intimate and more removed. I felt uncomfortable watching the woman work, so I kept my face buried in the magazine and read about lounges, hotel bars and classic dives. My left foot slipped through the woman’s muscular grip like a bar of soap in the shower. Her thumbs pressed into the deepest flesh on my calf. I was beginning to melt into my chair like a pat of butter spread on a steaming ear of corn.

Alternating between right and left legs, she nearly scrubbed the hair off with an orange-scented exfoliating balm. It burned like hot sand and I liked it. With the skin rubbed red raw, she wrapped each leg in a towel moistened in cold water. I peeked over the magazine as she clipped my toenails with the adroitness of a surgeon. She employed a shoeshine boy’s circular wrist action as she filed and buffed the nails, and her block sander smoothed out heels calloused from many miles walked.

Finally, she applied lotion from my knees to my ankles and wrapped my legs with a hot towel. Moments later my legs felt cold and stinging hot at the same, not unlike the sensation of chewing strong peppermint gum. As I reclined in that humming chair, my legs tingling like a fiery snowball beneath the hot towel, my exfoliated feet red and pruned, I realized that this wouldn’t be my last pedicure. Who knows, maybe next time I’ll get talked into one of those creepy, green face masks - and love it, too.

Livin' Small

2010-01-31T00:14:00.003-05:00

I remember when mopping floors on a Saturday night earned me an hourly wage, a cut from the tip jar, a handful of shots, and a pitcher of beer. Now I sweep escaped Cheerios and scrub juice stains for kicks. Yay!

Subscribe to DU's RSS Feed and Receive Updated Content Once Every Five Months!

2010-01-29T22:05:00.004-05:00

Wow! Five months since my last blog post? Ouch. If anyone still checks for new content, please leave a comment or let me know I'm a lazy bum via email.

I recently watched that Julie and Julia flick about the wannabe writer/chef and her undying love for Julia Childs. If you haven't seen it, it's an enjoyable movie. New Yorkers will like it. Anyway, the writer/chef character blogs about her efforts to cook every recipe in Child's book in one year. When she first starts posting blog entries she doubts anyone is "out there" reading her stuff. So if anyone still stops by, let me hear from you. Or if you landed on this page because of one of my tags, call me a jerk and then read an old post.

For you stubborn readers, subscribe to my RSS Feed; it'll save you the time of typing my cumbersome URL just to find out I haven't figured out how to beam thoughts from my brain to my blog yet. I still need to find the time to sit down and type them out.

I Tawt I Taw a Putty Tat

2009-08-29T20:30:00.001-04:00

I saw something for the first time today, something I’ve never seen in 33 years of observing the world around me. I wasn’t witness to an extraordinary act of kindness or to some rare natural occurrence. No, today I saw human absurdity taken to new heights, to a place so beyond normal that the ridiculous becomes common. Today I saw a cat stroller.

Not a cat in a child’s stroller, but a cat stroller. And this cat was no kitty; the passenger was a full-grown ball of gray fur confined to a small, green wire basket on wheels. I’ve seen cat carriers at the airport and dogs in everything from bike baskets to backpacks, ferrets on a leash, free range iguanas that treated a living room like their own private fecal factory, but I’ve never seen a presumably domesticated feline in a rolling cage.

Normally I try not to stare at anyone or anything for too long, but I couldn’t avert my eyes from this mobile madness. The fluffy cat had just enough room to turn itself around in tight circles, an uncomfortable looking nose to tail loop. An accordion style sun bonnet printed with a faded flower pattern protected the out-of-the-house pet from the midday sun, but it was nearly 90 degrees! The cat’s coat was so thick that surviving a long winter at the North Pole would not have presented a problem. It must’ve been an oven under that gaudy sunshade!

In my neighborhood people say hello as they pass each other on the sidewalk; however, the cat lady didn’t even acknowledge me with a half smile. Her indifferent attitude toward me reinforced my belief that her little rolling circus act was quite weird. Surely she was aware of how ridiculous she looked pushing her prisoner pussy down the street.

King of my Kitchen

2009-08-24T08:46:00.002-04:00

It was 11 o’clock and the savory scent of cooked cow wafting from the broiler had me pacing around the kitchen like a starved lion hunting a wounded wildebeest. Thin white smoke escaped from the broiler only to be sucked away by the hood fan. Salivating with bloodlust, I flipped the slab of perfectly seared sirloin and gently sliced it to examine its tender, pink center. I let out a low growl of approval as I set the sizzling meat aside and bathed it in A-1 and Worcestershire sauces.

After two, seemingly endless minutes, I pounced with predatory fury; total carnage ensued. Imaginary death squeals filled my ears. Tuffs of fur drifted to the floor. The stabbing fork’s tines and slicing serrated knife blade clanked and scraped a high-pitch rhythm on the porcelain plate. Chewy bits of fat and tiny strands of tendon packed between my teeth. My tongue was slippery with juices. My teeth gnashed and gnawed at the succulent steak.

