Dear Diary,

No one else wants to hear about my nightmares, so I'll tell you. As you know, Joe, I have no desire to meet other bloggers. So, naturally, last night I had a dream about meeting two of them. *shudder*.

In my nightmare I met Janelle and Neel. I forget how it started. I remember there there was a lot of beeping, but it was a weird beeping, the kind that felt grainy. Anyway, the next thing I knew, Janelle and Neel were speeding towards me at incredible speeds. Somehow they had escaped from deep within the bowels of the suburbs, and were racing across the bridge towards my neighborhood, my very own fog-enshrouded lair of solitude.

I suppose if I did have to meet a couple bloggers in real life, Janelle and Neel wouldn't be bad choices. Janelle writes a great slice-of-life blog making me not only feel like I'm getting to know her, but also that she'd be a great person to know. Neel, meanwhile, writes a smooth and polished blog, mixing reviews, fiction, and a little slice-of-life, with that make-it-look-easy writing style of his. Really, two excellent blogs. Regardless, it was still a terribly frightening dream.

Anyway, in the nightmare I'm hanging out in my neighborhood restaurant, where I'm a big shot, when Janelle and Neel barge in and drag me to a table. They were very intimidating. Something didn't seem quite right about them though, as if they were both caricatures of their blogs.

Neel was smooth and unflappable. There was not a moment in the dream when he seemed awkward, uncomfortable, or inelegant. He was essentially the anti-Mike.

Janelle was sweet and glamorous, like she had just won the Blogger Pageant. She was essentially the anti-Mike.

(Man, a blogger pageant, that is a GREAT idea! It wouldn't have to be just about the swimsuit competition either. There could also be a 55-word contest, maybe a tickle fight, and a race to see who could link to me the most. Note to self: make this happen.)

The rest of the dream is a bit of blur. Although it was totally unrealistic, it was still really frightening. I recall constantly thinking, "Do they know this story already?" and then getting food stuck in my teeth. Classic nightmare scenarios. There was also a part where I was falling in my underwear, I think.

Anyway, it was a big relief to wake up this morning safe in my wittle bed. I clutched at my pillow for a few minutes before getting up.

Even now, many hours later, I'm still creeped out by the dream. I keep looking in the closet and under my bed to make sure that there aren't any more bloggers around. *shudder*.

When I was a kid the thing I did with 99% of my free time was go play with the neighborhood kids. It was probably the best thing about growing up in a suburb filled with kids my age.

Daisy isnt so lucky. Although a slightly older girl lived next door for a while, she recently moved away, leaving Daisy with no similar-age friends nearby. This is a big drag for a kid on summer vacation.

There is a family less than 10 houses away, however, that has a daughter the same age as Daisy. We don't know this family very well, but I've chatted with the parents on a couple of occasions and they didn't seem like axe murderers. If they are axe murderers, they're definitely the nice kind who know how to remove bloodstains. I walked past Craig, the dad, the other day and decided to reintroduce myself and the notion of getting our kids to play together. We both agreed that it would be great for our daughters to have playmates in the neighborhood, so a plan was formed for us to get together the following afternoon.

Making new friends when you're my age is painful and unnatural. It's like trying to cram an additional tooth into my mouth. Forcing six year-old girls to be friends is much easier though. Our plan was to just sort of squish them together and yell, "Be friends....NOW!"

I brought Daisy over to Craig's house on Sunday afternoon and the two girls promptly scampered into the backyard to swing on the swing set and to talk about school or rattles or something. Mission accomplished. Meanwhile, I was forced to sit down and make small talk with Craig.

Chatting up near strangers is not my strong suit. I could have started in with chit-chat about the neighborhood, or schools, or even the local sports teams. For some reason my brain immediately launched into a horrible and long story about an email I had recently received that had an attachment in it that was difficult to open.

Yeah, good story, eh? The classic hard-to-open-email-attachment genre. To make things worse, the story was actually a little technical and I had no clue whether Craig was email savvy or maybe a complete computer-phobe. So, I did my test to tell this horrible tale while dumbing it down for my potentially ignorant audience. I did my best not to be condescending, but my brain had clearly wandered into the weeds by this point.

Craig made all the right noises during the story and eventually we moved past it. Later on in the discussion, we discussed what we each did for a living. Craig, as it turns out, works on a project using gigantic lasers and a supercomputer to gather data about fusion.

