Friday, September 29, 2006
Week 64 Pictures
Reilly's 64th week has come and gone. Click here see Reilly violating a raspberry and pimpin' the pearls.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
It's the little things
When I tell someone that I've recently moved from New York City to the suburbs of Seminole, the first question I often get is, "Do you miss it?" When I answer in the affirmative, the follow-up question is always, "Well, what do you miss?"
I tell them that I miss the diversity, the culture of walking, and the restaurants. Oh, and the intangibles; the little things. Yet, when I'm probed to name one of these "little things" I often come up blank.
So, here is an example: Yesterday evening, I stopped at the local grocery store to pick up some fresh mint and limes. I had promised my mother-in-law, Donna, that I would make her a mojito before dinner, and I needed these two ingredients. I also needed some seltzer to use as a mixer, but I didn't remember this until I got back home. (How can a guy go to the store for three things but only come home with two of them? ARG.)
The mixer is vital to the making of any alcoholic drink, so I ran back out to pick up a can of seltzer. I stopped at the Hess gas station. No seltzer. In fact, no plain, bubbling water of any kind. Same thing at the Mobil station. Utterly flabbergasted, I ran into a CVS, which had a bottle of Perrier, which I bought with a sigh of relief.
In The City, every corner store not only has seltzer, it has a section of bubbly water, from the cheap to the pricey. This is something you can count on in any store. I know this because Shawn is a big fan of seltzer, an addiction she picked up in her pregnancy with Reilly. Her favorite brand was Vintage, which we would buy by the case if we could. Sadly, it is not sold in Florida.
And so, next time when someone asks me what I miss, I can say, "The seltzer. I really miss the seltzer." That should get an interesting reaction, no?
I tell them that I miss the diversity, the culture of walking, and the restaurants. Oh, and the intangibles; the little things. Yet, when I'm probed to name one of these "little things" I often come up blank.
So, here is an example: Yesterday evening, I stopped at the local grocery store to pick up some fresh mint and limes. I had promised my mother-in-law, Donna, that I would make her a mojito before dinner, and I needed these two ingredients. I also needed some seltzer to use as a mixer, but I didn't remember this until I got back home. (How can a guy go to the store for three things but only come home with two of them? ARG.)
The mixer is vital to the making of any alcoholic drink, so I ran back out to pick up a can of seltzer. I stopped at the Hess gas station. No seltzer. In fact, no plain, bubbling water of any kind. Same thing at the Mobil station. Utterly flabbergasted, I ran into a CVS, which had a bottle of Perrier, which I bought with a sigh of relief.
In The City, every corner store not only has seltzer, it has a section of bubbly water, from the cheap to the pricey. This is something you can count on in any store. I know this because Shawn is a big fan of seltzer, an addiction she picked up in her pregnancy with Reilly. Her favorite brand was Vintage, which we would buy by the case if we could. Sadly, it is not sold in Florida.
And so, next time when someone asks me what I miss, I can say, "The seltzer. I really miss the seltzer." That should get an interesting reaction, no?
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
From the Archives: September 27, 2001 - Age 25
(This was the first of many "Mafia Den" entries.)
Here’s an idea of how small our new apartment is:
When we wash the dishes, the fragrance from the soap pervades our whole apartment. Even with the windows open.
Here’s an idea of how long we have been without TV:
I finally got the TV to work today around six, and we have but one fuzzy channel—CBS. It has been on since then.
Here’s a story for you all:
Between 206 and 208 Sullivan Street, there is a double door painted black. Its only decoration is a large brass padlock. The place blends so well into the surrounding buildings that a person walking by would hardly notice it. Perhaps this is for a reason. At first I found the doors nondescript. Then they became complex and curious.
One day when I was walking by the place I was startled to see the door open. The room was simply decorated and looked not unlike a small, out of date diner, shut down around 1973. The focal points were a few recliners, a sink in the back, and a card table with four chairs.
In the four chairs were four men, barrel-chested and meatball-stomached Italians who were smoking cigars and throwing cards. I got all this in a long smoke-tinted gaze before a man glared out at me and shut the door.
Shawn passed by the place a day or two after me, and took in a similar scene. A man was in the back doing dishes, two men were reclining, another two were standing nearby.
Now, one could assume this is a 55+ gay bar, or simply a group of friends hanging out in their co-op apartment basement, but Shawn and I are convinced of a more romantic plot…they’re Mafia men.
We now call the place “The Mafia Den” and like to slow our step and let our eyes linger when we pass by the unmarked black door, imagining what business is taking place inside.
Stay tuned for further developments…
Here’s an idea of how small our new apartment is:
When we wash the dishes, the fragrance from the soap pervades our whole apartment. Even with the windows open.
Here’s an idea of how long we have been without TV:
I finally got the TV to work today around six, and we have but one fuzzy channel—CBS. It has been on since then.
Here’s a story for you all:
Between 206 and 208 Sullivan Street, there is a double door painted black. Its only decoration is a large brass padlock. The place blends so well into the surrounding buildings that a person walking by would hardly notice it. Perhaps this is for a reason. At first I found the doors nondescript. Then they became complex and curious.
One day when I was walking by the place I was startled to see the door open. The room was simply decorated and looked not unlike a small, out of date diner, shut down around 1973. The focal points were a few recliners, a sink in the back, and a card table with four chairs.
In the four chairs were four men, barrel-chested and meatball-stomached Italians who were smoking cigars and throwing cards. I got all this in a long smoke-tinted gaze before a man glared out at me and shut the door.
Shawn passed by the place a day or two after me, and took in a similar scene. A man was in the back doing dishes, two men were reclining, another two were standing nearby.
Now, one could assume this is a 55+ gay bar, or simply a group of friends hanging out in their co-op apartment basement, but Shawn and I are convinced of a more romantic plot…they’re Mafia men.
We now call the place “The Mafia Den” and like to slow our step and let our eyes linger when we pass by the unmarked black door, imagining what business is taking place inside.
Stay tuned for further developments…
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
That's how I thought it would work
Back when Reilly was three-months-old, we started the process of teaching her to take milk from a bottle. She stubbornly refused the bottle at every feeding, crying her little guts out until mom proffered her breast. Yes, we tried starving Reilly out for a feeding, thinking she would give in to her hunger and concede to the bottle. Nope. We tried about a dozen different bottles, thinking that was the issue. That didn't really help either. This continued for a full month.
Reilly ended up taking a Dr. Brown's bottle, which was unfortunate, since we had a few dozen Avent bottles and an Avent sterilizer that we had received at our shower. I laugh at naive Brian who thought he would be the one that got to choose the bottle his baby would take. HA! Anyway, I forget whether it was Shawn or me who finally got her to take the bottle, but I do remember we used a bait-and-switch method devised by Shawn's mom, in which we would let Reilly have her pacifier, and once she was sucking away on that, we would quickly pop out the paci and pop in the bottle.
We are currently struggling from a similar transition problem, while trying to get Reilly to switch from taking milk in a bottle to having her milk in a sippy cup. When I give Reilly water in a sippy cup, she tilts it back and chugs it like a college student at the keg. When I give her milk in a sippy cup, she sucks it into her mouth, and then after making a face, opens her mouth and lets the milk dribble down her chin. One would think that milk is milk, and that Reilly would recognize the taste of it regardless of the vessel it came in. Wrong.
Yesterday, I saw a woman with her one-year-old daughter at the park. The young girl was chugging milk out of a sippy cup. When I asked the mother how she got the girl to take milk from the sippy, she looked at me a little askew and then said, "I just put milk in there and handed it to her."
It was my turn to look at her askew. "That's how I thought it would work."
Reilly ended up taking a Dr. Brown's bottle, which was unfortunate, since we had a few dozen Avent bottles and an Avent sterilizer that we had received at our shower. I laugh at naive Brian who thought he would be the one that got to choose the bottle his baby would take. HA! Anyway, I forget whether it was Shawn or me who finally got her to take the bottle, but I do remember we used a bait-and-switch method devised by Shawn's mom, in which we would let Reilly have her pacifier, and once she was sucking away on that, we would quickly pop out the paci and pop in the bottle.
We are currently struggling from a similar transition problem, while trying to get Reilly to switch from taking milk in a bottle to having her milk in a sippy cup. When I give Reilly water in a sippy cup, she tilts it back and chugs it like a college student at the keg. When I give her milk in a sippy cup, she sucks it into her mouth, and then after making a face, opens her mouth and lets the milk dribble down her chin. One would think that milk is milk, and that Reilly would recognize the taste of it regardless of the vessel it came in. Wrong.