As the feast was devoured, my pace slowed and I soaked the remaining meaty morsels in the glistening pool of coagulated drippings, savoring the beast’s finale. Then, like a lion polishing bare bones with its rigid tongue, I spun the empty plate and slurped up any evidence of the steak’s existence.

Reclined on the sofa, my appetite satiated, I purred softly and drifted off to sleep. Vegetables are fine, but there is no substitute for a late night steak.

Turning the Screws

2009-08-19T22:10:00.002-04:00

The pungent scent of Deet-filled bug spray, rivulets of salty sweat blinding my vision, an 1/8th-inch wrench in hand, oppressive heat that makes your legs sweat - I could've been in by father's garage on Hickory St. 22 years ago, working on my skateboard, but it was Monday and I was swapping out a tail light kit on my wife's suddenly beater Hyundai. Who would've guessed a cracked lens along with Virginia's stringent safety inspection requirements would create such a headache? An auto parts franchise quoted $300 for a new tail light kit. The Hyundai dealership mechanic was nervous he wouldn't be able to reinstall the new light due to the crushed rear quarter panel. The body shop said they'd have to replace the back fender, quarter panel and tail light, estimating over $1500 worth of work. The Internet said $156.00 would replace the entire tail light kit.

UPS delivered the part and I replaced the defective light in about 10 minutes. Four screws held the light in place. Four. The hardest part was pulling by hand the plastic rivets that fastened the trunk lining to the frame. Four screws. $156 compared to $1500+.

Sure the car still looks like a candidate for demolition derby, but at least the light will pass the inspection. When you know you'll never resell a vehicle, cosmetics become a secondary concern.

Heaven On Earth

2009-08-13T22:25:00.001-04:00

My confidence in atheism was soundly shaken today. Not to overstate this, but my entire belief system rattled like an empty beer can on a train platform. After my inaugural pilgrimage to Total Wine & More, I’ve come to believe that God does exits and that he’s the owner of 55 superstores in 10 states. Surely no mere mortal could create a franchise that boasts over 8,000 wines and more than 1,000 beers at each location. This feat deserves a chapter in the Bible, or at least a few pages in Genesis! “And on the sixth day the lord created Total Wine & More.”

Much like a visitor to the National Cathedral in D.C., I slowly moved along the aisles, reading the sacred scripture on the colored labels. Cases of microbrews and exotic imports were stacked high, creating chapels in which to worship the holy beverages. Employees clad in white uniforms moved unobtrusively through the store like angels. The store was a temple devoted to beer and wine, and I was in heaven.

According to the store’s buying guide, communion is held on Fridays and Saturdays from noon to 6 p.m.

A Brief Interruption

2009-08-12T22:50:00.001-04:00

Let me begin by saying thank you to anyone who still reads this blog, as it hasn’t been updated in about five months. Funnily enough, my second son is about five months old now. Hmm, coincidence?

Actually that’s not fair to blame the little guy for my laziness. The itch I felt to blog began in the dark and lonely depths of the Major League Baseball off-season. My creative duties at the office had ground to a halt leading up to the holiday break. I needed an outlet, so I began Deliberately Unintentional.

Of course, my life got busier than ever with the arrival of Colton, and all of a sudden I was knee-deep in creating a 36-page annual report for work. The creative itch was scratched to the point of bleeding. But I’m back now, and I intend to post new stories regularly. I’m going to try and keep posts short and sweet this time, around 500 words. Thanks for sticking with me. Let’s have some laughs.

Three Pillars of Wisdom Remain

2009-02-17T22:12:00.004-05:00

“Wow! Those are the longest roots I’ve ever seen! Come over here. Look how deep they go!”

Talk about words you don’t want to hear when having a wisdom tooth removed. I had come in to have a filling replaced, but was given the surprise news that the tooth had broken beneath the gum line and should be removed. Yes, I still had all four of my wisdom teeth; I never saw any reason to pull perfectly good chompers. This time, though, the dentist explained my options in terms I could understand.

“Well, you can either spend $3000 to build up the wall of a tooth you don’t need, refill it and cap it. Or, you can spend $100 and have it removed.” There’s nothing like simple economics to help me make a decision.

Most people really dislike visiting the dentist; I am not one of them. Maybe it’s because my childhood dentist rewarded good check-ups with silly novelty toys like rubber monster pencil-toppers and superballs. I was always fascinated with the large aquarium full of colorful fish in the waiting room, too.

Maybe I don’t mind visiting the dentist because my dentists always seem to have a twisted sense of humor. One time, a dentist approached my mouth with a pipe wrench in hand. I found it more amusing than intimidating. That same dentist gave me virtual reality glasses to watch animated, 3-D films set to electronically produced mood music. Imagine a Salvador Dali painting coming to life or an M.C. Escher illustration full of floating geometric shapes. It was pretty neat technology for the early 1990s, and it worked to keep my mind off of the high-pitch whine of the drill and the acrid smell of burning teeth.

I really haven’t had any terrible experiences at the dentist. My first cavity grew to the size of a small crater because I didn’t know what a cavity was. I could fit the tip of my tongue inside of it. When I finally had the hole filled, I didn’t receive enough Novocain to fully numb the affected area, so I felt almost every prick and poke of the stainless steel pick and every rotation of the drill bit. My back would arch as the dentist hit my nerve. Still, I never classified that feeling to be pain. Rather, I filed the sensation under the category of extreme discomfort. To me, real pain was misreading a skateboard trick and bouncing down an iron handrail in my own version of the Nutcracker. Real pain was sitting in an office chair with 18 staples holding my abdominal wall together after a hernia surgery.

I have seen all types of dentist offices over the years. One time I visited a dentist in Queens, where the walls were covered in old faux wood paneling that was peeling up from the floor. The ceiling was stained with rust-colored water marks. Dust and dirt were visible in the corners of the room, and some of the instruments had bite marks from previous patients. Those small details were offset by the sexy Latina dental assistant with the flirty chair-side manner. More recently, I visited a dentist who had a bowl of peppermint candy at the checkout window. I guess they wanted to guarantee a return visit.

So when I arrived at the dentist’s office located next to a ka-bob restaurant in a small strip mall, I wasn’t worried or even apprehensive about the emergency visit. The young receptionists gave me my paperwork and a pen topped with a kitschy flower, and I sank into an oversized leather sofa and casually watched a rerun of some CSI-type show on the big flat-screen TV.

After the first dentist looked inside my mouth, she was dumfounded to find that one of my previous mouth mechanics had filled a wisdom tooth instead of simply removing it. She immediately brought in the oral surgeon, who sent me for an X-ray.

The X-ray was machine was new to me. An assistant walked me over to a machine connected to the wall and told me to stand still. She pointed to what looked like a miniature white condom over a plastic bite stick. I was instructed to bite the notch in the end while she adjusted the machine to my height. I could barely make eye contact with myself in the mirror. Who would want to see themselves in such a compromised position?

The machine slowly rotated around my entire head with a robotic hum. I thought it was going to hit my shoulders, but it didn’t even graze my shirt. The image of my closed jaws was ready instantly, and the women crowded around the backlit photo to admire my aforementioned elongated roots.

When the oral surgeon presented me with the simple economics of the situation: $3000 to fix a useless tooth or $100 to evict it from its home of 30+ years, I signed the release forms about as fast I sign checks made out to me.

It wasn’t long before I felt the pinch of the stainless steel needle delivering the local anesthetic. I could feel my gums tighten and resist before the sharp point pierced through the soft tissue.

With a tingling chin and tongue, the surgeon began to yank at the remaining stump of my tooth. Her stated goal was to try and avoid cutting it out, which meant she was going to pull and twist until the tooth loosened in its socket. If you ever hear a dentist say, “You may feel a little pressure,” prepare to get brutalized.

One lady held my chin and cheek while the other ripped at the tooth with a pair of pliers. The pliers slipped and slammed into my upper teeth on the side of my mouth in which I still had feeling. I groaned when asked if I was alright. The surgeon asked if I was nervous as she wiped beads of sweat from my brow. It wasn’t nerves; it was the blazing heat of the lamp combined with the contracted muscles of my arms and hands, which were gripping the seat involuntarily.

She asked me if I’d like some nitrous oxide, “You know, laughing gas.” I really didn’t want to be unconscious for my first tooth extraction so I told her I’d take the gas only if she had some dance music, which got the two ladies laughing. Maybe if they’d have offered me some 3-D virtual reality goggles I’d have accepted their offer.

Then I heard a sickening crack as the surgeon snapped off a piece of tooth and exclaimed in exasperation, “Looks like we’ll be cutting it out.”

The hissing plastic vacuum jammed between my teeth and cheek choked and gurgled with fresh blood as the surgeon slit my gums with her scalpel. I couldn’t feel a thing.

After some more digging, jabbing, wrenching, twisting and grunting, the dentist gave up and employed some buzzing tool to remove the top of my tooth, which she gave to me for inspection. I took a quick photo with my phone and then pointed the camera at my mouth to document the gory procedure.

With the visible portion of my tooth out of her way, the surgeon went after the subterranean roots. While I was trying to see my mouth in the reflection on her plastic face shield, three dark drops of blood sprayed across its glossy surface. “Oh, my God! Is it in my hair?” she asked the assistant. It wasn’t, but it forced a satisfied smile from my stretched, cracked lips.

The surgeon and the assistant disagreed about whether a small piece of root still remained embedded in my gums or not. They arranged for another X-ray. This one was administered in my chair and didn’t require any humiliating poses in front of an ill-placed vanity mirror.

Suddenly, the assistant began shrieking and stomping her feet. Apparently, my numb jaw had closed on her finger like a vice. I always tell my kid to expect to be bitten if you put your hands in someone’s mouth. I’d think that lesson would be in the first lecure of Dentist 101.