Yeah. Lasers. Supercomputers. Fusion. Goddamn, my job helps gigantic corporations perform their day-to-day operations 1% faster. I sure was glad that I had been dominating the conversation with all my fascinating stories.

Needless to say, I didn't dumb down any more stories for Craig. And I think Daisy did a much better job of making friends than I did.

Last year I ran in a 4-person 20-kilometer relay race. We had a co-ed team, with each person running a 5 kilometer (3.1 miles) loop. I tried to get the same team together this year, but one of the women dropped out due to an injury, so I was left with an opening on the team.

Roughly around the same time, the wife was reminding me that we needed to make sure that Daisy got lots of aerobic exercise. The doctor had stressed that this was especially important for kids with asthma, like Daisy. Given that Daisy's soccer season had just ended, we needed a new way to get her to run around.

The logical solution to both these problems took me a surprising amount of time to reach. I am not an especially clever man. Thankfully I had recently installled an infinite number of monkeys in my brain, responsible for the firing of all neurons. Although their tireless efforts have caused me countless seizures, they were also responsible for some quality thinking. One night after a monkey-inspired epiphany, I started to explain to Daisy about how I was getting together a team for the relay but I needed another girl.

Daisy started giggling before I even got around to the question.

"Why are you laughing?"

"Because! I know what you're going to say!" and she plopped over onto her side, still giggling.

"What? What am I going to say? Sit up while you eat your dinner? Is that it?"

"No," she said, sitting up, "you're going to ask me to be on your relay team!"

So, I did. And she excitedly accepted. Daisy is nothing if not enthusiastic. I warned her that we'd probably come in last place, but she seemed ok with that.

For the next few weeks we trained. I wasn't trying to get Daisy to be able to run the whole 3.1 miles, but I wanted her to be able to run enough of it to feel proud and not be completely wrecked at the finish line. So, for the five weeks before the race, Daisy and I went on short weekly training runs. Over the weeks we slowly built up her mileage, and by the end she was able to run a whole mile without stopping.

Race day was last weekend. Our four-person team assembled right before the race started and agreed that I'd run the first leg and Daisy would run the last leg so that she'd get to cross the finish line. (Incidentally, my teammates were SUPREMELY supportive of Daisy's participation in this event, despite the fact that the presence of a 6-year old on our team pretty much guaranteed us last place.) When the announcer declared that it was time for the runners to assemble at the starting line, Daisy was beside herself with excitement. She was making an inhuman screeching hooting noise. It sounded like a pterodactyl had screwed an owl, and their offspring was VERY excited about running a 5K. You know, that noise.

I took off and ran my 5 Km leg (setting a personal record!). Afterwards, our teammate, Larry, ran his, and then Nancy ran hers. When it was Daisy's turn, and she took her first few steps, a loud cheer erupted from the hundred or so people standing around. It was the loudest cheer I had heard all day.

Daisy and I took off (I was going to keep her company during her leg). My goal was to keep her motivated and distracted so that she'd run to the first mile marker non-stop. That seemed like it would be a great race-day accomplishment. After that, I'd shut up and let her decide when to run and when to walk.

That worked pretty well. I wouldn't say she enjoyed every step of that mile, but she seemed pleased to reach the marker and she wasn't exhausted. We clocked that mile in 13 minutes. After that we took things more leisurely, with frequent walking breaks. At one point in the loop we passed by our teammates and Hank, and Daisy got tons of high-fives and cheers. She was grinning and laughing.

We kept up the run/walk routine until just before the third mile marker. She wanted to run the last part and sprint towards the finish line. During our training runs we had practiced our finish line sprint, and she was eager to show off her chops.

We started running at a faster clip and as we got closer to the finish line, the race announcer came on the microphone and announced, "AND HERE COMES DAISY!".

Daisy was delighted and her smile was huge and gleeful. I split off from her so that she could cross the finish line without her dad trailing alongside her, and she dashed to the end accompanied by the loudest cheers yet. Hank came out to greet her, as did her teammates and a bunch of friends. Daisy got even more excited when two other teams finished their final leg of the race after us. When my running coach came over to congratulate her, Daisy proudly exclaimed, "And we didn't come in last!" Attagirl. Low expectations will carry you a long way.

I've run dozens of races in my life and never has one been as rewarding as this one.

Dear Blog,

I'm sorry I suck at this blogging thing. I was gonna give you some of that sweet lovin' tonight, but I'm busy again. Tomorrow, baby. I promise!

I'll tell you all about this weekend, when I met Gavin Newsom, and I fondled my lawn, and I ran in a very satisfying run. Until then....

Kisses,
Mike

As near as I can tell, this is what my wife says to herself each time she leaves the house.

"Ok, I'm ready to go. What am I forgetting? Hmmmm.... I've got my keys, my wallet, my cell phone.... Oh, I know! I forgot to turn on all the lights in the house! There's this one, that one, that one waaaay over there, and this obscure one that Mike doesn't even know about it. There! So bright! It's like I'm creating a photon parade everywhere I go! Yay!"

And then, *poof*, she's gone.

Although I read quite a few blogs (and some would say that I even write one), I don't really do the whole video blog thing. I realize that video blogging is only a little different from written blogs, but it's a slippery slope.

Once you start posting video blogs, then you're really only one step away from posting videos of yourself lip-synching to Backstreet Boys songs while dancing in your underwear. At that point you're just one step away from obsessively drilling glory holes into every public restroom stall you visit. At that point, you're maybe a little gay. So, for the sake of my marriage, I stay away from video blogs.

That being said, Pablo has turned me on to an excellent video blog (I guess it's a video blog. It's video, and has new "entries" most day). It's clever, and fun, and has running gags, and often makes fun of Bush, and each entry is usually about 2 or 3 minutes long.

Anyway, it's The Show with Ze Frank. Check it out!

Here's a great episdoe from last month.

Here's a goodie from earlier this week.

The daily link can be found here. They're not all gems, but so far I'm pleased to be spending 2 minutes a few times a week on this guy. It's time that I'd otherwise be frittering away at my job.

Every once in a while a blog post writes itself.

Even while the actual event was occurring, despite the fact that it really should have occupied 100% of my attention to preserve both my safety and my sanity, part of my brain was saying, "BEST BLOG POST EVER!!!". I did, if I may say so myself, a remarkable job of committing this event to memory. I think you'll agree. And you'll certainly appreciate the pithy turns of phrase that pepper the retelling while also providing the appropriately condescending editorialization.

Before I began the dump from brain to Blogger, however, I treated myself to a quick jaunt through my blogging bookmarks, and what did I find? I found that Velvet Sacks had stumbled across a meme! And she tagged me*!

So, rather than write the BEST BLOG POST EVER, I'll respond to this meme request. Perhaps some other day, if the spirit moves me, I'll tell the story I was going to tell today. Maybe not. Regardless, these memes are both important and fascinating.

Four jobs I have had in my life:

1. Burger flipper and fried chicken sandwich burner at Wendy's (I burned every single chicken sandwich all summer, not on purpose)
2. Photo developer and cashier at one-hour photo shop (my favorite job of all time)
3. Office temp worker
4. Computer programmer guy

Four movies I would watch over and over:

1. Toy Story
2. Pulp Fiction
3. The Princess Bride
4. Office Space

Four places I have lived:

1. Elizabeth, New Jersey
2. Walnut Creek, California
3. Some place in Thailand I don't recall because I was 3
4. San Francisco, California

Four TV shows I love to watch:

1. Deadwood
2. The Daily Show
3. The Colbert Report
4. Rescue Me

Four places I have been on vacation:

1. Japan (best vacation I ever took without having sex)
2. Sydney, Australia
3. Guatemala and Costa Rica
4. Hawaii (my all around favorite destination)

Four websites I look at daily:

(I'll go with my top three blogs)

1. Defective Yeti
2. Izzle Pfaff
3. Waiter Rant

Four of my favorite foods

1. Chocolate cake
2. Chocolate ice cream
3. Chocolate
4. Steak

Four Friends that have been tagged that I think will respond:

No way! The last time I did this, someone took me off their list of links. If you want to respond to this meme, I hereby empower you! Go be powerful!

Anyway, that's all I've got for today! Heck, that meme was so fun, I can't even remember what I was thinking before I started it. Thanks, Velvet Sacks!

(*Update: As it turns out, ha ha, Velvet Sacks did not actually tag me for this meme. My bad.)

Ah, summer is arriving in San Francisco. How can I tell? Easy! Arctic winds are rocketing down my street and Daisy's school has scheduled PTA meetings. In summer!

I got to enjoy the Arctic winds on Sunday. We had planned a mini block party for our neighbors who are moving away. Hank and I moved some tables and chairs out in front of the house and various families brought food out. We stood there, in the freezing sunshine, determined to enjoy our summer day. Thankfully one of our neighbors had recently purchased an outdoor fire pit. She dragged it over along with a bunch of pieces of broken furniture to burn, and we huddled around it while noshing and sipping mimosas.