Yesterday, I saw a woman with her one-year-old daughter at the park. The young girl was chugging milk out of a sippy cup. When I asked the mother how she got the girl to take milk from the sippy, she looked at me a little askew and then said, "I just put milk in there and handed it to her."
It was my turn to look at her askew. "That's how I thought it would work."
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Hangin' in the diner
This morning, Reilly and I ventured back to the local diner for another father and daughter breakfast. We chose the same table, had the same waitress, and nearly the same breakfast, though this time I got Reilly rye toast instead of a biscuit. Reilly has been devouring bread lately, and after some trial and error, I've found she likes rye and pumpernickel best. When she was over at my mom's the other day, she was eating marble rye like it was going out of style.
Since it was so early, there were only a few other customers there--a table of two next to us and a bearded man at the bar. Reilly was on her best behavior this morning, which really means that I was giving her my undivided attention. For the majority of the time, I distracted her with my orange juice. Since Reilly eats so much fruit, we never give her fruit juice--it would be redundant. But on special occasions I go ahead and let her take some sips from my straw. She was enamoured with my orange juice, and it is funny--though we don't give her juice, she knew the word, and would point to my glass and command me for more "juisss."
Due to Reilly's quiet state and the relative emptiness of the diner, the place was relatively silent, which is why when the bearded man at the counter started yelling at the waitress, it jolted me out of my happy father and daughter moment. I could hear the man babbling something about "If you make me lose my job, I'll make you lose your job." The waitress was politely laughing at him, probably because she had no idea if this guy was kidding or serious. Unfortunately, the laughing enraged him, and she shouted, "Don't laugh at me!"
At this point I instinctively started to get up from my chair, but then I saw Reilly--hesitated--and sat back down. Normally, I would have got up and walked over to see if I couldn't help diffuse the situation, but with Reilly at the table with me, I was caught in a sort of quandary of responsibility. Help the waitress, or protect my daughter? By sitting back at the table, I showed you where my priorities are, but as I sat there, I was truly divided of mind.
(I should pause here and say that though I might be coming off as some sort of macho man here, I'm really not, and I've never been in a fight in my entire life, but at the same time, I'm not going to let some weird bearded dude physically harm the waitress.)
After the whole "Don't laugh at me!" line, and the dead silence that ensued in the restaurant, the bearded man realized he had gone too far, got up from his stool and left. I'm not quite sure if he paid his bill, which might have been the reason for the outburst in the first place.
A short time later, the male owner of the restaurant showed up, no doubt to protect the two waitresses and the matron behind the counter who clearly saw that if things got hairy, no one would come to help them.
Since it was so early, there were only a few other customers there--a table of two next to us and a bearded man at the bar. Reilly was on her best behavior this morning, which really means that I was giving her my undivided attention. For the majority of the time, I distracted her with my orange juice. Since Reilly eats so much fruit, we never give her fruit juice--it would be redundant. But on special occasions I go ahead and let her take some sips from my straw. She was enamoured with my orange juice, and it is funny--though we don't give her juice, she knew the word, and would point to my glass and command me for more "juisss."
Due to Reilly's quiet state and the relative emptiness of the diner, the place was relatively silent, which is why when the bearded man at the counter started yelling at the waitress, it jolted me out of my happy father and daughter moment. I could hear the man babbling something about "If you make me lose my job, I'll make you lose your job." The waitress was politely laughing at him, probably because she had no idea if this guy was kidding or serious. Unfortunately, the laughing enraged him, and she shouted, "Don't laugh at me!"
At this point I instinctively started to get up from my chair, but then I saw Reilly--hesitated--and sat back down. Normally, I would have got up and walked over to see if I couldn't help diffuse the situation, but with Reilly at the table with me, I was caught in a sort of quandary of responsibility. Help the waitress, or protect my daughter? By sitting back at the table, I showed you where my priorities are, but as I sat there, I was truly divided of mind.
(I should pause here and say that though I might be coming off as some sort of macho man here, I'm really not, and I've never been in a fight in my entire life, but at the same time, I'm not going to let some weird bearded dude physically harm the waitress.)
After the whole "Don't laugh at me!" line, and the dead silence that ensued in the restaurant, the bearded man realized he had gone too far, got up from his stool and left. I'm not quite sure if he paid his bill, which might have been the reason for the outburst in the first place.
A short time later, the male owner of the restaurant showed up, no doubt to protect the two waitresses and the matron behind the counter who clearly saw that if things got hairy, no one would come to help them.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Week 63 Pictures
Shawn brought the camera on her trip to Switzerland/Germany, so I only shot a few photos of Reilly this week. Click here to view Reilly enjoying her 63rd week on this earth.
Friday, September 22, 2006
In anticipation...
In anticipation of beginning a new job in the next few weeks, today I began visiting daycare centers in earnest. Of the seven daycare centers I visited, only one was a place that I would actually send my daughter. I don't know if my standards are too high, or if I was spoiled by the quality of care that Reilly received in The City, but the daycare centers I visited today were poor. Just poor.
I ended my visits feeling very disheartened. To lift my spirits, I will now share some of the more shocking moments from my day:
1) At one daycare, the front door was open. By "open" I mean not only unlocked, but actually cracked open a good six inches. There was no barrier between the classroom and the front door, which was about twenty feet from a four lane road.
2) At the same daycare, Donna (who had bravely offered to be my right hand woman in Shawn's absence) asked the woman about the sick policy at the facility. The woman was bullshitting her way through the answer when I saw one of her charges had--and I do not exaggerate here--a six-inch strand of snot hanging from her nose. By the time the woman noticed, there were only two inches of snot left. Where the other four inches went I will leave up to your imagination.
3) At a different location, the director was explaining how she is very careful to not let anyone pick up the children without a photo identification. I though, okay, that makes sense. And then she added, "Because several of the children are in Protective Services."
4) We were touring the toddler room in another facility where the teacher was the most sullen woman I've ever met. What was worse was that she was changing a child on a WOODEN BOARD. No cushion. No pad. Not even a towel or blanket. I was pleased to see that she at least sprayed down the board with disinfectant when she was done.
In general, the children in these facilities were so unhappy. I cannot talk about the facility I liked because it was so clean, so beautiful; a place where all the children frolicked on the playgrounds singing happy songs. It was daycare nirvana. It had accredidation, it had well-educated teachers, and it had a ONE YEAR waiting list.
I ended my visits feeling very disheartened. To lift my spirits, I will now share some of the more shocking moments from my day:
1) At one daycare, the front door was open. By "open" I mean not only unlocked, but actually cracked open a good six inches. There was no barrier between the classroom and the front door, which was about twenty feet from a four lane road.
2) At the same daycare, Donna (who had bravely offered to be my right hand woman in Shawn's absence) asked the woman about the sick policy at the facility. The woman was bullshitting her way through the answer when I saw one of her charges had--and I do not exaggerate here--a six-inch strand of snot hanging from her nose. By the time the woman noticed, there were only two inches of snot left. Where the other four inches went I will leave up to your imagination.
3) At a different location, the director was explaining how she is very careful to not let anyone pick up the children without a photo identification. I though, okay, that makes sense. And then she added, "Because several of the children are in Protective Services."
4) We were touring the toddler room in another facility where the teacher was the most sullen woman I've ever met. What was worse was that she was changing a child on a WOODEN BOARD. No cushion. No pad. Not even a towel or blanket. I was pleased to see that she at least sprayed down the board with disinfectant when she was done.
In general, the children in these facilities were so unhappy. I cannot talk about the facility I liked because it was so clean, so beautiful; a place where all the children frolicked on the playgrounds singing happy songs. It was daycare nirvana. It had accredidation, it had well-educated teachers, and it had a ONE YEAR waiting list.
The Mirror Project
Somewhere along my search for the end of the internet, I found this site: The Mirror Project.
Inspired by the photos there, I decided to submit one of my own, and my entry was accepted. You can view the photo here.
Inspired by the photos there, I decided to submit one of my own, and my entry was accepted. You can view the photo here.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
In lieu of pithy musings
Shawn is away in Europe on business, and I am truly swamped with job interviews and the ever elusive hunt for a quality daycare facility, so I will wrap up this very long run-on sentence by posting a picture of Reilly Grace, who got to spend the day with her loving grandma Donna.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
From the Archives: September 19, 2001 - Age 25
(I'm interviewing all week, so I've no time to write up anything new. Here's another installment from 2001, post-September 11th.)
