tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-77056680352511361692024-03-13T15:29:37.594-07:00Daddy Geek BoyDGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.comBlogger481125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-30773352219750398252013-02-05T17:01:00.000-08:002013-02-05T17:01:08.357-08:00Passive Meets Agressive<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It was all fun and games until my daughter fell on her butt. Sprout was having one of her patented “<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2011/10/molasses.html">molasses on a cold day</a>” mornings meant to drive me insane, but I was in too good of a mood to succumb. This displeased Sprout. For reasons beyond my comprehension, she had decided that needed to be upset with me this morning. She does this sometimes, testing to see just how far I will bend before breaking. However, my steadfast refusal to play her games only made her more determined to get a rise out of me.
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She lagged behind by a few paces as we walked the Bean to school. She attempted to stay with her brother on the playground, wanting to try out being a first grader for the day. On our return trip, she was half a block back, casually pretending to notice imaginary interesting things on the sidewalk. I remained cool, maybe even a little detached.
Sprout was unhappy that she was no longer the center of my attention so she tired a different tactic. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She suddenly appeared by my side and in her sweetest voice said, “Pick me up!”
I obliged and tossed her over my shoulder. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">This was not what she was expecting and though she pretended to be upset, her delighted squeal as I lifted her in the air betrayed her. She squirmed and twisted, yelling, “Daaaddddyy! Put me dooooowwwwnn!!!” </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">She was still wriggling when I placed her back to the ground and that’s how she ended up tush-first on the pavement.
It was clearly a soft landing so I know she wasn’t hurt, but I apologized all the same. This was the opening Sprout was looking for. Like a shark sensing blood, I had given her a signal that I had done something wrong. Now she had a reason to be mad at me. She let me know it by ignoring me </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">while getting her mom to cuddle with her. And from the time we returned home until the time I dropped her off at pre-school, she made sure to move as slowly as she could. </span><br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-53009637334647132132012-12-12T05:00:00.000-08:002012-12-12T05:00:16.044-08:00Wit & Wisdom Combo-Pack: The Bean, Volume 9, Sprout Volume 4<b>
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</style></b><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>Today is a special two-for-one offer, a collection of the ramblings of my kids. Though not as prolific as they used to be, my kids can sure burst forth with nuggets of wisdom. Here is a collection from the past year:</i></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><b>THE BEAN </b></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>(Watching TV) </i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Me: She said that woman [they're talking about on the news] is a Republican.<br />
The Bean: Why did you call her a pelican? <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(2/12)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Anyone see that new cartoon with Mordecai and
Rapey? <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(6/12)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Upon trying <a href="http://www.food.com/recipe/indian-candy-smoked-salmon-47871">Indian Candy</a> for the first time: It
tastes like underwater ham! <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(5/12)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I wish every quarter was a dollar <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(6/12)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Muffins are fancier than cupcakes.<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> (6/12)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Is this salad here to make the table look
pretty or are we going to have to eat it? <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(6/12)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Me: What words do you know in Spanish?<br />
The Bean: Agua. Darth Vader.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(8/12) ™</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br />
Grown ups get to do whatever they want...except for evil things. <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(10/12)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I saw birds practicing geometry because they
were flying in a circle and a square. <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(11/12)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Do all the other crabs obey the King Crab?<span style="font-size: xx-small;">
(12/12)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Me: Remember the stuff you get with arcade tickets doesn't last forever.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The Bean: Yeah, especially if you squeeze it. <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(12/12) </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">SPROUT</span></b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Is it tomorrow today?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> <span style="font-size: xx-small;"> </span></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(1/12)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Let’s play America's Funniest Videos.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You tickle me until I fall off the bed!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(3/12)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">If you see any bad guys let me know
because I have a gun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(2/12)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">You might make me smile, but you can’t make
me happy. <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(6/12)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Oh man, I rule this popsicle stick! <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(6/12)</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Sprout: Daddy's job is to go to work ad make money
for the family. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">WonderWife™: What's mommy's job?<br />
Sprout: I don't know, be lazy? <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(9/12)</span></span></span></div>
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<br />
<br />
<b>The Bean's Past Wisdom:</b><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2009/06/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean.html">Volume 1</a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2009/09/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean-volume-2.html">Volume 2</a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2010/01/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean-volume-3.html">Volume 3</a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2010/06/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean-volume-4.html">Volume 4</a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2010/10/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean-volume-5.html">Volume 5</a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2011/04/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean-volume-6.html">Volume 6 </a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2010/12/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean-holiday-edition.html">Holiday Edition</a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2011/02/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean-valentines-day.html">Valentine's Day Edition</a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2011/10/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean-volume-7.html">Volume 7 </a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2012/04/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean-volume-8.html">Volume 8 </a><br />
<br />
<b>Sprout's Past Wisdom:</b><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2011/01/wit-and-wisdom-of-sprout-volume-1.html">Volume 1</a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2011/07/wit-and-wisdom-of-sprout-volume-2.html">Volume 2 </a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2011/12/wit-and-wisdom-of-sprout-volume-3.html">Volume 3 </a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-59378871237405290482012-11-09T11:09:00.002-08:002012-11-09T11:09:35.577-08:00If I Were a Rich ManThe Bean wandered into the bathroom as I was brushing my teeth. He noticed a copy of <i>Entertainment Weekly</i> on the counter.<br />
<br />
“That man is very handsome,” he said of the picture of Prince Charming from that show my wife inexplicably likes, <i>Once Upon a Time</i>. “He must be rich.”<br />
<br />
“Does being handsome mean that you’re rich?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“Well, one time Dr. Doofenshmirtz turned handsome and walked into a bank and they gave him two bags of money.”<br />
<br />
Deciding not to repeat my “things in real life don’t work the way they do in cartoons” speech yet again, I opted for “uh-huh” as my response.<br />
<br />
“Do you think I’m rich?” I asked.<br />
<br />
“No dad,” said The Bean. “You don’t look like that.”<div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-83447755933253616372012-10-26T17:06:00.002-07:002013-02-07T11:37:12.726-08:00Schools Banning FoodSandwiched between the announcement of the PTA’s latest fundraising drive and the Principal’s pleas for kids to stop shoving each other on the playground, the administrators running the Friday morning assembly at the Bean’s elementary school offered up some thoughts on nutrition. The Principal said that kids who didn’t bring a “nutritious” snack to school would be “sent to the cafeteria for a sandwich.” It was clear that gummi bears and Flaming Hot Cheetos were deemed inadequate snacks. It was not clear if after sending a kid to the cafeteria, the school would pay for the healthy sandwich or if the kids were on the hook for it themselves. Listening to this, my hackles raised a bit.<br />
<br />
We’ve had issues with this school and food before. Last year, the lunchtime monitor deemed some items in the Bean’s lunch unhealthy and scolded him for bringing them to school. The Bean happened to be in the midst of a brief obession with food where every bite he took was preceded by the question, “Is this healthy?" WonderWife™ takes pride in packing nutritious lunches for our kids. And as a person raised on fast food, who doesn't have the world’s best eating habits (read my numerous posts on candy and bacon if you don’t believe me), it’s really important to me that my kids learn to eat well. The woman at the Bean’s school was plain wrong about judging the yogurt he was eating (it was healthy) and she certianly had no place saying anything to my son about it. The issue was discussed with the school and it has not happened again. But it was running through my mind as I listened to the Principal address the students.<br />
<br />
The school’s heart is in the right place, but I don’t think schools should become food police. <br />
<br />
We are a nation of overweight, processed-food junkies who are getting exponentially bigger while passing our terrible eating habits on to the next generation, and we need help. Schools should play a part by offering healthier food and not making soda and candy readily available in the hallways. But should they have the right to tell a kid what kinds of food they are allowed to eat? Shouldn’t this be up to parents?<br />
<br />
A school dictating what is considered nutritious for a student takes away the ability and need of the parent to make those kinds of choices by removing them from the decision making process. Parents need to be able to choose their own paths and influence their kids behavior as they see fit, not because a group of public school administrators says so. Doing so is forcing behavior change. And as we parents know, forcing will inevitably cause backlash from our kids.<br />
<br />
Recently Flaming Hot Cheetos have been <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/10/17/flamin-hot-cheetos-banned-california-new-mexico_n_1974131.html">banned</a> in schools in California and New Mexico because of the poor nutritional value of the snack. While I personally find them to be tasty, I agree that Cheetos aren’t even in the realm of healthy. But is banning or confiscating these snacks the answer? Taking away snacks in school doesn't stop kids from eating them when their not in school. It just makes them forbidden fruit. So wouldn't it be better if the people educating our children attempted to teach them about nutrition instead of policing it? Let's give the next generation the information and tools to change instead of forcing our will upon them. <br />
<br />
To my son’s school, I offer this suggestion: How about if you notice a kid eating unhealthy food instead of punishing the kid, maybe send a note home to engage the parents who are providing the food in a discussion? Explain why the food in question may be problematic and allow the now-informed parents to make a decision they deem best for their child. But stop being food bullies. Because nothing is going to get better by forcing it.
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-34327421878689586952012-10-08T16:03:00.000-07:002012-10-08T16:22:58.706-07:00Nails, Part 3Every morning, the first graders all swarm around me in the
morning holding out their fists. I’m not sure how I became the ringleader of these massive games of Rock, Paper,Scissors, but once the proverbial genie had been released it wasn’t going back in the bottle because it was having too much fun playing with the grown up before school began.<br />
<br />
On this particular morning one of the fingernails of the hands playing was painted bright orange. In the midst of the action, one brash girl stopped so she could tell the
boy who was attached to the orange fingers that it was “against the rules” for
a boy to wear nail polish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
punctuated her proclamation with an authoritative, “My mom said so.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another boy chirped that his mom also
said that boys were not allowed to paint their nails—only girls.<br />
<br />
The orange-nailed boy quietly slunk away.<br />
<br />
As the father of a boy, who on occasion likes to <a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2011/09/nails-part-2.html">paint his nails</a>, I have some <a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2011/04/painting-toes-pink.html">strong opinions </a>on the subject.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told the objectionable kids that everybody has different rules and just because their moms told them one thing doesn’t mean it applies to everyone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It took a lot not to use phrases like “narrow minded” or worse when talking to those kids about their mothers.<br />
<br />
The kids scattered to line up when the bell ran. I hugged the Bean, who had witnessed
the whole thing, and reminded him that no matter what anyone else says it’s
okay for anyone to paint their nails if they want to. I then scanned the area for the orange-nailed boy. I spotted him at the front of the line and worked my way around some errant kids to get to him. I tapped him on the shoulder and when he turned around I looked him in the eye and said, “Just so you know, I think your nails are awesome.”<br />
<br />
He smiled as he went off to class.
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-63030452208551429472012-10-05T10:21:00.003-07:002012-10-05T10:21:47.883-07:00The Mini Moguls The Bean knew exactly what his problem was. Legos cost money. A lot of money. And even though he was relatively new to math, his skills were sharp enough for him to figure out that it would take him a very long time to save up for that Ninjago set on his meager allowance. So the kid decided to get creative.<br />
<br />
Driving up to the house one evening, I spotted the Bean and Sprout marching on the sidewalk, a few of their old toys scattered on the front lawn yelling, “Toys for sale! Get some toys! Only one dollar! Toys for sale!”<br />
<br />
While I appreciated their moxie, there were a few holes in their plan. The first being that there is very little foot traffic in front of our house. The second is that it was a good bet that anyone who might be passing by probably wasn’t going to want a beat up truck or tattered doll.<br />
<br />
For nearly 20 minutes, the kids paced back and forth yelling to get the attention of people who weren’t there. The Bean looked dejected as he trudged inside for his bath. Billy Mays he was not.<br />
<br />
A few days later the Bean had another idea. He realized there was one thing a kid could do to earn a few bucks in the suburbs—a staple of childhood so familiar that it’s practically a cliché—lemonade stand!<br />
<br />
A day was picked and a menu was planned. WonderWife™ asked the Bean to write a shopping list of all of ingredients they might need to sell lemonade and cookies. The kids helped juice the lemons and while they painted signs, WonderWife™ baked. To counter the foot traffic problem, WW™ suggested a spot a few blocks away in front of a post office. We posted the time and location of the stand on Facebook (because we are modern parents and both helplessly addicted to social media), loaded up the car, set up and watched as the kids went to work.<br />
<br />
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<br />
The Bean held up his homemade sign and danced around to attract customers with the natural aplomb and charisma of a street performer. He flipped the sign and shook his ass shouting, “Lemonade! Delicious lemonade!” despite that there was no way the cars zooming along the street could hear him. