3 +1 = Anger

So this is the scene: Ian is putting something in the kitchen garbage, I am getting coffee out of the microwave, and Catherine is fiddling with something on the counter -- which means all three of us are in one tiny area in our wonderful, large kitchen -- we are all jammed into the entryway between the kitchen and the eating area . . . and it is through this area that Alex tries to wedge himself, though he could have gone the other way; the result, of course, was anger.

Cooking Strike Day 13

Due to unappreciative children and an empathetic spouse, my wife went on a two week "cooking strike" -- and the first night was a wonderful reverse of the typical: I slaved away in the kitchen, making portobello mushrooms stuffed with shrimp and diced peppers, baked with cheese on them; and then felt like January Jones in an episode of Madmen when Catherine called and said she was going to be late for dinner because she was at happy hour with some friends -- she's damn lucky that nothing got burned -- but as the days wore on, I lost my appetite for exciting meals, especially because of the planning that cooking entails -- and so in a manner of days my cooking became perfunctory (including this incident, when I simply defrosted some soup that Catherine made weeks ago) and I am looking forward to when the strike finally ends, and I can enjoy my wife's cooking again . . . and I want to state -- for the record -- that I have learned my lesson: though I was a picky eater when I was a child and know what it's like to have to eat something that you can't stomach, I will never side with my children again on one of these issues because I don't want to suffer a labor dispute like this ever again.

Puuuuuuuullllll iiiiiittttttt . . .

It's that time of year again -- the time of year when, because of Hamlet, I entertain all topics supernatural, and challenge spirits to manifest themselves in my classroom . . . and this always gets students talking: a girl was kind enough to share a story of her own encounter with an apparition; she was playing Bop-It with her cousin, and the batteries ran out, so they took the batteries out of the Bop-It in order to replace them, and suddenly -- without batteries -- the Bop-It started speaking . . . and since I always play the role of the skeptical Horatio in these matters, I asked her how the Bop-It intoned the commands once the batteries were removed . . . but then I answered my own question; I whispered in a low, drawn out voice: "twiiiiiiiiiist iiiiiiitttttt . . . puuuuulllllll iiiiiiiittttttt . . . boooooooooooooooopppppp iiiiiittttttt" and now I can't stop using this haunted Bop-It voice . . . every time I see a Bop-It toy or someone tells a ghost story, I feel compelled to speak as I imagine a haunted toy might speak (perhaps I am possessed?) and the appropriate parallel is that I feel like Jerry, on Seinfeld, when he gets addicted to using the "Hellooooo" voice and sacrifices his girlfriend for the voice.

Can't Afford $24.95? Go to H-Mart!

If you don't feel like driving all the way to Camden, and then shelling out nearly twenty-five clams for admission to The Adventure Aquarium, but you still want to see Korean mudfish, abalone, sea squirts, tilapia, giant crabs, and snails -- all alive in tanks and tubs (plus piles of dead octopus and smelt) then head to the Edison H-Mart -- the Korean version of Wegmans -- the boys and I went last week, and in some ways it's better than an aquarium . . . because you can eat your souvenirs (I actually bought a few baby octopi, which I marinated and then grilled: delicious, and only $3.99 a pound).

Grand Opening of an Absurd Acronym

The long vacant building in Highland Park that once housed Charlie Brown's is finally reopening, as a Korean BBQ Chicken place, but apparently in Korean, BBQ doesn't mean barbecue . . . it means "The Best of the Best Quality," and BBQ Chicken is a chain, with 2800 stores in Korea, 157 in China, and many others scattered around the world -- including two in Mongolia! -- and, judging by the web page, I think we Highland Park folks are in for a really bizarre treat . . . I can't wait to sample "the best of the best quality chicken" and the "Sausage Set," which features "the highest level of delicious smoked sausage" . . . THE HIGHEST LEVEL OF SAUSAGE! . . . NO SAUSAGE HAS EVER ACHIEVED A LEVEL HIGHER THAN THIS SAUSAGE!

Blonde People Got No Reason To . . .

My son Alex -- who does not really look like my son, as he has a beautiful head of blonde hair -- noticed that all the protagonists of his favorite books and movies are NOT blonde: Harry Potter, Batman, Dr. Who, just about every anime character in existence, etc. and this led to him complaining about his lack of choice for Halloween (why he's thinking about Halloween in Februruary is beyond me) but he is right, his only options from his pantheon is Draco Malfoy or Luke Skywalker, neither of whom appeals to him.