I’m exhausted today. I was up until 4am finishing the book and paper that I should have been doing last week. (I have to read the paper as a class presentation.) But last week I couldn’t do anything but think and absorb and feel. Not to mention that the book I have to read is titled, “The Great War and Modern Memory.” How ironic. I was able to finish the paper today at work, which was excellent. I wrote it comparing the Great War and the advent of the New War. Scary that it even has a title.
Aside from writing my paper I did some filing and phone answering and worked on my computer which I found this morning with 942 virus infected files. What a nightmare.
Right before I got off work I got an email from my professor stating that class had been cancelled until October 3rd. (This is for my literature class.) So, all my work was for naught, and I gained a reprieve from my paper and presentation. Normally I have to rush home on Monday’s and Wednesday’s in order to eat and get to class, but since class was canceled, I was able to meet up with Shawn and walk home with her. The walk proved to be the most eventful part of the day. (I guess I owe you all a story here, since this entry is decidedly boring so far. I’m tired, okay?)
As I said, we were walking down the street, 5th Avenue, to be exact, near 34th St., were all the illegal goods are sold, from fake Oakley sunglasses to faux Rolexes to jewelry to (lately) American flags, bootleg CD’s and videos. All these items are displayed on a flattened bag on the sidewalk or a makeshift cardboard box table with a sheet over it so that if the cops come through, they can quickly snatch up their items and run for it. Which is exactly what happened. Right as we hit illegal row, people were running like the buildings were falling, which they did because there is a hefty fine for selling goods on the street without a permit. What I saw next was pure theatre; a young cop running after them, kicking over their makeshift tables and generally trying to scare them away. It was a full-on shakedown and rather fun to watch. Now, that sounds callous.
These sidewalk sellers, I don’t know. They are selling illegal goods that draw money from legitimate businesses and raise customer costs. They don’t pay for permits and they don’t pay taxes. But I’d rather have them selling illegal goods and at least working for a living, be it honest or not. Otherwise they’d be on the sidewalk corner with a paper cup. Which is worse?
Anyway, due to my stay of presentation, we went to the Belgian Beer Bar on West 4th St. between McDougal and 6th Ave. The bar was really cool, nicely lit, and full of interesting beers for us to try. The only problem was that the waitresses were inattentive, but we didn’t mind much. We had a couple of drinks and talked about (what else?) terrorism and bombing and war. Yesterday was an emotional low for our spirits, but over spirits we managed to wade our way through our complicated feelings on all these new issues.
I’m exhausted today. I was up until 4am finishing the book and paper that I should have been doing last week. (I have to read the paper as a class presentation.) But last week I couldn’t do anything but think and absorb and feel. Not to mention that the book I have to read is titled, “The Great War and Modern Memory.” How ironic. I was able to finish the paper today at work, which was excellent. I wrote it comparing the Great War and the advent of the New War. Scary that it even has a title.
Aside from writing my paper I did some filing and phone answering and worked on my computer which I found this morning with 942 virus infected files. What a nightmare.
Right before I got off work I got an email from my professor stating that class had been cancelled until October 3rd. (This is for my literature class.) So, all my work was for naught, and I gained a reprieve from my paper and presentation. Normally I have to rush home on Monday’s and Wednesday’s in order to eat and get to class, but since class was canceled, I was able to meet up with Shawn and walk home with her. The walk proved to be the most eventful part of the day. (I guess I owe you all a story here, since this entry is decidedly boring so far. I’m tired, okay?)
As I said, we were walking down the street, 5th Avenue, to be exact, near 34th St., were all the illegal goods are sold, from fake Oakley sunglasses to faux Rolexes to jewelry to (lately) American flags, bootleg CD’s and videos. All these items are displayed on a flattened bag on the sidewalk or a makeshift cardboard box table with a sheet over it so that if the cops come through, they can quickly snatch up their items and run for it. Which is exactly what happened. Right as we hit illegal row, people were running like the buildings were falling, which they did because there is a hefty fine for selling goods on the street without a permit. What I saw next was pure theatre; a young cop running after them, kicking over their makeshift tables and generally trying to scare them away. It was a full-on shakedown and rather fun to watch. Now, that sounds callous.
These sidewalk sellers, I don’t know. They are selling illegal goods that draw money from legitimate businesses and raise customer costs. They don’t pay for permits and they don’t pay taxes. But I’d rather have them selling illegal goods and at least working for a living, be it honest or not. Otherwise they’d be on the sidewalk corner with a paper cup. Which is worse?
Anyway, due to my stay of presentation, we went to the Belgian Beer Bar on West 4th St. between McDougal and 6th Ave. The bar was really cool, nicely lit, and full of interesting beers for us to try. The only problem was that the waitresses were inattentive, but we didn’t mind much. We had a couple of drinks and talked about (what else?) terrorism and bombing and war. Yesterday was an emotional low for our spirits, but over spirits we managed to wade our way through our complicated feelings on all these new issues.
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Five more things you might not know about Reilly
1) The other day, I taught Reilly how to do a “high five.” If I put out my hand and say, “Give me a high five!” Reilly will oblige by giving me one or two soft pats with her open palm.
2) Every evening either Shawn or I will give Reilly a bath. Lately, Reilly has taken to drinking her own bath water. Though we discourage her from doing so, she will fight us to the bone to get a sip of that sweet, cloudy water. I’ve always considered my daughter to be a bright kid, but this development throws everything into question.
3) In a previous entry, I mentioned how Reilly has learned a dozen or so words. She now uses these words in a variety of contexts. For example, if we see a duck at the park, she will say, “duck.” In addition, if we are reading one of her books and there is a picture of a duck, she will point to the page and say, “duck.”
4) Reilly is beginning to follow (and disregard) our commands. For example, if I say, “Reilly, bring me that ball,” she will walk over to the ball, pick it up, and give it to me. Or, if I say, “Go get your shoes,” she will go get her shoes, then back herself up to me so that I can put them on. More and more, I’ve found that she truly understands what Shawn and I say to her. Of course, budding right along this ability to understand is her free will, which she exercises from time to time to show that she understands, yes, but that doesn’t mean she is listening.
5) Shawn and I have been teaching Reilly how to run the wooden bead all the way along the wire on this toy. Today, for the first time, she did it. Pretty smart for a kid who drinks her own bath water, eh?
2) Every evening either Shawn or I will give Reilly a bath. Lately, Reilly has taken to drinking her own bath water. Though we discourage her from doing so, she will fight us to the bone to get a sip of that sweet, cloudy water. I’ve always considered my daughter to be a bright kid, but this development throws everything into question.
3) In a previous entry, I mentioned how Reilly has learned a dozen or so words. She now uses these words in a variety of contexts. For example, if we see a duck at the park, she will say, “duck.” In addition, if we are reading one of her books and there is a picture of a duck, she will point to the page and say, “duck.”
4) Reilly is beginning to follow (and disregard) our commands. For example, if I say, “Reilly, bring me that ball,” she will walk over to the ball, pick it up, and give it to me. Or, if I say, “Go get your shoes,” she will go get her shoes, then back herself up to me so that I can put them on. More and more, I’ve found that she truly understands what Shawn and I say to her. Of course, budding right along this ability to understand is her free will, which she exercises from time to time to show that she understands, yes, but that doesn’t mean she is listening.
5) Shawn and I have been teaching Reilly how to run the wooden bead all the way along the wire on this toy. Today, for the first time, she did it. Pretty smart for a kid who drinks her own bath water, eh?
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Don't touch the mascot
This morning, I decided to take Reilly out to breakfast at the local diner. Lately, we have fallen into too much of a routine in the morning--wake up at 7:30am, bottle at 8:00am, breakfast at 8:30am, to the playground by 9:00am--so I decided it was time to mix it up.
The diner was neither cute nor boring, and was decorated in that odd beachy style that is synonymous with Florida and somewhat resembles a bistro crossed with a Tiki hut. We sat ourselves in the middle of a bunch of regulars and I looked over the menu. There was only one waitress working the joint, a pretty woman who lit up at the sight of Reilly. After answering the usual opening salvos (How old is she? What is her name? etc.) I ordered a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich on an english for me, a biscuit for Reilly.
While we waited for our food, Reilly snacked on Goldfish crackers and made friends with the locals. She was waving and smiling and playing cute with everyone. In no time, she had become the mascot of the restaurant, and the regulars were watching her every move, laughing when she threw her spoon to the floor, tsking when she crumbled her biscuit and used it to decorate the table. (The biscuits were great, by the way, homemade and cooked like a muffin.)