The assistant’s hypothesis was proven true when a chunk of root appeared on the screen. The surgeon attacked it again, and after 10 more minutes of head-shaking hilarity, she had the tiny sliver of tooth in hand.

I reconsidered their offer of nitrous, and asked if they had a canister to go. The assistant gave me a wink and said she wished she had some at home, too.

After a quick cleanup, some directions on how to care for the gaping hole inside my mouth, and a prescription for some paralyzing pharmaceutical pain relief, I was on my way.

“Have a great weekend!” the team called as I left. “Thanks. I’m sure I won’t remember any of it.”

The office didn’t try to buy my love with candy or cheap toys, but the surgeon did tell me she saw plenty of other things to fix. The tools were bite-free and the women were amiable, so I’m sure I’ll be seeing them again real soon.

Friday Night Blockbuster

2009-01-24T11:54:00.005-05:00

When my son scurried through a tiny porthole in the bottom of the indoor slide at daycare excitedly repeating “hiding, hiding” instead of letting me help him with his hat and coat, I should have seen the signs and abandoned my plan to stop at Blockbuster to pick up a film for the evening. But like the captain who foolishly attempted to steer the Titanic through a minefield of floating ice, my trip to the movie store was doomed from the start.

The moment we entered the store, the boy was off like a blonde comet. His hair flowed straight back over his head as he shot down the nearest aisle chanting, “running, running”. When I finally caught up with him, he had stopped in front of a rack of animated films and was clutching the Kung-fu Panda 2-Pack with both hands. The promotional slogan on the DVD case read, “Pure Pandamoninum,” which quite accurately described the havoc the boy was about to wreak upon the store.

Faster than Po snatching a dumpling with his chopsticks, the boy was off and running again. He hit the brakes when he spotted the animated Pixar film Cars, but was back in high gear the second he had the DVD placeholder in hand. I used the mirror along the top of the wall to find him after he whipped around the corner and disappeared. A disciplined Army soldier in camouflage fatigues employed stood stoically by, avoiding engagement by ignoring the father-son tag game taking place around him. I grabbed the boy, returned the marker to the shelf and had just enough time to grab a copy of Wall-E before the boy began to squirm wildly. I set him down and, once again, he sped off.

This time when I caught up to the boy, he had reached the front of the store and was trying to carry a cardboard M&M’s candy display in his arms. He set it down when I approached and pointed to a graphic of a Christmas tree in a wagon and told me, “wagon! wagon!”. I straightened the display and picked the excited boy up and headed toward the foreign films section to find the English-subtitled film Amorres Perros

The boy managed to stay with me for about 30 seconds as I perused the various foreign titles. I barely had time to finish reading the first few rows when the boy got bored and raced off. I renewed the chase and found the boy showing off a copy of a Spiderman game made for Nintendo’s Wii to smiling woman. I was proud to hear the boy say “Spiderman” so enthusiastically.

I didn’t have time to stay and chat, the boy was dashing away at full speed again. I heard him say “choo-choo” from the next aisle. I sprinted around the corner and found a Thomas the Train DVD lying despondently on the floor and spotted the boy at the end of the aisle with a copy of a PowerRangers movie. He said “scary” when I approached. Scary, I thought? The only thing scary about the PowerRangers is their dorky costumes and lame storyline.

The boy knocked a couple more movies onto the floor and bolted around the corner. I passed the woman again and she said, “Looks like you’re doing a good job wearing him down, Dad.” I not-so-wittily replied, “Well, one of us will be worn down by the time we’re done. We’ll see.”

A hat? Where did the boy get a hat? I panned around the back of the store and spotted a pile of Indiana Jones ball caps on the floor. The boy must have pulled the hanging hat display down. I did my best to reattach the clip strip and rearrange the hats, but (does this sound familiar yet?) they boy was off running again.

I grabbed a copy of Max Payne as I swooped down and picked up my speedy son. I was determined to finish looking through the foreign films to find Amorres Perros. Of course, within 15 seconds or so, the boy was done being held and wandered off at a bit slower pace as if he knew he could slip away unnoticed if he took his time.

I wasn’t having any luck finding my movie, so I went looking for the boy. Just then, he came around the corner proudly showing me a baseball in his raised hands. I asked him where he had found a baseball and then noticed a chuckling man in a gray hooded sweatshirt with a baseball glove tucked under his arm. He overheard me tell the boy to give the ball back and said, “No, it’s his ball now. He wants to be a baseball player.” The boy tossed the ball lightly to the man, who then tossed it back in a failed attempt to get my son to catch it. While they played, I frantically searched the movie titles in front of me for a better option than Max Payne. The man’s teenage son approached with a puzzled look when he saw his baseball in my boy’s hands.

I saw the man and his son leave as we entered the line to check out. I had intended to give the ball back, but the two left the store without even a look back.