More Parent Abuse

My eight year old son Alex, who believed he was being unfairly forced to clean up a mess that his brother Ian created, when asked by my wife what he wanted for breakfast, replied: "a small dish of relaxation."

I Taught That Kid Everything He Knows!

So I'm reading Andrew Solomon's tome Far From the Tree: Parents, Children, and the Search for Identity, and I'm plugging my way through the "Autism" chapter when I run across two familiar names in the same sentence: Temple Grandin and Ari Ne'eman; Temple Grandin is a well-known author, professor, and designer of humane cattle-handling equipment . . . and she is also autistic and a major advocate for autism . . . and Ari Ne'eman is described as "the founder of the Autistic Self-Advocacy Network," but that's not how I know the name . . . I remember the name because several years ago I taught a student by that name, a very very smart student with Asperger syndrome, who not only could wax eloquent about politics and the law, but was also very aware of his social difficulties, and knew how to compensate for them with various strategies and techniques . . . and so with the help of the almighty Wikipedia, I now realize that this student is enormously famous in the world of autism advocacy -- and not only did he found the aforementioned autism network (at the ripe age of nineteen) but President Obama also appointed to serve on the National Council on Disability, and so he is the first person on the autism spectrum to ever serve on the council; Ne'eman is mentioned several times in Solomon's book, and I'm glad I serendipitously discovered this, as I may have never known how far he's gone (and no one else in our school knew this either, which is mind-boggling) but it's also a bit daunting when a student I taught several years previous has already done more in his short life than I will probably do in the entirety of mine . . . but I can always resort to the ancient theme prominent in Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice . . . the idea of status and contract . . . no matter what Ari Ne-eman accomplishes, no matter how many accolades he accumulates, I will always have the status of being his teacher, and I will always be able to say: "I taught that kid everything he knows."

Parent Abuse

I told my son Alex that he needed to eat some more of his mother's delicious home-made chicken soup (which he ate without complaint two nights previous) before he could leave the table and get back to his homework . . . it was one of those ugly Tuesday nights . . . and so Alex put his spoon down, dipped his index finger into his soup bowl, licked his index finger -- which in his mind counted as "eating some more soup" -- and then he excused himself from the table, and I'm proud to say that once I processed what he did -- which took a moment -- I did not strangle, beat, spindle, or mutilate my firstborn son (but my head nearly exploded and there may have been some yelling).

Not For People Who Live in a Ranch

Why must kids always play on or near the top of the stairs?

Italy vs. Holland vs. Beirut

To describe raising her child with Down Syndrome, Emily Perl Kingsley wrote an inspirational modern fable called "Welcome to Holland" and her conceit is this: when you are expecting a child, it is like preparing for a trip to Italy . . . you buy guidebooks, learn some phrases, anticipate seeing the Colosseum and Michelangelo's David. . . but if you have a child with a disability, the plane lands and the stewardess says, "Welcome to Holland!" and this is quite a surprise, as you were expecting to go to Italy, and all your friends are in Italy, discussing Italian sights and sounds . . . but you will eventually realize that though Holland isn't as flashy as Italy, it has its merits (tulips and Rembrandts) and you simply have to adjust . . . but this metaphor isn't for everyone: I am still plugging away at Andrew Solomon's magnificent and gigantic book Far From the Tree: Parents, Children, and the Search for Identity and one mother of an autistic child wanted to clarify that for her it's not like this at all, and so she penned a fable for the parents of children with autism and called it "Welcome to Beirut."

Cast Your Vote For the Best Robot

While we were waiting for the check at my favorite local Mexican restaurant, Costa Chica, my son Ian and I had a robot drawing contest, and we were with a large group of people, who nearly unanimously voted for the wrong robot  -- my son's robot -- but I am thinking that everyone was logy from excess of food and drink, and possibly in error . . . so please be serious and remember every vote counts: which is the better robot?