At least it wasn't foggy. Not until that evening, anyway. Welcome to late June in San Francisco!

Then, yesterday, I attended my first official Parent Teacher Assocation Board meeting as the reigning Secretary. What kind of masochist schedules PTA meetings while school is out for the summer? Lordy lordy lordy, have I ever made a horrible mistake.

So, I brought along my laptop and attempted to take notes. I took a lot of notes at first. I typed the date, the list of attendees, the purpose of the meeting, and a bunch of crap that the first guy said. Then I typed a fair amount of what the second person said. By the time the third person started blabbing, it was painfully obvious to me that people liked to hear themselves speak. I was hearing the same speeches that had been made at the informal PTA BBQ a few weeks earlier.

At one point I began to worry that people would notice that I was only taking notes some of the time. I was concerned that they would realize that whenever I stopped typing, I was essentially making a value judgement that the speaker was saying something unimportant. So, I hid my non-typing editorialization by fake-typing. They'd go "blah blah blah blah", and I'd go typey-typey-backspacey-backspacey. This is a skill that anyone who has spent time working in an cubicled office environment should have mastered. Look busy!

Often people would just stray from the topic. We'd be trying to decide whether to spend $500 on some pile of school supplies and somebody would go off. One woman made an impassioned and poignant speech about parent involvement. The words flooded out of her as she explained that it had taken her years to muster the courage to make this speech. She pleaded with us all to ensure that a wide diversity of parent opinions would be respected when making PTA decisions.

That's super. We were discussing whether to buy more potting soil for the garden.

My summer is shaping up just ducky.

The weather was glorious in San Francisco yesterday -- warm sunshine coupled with a soft cooling breeze. It was a picture perfect afternoon, so naturally I found myself in the grocery store. It's just how my weekends work out.

Anyway, so I was rooting through the green beans, looking for the prize gems amidst the flaccid pretenders, when I overheard two women having a discussion about whose shopping cart was whose. One woman made a protracted speech detailing both her path through the produce section and the history of her cart throughout the ages, and soon thereafter the dispute was resolved. I finished up my selection of the crispest green beans and turned to the cart victor.

"I think I would have just settled it with an old fashioned game of Rock Paper Scissors." I sagely offered.

She nodded and replied, "Well, we decided to resolve it like grownups."

"But, grownups DO use Rock Paper Scissors to solve disputes," I suggested.

She snorted, as though I had made a joke, and pushed her cart on down the aisle.

Whaaa? Am I not a grownup? I'm in my late 30s and I use Rock Paper Scissors ALL THE TIME. I pondered this briefly and then got distracted by the shiny green apples.

Later, on my way home, I passed by my new neighbor, Fred. He was unloading a case of wine from his trunk.

"Hey Fred! Lots of wine there!" I began, offering this fellow a mere taste of the clever wit he'll be enjoying for years to come as my neighbor.

"Hi Mike. Yeah, I just came back from my bachelor party. We went up to Napa for some wine tasting."

I contemplated this for a moment, contrasting this with every bachelor party I've ever been to. I opened my mouth to tell him about the last bachelor party I went to in Vegas, but Fred continued before I could speak.

"One of my friends suggested that we should go to Vegas. Vegas!! Ha! I asked him, 'Can't we act like grownups?'" Fred state, shaking his head in disbelief.

I vigorously nodded my approval on the outside while my apparently juvenile brain protested loudly on the inside. Strippers and gambling and booze ARE for grownups. Was Fred suggesting that only children could truly enjoy drunken leering? Perhaps I have Daisy enrolled in the wrong type of summer camp.

The point here is that judging by all important metrics, including both dispute resolution and impending marriage celebration styles, I am apparently a maturity midget. Some universal standard of grownupness has been decided upon and communicated to everyone except me. I don't know why I didn't get the memo. Maybe I was busy practicing my fart technique that day.

Daisy graduated from first grade yesterday. Although we've enrolled her in day camp to keep her busy this summer, it doesn't start until next week. So for today, her first day of summer vacation, we're using the expert babysitting skills of Uncle TV. He tells good stories. Plus, the loving radiation he emits keeps her internal organs warm.

