New York, NEW YORK!

I had the chance to visit New York City for the first time this past summer. With two kids in tow, we were only there for a day, only visited Central Park and FAO Schwartz, and happened to walk past Trump Tower on our return to the parking lot.  But I was in love before we had even parked the car.

I know how sad it is that I had never been before. In hindsight, I didn't truly understand that the city was real until I saw it with my own eyes. I guess I just thought of it as a character in a movie; something that only exists on TV. By the time we were leaving town, we were already making plans to return.

While I now recognize that the Big Apple is real, my romantic notion of the city is still firmly rooted in fiction and pop culture. Movies and musical interpretations dominate my understanding of NYC so I might still find some surprises when I return - for better or for worse.

With that in mind, I proudly present to you the Top 10 things I expect the city to deliver the next time I cross the bridge.

1. I hope the hooker that grabs my ass in Times Square has, at least, recently washed her hands.

2. When I visit the converted firehall from the 1984 documentary film Ghostbusters, I want to believe that I won't be scared when Slimer flies around overhead, but in my heart of hearts I know I will be.

3. When Jay-Z and I are hanging out at a Brooklyn Nets game, I expect to be discussed as the mystery feller "hangin' with Hov" on TMZ the next day.

4. When I slam my hands down on a cabbie's car, screaming "I'm walking here, I'm walking here!," I expect him to flip me off.

5. If Home Alone 2: Lost in New York taught me anything, it's that no matter how dangerous the streets of the big city are, when your kids go off on misadventures, everything will turn out well in the end.  So Pea and Peanut should be fine if we leave them in the hotel room for an afternoon.

6. As NYC is the concrete jungle where dreams are made of, I will expect to instantly become a handsome billionaire philanthropist who doesn't stress over car payments and a mortgage. Dream a little dream...

7. I expect the descendants of William Cutting and Leonardo Dicaprio to still be vying for supremacy in the Five Points, even though I will never go there... they put dead rabbits on stakes, for gods sake.  That's F'in dangerous.

8. I expect there to be more crazy people on the subway than there are normal people. And I'm not talking crazy, like "oh that guy has 20 facial piercings, he's so crazy!" I'm talking "MOVE! MOVE! MOVE! THAT CRAZY GUY'S GONNA PEE ON US!" crazy.

9. Not only do I expect to see Woody Allen filming in a movie in NYC, I expect to be given a supporting role in said film (this expectation ties back to #6 on my list - concrete jungle where dreams are made of).

10. While I know their battles are epic, over there on the Upper West Side of town, I pray the Jets and the Sharks can keep their fierce rivalry in check long enough for me to enjoy an exhibit or two at the American Museum of Natural History - coincidentally, the location of the best Ben Stiller movies ever made, Night at the Museum.

My Alternative to NHL Hockey

During the last NHL lockout, Texas Holdem' Poker made a big surge.  Men around the country needed a competitive spectacle to occupy their time, and the stars of the poker world were all too happy to fill that need.

Well, now there's another lockout.  And those that like poker have stuck with it.  It looks like the rest of us hockey fans are looking for another outlet.

Look no further.  I am offering up my own nightly ritual as fodder for the masses.  Simply put, I suggest we videotape and broadcast my efforts to change my infant baby's diaper and put on her pyjama.

Here's what I promise to you, the fan:

• Three 20-minute periods, during which the outcome is never a certainty.
• There will be sweating, swearing, usually some hooking, and lots of shame.
• Assuming I manage to get the diaper on, I will give a post-completion interview, where I will discuss my strategy during the diapering, which will likely involve some combination of luck, yelling and a complete disregard for whether or not the diaper is even on properly.
• Headed into the pyjama'ing, I will offer viewers the opportunity to call in an choose the pyjama of their choice.  This will allow you, the fan, to choose a zippered pyjama, or the dreaded over-the-head, buttons at the bottom model.  Because unlike the NHL, I care about entertaining the fans. 
• On Saturday nights, a pre-game show will be available, where fans can watch as I also attempt to feed the infant dinner.  A post-game show will also feature my midnight frustration at the baby's constant wakings.  The post-game show is guaranteed to offer you a grown man's tears.