At one point, a man approached Reilly and said something along the lines of, "Aren't you so cute!" and gave her leg a gentle pinch. Reilly looked at me for approval, and I smiled to show her the man was okay, even though inside I was screaming "Don't touch the baby!" The man mentioned he had two daughters of his own, blah, blah, blah, I couldn't pay attention because I was trying to decide what the story was with the whole touching the baby thing.
In The City, no one would dare touch someone else's child--but down south people have no problem touching Reilly's face, arms, leg, whatever. Even though Reilly initiated contact with the man, I still think it is appropriate for a stranger to ask the parent before grabbing some thigh fat.
The thing is, I like how familiar southerners are, how they make eye contact, say hello to strangers, and make small talk without any pretense. But I have to draw the line at the baby touching. Even if my daughter is the mascot of the restaurant.
The diner was neither cute nor boring, and was decorated in that odd beachy style that is synonymous with Florida and somewhat resembles a bistro crossed with a Tiki hut. We sat ourselves in the middle of a bunch of regulars and I looked over the menu. There was only one waitress working the joint, a pretty woman who lit up at the sight of Reilly. After answering the usual opening salvos (How old is she? What is her name? etc.) I ordered a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich on an english for me, a biscuit for Reilly.
While we waited for our food, Reilly snacked on Goldfish crackers and made friends with the locals. She was waving and smiling and playing cute with everyone. In no time, she had become the mascot of the restaurant, and the regulars were watching her every move, laughing when she threw her spoon to the floor, tsking when she crumbled her biscuit and used it to decorate the table. (The biscuits were great, by the way, homemade and cooked like a muffin.)
At one point, a man approached Reilly and said something along the lines of, "Aren't you so cute!" and gave her leg a gentle pinch. Reilly looked at me for approval, and I smiled to show her the man was okay, even though inside I was screaming "Don't touch the baby!" The man mentioned he had two daughters of his own, blah, blah, blah, I couldn't pay attention because I was trying to decide what the story was with the whole touching the baby thing.
In The City, no one would dare touch someone else's child--but down south people have no problem touching Reilly's face, arms, leg, whatever. Even though Reilly initiated contact with the man, I still think it is appropriate for a stranger to ask the parent before grabbing some thigh fat.
The thing is, I like how familiar southerners are, how they make eye contact, say hello to strangers, and make small talk without any pretense. But I have to draw the line at the baby touching. Even if my daughter is the mascot of the restaurant.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
When it is the parent who really needs the spanking
Last Sunday, Reilly and I headed out for our morning session at the local park, as we do every day. The park was very busy, and I was surprised to see that there were many fathers in attendance--a rarity around these parts. It wasn't until I overheard a conversation between two of these fathers that I realized what was going on:
"Wife made you take the kids out?
"Yeah. Gotta wear 'em out before football comes on."
"I hear ya."
It was a little sad for me to realize that the other dads were at the park almost as a punishment for the afternoon they were about to spend before the television. Even sadder was the fact that they weren't really playing with their kids, just sitting on a bench and watching them. One young girl asked her dad to ride the purple dinosaur with her. When he refused, she whined a little, and then he punished her for whining by making her sit on the bench with him. Sad.
At one point, I was watching Reilly as she "drove" the wheel bolted on to one of the playsets. As I stood there, a young girl (maybe five years old) came over and shoved Reilly off the wheel, causing her to fall.
Instinctively, I said, "No, no, no, young lady! That is NOT nice!"
Her father, who had witnessed the scene, rushed over, took her by the arm, and said, "You're going to get a spanking!" and proceeded to bend her over his knee, right there, and spank her ass.
Now, I'm not going to get into the whole spanking debate, but I will say that I have no intention of hitting my child, and that the whole scene made me feel very uncomfortable. I was so nonplussed that I lifted up Reilly and walked back to the car to go home. The whole way, I kept my eyes to the ground, not wanting to have the other fathers see how embarrassed I was.
Of them.
"Wife made you take the kids out?
"Yeah. Gotta wear 'em out before football comes on."
"I hear ya."
It was a little sad for me to realize that the other dads were at the park almost as a punishment for the afternoon they were about to spend before the television. Even sadder was the fact that they weren't really playing with their kids, just sitting on a bench and watching them. One young girl asked her dad to ride the purple dinosaur with her. When he refused, she whined a little, and then he punished her for whining by making her sit on the bench with him. Sad.
At one point, I was watching Reilly as she "drove" the wheel bolted on to one of the playsets. As I stood there, a young girl (maybe five years old) came over and shoved Reilly off the wheel, causing her to fall.
Instinctively, I said, "No, no, no, young lady! That is NOT nice!"
Her father, who had witnessed the scene, rushed over, took her by the arm, and said, "You're going to get a spanking!" and proceeded to bend her over his knee, right there, and spank her ass.
Now, I'm not going to get into the whole spanking debate, but I will say that I have no intention of hitting my child, and that the whole scene made me feel very uncomfortable. I was so nonplussed that I lifted up Reilly and walked back to the car to go home. The whole way, I kept my eyes to the ground, not wanting to have the other fathers see how embarrassed I was.
Of them.
Monday, September 11, 2006
From the Archives: September 11, 2001 - Age 25
(It feels odd, being away from the City this year, on the five-year anniversary of September 11th. Somehow, I can't bring myself to write about it it. In some ways, this is a good thing. In the past, I felt compelled to write, so overwhelmed was I with the emotions from that event. This year, I will post something old, to show that though this day lives with me, it is a wound that is closing.)
Tuesday, September 11th, 2001
Of course, I write this entry with a heavy heart. Usually when I relay my writing from paper to print, a certain amount of editing is done. Today, I will copy my entry exactly as I wrote it in my journal because it clearly shows the chaos and panic infused in each second. There were two TV’s, several radios, and a few working internet lines and phone lines where my information was coming from--so much of it is incorrect now. The quotes are overheard conversations. All errors are in brackets. After-the-fact commentary is in parenthesis.
Well, if this isn’t a journaling opportunity, I don’t know what is. For once this is outside of my experience.
On my way to work this morning [saw] as I hit 47th and Madison, someone yells, “My God! The World Trade Center is on fire!” I looked up and stopped dead in the middle of the street gaping, every hair on my body on end.
When I got to Bear Stearns the news was flooding in—people were panicking, calling wives, friends, all huddled around one office TV.
On the radio the panic was evident, all airports, bridges and tunnels were closed, rumor of hijacking spread, I wondered if the 737 had people on it.
The sight is still with me, my heart remains somewhere digesting in my stomach, to see such an immense building the fire and smoke was tremendous from some 50 [?] blocks away. I wondered why I heard no sirens, then when I got to work I found that it happened just minutes before I saw it. (I witnessed the event at 8:55am, right between the two plane crashes). The ambulances had yet to respond.
I hope everyone at the trade center was late for work today, but I know this to be impossible.
The radio broadcasters are panicked and spreading panic blaming Guiliani, blaming FAA, calling on the president, calling for war.
The sirens are constant now.
I'm at Bear Stearns—no one is working, the market is closed, our Internet, which runs through the trade center, is down, the phones ring but no one answers, we’re all in shock.
The sirens are constant.
“My wife is…”
“My sister is…”
“My ______ is…”
“…working there today.”
“I can’t get through!”
“The Pentagon is closed.”
“The White House is evacuating.”
“I saw it on TV. The second plane, it went right through the floor!”
“I can’t work. John, I’m going home, my husband…I can’t work. I CANNOT WORK! It’s too creepy.”
“The whole city is shut down. Good luck, then.”
“Okay, bye.”
People are in shock, people are crying on the radio. The Pentagon was hit by a plane now. People are calling for a nuclear strike.
This is out of hand.
“The biggest travesty of our lifetime.”
“This appears to be escalating very rapidly.”
United nations has evacuated.
My thoughts turn to my brother.
“It’s getting ridiculous, it’s getting bad.”
“My cousin…”
People’s faces are slack, pale.
My greatest fear, justified, is that right now someone’s finger is hovering over a big red button.
“My son’s school is across the street.”
The secretary is frantically ransacking her desk, crying. I hear shuffling and sniffles.
“I can’t get through.”
“Hello, Fred McConkey’s office” (That was me.)
“This is his brother, is he in?”
“No.” (Me)
“Is this unusual?”
“I don’t know.” (Me.)
“He lives in Greenwich Village, is he safe there?”
“Yes, I live there, he’s out of immediate danger.” (Me.)
“Okay, thanks, take care.”
“Did he leave a number? DID HE LEAVE A NUMBER?” (The secretary, looking for her son, who goes to school next door to the WTC.)