Apples, Trees, Ducks, Llamas, Bop It, etc

My wife and I were watching Girls on Friday night, the kids tucked away in their respective beds, but every so often, from up the stairs, we heard a "Whoo . . . whoo" and then a pause, and then another "whoo," so I lowered the volume on the TV, and then we realized the sounds were coming from my younger son Ian's room -- he was still playing "Bop It," the version where you occasionally have to yell into a little microphone to keep your streak going . . . lately, he's been obsessed with it, he's mastered the expert level where you also have to react to sounds that correspond to each action -- he actually got over one hundred on that level and it moved to some super-advanced level where there are corresponding colors as well as strange sounds and the usual "pull it!" and "twist it!" commands; he now holds all the records on the contraption . . . and it's hard for me to argue with his dedication, because I behaved the same way the other day with the stupid phone app "Llama or Duck" and while this obsessive behavior for simple physical tasks may be an annoying habit, or even pathological if taken too far, it's probably not the worst character trait to possess . . . though Ian will learn soon enough that no one else cares very much how many points you score in Bop-It or Bulls-Eye Ball or darts or corn hole or any of these other minor diversions: it is in your mind alone that you are the victor.

It Did Have Two Holes In It

Phone call from who my son calls "second in command" at his school -- apparently Alex and his buddy found a broken board in the auditorium, and they thought it was really cool because it was "painted black and had two holes in it," and so Alex and his friend concocted a plan: they would smuggle it out of the auditorium and into his locker, so then he could then bring it home (to do God knows what with, even he can't answer that question) and so Alex asked to go to the bathroom, and successfully filched the broken board, but when he tried to stuff it into his locker, he got caught red-handed; his consequences were no recess for the the week, for lying about having to go to the bathroom and taking something that wasn't his . . . and I hope he's learned his lesson, and the next time he sees a really cool broken board with two holes in it, he gets his friend to steal it (although that might not matter, because Alex's accomplice also lost recess for the week).

Seven Reasons Kids Should Watch Rocky

I just watched Rocky with my children, and I highly recommend it for young boys, as the film contains some valuable life-lessons for them:

1) if you stop smoking and run around carrying bricks, you will get back into shape;

2) breaking fingers for a sleazy loan shark will get you nowhere;

3) when you get as old as Mickey, no one will understand what you're saying;

4) turtles can choke on moss;

5) working in a meat packing plant is depressing and may lead to arthritis and alcoholism;

6) it's nice to have a recurring theme song;

7) and finally, even if you don't win, as long as you stay on your feet and get beaten to a brain-damaged bloody pulp, then it's still a moral victory and you should be proud of yourself.

Awkward Dave Returns in the Form of a Duck (or a Llama)

Awkward Dave reared his ugly head last Tuesday, and if it wasn't for my colleague Chantal, things might have gotten really awkward, but she heroically stepped in and saved the day; to understand the situation you need a bit of backstory . . . fifteen minutes before this Awkward Moment of Dave, I was introduced to a very silly game on Kevin's phone, called "Duck or Llama": the game is simple but frustrating, you are shown a picture of a duck, or a picture of a llama, and you must press the appropriate button -- "Duck" or "Llama" -- VERY quickly, or you lose; I was terrible at first but once I got the hang of it, I got quite good and scored sixty correct answers in a row . . . more than double what anyone else got; the pictures get more and more ridiculous and abstract: there are line drawings and close-ups and llamas with sunglasses and duck-butts and rubber ducks and stuffed llamas, and everyone has the same stupid story at the end of their round . . . either, "I was doing really well, and then I mistook a duck for a llama!" or "I was doing really well, and then I mistook a llama for a duck!" and this is the sort of thing that I can get obsessed with, which is why I don't have a video game system in my house, and so when a woman from another department, who runs a committee that I am part of, totally went out of her way and came upstairs to the English office solely to help me sign-up for a workshop at Columbia University, I really, really tried to pay attention to her; she showed me some forms and explained how to fill them out . . . but then, without realizing it, I picked up the phone -- determined to get one hundred correct answers in a row -- and started playing "Duck or Llama," and I guess this nice woman, who totally went out of her way to help me out with this project, made quite a face, but luckily my friend Chantal saw the face, and was a good enough friend to yell at me and tell me to focus, and this was enough to break my obsession with the game and allow me to finish the now rather awkward social interaction with the woman who had gone out of her way to climb the stairs and find me in the English office and help me out.