There you go hockey fans.  Trust me, after you see me doing this, you'll never need another hockey game in your life.  Oh, and for American viewers, I will also have a glowing diaper to make it easier for you to follow the action.

Bonding Made Easy

Today, I hit a new high as a parent.  Well, maybe it was a new low.  No, it was a high. Yeah, a high.  For sure a high.

Today, my daughter threw-up in my mouth.

Understand the high vs low dilemma now?

Context is simple, really.  I get home from work, happy to see my family.  I've been sick for a couple of days, so I have been avoiding Peanut for the most part, keeping from holding her and getting too close. Since I believe the worst of the cold is behind me, I figure, time to get back to hands on parenting.

As I pick up Peanut, she starts to whine a bit.  It's close to her bedtime, so she's a little crabby.  So, I go to my surefire Daddy-make-me-happy move, and hold her up over my head, a la Lion King.

At this point, she throws up.  And since I'm craning my neck looking up at her, a substantial amount of vomit lands in my mouth.  I immediately realize that she had corn for dinner.

Next steps: (1) hand the infant to my wife, (2) head to the washroom, (3) spit, (4) rinse, (5) repeat, (6)  change throw-up stained shirt, (7) curse out wife for laughing at me, (8) receive baby back from my wife and continue evening bonding session.

At least is wasn't crap, right?  RIGHT?

Letter to the outside world

It's been two hours since the infant took me hostage.  It all started innocently enough, with a bottle of milk in one hand and a soothing bedtime melody playing on the radio... a beautiful lullaby, by the great children's musician Noel Gallagher.

By and by, we rocked.  We stared into each others eyes and before long, sleep fell upon the infant... or, at least, a semblance of sleep.

Then, the moaning began.  Powerful, incessant, belaboured moans seemingly designed to drive me up the wall.  Moans so loud neighbouring children were kept awake in nearby chambers.  Moans so long I wondered if my captor was planning on inhaling ever again.

Stockholm Syndrome perhaps setting in, I began to empathize with my captor. 'She's just trying to get to sleep,' I thought.  'Years from now, I'll look back on her moans with fondness'

But not today.

After what seemed like hours (in reality a mere dozen minutes), my captor lay quietly asleep in my arms.  Time for a quick getaway, I figure.  Not so fast, papa.  Not so fast.

The mere thought of laying my captor in her crib beckons the moans, return.  Now, louder.  And in my annoyed state, the moans take on an arrogant tone.  Like a child dangling their finger a centimetre from anothers' nose, as if to say, 'what are you gonna do about it?'

In time, quiet sleep returns.

Then moans.

Then sleep.

Then moans.

Then, sleep?

Yes?

Nope, more moans.

Then sleep.

Then moans.

[Hours pass in the same fashion... ok, about 30 minutes, but that's a long time dammit!]

And then, my escape arrives.  But for how long? The joys of teething.

The Petrified Dad

Backgrounder: I'm doing this 30-Day Blog Challenge.  This is blog post #3, covering the "A problem you have or have had in the past" topic.

I was talking with a colleague of mine at work today.  She's about 4 months pregnant, and I asked her if she knew whether they were having a boy or a girl.  She told me that while they weren't going to find out, she knew one thing for sure - her husband was absolutely petrified of having a girl.

Totally get it.  To most soon-to-be dads, girls represent the unknown.  Girls think differently and act differently; they have hair that needs to be tied, often in weird configurations like pony tails or pig tails; they like glittery art-and-craft-stuffs that make most of us cringe; they wear cute little dresses that we never know how to put on properly. That can be a lot for a guy to wrap his head around, and I didn't even mention the ultimate kicker: feminine hygiene pads.  [Shudder.]

Personally, before the girls were born, I was in the "healthy and happy" camp.  As long as everything was where it was supposed to be, I would be happy.  I knew that, eventually, with coaching and genuine enthusiasm and a whole bunch of trial and error, I could learn the lady ropes.  And then, when the girls were born, I realized that really, there isn't much of a difference between having a baby boy and having a baby girl.  Pee-pee tents and hair accessories aside, it's all the same.

But, while the differences between having a baby boy and baby girl are subtle, the difference between having a teenage boy and teenage girl are astronomical.  And that's the thought that makes me just as petrified as my colleagues' husband.

