The mail at our house consists mostly of grocery store fliers, a few bills, credit card applications, and the occasional letter. But about once a week we'll receive a Netflix mailer with a new movie or television show in it. My wife and I don’t always have the same taste in entertainment, so there is usually some negotiation involved. We can usually find something we’re both interested in, but there are some film genres she simply cannot abide.
Last week saw the arrival of the new Star Trek DVD, and I couldn’t have been more excited to watch it. Her reaction, however, was less enthusiastic:
“Well, I guess tonight is Geek Night”, or something to that effect.
Well, yeah. I’m a geek, but she knew that before she married me. She didn’t mind so much back in graduate school, when she needed help with her with statistics homework. Thing is, you don’t get the Statistics Help without the Star Trek Love. It’s the Full Package. I think she understands and accepts this, up to a point, but when I asked her to watch Star Trek with me, no dice.
“C’mon. You might like it. There’s some really good looking actors in it. You know that guy who plays the villain in ‘Heroes’? He's Spock.”
Stupid me, but “Heroes” wasn’t helping my cause. She’s more the “Ugly Betty”, “Grey’s Anatomy” demographic. If only they’d cast America Ferrera as Nurse Chapel, I might have had a shot.
And Grey’s Anatomy? Now there’s a show I should like, but no. It’s set in my native Seattle, in a hospital staffed primarily with gorgeous women, and I enjoy medical dramas (ER was a mainstay with us for years). But the vapid, soap opera melodrama just leaves me cold. Maybe if they performed all their surgeries topless, I’d watch.
This week, “Terminator Salvation” came in the mail. I’m a little worried that someday my wife will realize she can log into our Netflix account and modify the queue any time she wants to. Then it’ll be “Made of Honor” and “Julie and Julia” for me. Oh well... I wonder if Julia Child ever cooked in the nude?
Friday, December 4, 2009
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Social Transitions
There was a time when I used to pride myself on my punctuality. Now I’m happy when I’m only an hour late, and with relatively few visible puke stains on my clothing. This is just one of the ways that parenthood is like being an alcoholic. Unfortunately, such tardiness has put a damper on our social lives. Movies? Plays? Drinks? Fine dining? Fuggedaboutit! (Hmm…which sounds dumber? White boys from the Pacific Northwest trying to sound like NJ Mafia or LA Gangbangers? That’s a quandary, fo’ shizzle).
These days, it’s mostly 4pm get-togethers with other parents of infants. These are folks who aren’t turned off by discussions of diaper services vs. disposables, swimming lessons, teething, and who understand that socializing must end by approximately 7pm, at which time our precious little bundles of joy turn into levitating, head-rotating, pea-soup spitting little demons.
These are good people, and I really enjoy their company. It’s just that I see myself turning into a kind of person I never wanted to be – someone incapable of carrying on a conversation about anything other than my own kid. Oh, sure, my F.W.K.s (friends without kids) are very polite, and some will even add sweet little comments to my endless stream of Facebook photo albums depicting “Baby’s Latest Bowel Movement”. But somewhere in the back of my mind I can’t help but wonder if they’re not just a little bit turned off by this new me.
And so I make it a point to try to keep up on current events and to discuss interesting adult topics with my friends whenever possible. Take the senate health care debates, for example. This is an important topic. I can’t imagine how bad off my family would be without health care insurance. Every American family should have coverage, regardless of employment status. Our daughter has her one year well baby check up tomorrow afternoon. She was at the 60th percentile for height and the 80th percentile for head circumference at her last appointment. Hopefully tomorrow she’ll hit 90th percentile. I feel sorry for all those poor tiny head babies with no health insurance. Congress needs to get their acts together.
These days, it’s mostly 4pm get-togethers with other parents of infants. These are folks who aren’t turned off by discussions of diaper services vs. disposables, swimming lessons, teething, and who understand that socializing must end by approximately 7pm, at which time our precious little bundles of joy turn into levitating, head-rotating, pea-soup spitting little demons.