Sometimes the Apple Falls Horizontally

I am slowly making my way through Andrew Solomon's magnum opus, Far From the Tree: Parents, Children, and the Search for Identity . . . and while everyone likes to comment when the apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and the kid acts just like his parents (and my boys certainly fall into this category: I have two little versions of myself running around the house, doing Dave-like things, which can either be exhilarating or extremely frustrating) Solomon has tackled a much wilder event -- when the apple falls "horizontally" instead of vertically; when parents give birth to a child nothing like themselves . . . the book has chapters on Dwarfs, the Deaf, Down Syndrome, Autism, Schizophrenia, Prodigies, Transgender, and more -- and each chapter is nearly the length of a book; Solomon himself is a horizontal child -- he is gay -- and though his parents were accepting of him, they still weren't the same as him, so he writes the book from an unusually personal perspective; I have just finished the chapter on the Deaf, and it made with grapple with an ethical dilemma that I didn't even know existed; when hearing parents have a deaf child, they have to immediately decide if they are going to implant a cochlear implant, which wil give the child an ersatz but workable version of hearing, or instead, immerse him in the culture of the Deaf -- sign language -- or do something in between, with speech therapy . . . and the Deaf community views the implants or the attempt to make a deaf child learn to speak as "the final solution," a way to eradicate Deaf culture, which is apparently rich and thriving . . . some radical Deaf believe that hearing parents with a deaf child should give the child up to the Deaf community, but this strikes me as insanely unrealistic . . . Harlan Lane, a Deaf community advocate, wrote: "the relation of the hearing parent to the young deaf child is a microcosm of the relation of the hearing society to the deaf community; it is paternalistic, medicalizing, and ethnocentric," and so the question becomes -- as technology and medicine and genetic screenings start to eliminate hearing loss -- is the Deaf community something worth saving? . . . and if you think I have the answer to this, then you''re sadly mistaken, as I'm having a hard enough time getting my own children, who have excellent hearing, to listen to a word I say.

A Young Lady Shuts Me Up

I was explaining this pathetic tale to my senior English class -- and I was taking the perspective that I had "accomplished the task given to me," and that my wife should not have been angry that I got a friend to buy the lingerie, but my senior girls weren't buying it: one outspoken and rather clever girl said simply, "If you assign us an essay topic, and we find a really great paper on the topic that someone else wrote, we can't hand it in to you or it's plagiarism . . . you cheated."

My Wife Admits She Erred!

Apparently, my wife has NOT been reading my blog, or she would have remembered this rule to live by . . . but instead of obeying my wisdom, she chose NOT to pack winter boots and clothing for our trip to Norfolk last weekend -- and so she spent the entire trip clutching my arm, trying not to slip on the inch of ice on the ground, which was made all the more treacherous because she was wearing cute, light-weight multicolored treadless running shoes (she also didn't pack a water-proof snow jacket or heavy gloves . . . I hope she has learned her lesson . . . and though I will admit that she looked beautiful in her wedding attire, that's no excuse for not bringing practical clothing and footwear in case of emergency).

That's Really Incredible!

Last Monday, while eating a delicious slice of porcetta (a meal that a friend of ours only prepares on Martin Luther King Day, because she has to buy the meat on Sunday and it takes a day to prepare) I reminisced with the hostess about watching classic reality TV, namely Real People and That's Incredible! . . .  and we are both dog owners, and so we were remembering the incredible tales of lost dogs who travelled cross-country to find their families and other such epic canine heroics . . . and now I have my own story to add to these fantastic tales; my dog has never touched a book and our house is full of books -- he chews on shoes and shin-guards and mittens -- but never literature, yet the other day, when I arrived home, I found one book in the middle of the room, completely eaten and destroyed, and he selected this book from a pile of books, but for some strange and incredible and miraculous reason, he selected a very particular book (Billy Lynn's Long Halftime Walk) and the salient point about this book is it is the first book I've ever checked out from my school library -- my friend Kevin got them to order some new books that we wanted to read, and when we went down to check them out, the librarians were so happy to see us . . . they told us we didn't visit them often enough, were hoping that this was the start of a long-lasting relationship -- and my dog must have gotten some strange scent from this book from a new place, and so he selected it from among other library books, books we own, magazines, borrowed books, and used books, and tore it up; now I have to go back to the library with my tail between my legs, and use the lamest excuse in the world: my dog ate my book . . . and I know I'll put this off until the end of the year, but if I don't clear my library account, then I don't get my year end paycheck, so I'll keep you all posted on what happens.