I've been thinking a lot more about these differences lately, after Amanda Todd became a household name in Canada and around the world.  I've been thinking about the video she made and about the incessant abuse she faced for months before making a truly tragic choice.

I fear that my girls will face challenges that I will never be able to understand.  I fear that girls use different tactics to put each other down; that we as a society have allowed the physical to dominate our judgement of others, especially in and amongst our little girls, and that teenage girls more so than boys feel the need to 'fit in' at the expense of another girl being marginalized.  And I don't know how to handle that.

I know what my approach would be with a boy... teach him to throw a mean right hook, and to never start a fight, but to always finish one.  It might not solve all of the problems, but it's a good place to start.

With girls, though, the challenges they face are unlikely to be physical.  Girls play psychological games with one another.  They harass and torment and ostracize one from the others.  Their attacks often leave no visible bruises or cuts, but internal wounds.

My point isn't to say girls have it worse than boys.  No matter the gender, bullying of any kind hurts and is unacceptable.  My point is that I believe things are different between the sexes.  I have an idea - good, bad, or otherwise - I have an idea as to how I would approach things with a boy. With two girls, the abuse they could potentially face as teenagers is foreign to me. Therein lies my petrification.

So, I've decided that my approach will be to remind them as often as I can that their self-worth has nothing to do with how they look or about what they wear.

I will remind them as often as I can that their self-worth isn't allowed to be dictated by anyone else's opinion of them.

I will remind them that it is never acceptable to treat anyone with anything less than complete respect.

I will remind them as often as I can that there will always be people who want to be ahead of them socially or academically or physically, and that's OK.  Let them think that way; just be comfortable with who you are, and in the end, nothing else matters.

And most importantly, I will remind them that I will always be there for them.  'Cause that's good to hear, no matter what challenges they face.

Back to the Future

Backgrounder: I'm doing this 30-Day Blog Challenge.  This is blog post #2, covering the "Somewhere you would like to move/visit" topic.

Remember, I was just out of

university, hence the horrible

jacket, shoes and unsightly

neck fat. 

At work today, a coworker and I were talking about travel.  We were discussing the importance of having that next big trip to look forward to, as a coping mechanism to get through a particularly busy stretch in the office.

She is fortunate enough to be heading to Rome in a few months.  She's going to stay in a villa, live life like the locals live, and bask in the glory of the cultured country that is Italy.  

I, on the other hand, have no big trip on the horizon.  Consequently, I no longer like my coworker.

I have been fortunate enough to have done a fair bit of travel though.  After university, my wife (then girlfriend) and I did the backpacking thing, spending time in:

• England (London)
• France (Paris)
• Italy (Rome, Venice, Pompeii and sort of Milan... a long story)
• Spain (Barcelona), Switzerland (Innsbruck, Salzburg)
• Germany (Munich)
• The Netherlands (Amsterdam... try walking through the Red Light District with your girlfriend... it was amusingly horrible).

It was only 3 weeks, but it was awesome.

Since the Europe trip, I've also been to:

• Cuba 
• Peru
• Argentina 
• Hawaii 
• Beautiful Saskatoon, SK
• Breathtaking Buffalo, NY   

Argentina was amazing.  Peru was fascinating.  Buffalo was... interesting.  But if I could go anywhere again, to live permanently, it would be London, England.  

When we visited London, we stayed with friends in a hamlet called Gypsy Hill.  That alone makes it cool.  We took the train in and out of the city every day and absorbed all that London has to offer.  The pubs were real pubs.  The subway was an actual and legitimate mode of transport.  And the history and architecture were da bomb.

Start sidebar...

Did I use that term correctly, da bomb?  I think it means 'the history and architecture were great.'  Do kids still say da bomb?  Is the fact that I said something is da bomb automatically make it lame?  Do kids still say lame?  As in, 'Oh God, my next post should be about how lame I have become; a caricature of a man, really.'  

End sidebar.  

After we returned from our trip, my wife (then girlfriend) and I talked a lot about going back to London to live after we got married.  Years went by, careers were established, and now we are firmly and happily rooted in our home and our life and our routine.  

So, if the idea of moving somewhere new if off the table, where would I want to visit?  

London.  Let me explain.