These are good people, and I really enjoy their company. It’s just that I see myself turning into a kind of person I never wanted to be – someone incapable of carrying on a conversation about anything other than my own kid. Oh, sure, my F.W.K.s (friends without kids) are very polite, and some will even add sweet little comments to my endless stream of Facebook photo albums depicting “Baby’s Latest Bowel Movement”. But somewhere in the back of my mind I can’t help but wonder if they’re not just a little bit turned off by this new me.
And so I make it a point to try to keep up on current events and to discuss interesting adult topics with my friends whenever possible. Take the senate health care debates, for example. This is an important topic. I can’t imagine how bad off my family would be without health care insurance. Every American family should have coverage, regardless of employment status. Our daughter has her one year well baby check up tomorrow afternoon. She was at the 60th percentile for height and the 80th percentile for head circumference at her last appointment. Hopefully tomorrow she’ll hit 90th percentile. I feel sorry for all those poor tiny head babies with no health insurance. Congress needs to get their acts together.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Voldemort Lives
There are certain words for dads that don’t fit together comfortably within the same sentence. “Daughter” and “vagina” come to mind. It’s not that I’m a prude, exactly. It’s just that I’m not entirely comfortable with the fact that she has one.
My wife overheard this process, and gave me quite the hard time about it. Our daughter doesn’t need to grow up with some hang up or shame about her anatomy. And I couldn’t agree with her more. But the baby doesn’t have the hang up…it’s her father.
I think it’s because for men, the vagina is such a sexual organ, and most fathers aren’t too comfortable with the notion of their own daughters as sexual individuals. Of course I want her to grow up to be a happy, healthy, strong woman, responsible for her own orgasm, and all that jazz. I just don’t want to have to know about it.
So my wife and I reached an agreement. Now, when giving my daughter a bath, it’s no longer “that place which may not be mentioned”. It’s her Voldemort.
But a buddy of mine pointed out that this may some day make for awkward conversation at the doctor’s office:
Doctor: “Well, Baby’s all checked out. Everything’s healthy.
Dumb Father: “What about down there?”
Doctor: “Where?”
Dumb Father: “You know, doc, what about down there?”
Doctor: “Oh, her Voldemort? Yep, that’s fine too.”
Recently I was giving our 10 month old a bath, and as usual, I was talking to entertain her. This has become our routine.
“Okay, now it’s time to wash your hair…”
“And under your chin…”
“And your tummy…”
“Now your little bottom…”
“And now that place that Daddy can never mention…”
My wife overheard this process, and gave me quite the hard time about it. Our daughter doesn’t need to grow up with some hang up or shame about her anatomy. And I couldn’t agree with her more. But the baby doesn’t have the hang up…it’s her father.
I think it’s because for men, the vagina is such a sexual organ, and most fathers aren’t too comfortable with the notion of their own daughters as sexual individuals. Of course I want her to grow up to be a happy, healthy, strong woman, responsible for her own orgasm, and all that jazz. I just don’t want to have to know about it.
So my wife and I reached an agreement. Now, when giving my daughter a bath, it’s no longer “that place which may not be mentioned”. It’s her Voldemort.
But a buddy of mine pointed out that this may some day make for awkward conversation at the doctor’s office:
Doctor: “Well, Baby’s all checked out. Everything’s healthy.
Dumb Father: “What about down there?”
Doctor: “Where?”
Dumb Father: “You know, doc, what about down there?”
Doctor: “Oh, her Voldemort? Yep, that’s fine too.”
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Have you heard the one about the traveling salesman and the missionaries?
I don’t know whether it’s God, Allah, Jehovah, Gaia the Earth Mother, or just the universe in general, but I do know that somebody up there has a twisted sense of humor. Why else would innocent, well-meaning people with incompatible objectives be set upon colliding trajectories, if not for the sadistic amusement of a bored deity who just likes to watch?