“Two more planes just hit the South Tower!”
No one is working but the secretaries, who are frantically fielding phone calls from family.
I hear a radio in the background. I want to turn on mine but was yelled at for doing so.
I’m getting news now that the building has collapsed.
“If we haven’t declared war, someone is at war with us.”
“We’re getting reports of a suspicious airplane.”
“The capitol was bombed—car bomb at state department.”
“I think they just bombed a building in Jersey.”
The second building just fell. I saw this one live on a black and white TV.
“Part of the Pentagon has collapsed.”
“Large plane crashed in West Pennsylvania.”
“Hijacked plane circling Virginia.”
Suddenly this is starting to feel very, very real. Just yesterday I was telling someone how cool it was to see the Twin Towers and Empire State from my street.
Second plane heading for Pentagon.
People are walking over the Brooklyn Bridge to get out of The City.
This is not real. This is real. This is not real.
Nervous tittering. Hysterical laughter.
I’m afraid the [bu]fire will spread. We’re only a mile or two away from there.
Again I fear for my brother.
I hear war cries everywhere.
This is a terrible day to forget my cigarettes.
Shawn is okay, according to Craig. I just can’t reach her.
MoMA was evacuated.
Soot has reached Canal St., which is at Ludlow.
Amazing that I could think of it at a time like this, but I am afraid I won’t be able to get work.
People are growing numb.
“What about Charles? Charles works in the Trade Center?”
Thank god I wasn’t temping there today.
I think of the plane passengers—I think many do.
“Taliban news conference soon.”
People are [assaying] assigning blame.
This will change everything.
I’ve heard Palestinians are celebrating in the streets.
Almost everyone around me knows someone who is dead.
“The mayor witnessed people jumping from windows when he arrived at the World Trade Center.”
We’ve been released from Bear Stearns. I’m going to get Shawn at MoMA, the streets are wild and we want to stick together.
Pay phone lines long, no cell phones working.
All [Arab] jewelry stores on 47th closed.
People huddled on sidewalks reading the FOX (electronic) news banner.
Bars are full of people, shoulder to shoulder.
People in the streets look stunned.
We have heard from Chirag, Cindy, Shannon, Jason. Still waiting to hear from Rae and Ian. (We would later find out all immediate family and friends survived.)
Fighter jets circle overhead, which rattles everyone’s nerves, but especially Shawn’s, since she heard the first fatal jet fly right over our apartment as if right on top of her, heard the explosion, called her dad when NPR cut out, and then heard the second explosion, louder. Craig told her what all of America has seen by now, the second plane flying directly into the WTC. She took a picture of the burning building, moments before it would stand for the last time. And so when planes fly overhead it makes her a bit nervous. (This condition has persisted, for both of us.)
Jennifer and Jordan’s. (Shawn’s cousins. We were afraid to go back to our apartment, as the fires were still raging.) I envy Olivia. At age one she has spent the last half hour playing with blocks, blissfully unaware of today’s events.
The streets are empty, it’s like a ghost town. No traffic anywhere, especially (heading) downtown—eerie. I just walked across Broadway. (Without having to pause for traffic, since there was none. This is the rarest of all New York experiences.) Radio City has its lights off (also very rare), Rockefeller closed, everything closed with the exception of a few restaurants and bars.
After visiting Cindy and waiting for the fire to die down a bit we walked through the nearly empty streets to St. Patrick’s Cathedral on 5th and 51st St., the only busy place in the city. Shawn went inside to light a prayer candle and I watched a news conference with some religious authority figure (on the front steps) outside.
We took the S Train home—the subways were free to ride. I feel like I’m in an altered dimension. It is easy to watch this disaster on TV, but very hard to see the plumes of smoke live as we walk down the street, burning buildings and buried people. It is very sad for us. (And we both cried openly on the street, just totally fucking overwhelmed. Curse words were the most frequently used modifiers today, by all.)
The police are (on every corner and) in riot gear. Looting is always an unfortunate factor in situations such as this.
We spent the rest of the evening catching up with family via the jammed phone lines. Neither of us can imagine what tomorrow may bring. Neither of us can fathom sleeping tonight.
I met George, a neighbor. He offered me a Valium, which I refused, but he looked awful happy with his dose.
“They flew a fucking plane through the World Trade Center.”
This is real. This is not real. This is real.
Tuesday, September 11th, 2001
Of course, I write this entry with a heavy heart. Usually when I relay my writing from paper to print, a certain amount of editing is done. Today, I will copy my entry exactly as I wrote it in my journal because it clearly shows the chaos and panic infused in each second. There were two TV’s, several radios, and a few working internet lines and phone lines where my information was coming from--so much of it is incorrect now. The quotes are overheard conversations. All errors are in brackets. After-the-fact commentary is in parenthesis.
Well, if this isn’t a journaling opportunity, I don’t know what is. For once this is outside of my experience.
On my way to work this morning [saw] as I hit 47th and Madison, someone yells, “My God! The World Trade Center is on fire!” I looked up and stopped dead in the middle of the street gaping, every hair on my body on end.
When I got to Bear Stearns the news was flooding in—people were panicking, calling wives, friends, all huddled around one office TV.
On the radio the panic was evident, all airports, bridges and tunnels were closed, rumor of hijacking spread, I wondered if the 737 had people on it.
The sight is still with me, my heart remains somewhere digesting in my stomach, to see such an immense building the fire and smoke was tremendous from some 50 [?] blocks away. I wondered why I heard no sirens, then when I got to work I found that it happened just minutes before I saw it. (I witnessed the event at 8:55am, right between the two plane crashes). The ambulances had yet to respond.
I hope everyone at the trade center was late for work today, but I know this to be impossible.
The radio broadcasters are panicked and spreading panic blaming Guiliani, blaming FAA, calling on the president, calling for war.
The sirens are constant now.
I'm at Bear Stearns—no one is working, the market is closed, our Internet, which runs through the trade center, is down, the phones ring but no one answers, we’re all in shock.
The sirens are constant.
“My wife is…”
“My sister is…”
“My ______ is…”
“…working there today.”
“I can’t get through!”
“The Pentagon is closed.”
“The White House is evacuating.”
“I saw it on TV. The second plane, it went right through the floor!”
“I can’t work. John, I’m going home, my husband…I can’t work. I CANNOT WORK! It’s too creepy.”
“The whole city is shut down. Good luck, then.”
“Okay, bye.”
People are in shock, people are crying on the radio. The Pentagon was hit by a plane now. People are calling for a nuclear strike.
This is out of hand.
“The biggest travesty of our lifetime.”
“This appears to be escalating very rapidly.”
United nations has evacuated.
My thoughts turn to my brother.
“It’s getting ridiculous, it’s getting bad.”
“My cousin…”
People’s faces are slack, pale.
My greatest fear, justified, is that right now someone’s finger is hovering over a big red button.
“My son’s school is across the street.”
The secretary is frantically ransacking her desk, crying. I hear shuffling and sniffles.
“I can’t get through.”
“Hello, Fred McConkey’s office” (That was me.)
“This is his brother, is he in?”
“No.” (Me)
“Is this unusual?”
“I don’t know.” (Me.)
“He lives in Greenwich Village, is he safe there?”
“Yes, I live there, he’s out of immediate danger.” (Me.)
“Okay, thanks, take care.”
“Did he leave a number? DID HE LEAVE A NUMBER?” (The secretary, looking for her son, who goes to school next door to the WTC.)
“Two more planes just hit the South Tower!”
No one is working but the secretaries, who are frantically fielding phone calls from family.
I hear a radio in the background. I want to turn on mine but was yelled at for doing so.
I’m getting news now that the building has collapsed.
“If we haven’t declared war, someone is at war with us.”
“We’re getting reports of a suspicious airplane.”
“The capitol was bombed—car bomb at state department.”
“I think they just bombed a building in Jersey.”
The second building just fell. I saw this one live on a black and white TV.
“Part of the Pentagon has collapsed.”
“Large plane crashed in West Pennsylvania.”
“Hijacked plane circling Virginia.”
Suddenly this is starting to feel very, very real. Just yesterday I was telling someone how cool it was to see the Twin Towers and Empire State from my street.
Second plane heading for Pentagon.
People are walking over the Brooklyn Bridge to get out of The City.
This is not real. This is real. This is not real.
Nervous tittering. Hysterical laughter.
I’m afraid the [bu]fire will spread. We’re only a mile or two away from there.
Again I fear for my brother.
I hear war cries everywhere.