(Actually, after I wrote that paragraph, my wife got home early and took her to the beach! I guess she'll have to warm her organs the old fashioned way: UV radiation)

On an unrelated and final Friday note, allow me to brag that I was the winner of a recent contest in janelle renée's charming blog (although I did have the home field advantage this time). My prize was that she has now featured me as the main character in her latest 55. 55s are a form of short story that must contain exactly 55 words. It's an exercise in brevity and wit. Go read my prize!

I've never attended one of those blogger gatherings.

First, who can stand bloggers? Have you tried talking to these people? Bunch of narcissistic blowhards. Here's how the conversation would invariably go:

"Did I ever tell you how I control my flatulence? It's in my blog!"
"Neat! That reminds me, did I ever tell you about my crotch itch? It's in my blog!"
"That's a lot like everything that's every happened to me or my precocious daughter! It's all in my blog EVERY FREAKIN' DAY!"

Your mother must be very proud.

Anyway, the second reason is that no one has ever invited me to one of these gatherings, but that's besides the point. I'm too cool to go. Bloggers, blech.

Online Scrabble players, however, are an entirely different lot. I will travel to the far reaches of civilization to hang with them. This weekend I undertook just such a journey. The wife and I traveled to a remote outpost known as San Ho-Zay. It was quaint.

One of my online Scrabble buddies, whom I had never met, was coming to "town" to visit another one of my Scrabble buddies, whom I had met a couple times. We were all going out for dinner.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, "Aren't those Scrabble sites illegal? Aren't you worried about meeting these criminals in person?"

Admittedly, the illicit nature of our mutual hobby was a bit troubling. Also, the out of "town" visitor was coming in from Texas and we all know that Texans are a pain in the ass. Dubya. Tinyhands. Need I say more? I need not.

Two things at dinner put me at immediate ease though. First, our San Ho-Zay host, when discussing her love of goiters, instantly anagrammed the word "goiters" into "goriest". That kind of word play always breaks the ice at these types of events. We knew we were among friends.

Then, later, when the waiter was pouring the small glasses of wine for the wine pairings for the second course of our prix fixe dinner, the Texan rolled her eyes and graciously drawled, "Why don't you just leave that bottle here." I couldn't have said it better myself, even if I could approximate a Texan drawl.

When all was said and done, after we had spent hours in San Ho-Zay watching the tumbleweeds lazily drift by, we had had a charming evening amongst friends, with nary a pesky blogger in sight.

Today, at my wife's demand suggestion, I chaperoned a field trip for Daisy's first grade class. I approached this assignment with trepidation because, although I do own a six year-old, in general I am not good with them. They like to hit me. More on that another day.

The trip was pretty amusing though. We packed the kids onto a train car to go visit a suburban park for a morning picnic and playtime. (I'm not sure exactly what part of the school curriculum is satisfied by a picnic, but come testing day, none of these kids will be left behind. Bravo, San Francisco Unified School District!)

Parents often instruct their kids to use their "inside voices". This term denotes a tone of voice that is appropriate to use when speaking to someone in the same room. It's louder than a whisper, but not yelling. This is in contrast to the "outside voice" which is the typical high-decibal noise one hears on a playground.

I can now report the discovery of a new "voice". It's the voice that kids use on a train car and it is delightfully ear-splittingly loud, seemingly an order of magnitude louder than the underachieving "outside voice". A typical "conversation" went like this:

Kid X: (helicopter loud) SALLY!
Sally: (unable to hear Girl X due to the cacophony of other helicopters)
Kid X: (jet engine loud) SALLY!!
Sally: ....
Kid X: (sonic boom) SAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLYYYYY!!!!!!!
Sally: What?
Kid X: *waves*
Sally: *waves back*
Kid X: ....
Sally: .....
Kid X: *turning around* TIMMY!!!!

This went on for the duration of the train ride. Thankfully my ear drums burst after a mere 10 minutes. (Note: be sure to wear blood-colored shirts when chaperoning field trips!)

Eventually we made it to the park, where the kids were promptly mesmerized by the squirrels. Apparently many of Daisy's city-bound classmates never see squirrels. These kids spent a fair chunk of the field trip chasing and treeing the poor animals.

Other kids spent a lot of time crying. That appears to be a classic field trip activity. At any given point in time, at least one kid was crying about something. I'm sure a better chaperone would have been more in tune about what the tears were about, but I just lurked nearby long enough to ensure that some other parent would supply the necessary hugs/nurturing/appendectomy.