I was irritated to find a slow-moving line waiting on a single cashier. This was it. The ship had hit the iceberg the minute we entered the store; had taken on water with every chase down the aisles; and now that I was trapped in a glacially slow line surrounded by every type of tempting candy and novelty toy imaginable, the ship was now breaking in half and about to sink into the icy sea.

The boy couldn’t contain himself. He shook the Skittles. He threw SweetTarts on the floor. He pretended to drink the small candy soda bottles. I showed him how to press the button on some gizmo to make a helicopter’s rotors spin. That held his attention for about five seconds and elicited a “yay” before he cast it aside and grabbed something else.

I tried holding him, but anyone who has ever experienced the dreaded “arched back” temper tantrum precursor knows when to put a toddler down to avoid a major meltdown. I opted to simply pick up and replace everything the boy dropped. I noticed a second Blockbuster employee who seemed to be restocking shelves. It occurred to me that he fit the typical movie store worker stereotype: Late thirties, balding, overweight, unshaven, saggy, worn blue jeans barely held up by a tattered belt, and thick, dark-rimmed glasses. I watched him closely to see if he’d open the second register, but he didn’t even glance at the line of impatient customers.

Finally, we were next in line. I was grateful that we hadn’t had anything too embarrassing happen yet. But the boy became fixated on a large, plastic carton of Sour Gummi Worms and wouldn’t put them down. He slipped around the back of the display and out of my sight, so I went after him. The boy jammed the carton of chewy candy onto the rack from the back side, knocking a number of containers onto the floor in the process. We were so close to paying for our movies and sailing the life raft to safety! Instinctively, I dipped down and picked him up with one arm and tried to sneak through a small gap in the displays before I lost my spot in line. I made it through fine, but the boy’s legs swung around and sent an entire box of framed posters reeling. One by one, in slow motion, the posters pitched forward and crashed to the floor.

As I stared down at the Joker’s twisted, red smile, a cold sweat gathered on my forehead and I muttered in exasperation, “This is all pretty funny, eh?”

The cashier and the other previously unmotivated employee rushed over to pick up the frames. I took stock of the faces of the other customers in line, which ranged from amused to annoyed, to angry. The ship was vertical now and sinking fast.

And then, like a captain resigned to going down with his ship, with nothing left to lose, I lost my temper and called out in frustration, “Where’s the second cashier on a Friday night? Look at this line!”

The patient girl ignored my outburst and completed our checkout with a vexed smile. At last, the boy and I drifted through the exit, wet and cold, but still afloat. We had managed to cling to Wall-E and Max Payne just long enough to avoid the spinning vortex of the sinking ship and the icy depths below.

Move Over Joe

2009-01-17T00:35:00.000-05:00

Now that Joe the Plumber has hung up his pipe wrench and flushed his dreams of owning his own business down the proverbial drain in favor of a journalism career, there is one less overpriced, inexperienced plumber to call when the shower faucet springs a leak. Faced with this particular challenge of home repair, I entrusted my leaking shower’s fate to the gods of the orange aprons – the friendly, yet hard-to-find Home Depot workers – my trusty multi-purpose tool, and my son’s Fisher-Price horse flashlight. (Yes, it neighs when the light switches on.)

Some people fear spiders and creepy crawlies. Others are scared to open their recent 401K statements. But my biggest fear is a home repair project. Nothing is more emasculating than being defeated by an inanimate object such as a plastic toilet flapper or a flammable, kinked dryer hose. As a renter for many years, I relied on numerous superintendents, property management companies, and handymen to fix my dilapidated dwellings. So when I noticed that my bathroom mat was still damp 24 hours after the last wet foot had stood upon it, I did what any inexperienced new homeowner with limited fix-it skills does: I prayed that the problem would go away.

About a week later, the floor mat had gone from damp to soaked, the baseboard trim had the waterlogged look of driftwood, and water squished up between the tiles when I applied pressure. So much for praying this problem away. Immediate action needed to be taken.

I realized the first step was to find the leak. I tried to mentally scroll through all the leaky kitchen and bathroom stories I’d heard from friends and family over the years. Apparently I hadn’t listened that well, because I realized that my pool of stories was about as shallow as a puddle of squirrel pee. So I decided to trust my eyes and ears to ferret out the leak. How hard could it be to find?

I started with the shower head, an obvious culprit. The limey green buildup around the steel rim turned seemed to be a clue, but it turned out to be a red herring. When I initially turned the head to examine it, a steady stream of leftover water trickled out. The liquid appeared to find its way to the drain without any excessive splashing onto the floor, and the trickle quickly slowed to drops and then stopped. This was a major setback in my investigation. Where else does water come from in a shower but out of the head? You have to understand, my understanding of a shower’s anatomy was about as limited as a 12-year-old’s knowledge of the female body.

A new drip caught my attention. Water was pooling and forming drops on the bottom of the faucet knob. Ah-ha! The handle is leaking! But my self-congratulations on finding the offending leak evaporated as the drips stopped. Staring in disbelief at the now dry knob, I sat back on the throne to contemplate my options.