This is a terrible day to forget my cigarettes.
Shawn is okay, according to Craig. I just can’t reach her.
MoMA was evacuated.
Soot has reached Canal St., which is at Ludlow.
Amazing that I could think of it at a time like this, but I am afraid I won’t be able to get work.
People are growing numb.
“What about Charles? Charles works in the Trade Center?”
Thank god I wasn’t temping there today.
I think of the plane passengers—I think many do.
“Taliban news conference soon.”
People are [assaying] assigning blame.
This will change everything.
I’ve heard Palestinians are celebrating in the streets.
Almost everyone around me knows someone who is dead.
“The mayor witnessed people jumping from windows when he arrived at the World Trade Center.”
We’ve been released from Bear Stearns. I’m going to get Shawn at MoMA, the streets are wild and we want to stick together.
Pay phone lines long, no cell phones working.
All [Arab] jewelry stores on 47th closed.
People huddled on sidewalks reading the FOX (electronic) news banner.
Bars are full of people, shoulder to shoulder.
People in the streets look stunned.
We have heard from Chirag, Cindy, Shannon, Jason. Still waiting to hear from Rae and Ian. (We would later find out all immediate family and friends survived.)
Fighter jets circle overhead, which rattles everyone’s nerves, but especially Shawn’s, since she heard the first fatal jet fly right over our apartment as if right on top of her, heard the explosion, called her dad when NPR cut out, and then heard the second explosion, louder. Craig told her what all of America has seen by now, the second plane flying directly into the WTC. She took a picture of the burning building, moments before it would stand for the last time. And so when planes fly overhead it makes her a bit nervous. (This condition has persisted, for both of us.)
Jennifer and Jordan’s. (Shawn’s cousins. We were afraid to go back to our apartment, as the fires were still raging.) I envy Olivia. At age one she has spent the last half hour playing with blocks, blissfully unaware of today’s events.
The streets are empty, it’s like a ghost town. No traffic anywhere, especially (heading) downtown—eerie. I just walked across Broadway. (Without having to pause for traffic, since there was none. This is the rarest of all New York experiences.) Radio City has its lights off (also very rare), Rockefeller closed, everything closed with the exception of a few restaurants and bars.
After visiting Cindy and waiting for the fire to die down a bit we walked through the nearly empty streets to St. Patrick’s Cathedral on 5th and 51st St., the only busy place in the city. Shawn went inside to light a prayer candle and I watched a news conference with some religious authority figure (on the front steps) outside.
We took the S Train home—the subways were free to ride. I feel like I’m in an altered dimension. It is easy to watch this disaster on TV, but very hard to see the plumes of smoke live as we walk down the street, burning buildings and buried people. It is very sad for us. (And we both cried openly on the street, just totally fucking overwhelmed. Curse words were the most frequently used modifiers today, by all.)
The police are (on every corner and) in riot gear. Looting is always an unfortunate factor in situations such as this.
We spent the rest of the evening catching up with family via the jammed phone lines. Neither of us can imagine what tomorrow may bring. Neither of us can fathom sleeping tonight.
I met George, a neighbor. He offered me a Valium, which I refused, but he looked awful happy with his dose.
“They flew a fucking plane through the World Trade Center.”
This is real. This is not real. This is real.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Trash Duty
Whenever I take Reilly to the local playgrounds, she typically plays on the equipment for a maximum of twenty minutes before deciding that the local flora and fauna are much more interesting. As she roams the grassy areas surrounding the playground, she often stops to pick up bits of trash that were carelessly dropped by other children (and their accompanying adults).
Typically, I'll take each piece of litter as Reilly hands it to me, put it into my pocket, and then throw out the lot when we return home. Yesterday, just as an experiment, I took a photo of all the items before throwing them away:
Clockwise from the right: empty CapriSun juice box, cigarette butt (the item most often picked up by my daughter), a torn snack wrapper, a candy wrapper, and one blue balloon, orange ribbon still attached. Choking hazards abound!
Typically, I'll take each piece of litter as Reilly hands it to me, put it into my pocket, and then throw out the lot when we return home. Yesterday, just as an experiment, I took a photo of all the items before throwing them away:
Clockwise from the right: empty CapriSun juice box, cigarette butt (the item most often picked up by my daughter), a torn snack wrapper, a candy wrapper, and one blue balloon, orange ribbon still attached. Choking hazards abound!Saturday, September 9, 2006
Week 61 Pictures
This week's pictues are now up at the Smugmug site. Click here to see Reilly eating a lemon, wearing pearls, and staring at the sea.
Friday, September 8, 2006
The Lemon Takes Flight
Throughout the summer in Florida, the Tampa Bay area gets thunderstorms with torrential rain--like clockwork--every afternoon. With the exception of a few years of el nino (or was it la nina?) the afternoon thunderstorms have been a fixture in my life since I was a boy. In fact, while I lived in New York City, I often found myself feeling nostalgic for these storms.
Oddly, for the last three days, it has rained ALL DAY. The weather patterns remind me of New England in the spring. Grey all day. Sprinkles of rain interspersed with downpours. Once again, I find myself waxing nostalgic for those rapid, powerful, and BRIEF afternoon thunderstorms of old.
The big problem with the wet weather is that I can't take Reilly outside. We typically go out three to four times per day, so cutting that down to a quick rush outside between rain clouds has put quite a damper on both of our moods. Reilly had so much pent up energy yesterday that I thougth she would explode. She was getting into everything, just tearing the house to pieces.
At one point she crawled up on the coffee table and stood there, smiling at me, defiant. I gave her the whole "no, no, no" routine and redirected her attention to her stroller. She turned right back around and climbed the table once again. This battle of wills went on for a few more rounds, at which point I swept Reilly up, stuck her in her highchair, and pulled her into the kitchen so that she could watch me prep dinner. (This was intended to be a form of punishment.)
Surprisingly, she seemed to enjoy the distraction. I gave her some Veggie Booty to keep her quiet and went to work. At one point, I was slicing a lemon, and she started pointing and whining at me, so I de-seeded a slice and gave it to her (but not before recognizing my duty to the blog and grabbing my camera).
Here is Reilly's first bite of lemon, in five frames:
Oddly, for the last three days, it has rained ALL DAY. The weather patterns remind me of New England in the spring. Grey all day. Sprinkles of rain interspersed with downpours. Once again, I find myself waxing nostalgic for those rapid, powerful, and BRIEF afternoon thunderstorms of old.
The big problem with the wet weather is that I can't take Reilly outside. We typically go out three to four times per day, so cutting that down to a quick rush outside between rain clouds has put quite a damper on both of our moods. Reilly had so much pent up energy yesterday that I thougth she would explode. She was getting into everything, just tearing the house to pieces.
At one point she crawled up on the coffee table and stood there, smiling at me, defiant. I gave her the whole "no, no, no" routine and redirected her attention to her stroller. She turned right back around and climbed the table once again. This battle of wills went on for a few more rounds, at which point I swept Reilly up, stuck her in her highchair, and pulled her into the kitchen so that she could watch me prep dinner. (This was intended to be a form of punishment.)
Surprisingly, she seemed to enjoy the distraction. I gave her some Veggie Booty to keep her quiet and went to work. At one point, I was slicing a lemon, and she started pointing and whining at me, so I de-seeded a slice and gave it to her (but not before recognizing my duty to the blog and grabbing my camera).
Here is Reilly's first bite of lemon, in five frames:
Reilly considers the lemon.
Reilly bites the lemon.
Reilly's initial reaction to the sourness.
Reilly's second reaction to the sourness.
The lemon takes flight.
Thursday, September 7, 2006
From the Archives: September 7, 2001 - Age 25
(What interested me about this entry, and the reason I'm posting it, is how amazingly free our lives were the first year we lived in New York City. With Reilly, our lives are so different--but no less amazing.)
One of the topics that Shawn and I have conversed on lately is that of the people who hand out flyers on the streets of The City. They all have various techniques, and some are more successful than others. These men and women (and children too) hand out flyers offering a variety of products, from clothing sales to bands that are playing. Some we see every day, like the girl who hands out pink slips of paper in front of her father’s jewelry store (at least, that is the story we’ve built around her).