Case in point: I was flying home from a work meeting in Chicago this week, exhausted and overtired, and as I waited to board my plane, I noticed a small group of young men and women, all of them about 18 or 19 years old, overdressed, and being shepherded around by a couple of older women. They were clearly part of some organized group, probably religious, and all of them looked excited and a bit overwhelmed for their impending travel.
Shortly after the group sat down to wait for their flight, another young man approached them. He seemed a little older and more experienced than they were, but not by much. I imagined him as a salesman of some kind, maybe 23 or 24 years old, new to his job, but clearly not anxious about flying. He caught my attention because of his amateurish, peacock-like strutting, obviously meant to gain the attention of two of the prettier girls within the group. But these girls were too excited about their impending trip to notice much else, even as he sat down right next to them.
These were beautiful young women, in an innocent, girl-next-door kind of way, and seemingly oblivious to his machinations. And the young man seemed far too inexperienced to realize he would have no chance with them. But as the dramedy began to unfold, I put down the Ian Fleming novel I’d been reading. This was much better.
It turned out that these girls were part of a Mormon Mission bound for Hong Kong. Their obvious anxiety about flying made me doubt they’d ever left Chicago before, but here they were, ready to start saving souls in the Far East. And what better feather for them than to have one in the bag before the plane had even taken off? And this boy was only too happy to listen to everything they had to say.
“Why sure, I’d love to see your copy of the Book of Mormon. Oh, you don’t have a spare? Well, let me give you my address so you can send me one. Here’s my phone number, too. Will you be stopping over in the San Francisco area? How long is your layover? Maybe you’d like me to show you around?”
These girls wanted nothing more than to save a gentile’s soul, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep with one, or possibly two pretty girls. But neither side was going to get their wish, not through any fault of their own. It’s just that life is like that sometimes.
My plane boarded before theirs, so I never heard the end of the affair, or which side tired first. The optimist in me would like to imagine they all got their happy endings. But life is compromise. Perhaps those girls are in Hong Kong now, doing good works for their church. And that boy has learned that the missionary position rarely involves real missionaries.
Case in point: I was flying home from a work meeting in Chicago this week, exhausted and overtired, and as I waited to board my plane, I noticed a small group of young men and women, all of them about 18 or 19 years old, overdressed, and being shepherded around by a couple of older women. They were clearly part of some organized group, probably religious, and all of them looked excited and a bit overwhelmed for their impending travel.
Shortly after the group sat down to wait for their flight, another young man approached them. He seemed a little older and more experienced than they were, but not by much. I imagined him as a salesman of some kind, maybe 23 or 24 years old, new to his job, but clearly not anxious about flying. He caught my attention because of his amateurish, peacock-like strutting, obviously meant to gain the attention of two of the prettier girls within the group. But these girls were too excited about their impending trip to notice much else, even as he sat down right next to them.
These were beautiful young women, in an innocent, girl-next-door kind of way, and seemingly oblivious to his machinations. And the young man seemed far too inexperienced to realize he would have no chance with them. But as the dramedy began to unfold, I put down the Ian Fleming novel I’d been reading. This was much better.
It turned out that these girls were part of a Mormon Mission bound for Hong Kong. Their obvious anxiety about flying made me doubt they’d ever left Chicago before, but here they were, ready to start saving souls in the Far East. And what better feather for them than to have one in the bag before the plane had even taken off? And this boy was only too happy to listen to everything they had to say.
“Why sure, I’d love to see your copy of the Book of Mormon. Oh, you don’t have a spare? Well, let me give you my address so you can send me one. Here’s my phone number, too. Will you be stopping over in the San Francisco area? How long is your layover? Maybe you’d like me to show you around?”
These girls wanted nothing more than to save a gentile’s soul, and he wanted nothing more than to sleep with one, or possibly two pretty girls. But neither side was going to get their wish, not through any fault of their own. It’s just that life is like that sometimes.
My plane boarded before theirs, so I never heard the end of the affair, or which side tired first. The optimist in me would like to imagine they all got their happy endings. But life is compromise. Perhaps those girls are in Hong Kong now, doing good works for their church. And that boy has learned that the missionary position rarely involves real missionaries.