Then, like the Goonies in the cave, I heard it – water! Where was it coming from? I couldn’t see any drips. I leaned forward and listened. The dripping sounded muffled, and that’s when I realized it was originating from somewhere from within the walls. Then the familiar home repair fear seized my stomach as it began to sink in that I was out my league, way out. Was this a job for a plumber? Did I need a contractor to come in and tear out my walls to reach the leak? My recent experience with the locksmith (see the Baron Classic post) made me hesitant to hire help. Although the locksmith had gained entrance into my home, he had done so in a rather crude fashion by way of a power drill. I really didn’t want to shell out the dough for a plumber to fix a part that I was capable of installing myself. Memories of the cable guy charging us $40 to turn off the SAP function on our TV so that we could hear the sound again were still fresh in my mind. But that’s another story…

No, this was a problem that I was committed to solving. I returned to the faucet knob for a closer inspection and noticed that the underside of the pipe stem to which the knob attached was wet. I flipped out the Phillips screwdriver on my Leatherman multi-tool and removed the knob and metal casing from the wall. With the knob off, the water dripped safely into the shower instead of following the pipe and falling behind the wall. With the problem identified, I came up with the genius solution to shut off the water to the entire townhouse in an effort to thwart the pesky leak until I could get to Home Depot.

After two days of having to turn the water back on every time someone needed to flush a toilet, take a bath, or wash a dish, I figured it was time to readdress the leaky shower. It’s amazing how fast we had adjusted to our new normal, though. My shower was shot, so I used my wife’s bathroom. Can’t pour a glass of water from the tap? No problem, drink the water in the thermos. We even found a new reason to apply the water-saving if hygienically lacking adage, “If it’s yellow, let it mellow.”

My visit to the plumbing aisle at Home Depot began much like my initial investigation into the leaky shower, by staring hopelessly at fixtures. I stood and pondered the plethora of maddeningly similar yet completely different faucet fittings and fingered one package after another to compare them to a nearly worthless component I’d brought with me.

I must’ve appeared like the hapless water buffalo that stands by the crocodile’s watering hole for too long, because a promotional huntress approached me with a “special opportunity” to have a professional water-tester inspect my home’s water at no cost and with no obligation. I politely listened to the bubbly blonde, but her gold hoop earrings distracted me from hearing everything she said. I tuned back in when she mentioned something about setting up a time for the inspector to visit. I mumbled something about schedule conflicts and she said thanks for the time and wished me luck finding what I needed. I told her what I really needed was someone in an orange apron to come help me. Amazingly, she turned and pushed a call button that I had totally missed in my myopic search of faucet paraphernalia.

Shortly thereafter, I was joined by a stocky, white-haired employee who listened to my less-than-technical description of the part I thought I needed to replace. “What brand is your faucet, sir?’ I had no idea. “Sounds like you have a Moen.” And with that he grabbed a $13.97 Moen single handle faucet replacement and suggested a core puller – a special, fancy wrench that retailed for $12.97.

I have to admit that I was more than skeptical about his choice. I think I was just astounded at the speed at which he provided the answer to a problem that had baffled me for a week. Could I really fix the leak with one part and a fancy wrench and $28 bucks? The part he gave me didn’t look anything like the thing that I’d seen in my shower. (Of course, the business end of the fixture was hidden inside the faucet pipe.) I left knowing that Home Depot was very forgiving in their return policy. A certain screen door I brought back three times before I got the right size came to mind....

I finally attempted to replace the faucet cartridge after the other water users in the house had gone to bed. End-of-the-week fatigue and doubt in the Home Depot guy’s grasp of my poorly described problem was already working against me. By the light of my son’s toy horse flashlight, which neighed and whinnied each time I squeezed the tail, I looked for the brand name to confirm if I indeed had a Moen. No brand names were in sight, so I plunged ahead.

For the life of me, I couldn’t get the fancy puller wrench to grab the screw on the faulty faucet piece to yank it out. The picture in the instructions didn’t match what I was seeing. I desperately grabbed the tip of the old faucet cartridge with my multi-tool’s pliers. Then, as the tip moved to the shower’s on position, the old cartridge suddenly looked just like the illustration in the directions. I could smell the sweet aroma of success over the rank odor of the mildewy floor mat. The fancy puller now easily attached to the leaky cartridge and removed it with a slight tug. I inserted the new one, lined up the tabs and reinserted the locking clip. I raced downstairs to turn the water back on. When I returned, the shower was spraying water everywhere, but the new fixture was dry! Praise the orange apron God! Thank you neighing horsey flashlight! I’m sorry I doubted you, fancy, special wrench puller-thing!

So, I hope Joe the Plumber is enjoying his new role as Joe the No-Foreign-Affairs-Experience Journalist. Because I’ve faced my fear of home repair, conquered a leaky shower faucet, and am now considering switching to a career in plumbing. After all, there will always be ignorant suckers like me out there ready to drop $500 for someone to replace a $14 part.