I really was one of the worst chaperones. Most of the other parents seemed to have some innate ability to figure out what was an appropriate play activity and what wasn't. All around me parents were instructing the kids about what they could and couldn't climb on. Did I miss the parenting class where they said it was not ok to climb up the slide, or choke your classmates? I guess so.

I did however, spent some quality time thinking about what type of martini I was going to drink that evening. I settled on vodka. I enjoy setting goals and then achieving them.

Also, on the plus side of things, not a single kid hit me.

Dear Lawn,

It's not you. It's me. It's my fault.

When you came into my life, you were so lush and green, and bursting with sod-ful innocence. You made me want to be the kind of man who could take care of you and nurture you. In return, I looked forward to years of beholding your verdant beauty. Our relationship would bloom!

Relationships take effort though. A buttload of effort, apparently. :(

This open letter is my apology to you, Lawn. When you were innocently planted into my backyard, and I promised my wife that I could care for you all by my bad self, I was maybe a little bit wrong. I thought that our relationship was different and unique and that we could survive on love alone, instead of all that water and fertilizer nonsense. That turned out to be a bit naive perhaps. My bad.

I knew things had taken a turn for the worse a few weeks ago, when you were barely visible under all the oxalis. You looked so helpless.

Thankfully, some sunshine came along and dried out the evil oxalis. Once it began to wither, I sprang into action. I hacked through the dead oxalis, eager to rescue you. I cut, and raked, and stuffed armfuls of dead weeds into the garbage. I couldn't wait to see you again!

As it turns out, however, I was a little late, and you were a little dead.

Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I'm really sorry. So so so sorry. But I haven't given up. I look forward to resurrecting you and then letting you sort of die all over again. That's just the kind of relationship we have, I guess, the kind where you die a lot.

I have learned one thing though. The reason why the proverbial grass is always greener on the other side of the fence is because my neighbors aren't lazy bastards like me.

Love always,
Mike

My daughter's class held a poetry reading yesterday at lunch. I cut out of work to soak in a little first grade culture.

Each kid got up, performed their readings, and then sat back down with their classmates. Parents clapped supportively. Everything was going according to plan.

Midway through the hour a fart ripped through the room. All the students around Daisy whipped around and looked accusingly at her. She shrugged her shoulders in a delicate admission of guilt and smiled sheepishly. Her classmates laughed and silently pointed at her. Daisy's smile turned to a frown and she quietly urged them to quit teasing her. The teacher soon noticed the disturbance and told everyone to sit quietly.

As it turns out, this is a frequent occurrence for Daisy. Like her old man, she's a farter. Although this is an entertaining attribute for me, a work-at-home guy, it's a cause for ridicule for sweet Daisy.

I can only assume that something in her diet is causing all the flatulence. However, due to all her allergies, her diet is already fairly restricted. No dairy, no eggs, and no nuts. I'm reluctant to start removing even more foods in the hopes of reducing the fart problem. So, rather than address the root cause, I decided a different approach was required.

"Daisy," I declared at dinner yesterday, "I've been thinking about your farts."

She eyed me, warily.

"Do you know how to fart silently? So that no one knows you farted?"

"No...." she said curiously, "How do you do that?"

"STOP THIS!" Hank yelled. "You're just doing this so that you have something to write about in y our blog!"

"That's not true. Farting silently is an important part of etiquette. Now, Daisy, gather 'round. Let your ol' poppy impart some wisdom."

So, I schooled her in the basics. We covered the following important techniques.

1) The One Cheek - This is the bread and butter of school farting, where students are often forced to sit for long periods of time. It involves shifting your weight over to one butt cheek and lifting the other cheek slightly. Then, once the .... uh.... anus is partially dilated, you release the fart. It should emerge quietly now that it does not have to squeeze out between clenched cheeks. Then, once the smell is noticed, you merely have to deny deny deny when accusing fingers start pointing.

2) The Dribbler - This technique involves letting the fart out a tiny bit at a time. You clench, holding it in, and then release for an instant, letting out a tiny bit of fart. Ideally these mini-farts can be timed to coincide with some other noises. If not, you just have to be experienced enough to make them quiet. This requires practice. In the best case scenario, the stink is let out slowly enough so that no one notices.

3) The Disappearing Act - The advantage of this technique is that it disperses the smell, but it can only be performed if you're allowed to walk around. The idea is to let out the fart, silently, as you walk through a crowd. By the time someone smells it, you're long gone. Unfortunately, letting out a silent fart while walking is hard to teach. Once again, this requires practice. It's worth it though.