My notion of London is based on a memory of what the city was to me at that moment in time.  I was free from school.  I hadn't yet started working.  I literally had nothing to worry about, which automatically made the entire trip that much better.  I could sit in the pub all night long, without a worry.  I could accidentally ask for a mint julep instead of a mojito and play off my disgust with youthful naiveté.  

Now though, things are different. I am older. I have different views and a different understanding of life.  Surely, the city itself has changed.  And at this point in my life I would curse the wasted money spent on a foul mint julep.  As a result, I often wonder whether or not another trip would be just as memorable.  

That's why I picked London.

Plus, travel in the EU is much easier and cheaper than it is here, and London is fairly central to make side trips to Edinburgh, Dublin, Athens, Prague, Lisbon and Cannes.  I could revisit my London memories, and check out the places I missed the first time around.  

So, shout out to all the sociologists out there, who need someone to help provide research on travel regression theories.  I'm your guy.

Start sidebar... 

Did I use that term correctly, shout out? ...

I'm awesome

Pea: Dad, there's a piece of Pooh missing.

Me: BAH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA (etc.)!

Pea: What are you laughing at?

Me: BAH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA (etc.)!

Wife: (under her breath) You're an idiot.

Eighteen, going on old

I'm a music fan.  I like a little bit of everything, from country to indie rock to hip hop to folk, and all points in between.  I rarely turn down an offer to listen to something new.

Like many people, I think, my musical taste varies depending on what I am doing.

If I'm getting pumped for a big hockey game, I'll throw on some Offspring or Rage Against the Machine.  If I'm quietly toiling away in the office, it's gotta be Ray Lamontagne, Basia Bulat or City and Colour.

If I'm in the car, it's hip hop... all the time.  A little Drake; a little Jay-Z and Kanye; a little Common.  It's the big bass... literally enveloping me in the confines of a car.  It puts me in a good mood.

Now,  I know listening to loud hip hop with lots of bass makes me a bit of a douche. Especially when I'm stopped at a light, and cars beside me can see the bass rippling through the air (ok, it's never really that loud... let's just say they know it's there).  I guess doucheyness is like an occupational hazard that comes with hip-hopping in the car, and I can deal with that hazard.

Ok, I could deal with that hazard.

As I learned recently while I was on my way to pick up Pea and my wife at dance class, the douche factor increases tenfold when there's a friggin CAR SEAT in the back seat of the car!  What a wake-up call I had when I turned around at a stop light, looked at the car seat, and realized that I'm not 18 anymore.

So, from here on out, the volume is coming down and it's talk radio 24-7.

Sigh.

I predict a riot

While cleaning up tonight, I found a single, solitary monkey from Pea's Barrel of Monkeys, sitting alone in her play area downstairs.

The actual barrel, as well as the rest of the monkeys, were upstairs in our bedroom, in the emergency toy stash we keep for those Saturday and Sunday mornings when Pea wakes up just a little too early (read every weekend).

On my way upstairs, I brought the lone monkey with me to put away in the barrel where he belongs.  As I tossed him in and closed the lid on the barrel, a vision ran through my mind... I pictured all of the monkeys rejoicing at the sight of their long-lost monkey cousin returning to the barrel from whence he came.  Tears of joy flowed down monkey cheeks.  Monkey prayers answered at last.  Perhaps, monkey lovers reunited?  

Then, and I must emphasize that I actually thought this, I wondered if perhaps one of the monkeys was angered by the sudden return of his plastic yellow counterpart.  A love triangle re-engaged?  A rivalry renewed?  

So then, naturally, my mind wandered to that aggressive reunion between former enemies... at best an uncomfortable greeting... at worst, little plastic monkeys hurling little plastic feces at one another in a show of dominance, with all kinds of other innocent monkeys running for cover from flying monkey plops.  Was I responsible for monkey armageddon within that barrel?  

Then, I thought, what the hell is wrong with me?  Inanimate plastic monkeys causing me undue stress and anxiety?

Stupid plastic monkeys.  

      

Horrible Boss

If Pea was an employee of mine, she'd be on a serious performance improvement plan relative to her dinner time insubordination.  Every day, she looks me in the eye, ignores my requests, fails to deliver on agreed upon deadlines, and whines whenever she doesn't like the nature of her work.