A Hearty Soul

2009-01-14T23:31:00.000-05:00

Before I begin, I must include a caveat about the word cold, true bitter, arctic cold that is. Yes, it is 28 degrees here in Fairfax, VA today, which is only three degrees cooler than the mean temperature for January 14. However, in my hometown of Waterloo, IA, my friends and family are currently enduring the spit-freezing temperature of 1 degree with a wind chill of -19. Oh, and they’re also pushing the most recent 10 inches of snow off their driveways. For the record, they have 18 more inches of snow on the ground than at this time last year. So now that I’ve put cold into context, let me proceed with my warm tale of beef, bread and cheese.

The tips of my ears were stinging from the cold, ten-minute march from my office building to the sandwich shop. I had been salivating in front of my monitor only a short while ago; staring at steaming subs piled high with meats and vegetables. Cold weather had finally found us in Virginia and a hot sandwich and a cup of soup from Potbelly Sandwich Works never sounded better.

On a warm day, this Potbelly location’s outdoor seating area overflows with hungry business and county government employees - and forget about eating indoors in air-conditioned comfort. So when I burst through the double doors and saw that the line was manageable for once and that there were actually a number of empty tables, I was more than just pleasantly surprised.

The restaurant can be quite intimidating. Today a musician was playing his acoustic guitar on a stool in the corner. His song was lost in the din of dull, lunchtime conversations, barked sandwich orders and the clanging kitchen. The line, although fast moving, snakes the length of the dining hall in one big U-shaped headache. I quickly found the big menu board on the wall and began scanning for that hot, juicy roast beef and provolone stack-of-sandwich-wonder that I’d seen online. I knew from past experiences that I had to have my order ready by the time I reached the bend in the U or face the wrath of the seasoned sandwich makers and the annoyed regulars in line behind me.

Now, my one complaint with Potbelly is that all of their food is hidden behind the counter. Unlike Subway, for example, where all of their toppings are displayed behind the sneeze shield, at Potbelly one is forced to trust that the veggies are fresh and crispy. If I see rusty lettuce, soggy tomatoes, or limp green peppers at Subway, I’m choosing some different toppings or requesting some fresh-cut ones.

As I approached the bend in the U, I noticed that the lady at the counter was soliciting orders from people three-deep in line. I began to panic. Do I want the mayo? Mayo on a hot sandwich sounds nasty. What about the hot peppers? Hmm, the soup of the day is chicken noodle. Chili could be good. Garden soup served everyday? Maybe, I should go for the Italian like the two guys in front of me did. All that spicy, salty meat, though….

“Sir, what would you like to order? Sir, it’s your turn. SIR! What is your order?!”

I had reached the bend in the U unprepared to order. A sandwich fiasco began to unfold. No, I’ve been here before. I can do this. I practically spat out the words, “Roast beef and provolone on wheat.” The woman couldn’t hear me over the noise, so I repeated my order and shuffled to my right, totally forgetting to order my cup of soup.

At the second station, the secret toppings station, the anxiety of my soup order caused me to sweat. The lady asked me which toppings I wanted and I asked for chicken noodle soup.
Pointing to where I’d just been, she asked, “Soup? You didn’t order soup down there?” Exasperated with my lack of knowledge for the Potbelly ordering protocol, she stepped back and yelled to find if chicken soup was available. The first answer was no, but then someone else assured her that they indeed were selling chicken noodle soup. Hooray, for small victories.

I took my sandwich, which I had ordered “to stay” and moved toward the cashier and the soup ladler. What’s this? The empty tables were filling up fast! I saw two ladies drape their overcoats across their chairs to mark their territory. Two harried parents sat their children down and ordered them to hold their spots. A loose conglomeration of diners suddenly merged into one mass and alighted on a large booth like pigeons on an electric wire. This was unreal! I was the last one standing in a game of musical chairs, with my sandwich in hand and nowhere to sit.

I’m not patient enough or pushy enough to hang around waiting for a table, so I looked past the guitarist in the corner and through the windows to the outdoor seating. Ah, why not? I decided to go for it. I’m an Iowan, right?

I chose a small round table against the wall, sheltered from the wind, and tore into my quickly cooling roast beef sandwich. The first bite revealed that I hadn’t asked for onions or pickles as planned. My backside began to go numb from sitting on the frozen steel patio chair. Hot steam from my soup condensed on the tip of my nose in large droplets. As the soup warmed me, I slowed down from “starving barbarian” to “thawing caveman” speed.
It then occurred to me, as if someone had slapped me out of a daydream, that far more people were entering the restaurant than exiting. Where were they all? I then realized that there must be a hidden, unmarked staircase to a second-floor dining area. Apparently, much like the toppings, it was also top-secret.

As I slurped the remaining spoonfuls of soup, a group of three women, huddled together for warmth, scurried past me. One woman slowed and said, with warm amusement in her voice, “You’re a hearty soul!” A hearty soul, I thought? Nah, just a hungry jackass.