Friday, October 16, 2009
"Do these pants look too small on me?"
My wife asked me this during a recent weekend string of errands that (unknown to me, beforehand) included a stop at the local Anne Taylor.
It's a deceptively difficult question, since the correct response is so obvious:
"No, Honey, you look amazing"
Knowing what to say is easy. The hard part is figuring out how long to pretend to think about it before saying it. Answering too quickly sounds condescending, dismissive, and will surely land you in trouble. But answering too slowly is worse. She'll assume you really do think she looks fat, and that you're struggling to find a diplomatic response. In which case you can forget about sex afterwards, which is the only reason straight men ever go shopping with their wives/girlfriends. Unless it’s for a new Weber barbecue at The Home Depot, but how often does that happen?
Personally, I prefer the tactic of deflection:
"Hmm… I don’t know. How do they look to you?"
This has the virtue of lacking any substantive evidence that might be held against me, yet still sounds sensitive and engaged. Women dig sensitive men, so it’s important to know how to fake it convincingly.
Better still is to arrange a date for her to go shopping with her friends. Buy her a gift card for a massage/manicure, arrange lunch for her with her girlfriends, and then off to Anne Taylor or whatever Godforsaken place they want.
You won’t have to be there, AND you’ll still be building sex creds.
Win and Win. Probably the best of all possible worlds, at least until the corporate merger between Anne Taylor and Home Depot.
It's a deceptively difficult question, since the correct response is so obvious:
"No, Honey, you look amazing"
Knowing what to say is easy. The hard part is figuring out how long to pretend to think about it before saying it. Answering too quickly sounds condescending, dismissive, and will surely land you in trouble. But answering too slowly is worse. She'll assume you really do think she looks fat, and that you're struggling to find a diplomatic response. In which case you can forget about sex afterwards, which is the only reason straight men ever go shopping with their wives/girlfriends. Unless it’s for a new Weber barbecue at The Home Depot, but how often does that happen?
Personally, I prefer the tactic of deflection:
"Hmm… I don’t know. How do they look to you?"
This has the virtue of lacking any substantive evidence that might be held against me, yet still sounds sensitive and engaged. Women dig sensitive men, so it’s important to know how to fake it convincingly.
Better still is to arrange a date for her to go shopping with her friends. Buy her a gift card for a massage/manicure, arrange lunch for her with her girlfriends, and then off to Anne Taylor or whatever Godforsaken place they want.
You won’t have to be there, AND you’ll still be building sex creds.
Win and Win. Probably the best of all possible worlds, at least until the corporate merger between Anne Taylor and Home Depot.
Baby needs a new set of clothes
My daughter turned ten months old this week. Our first child. Parenthood at 40 is a lot more work and a lot less sleep than I imagined, but it's so worth it. Sure, we could have opted for the 60 inch HDTV and the condo in Cabo, but no tv will look at you with a big smile and say, "I love you, Daddy". Not without pay-per-view, anyway.
Now don’t get me wrong…I’m very grateful for their overwhelming generosity. But somehow I hoped my daughter's indoctrination into societal gender roles wouldn’t have to begin from day 1.
The Rules:
Boys wear blue. Girls wear pink.
Boys play with trucks. Girls play with dolls.
Boys are aggressive. Girls are passive.
Boys are rational. Girls are emotional.I don’t think so. I want my daughter to wear any color, play any game, pursue any interest, and be whoever she wants to be, regardless of tradition.
Daddy's little rebel.
Just so long as she does all her chores, gets a 4.0 GPA, plays varsity tennis and basketball, makes editor of the school paper, first chair in marching band, wins student body president, and never drinks or goes out on dates until she’s 21.
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About Me
- Michael Dahlin
- I work for a non-profit organization doing research in education, educational assessment, and education policy. I am married with one child , one cat, and one mortgage. All things considered, life is good.