There are many different colors and shapes of the flyers; most are either plain white or some fluorescent color, like pink or yellow. There are also many different techniques for handing out a flyer. Some people are timid and just turn out their wrist from their sides, while the people on the other end of the spectrum fully extend their arms and snap their wrists at you. Some stand still, some dance, some walk with you. The occasional person will approach you, tell you what the flyer offers, and then hand you one. Establishing this rapport is successful, but not time efficient. So, after careful study, I have devised the ultimate way to hand out a flyer. Flyer hander-outers take notice:
1) Though neon is more visible, I hate it. Especially fluorescent pink. I think most people will agree. So, screw the visibility—use white paper with black type, card stock. People will be less inclined to throw away a classy piece of white card stock than a cheap, thin piece of eye burning yellow paper.
2) Full arm extension, with a wrist snap. The paper should make a rustling noise, which will draw a person’s attention to the article.
3) Eye contact, when possible. This is the most time effective way to build a rapport.
4) Speaking of which, 99% of the people who we encounter handing out flyers, do NOT tell you what is on the flyer. So, the final, and critical rule here is to cry your wares, 19th century style. If people know what you’re offering, they’ll take a flyer.
Now, maybe these people don’t cry their wares because they’re selling pig ears. Or maybe they’re getting paid by the hour, and don’t really want to give away their flyers, because then they’d be out of work. That’s what I’m doing now, after all—writing in my journal when I should be working, trying to fill time because yesterday I almost finished what it was supposed to take me two full days to do.
After lunch Shawn and I (we are both temping at MoMA, but in different departments) got coffee at Au Croissant, an awesome cafeteria-style café with dirt-cheap goods. For example, our café au lait is $1.05, and no, it is not a thimble full of coffee. There are croissants, cookies, and all kinds of pastries for less than $2. The reason they keep their prices so cheap is because the place does brisk business at all hours. Now, other than the unusually cheap prices, there is another point of interest about the place. Though it is labeled as a French Café, the cooks are Asian and the cashiers say “Gracias” after you place your order. Very international. Very New York.
Since my job ended at 1pm, I read in Rockefeller Plaza for several hours, at one point interrupted from my studies by a black man crowing. Yes, imagine the sound the bird makes and put it in this man’s mouth, turn up the volume and set it on repeat. He even wore three feathers on the front of his ball cap. Everyone hated him. This was my second experience with The Crow, and though he is noteworthy, and decidedly a New Yorker, I didn’t much care for him either. Had he not he not crowed to draw attention to himself, no one would have noticed him. Perhaps that is why he did it. Well.
After Shawn got off work we decided to walk to the Met (Metropolitan Museum) for a drink at the rooftop garden. The walk to the museum was beautiful, up 5th Ave., along the east side of the park, tree-lined, cool breeze, cloudless sky—distinctly pre-fall. But before we even reached the park we saw a foot-traffic stopping sight on 5th Ave. I would have missed it if the two gay guys in front of me hadn’t stopped to gawk. In the two storefront windows on either side of the entrance were two bathtubs with two towel-clad models pseudo-bathing. I looked at the left, a young lady washing her arm, while the gay guys looked to the right, a handsome fella scrubbing his back. I don’t know what they were selling, but they certainly were getting the attention they wanted, as a crowd was gathering. After getting an eyeful, we walked on to the Met.
The view from the rooftop was incredible, the trees of Central Park so green and blanketing the activity beneath—all framed by the New York City skyline on three sides. After our drink, we strolled away feeling refreshed and relaxed, and took the 6 Train to Astor Place.
There we ate dinner at a Hawaiian joint called Marion's. Shawn liked it for the name, of course, (that's her middle name) but the food was very good and the martini’s cheap.
After dinner we finished our evening at the home base, Liam was working the bar, and working hard, as he was by himself on a Friday night (this makes my analogy from an entry ago more relevant than I had intended). We sat and watched him work; we talked, debated, and people watched. We talked quite a bit with Deanna, a girl who was helping out Liam and who also designed the website for the Keltic Lounge. She took a quote from us to add, “The BEST jukebox in The Entire City!” (It’s true.) We also chatted with two underage girls from Israel, who were going on a tour of the US. I tried to talk politics with them, but they were rather dull. I expected more converstion and personality from world travelers. Maybe they were just shy.
We walked home arm in arm, very merry.
One of the topics that Shawn and I have conversed on lately is that of the people who hand out flyers on the streets of The City. They all have various techniques, and some are more successful than others. These men and women (and children too) hand out flyers offering a variety of products, from clothing sales to bands that are playing. Some we see every day, like the girl who hands out pink slips of paper in front of her father’s jewelry store (at least, that is the story we’ve built around her).
There are many different colors and shapes of the flyers; most are either plain white or some fluorescent color, like pink or yellow. There are also many different techniques for handing out a flyer. Some people are timid and just turn out their wrist from their sides, while the people on the other end of the spectrum fully extend their arms and snap their wrists at you. Some stand still, some dance, some walk with you. The occasional person will approach you, tell you what the flyer offers, and then hand you one. Establishing this rapport is successful, but not time efficient. So, after careful study, I have devised the ultimate way to hand out a flyer. Flyer hander-outers take notice:
1) Though neon is more visible, I hate it. Especially fluorescent pink. I think most people will agree. So, screw the visibility—use white paper with black type, card stock. People will be less inclined to throw away a classy piece of white card stock than a cheap, thin piece of eye burning yellow paper.
2) Full arm extension, with a wrist snap. The paper should make a rustling noise, which will draw a person’s attention to the article.
3) Eye contact, when possible. This is the most time effective way to build a rapport.
4) Speaking of which, 99% of the people who we encounter handing out flyers, do NOT tell you what is on the flyer. So, the final, and critical rule here is to cry your wares, 19th century style. If people know what you’re offering, they’ll take a flyer.
Now, maybe these people don’t cry their wares because they’re selling pig ears. Or maybe they’re getting paid by the hour, and don’t really want to give away their flyers, because then they’d be out of work. That’s what I’m doing now, after all—writing in my journal when I should be working, trying to fill time because yesterday I almost finished what it was supposed to take me two full days to do.
After lunch Shawn and I (we are both temping at MoMA, but in different departments) got coffee at Au Croissant, an awesome cafeteria-style café with dirt-cheap goods. For example, our café au lait is $1.05, and no, it is not a thimble full of coffee. There are croissants, cookies, and all kinds of pastries for less than $2. The reason they keep their prices so cheap is because the place does brisk business at all hours. Now, other than the unusually cheap prices, there is another point of interest about the place. Though it is labeled as a French Café, the cooks are Asian and the cashiers say “Gracias” after you place your order. Very international. Very New York.
Since my job ended at 1pm, I read in Rockefeller Plaza for several hours, at one point interrupted from my studies by a black man crowing. Yes, imagine the sound the bird makes and put it in this man’s mouth, turn up the volume and set it on repeat. He even wore three feathers on the front of his ball cap. Everyone hated him. This was my second experience with The Crow, and though he is noteworthy, and decidedly a New Yorker, I didn’t much care for him either. Had he not he not crowed to draw attention to himself, no one would have noticed him. Perhaps that is why he did it. Well.
After Shawn got off work we decided to walk to the Met (Metropolitan Museum) for a drink at the rooftop garden. The walk to the museum was beautiful, up 5th Ave., along the east side of the park, tree-lined, cool breeze, cloudless sky—distinctly pre-fall. But before we even reached the park we saw a foot-traffic stopping sight on 5th Ave. I would have missed it if the two gay guys in front of me hadn’t stopped to gawk. In the two storefront windows on either side of the entrance were two bathtubs with two towel-clad models pseudo-bathing. I looked at the left, a young lady washing her arm, while the gay guys looked to the right, a handsome fella scrubbing his back. I don’t know what they were selling, but they certainly were getting the attention they wanted, as a crowd was gathering. After getting an eyeful, we walked on to the Met.
The view from the rooftop was incredible, the trees of Central Park so green and blanketing the activity beneath—all framed by the New York City skyline on three sides. After our drink, we strolled away feeling refreshed and relaxed, and took the 6 Train to Astor Place.
There we ate dinner at a Hawaiian joint called Marion's. Shawn liked it for the name, of course, (that's her middle name) but the food was very good and the martini’s cheap.
After dinner we finished our evening at the home base, Liam was working the bar, and working hard, as he was by himself on a Friday night (this makes my analogy from an entry ago more relevant than I had intended). We sat and watched him work; we talked, debated, and people watched. We talked quite a bit with Deanna, a girl who was helping out Liam and who also designed the website for the Keltic Lounge. She took a quote from us to add, “The BEST jukebox in The Entire City!” (It’s true.) We also chatted with two underage girls from Israel, who were going on a tour of the US. I tried to talk politics with them, but they were rather dull. I expected more converstion and personality from world travelers. Maybe they were just shy.
We walked home arm in arm, very merry.