It may not have been -19 degrees, but I’d still have preferred to enjoy that sub indoors.

Baron Classic

2009-01-07T22:40:00.000-05:00

I am the proud owner of a shiny, new Baron Classic residential lockset. This stylish brass five-pin doorknob was hand-delivered and installed in my front door just this evening. And how did such good fortune find me, you may ask? Well, rather than spoil the ending of this story, read on and have a laugh at my expense.

My commute home from work this afternoon was almost a carbon copy of yesterday’s joyless journey. My tired and worn windshield wipers fought the steady, cold rain in unison like two gritty soldiers standing against an advancing army. I hunched forward, gripping the wheel with anxious fists as I strained to make out the shapes of blurry vehicles and struggled to find the center line. Fourteen miles later and after a stop at daycare, my son and I were home and playing happily on the living room floor.

The boy's merciless cold and persistent cough had raised eyebrows at the school. When I reported their concerns to my wife, she immediately scheduled an appointment with our pediatrician. The time came to leave and our scramble to leave the house was less than orderly. Where was his hat? He won’t let me put his coat on. No, the new booster seat is only for when we eat. Where is that stinking hat? Is the juice packed?

The three of us seemed to be moving in opposite directions but somehow managed to exit the house simultaneously. With the chilly rain pouring down, we dashed for the protection of the dry Hyundai, more ark than car in the deluge.

Right about the time I buckled the boy into his car seat, my hands frantically went to my pockets and my mind reeled with the realization that my keys - keys to car and house - were twenty-five feet away, resting benignly on the rail behind my locked front door.

“Do you have your keys?” I asked my wife, already knowing the answer.

For a brief moment, and I mean brief like the time it takes to slam a car door shut, I found the situation quite humorous. But the kid had a doctor’s appointment, my wife is 30 weeks pregnant, the weather was putrid, and my keys were not in my hands. I cursed and stomped as I circled the house looking for an easy entry point. My yard was by now a network of cold pools of water and my suddenly moist feet reminded me that my leaky shoes needed replacing.

I gave the sliding glass door a good shake, but the wooden rod in the jam did its job and kept me out. I tested the screens on the front of the house, but they weren’t budging. Knowing the windows were locked, I didn’t want to damage the screens unnecessarily. My stomach knotted as my options dwindled and the predicament worsened. I hopped back into the car just as my wife reached a locksmith on her cell phone.

My wife is at her best in situations requiring quick action. While I was scanning our rock garden in search of a stone big enough to smash my kitchen windows, she was dialing for professional help. According to the voice on the other end of the line, our rescuers would arrive in 25 minutes.

The boy entertained himself by pretending to drive, by fiddling with the lights, by climbing back and forth from the front to the backseat. It got colder. My wet feet were losing feeling. We called after 30 minutes and were promised the guy would arrive in ten minutes.

The three of us began to get restless. The boy was done exploring the confines of our cell. My wife was checking the time every few minutes and craning her neck every time a pair of headlights approached. Our neighbor pulled in while I was out of the car waiting to flag down our locksmith. He politely asked if we’d like to come in and wait. Like the ridiculously daft imbecile that I am, I replied, “Thanks, but the locksmith should be here any minute. We’re having fun waiting for him.” Ha! Fun?

After yet another call, we were told he’d be there in 20 minutes. We sang some goofy songs, we played peek-a-boo around the headrest, we cuddled under the blanket, but still no one. Finally, the boy had had enough. He was clawing at the steamy windows and crying to get out. We sucked up our pride and decided to seek shelter with the neighbors. Our locksmith pulled up in a SUV shortly afterward and I stepped out to meet them.

I love locksmiths. They don’t show any I.D. and they don’t ask for any I.D. They just roll up with some tools and start working. These two were no different. With thick Middle-Eastern accents and the stale smell of cigarette smoke, Yoseph and his apprentice made quick work of my lock.

Yoseph attempted to unlock the door using two inflatable pads that the other guy had jammed into the door frame. That was the cheap option, I was told. Of course it didn’t work. Yoseph retrieved his power drill from the vehicle and pointed to a spot just above the keyhole. He pressed the trigger and the bit entered the metal easily, too easily I thought. Yoseph pointed out each pin as it popped under the drill bit’s spinning force. And with a final snap the door was open.

I chose to have a new doorknob installed rather than rely on just the deadbolt for the night. After seeing how easily a lock could be defeated, I wanted to have both locks in place.

So after over an hour trapped in a cold, dark car with wet feet, I signed my name to a $315.00 check and bid farewell to Yoseph, his partner and their nondescript vehicle. I even got a little advice with his exorbitant fee. “Try not to forget your keys next time.” Ah, wise words, wise words my friend.

At least I have a shiny, new Baron Classic residential lockset to remind me to check my pockets before pulling the door closed next time. Pray that you can be as lucky as me.