Daisy listened quietly as I explained the options, focusing on the One Cheek as her top school option.

"OR, you could just excuse yourself and go to the bathroom," Hank interrupted.

"I think I'll just hold them in," Daisy said, exasperated.

Parenting is hard.

The year my daughter, Daisy, was born was the worst year of my life.

The year she was one year old was the second worst year of my life.

The year she was two years old was the third worst year of my life.

As you can see, this was a positive progression. Somewhere along the line, things changed from "one of the worst years of my life" into good times. This change probably occurred around when I started getting a good night sleep again. After many years of Daisy waking up multiple times each night, it took me a long time to reestablish a semi-healthy sleep pattern

The positive progression is still continuing. She'll turn seven this summer and each year of her life has still been better than the last. Not every day is golden, mind you, (in fact the last week has been a little rough) but the overall trend is sunshine and chocolate chip cookies.

However, I'm no fool. I know this pattern will end some time, probably when she's an age ending in "teen". Hell, she's a rather precocious child, so that day could come a little early. It might even come tomorrow.

This is why I've undertaken a new plan. It's a very clever yet simple plan.

Have you ever heard of Smile Therapy? It's the idea that if you force a smile on your face, you will essentially fool yourself into being happier. The brain can't help but respond to what the body is doing. I've adapted this approach to my Daisy "problem".

In order to prevent her from growing up any further, I have instituted a ritual known as the "Daily Smooshing".

It's quite simple really. Once each day, I press onto her head and shoulders, smooshing her down. If her body can't grow, then she can't age. Ta dah! Brilliant, no? Yes.

Some of you may suggest that perhaps this breakthough in aging-suppression will come at a spinal-compression cost. That might be true, but I can easily fund those chiropractic visits with the money I'm saving by not having to constantly replace clothes that she outgrows. Did you really think that I hadn't thought this through?

Part B of this plan involves taking away all her sources of calcium and introducing the "Daily Pack of Cigarettes". I figure we'll start with menthols and then go from there. Baby steps.

I look forward to a lifetime of joy with my growth-stunted child.

The other day I noted to no one in particular that it had been a while since a telemarketer had called me. Since tormenting them is the closest thing I have to a hobby, the absence was eating away at me, a little, kind of like having a minor case of flesh eating bacteria. It's annoying when the skin sloughs off, but, eh.

So, imagine my delight when I realized that my telemarketer drought had come to an end:

Phone: ring a ding, ring a ding
Me: Hello
Telemarketer: ....
Me: HELLO!
Telemarketer: Hello. May I please speak to the woman of the house?
Me: Uh...yeah. Hang on.
Telemarketer: .....
Me: *pausing, then trying to actually mimic a woman's voice, but as always, just sounding like a crappy drag queen trying to be operatic* Hallloooooo!
Telemarketer: ..... Hi. I'm with the National Family Association and I'm conducting a survey which should take about 90 seconds. Are you available to answer a few questions?
Me: Why, yeeeeeeeeees! *voice warbling*
Telemarketer: .... Great. Are there any children under the age of 14 living in your household?
Me: Yes, indeeeeeeeedy! My lovely daughter, Daaaaaisy.
Telemarketer: .... Ok, then you've probably noticed the lack of quality family programming on television blah blah blah...

At this point, I'm thrilled that the telemarketer has not noticed my obvious (virtually throbbing!) masculinity, but I'm a little confused by the pauses before every one of her replies.

Telemarketer: *continuing* blah blah blah. Would you like to help Hollywood produce more family oriented programming?
Me: *dropping back into my normal manly voice* Nope.
Telemarketer: .... Ok, but we should let Hollywood know that they should be more responsible. blah blah blah blah blah. Would you like more information?
Me: No way. I think you're a computer.
Telemarketer: .... Ok, thank you for your time tonight. Have a good evening.
Me: Screw you.

It was a stupid automated voice response system. I was pulling my stupid shtick with a computer as a straight man. Granted, this wasn't my best material, but I was looking forward to the eventual argument we were going to have about whether or not I really was the woman of the house. I love that bit!

Now that computers have ruined the burgeoning field of telemarketer comedy, what's next? Synthetic non-slip banana peels? Virtual cream pies?

I smell apocalypse.

A family friend was involved in a local production of "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown", so because I am all sophisticated and crap, today the family and I attended a showing of the play.