Wednesday, September 6, 2006
Pat, Pat, Pat
As I mentioned in a previous entry, we “sleep trained” Reilly using the methods outlined in this this book, by the Sleep Lady. One of the techniques put forth within its covers is to never lay your baby down in the crib, but rather to place her in the crib and pat the mattress next to her. The idea is that this technique teaches the child to put herself down, instead of you forcing her to do it. It’s a smart idea.
Last night I put Reilly in her crib, and she popped right back up. Remembering the wisdom of the Sleep Lady, I put my hand through the slats of the crib and patted the mattress. After a few moments, Reilly eased her way down next to my hand. However, instead of closing her eyes and going to sleep, she reached out her little hand and started patting the mattress too. Pat, pat, pat on the pink sheet, as sweet as can be.
Last night I put Reilly in her crib, and she popped right back up. Remembering the wisdom of the Sleep Lady, I put my hand through the slats of the crib and patted the mattress. After a few moments, Reilly eased her way down next to my hand. However, instead of closing her eyes and going to sleep, she reached out her little hand and started patting the mattress too. Pat, pat, pat on the pink sheet, as sweet as can be.
Tuesday, September 5, 2006
Thanks, and, How the Lucky Outfit Won the Game
Thanks to all my readers who have posted comments and sent emails of encouragement in response to my blog from Sunday. I've found great solace in reading the child-related injury stories of other parents. To my daughter and all of the children: may you forgive us.
Thanks also to Amy for highlighting my entry on the Daily Dose, and to Club Mom for providing such a service to all the parent-bloggers out there.
On a lighter note, we put Reilly into a "game day outfit" yesterday of our alma mater. The Seminoles won. Little does Reilly know, she'll now have to wear that outift every Saturday the 'Noles play, to keep the good luck streak alive. (Because you all know it was the outfit that won the game.)
Thanks also to Amy for highlighting my entry on the Daily Dose, and to Club Mom for providing such a service to all the parent-bloggers out there.
On a lighter note, we put Reilly into a "game day outfit" yesterday of our alma mater. The Seminoles won. Little does Reilly know, she'll now have to wear that outift every Saturday the 'Noles play, to keep the good luck streak alive. (Because you all know it was the outfit that won the game.)
Sunday, September 3, 2006
The Fool
When Reilly was first born, I was afraid that she would suddenly die from SIDS, some unknown heart defect, or other hidden ailment. Reilly’s arrival had reopened my eyes to the fragileness of our existence, and how with all the dangers that come with just walking out the door, and all the random circumstance in life, we just choose to fool ourselves into believing we are safe. That it won’t happen to us. This anxiety did not go away in the first week or even the first month, but instead lessened in little increments each day. Then one day, without realizing it, the fear was gone, and I was once again under my self-imposed shield of false security.
As Reilly learned to walk, I began to worry again, this time fearing a serious injury, but as with before, this fear slowly eased until it was gone. Reilly did get a few bumps and bruises and bit her lip a few times, but these injuries did not stoke my fears, but rather quashed them. See, I told myself, she will fall, but she will not break.
For the most part, Reilly is a very agile walker, always falling to her diaper-padded bum, able to navigate stairs, doorjambs and cracks in the sidewalk. The beauty of her agility is that I don’t have to follow her around the house any longer. As long as she is within eyesight, I can tap out a blog entry on the computer, or watch a little television, and not have to concern myself with her falling and hurting herself. You might say that I relaxed. Or, you might say that I got lackadaisical.
Friday afternoon, at about 3:00pm, Shawn and I decided we would take Reilly to tour a local daycare. Since my shirt was wrinkled, and since it is well known by all daycare workers that fathers in wrinkled shirts are bad fathers, I took out the ironing board. When I turned my back to get the iron, Reilly fell into the ironing board, hitting her mouth on one of the screws that holds the contraption together.
There was much screaming and much blood. There was so much blood in Reilly’s mouth that we couldn’t really determine what had happened, but we were quite sure that one of her teeth might be missing. After staunching the bleeding and placing a hurried call, we left to visit our new pediatrician. By then, Reilly’s lip was quite swollen, but she was walking around the waiting room like nothing ever happened. She is, and remains, the bounce back baby.
As we sat at the doctor, through all my guilt, I was writing this blog in my head. All I could think was how sometimes you look for blogs, and sometimes, the blogs come looking for you.
The guilt though, the guilt. As it was the day I clipped Reilly’s finger instead of her fingernail, woe to the father who is responsible for hurting his little girl. Oh, I know, accidents happen, you’re a good father, blah, blah, blah, but what it boils down to is that I’m the one who put down the ironing board right next to Reilly, and I’m the one who turned my back on the situation. It happened on my watch. I’m responsible.
The doctor let us know that she didn’t actually lose the tooth. It just got jammed all the way back up into her gums. “See,” she said pushing Reilly’s fat lip up with a tongue depressor, “it’s still there.” She then explained that yes, it would grow back in, but it would probably be brown or grey in color. When I asked how long it would be until the adult tooth came in, she told me “five years.”
A little brown tooth will be my reminder then—for the next five years—of the day that I took my eye off my daughter, and how she tripped and smashed her face into the ironing board, her red blood reminding me that she is human—that we all are—and that life is not to be trifled with, not for a second.
As Reilly learned to walk, I began to worry again, this time fearing a serious injury, but as with before, this fear slowly eased until it was gone. Reilly did get a few bumps and bruises and bit her lip a few times, but these injuries did not stoke my fears, but rather quashed them. See, I told myself, she will fall, but she will not break.
For the most part, Reilly is a very agile walker, always falling to her diaper-padded bum, able to navigate stairs, doorjambs and cracks in the sidewalk. The beauty of her agility is that I don’t have to follow her around the house any longer. As long as she is within eyesight, I can tap out a blog entry on the computer, or watch a little television, and not have to concern myself with her falling and hurting herself. You might say that I relaxed. Or, you might say that I got lackadaisical.
Friday afternoon, at about 3:00pm, Shawn and I decided we would take Reilly to tour a local daycare. Since my shirt was wrinkled, and since it is well known by all daycare workers that fathers in wrinkled shirts are bad fathers, I took out the ironing board. When I turned my back to get the iron, Reilly fell into the ironing board, hitting her mouth on one of the screws that holds the contraption together.
There was much screaming and much blood. There was so much blood in Reilly’s mouth that we couldn’t really determine what had happened, but we were quite sure that one of her teeth might be missing. After staunching the bleeding and placing a hurried call, we left to visit our new pediatrician. By then, Reilly’s lip was quite swollen, but she was walking around the waiting room like nothing ever happened. She is, and remains, the bounce back baby.
As we sat at the doctor, through all my guilt, I was writing this blog in my head. All I could think was how sometimes you look for blogs, and sometimes, the blogs come looking for you.
The guilt though, the guilt. As it was the day I clipped Reilly’s finger instead of her fingernail, woe to the father who is responsible for hurting his little girl. Oh, I know, accidents happen, you’re a good father, blah, blah, blah, but what it boils down to is that I’m the one who put down the ironing board right next to Reilly, and I’m the one who turned my back on the situation. It happened on my watch. I’m responsible.
The doctor let us know that she didn’t actually lose the tooth. It just got jammed all the way back up into her gums. “See,” she said pushing Reilly’s fat lip up with a tongue depressor, “it’s still there.” She then explained that yes, it would grow back in, but it would probably be brown or grey in color. When I asked how long it would be until the adult tooth came in, she told me “five years.”
A little brown tooth will be my reminder then—for the next five years—of the day that I took my eye off my daughter, and how she tripped and smashed her face into the ironing board, her red blood reminding me that she is human—that we all are—and that life is not to be trifled with, not for a second.
Saturday, September 2, 2006
Week 60 Pictures
Reilly says, "Click here to see me hugging a tree, feeding myself yogurt, and being my usual cute self."
Friday, September 1, 2006
Here comes the airplane! Part II
If you'll remember from this previous post, I had mentioned how odd it was that my mouth automatically opens whenever I am spoon-feeding Reilly. I still can't tell if it is some sort of modeling instinct dictating that my jaws swing open or if there are other forces at work. (Perhaps a bit of sorcery mixed in with the Gerber pureed carrots?)
Anyway, as I was perusing some recent pictures Shawn took, I came across this one. Apparently, even our daughter is not immune to the gaping mouth syndrome.
Anyway, as I was perusing some recent pictures Shawn took, I came across this one. Apparently, even our daughter is not immune to the gaping mouth syndrome.
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