This weekend, she took the cake.  Yesterday, dinner at Ikea went about as well as dinner at Ikea can be expected to go.  She balked at her tilapia, spat it out on numerous occasions, and made us seem like 'those' parents who don't have any degree of control over their kid.  Rightly so.  Oh, the tears.  So many tears.  None of which flew from Pea's tear ducts.

Tonight, the shenanigans continued with a 75 minute dinnertime performance.  This event included everything from a series of pop song interpretations to complaints over a concerning lack of corn in the pasta.  It's a hard knock life, indeed. 

Sure, she's a good worker.  She's cute, extremely smart and incredibly creative.  So she gets to stay.  But we're keeping a watchful eye on her performance.  

Oh, and any suggestion that her poor performance is a direct result of bad management is nonsense.  It can't possibly have anything to do with me... I eat EXTREMELY well... too well in fact, especially if you ask the scale in my bathroom.

Viewfinding

I like to think of myself as a photographer-in-training.  I have a basic dSLR, a couple of decent lenses (until I broke one of them recently), and ambition.  What I lack is time, skill and the trained eye of a pro.

To help with the latter two, my wife bought me a few photography books for Christmas; namely, The Digital Photography Book series by Scott Kelby.  These are great books.  They're simple, funny, and easy to understand.  There are step-by-step instructions on how to capture great images and ideas on how to think differently when looking through the viewfinder.

I suppose as Pea gets older and more self-sufficient, I will be able to spare more time, cultivate some skill and train myself to capture better images... to see things differently, and to use my camera to its full potential.  Until then, I'll just keep on keepin' on.

Here are a few I managed to capture in The Distellery this Summer, long before I knew the difference between f/stop and aperture.  Most of you will easily spot the overexposures and poor composition.  But I like 'em.

 
Here's where I hope to get, over time - http://advanceafewstepsback.blogspot.com. A few of these are hanging in our house.

With food like this, who needs arteries?

Backgrounder: I'm doing this 30-Day Blog Challenge.  This is blog post #1, covering the "Favourite Comfort Foods and Why" topic.

As a French Canadian, I am genetically predisposed to love many disgusting and unhealthy foods.  One need only look up a recipe for graisse de roti (rough translation: pork fat spread) or cretons (rough translation: ground pork spread) to understand just how bottom of the barrel I'm talking about.  It's truly amazing that anyone in my family makes it beyond 50 years of age.

But, not all of the comfort foods I hold dear involve intense indigestion before lunch (cretons is a breakfast food).  Chief among them is Paté Chinois... you anglos might know it as Shepherd's Pie.

Simple concept, really: loads of mashed potatoes, cream corn, corn niblets and ground beef layered together, topped with pepper and served with ketchup. 

If you add anything else - peas, carrots, beans, etc. - the code of my ancestors compels me to send a large vest-wearing motorcycle enthusiast to your house for a quick chat. 

I'm serious.  A biker.  A French Canadian biker.  To your house.

Seriously.

My paternal grandmother made it better than anyone you'll ever meet.  That's because she added so much love that we just can't replicate the taste.  Awww, I know.  Also, it appears, she added a few spices and extras that she never told anyone about, so yeah, we literally can't replicate the taste.    

My aunt comes a close second... I think she spied on my grandmother during in camera cooking sessions.  My Mom makes a pretty mean Paté too.  But nothing compares to the grandma version.

What makes Paté Chinois so comforting?  Well, if you haven't caught the link to my grandmother yet, no amount of explanation could help.  Let's just say she comes to mind every time I even think of making the dish, and I instantly feel comforted.

By the way, I know you are salivating at the mere mention of cretons, so here's how you make a "health conscious" version (which, as an aside, I believe is technically impossible):

PS - Yes, I also love pea soup, for you stereotypists out there.

Intellectual Property Borrowing

I'm going to borrow an idea from saracasm, who borrowed an idea from Domesticated Momma, who borrowed an idea from some other blogger out there in blogland.  It's called the 30-Day Blog Challenge, and the idea is that every day for 30 days I write about a topic from a pre-defined list. 