The show was light and fun, essentially being a for-the-stage compilation of many of the best Peanuts comic strips. During intermission our friend came out from backstage to speak with us. After we let him know that we had been enjoying the performance he was a little relieved. He had been having some anxiety that current audiences might not be familiar with the classic Peanuts world.

"A couple Peanuts cartoons have been made since Charles Schultz died, and some of them even showed the Little Red Haired girl! They've ruined the symbolism of that character?!" he exclaimed.

I barked out some laughter, clearly demonstrating that I also mocked the modern symbolism-free interpretation of this comic.

Later, as I sat watching the second act, I thought to myself, "Symbolism?".

You see, I am what I refer to as a Literalist. If, for example, you say to me, "Yeah, I'll be by in a couple minutes." then I will be stationed by the front door in exactly 120 seconds, beginning to wonder why you did not just say "2.1 minutes" seeing as how that's what you apparently meant.

Similarly, I watch movies and read books for plot. I recently finished the book, "The Rule of Four". After I completed it, I reread the dust jacket and was astonished to read phrases like, "...profoundly erudite" and "....an exceptional piece of scholarship". Apparently all that stuff went right over my head because the book I read was a pretty straightforward story of four college friends solving a mystery.

Symbolism always eluded me in English class. I can recall my high school English teacher, Mr. Friss, lecturing about the symbolism behind Daisy Buchanan's* name in "The Great Gatsby". He explained that a daisy was white like purity on the outside, and yellow like greed and fear on the inside. I marvelled at this analysis, knowing that I would never be able to come to such conclusions on my own. I was unable to separate the wheat from the chaff. What else was significant in the book? Was "Buchanan" significant? The first letter was a "B" and bees can sting, and the second letter was a "U", as in you. Were we to fear Daisy's venom? (The grade on my subsequent essay answered that question. No.)

I was not good at this analysis in high school and I'm still not. I recently tried to read some poetry written by an acquaintance of mine who is a professional and accomplished poet. I was left completely befuddled by his uber-modern poems, wondering how to extract plot out of his verse. Which one of his adverbs was a protagonist? Was it "antidisestablishmentarianismly"? Baffling.

So, let it suffice to say that if there's subtext and symbolism in "You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown", I didn't get it.

There were lots of kids in the audience, including my very own Daisy (whose moniker should NOT be analyzed via the Friss methodology). They all enjoyed the lowbrow humor. When Linus sucked his finger with increasing panic, and then screamed, "I'm losing my flavor!" , the five year old behind me just busted up. He repeated the phrase to his row-mates a half dozen times.

Later, when Linus warned the audience to never suck their thumbs while chewing gum, my daughter laughed heartily. "You'll bite your thumb!" she acknowledged to us, knowingly.

I laughed at all those jokes too. Screw symbolism.

* I may be mis-remembering which Daisy we analyzed in that class. Perhaps it was "Daisy Miller".

My buddy, Pablo, just got back from a vacation that took him to the other side of the world. During lunch, we quizzed him about his vacation and the long flight he endured

Liz: How was the flight?
Pablo: Great! Since the flight essentially occurs at night, I popped an Ambien and slept through most of it.
Larry: Ambien?
Me: It's a prescription sleeping pill.
Liz: Ahhh, that's the one with the eating side effect, right?
Pablo: What?
Me: There have been various reports in the news about people sleep-eating while on Ambien. They consume crazy giant meals at night and then have no recollection of that the next day.
Pablo: .....That's.... uh.... are you serious?
Me: Yeah!
Pablo: *wheels spinning* Oh, man. I think I.... Whoa! *starts laughing*
Me: Did you...?
Pablo: *laughing*
Liz: *laughing*
Larry: *laughing
Me: *laughing* I cannot WAIT to hear the next sentence out of your mouth.
Pablo: This is all starting to make sense. At the beginning of the flight, they served us a big snack box. It was supposed to be our food for the next 8 hours. I went to sleep with the box in front of me, and then when I woke up, the box was empty and I was surrounded by food wrappers. I wasn't really sure what happened. You kind of wake up in a strange dreamy state with Ambien.
Me: You sleep ate! 8 hours of food!
Pablo: I can't believe it.

It's true!

You'd think that with all this time I'm not blogging that I must be doing something interesting, that there must be a fantastic set of blog posts on their way, documenting that which has apparently consumed my precious time and valuable attention.

Nope.