Here's the list:

1. Current Relationship
2. Where would I like to be in 10 years
3. Top 5 Pet Peeves
4. Views on Religion
5. Favourite Comfort Foods & Why
6. Zodiac Sign and Does It Fit?
7. Favourite Childhood Toys
8. A moment you felt most satisfied in your life.
9. If you would have any job in the world what would it be?
10. Your guilty pleasures
11. Put your Ipod on shuffle and write first 10 songs that pop up
12. Bullet your whole day
13. Somewhere you would like to move/visit
14. Earliest Memory
15. Write 15 interesting facts about yourself
16. Your views on mainstream music
17. Your highs and lows this last year
18. A book you could read over and over and never get sick of
19. Your biggest regret in life
20. How important you think education is
21. One of your favourite TV Shows
22. How have you changed the past 2 years
23. Post 3 pics of famous people you find attractive
24. Your favourite Movie & What its about
25. Someone who fascinates you and why
26. If you had $1,000,000 to spend how would you spend it?
27. A problem you have or have had in the past.
28. Something that you miss
29. List 10 people dead or alive you would invite to dinner , include the menu.
30. Goals for the next 30 days!

A few guarantees up front: (1) it won't happen in 30 days, (2) it won't happen sequentially, (3) it won't be without random interruptions, and (4) it's unlikely that I will cover all 30 topics.

Essentially, this will be nothing more than a tool I will bastardize use to help focus my thinking and writing. 

I suppose, for those of you who also read sarahcasm's blog (and you should), you can compare our answers and then, in turn, start your own blog dedicated to comparing the two of us.  If that is your intent, I am at once honoured by your flattery and deeply creeped out.

So, I'll start when I start. 

By the way, there's a logo that seems to go along with this challenge, but it's a little dainty for my liking, so I am going to omit it from my post.  Trust me, it's for the best.

What's that you say?  You demand a picture with every blog post?  No matter how dainty?  Ok, ok, here it is.

What did I tell you?  Dainty, right?  Rule #1 - always listen to me when I warn you of excessive daintiness.

WWYBP, 2.0

Pea, running for cover?

Yeah, it's been a while.  Whatever.  I've been busy and I've been lazy and I've neglected blogging.  As Pea would say, "shocking behaviour."  I'm sure your lives have been on standby since I last posted nearly a year ago.  How you all carried on, I will never understand.

So, I'm starting over.  Let's call it what.will.you.be,Pea 2.0.  

When you start over, you usually do something a little different, right?  So, to start, I'm abandoning the "I hope Pea never..." schtick to start each post.  In the extensive market research I have been conducting over the past 10 months, it turns out most of you were skipping over that paragraph anyway, and you'd be surprised by how long it took me to create that one line.

Also, "the Pod" will henceforth be known as "my wife."  Turns out "the Pod" wasn't the endearing term I believed it to be.

Pea, though, remains Pea.  

Ok, now, what to tackle first?  Wait for it... wait for it... farts.  That's right, I waited over 10 months, stored up all kinds of experiences and good times, and I am choosing to start with farts.

One day, not too long ago, Pea came home from school with a new reaction to farts and fart perpetrators.  She applies her reaction equally to her own farts as she does to mine, and really, to any noise that sounds remotely like a fart.  

Here's how things typically go down.  In this example, Pea is the farter, and I am the long-suffering but necessary smeller:

Pea: [FARTS, GIGGLES] (She gets the giggling from me... actually, she gets the farting from me too.)
Me: Oh, what do you say? (Correct answer: excuse me.)
Pea: RUN FOR COVER!  I FARTED!

Then she proceeds to run from the room at top speed, laughing her ass off, which usually leads to more farts, and in turn, more laughter.  Usually, it's funnier than the bridal shop scene from Bridesmaids.  The only exception would be the odd time she thinks she hears one of us fart at the grocery store or in the mall. Then, not so much.

This scenario is funny enough when it plays itself out in our house.  But, let's not forget that she picked this little golden nugget up at school... which means that, on any given day, Pea's teacher has to deal with roughly a dozen instances of 30 children running around a classroom, frantically "looking for cover" from a fart or fart-like noise.

I think we can all agree that that's what makes teaching so rewarding.

There you have it.  what.will.you.be,Pea 2.0.  Same old nonsense, 100% more fart references.

You're welcome.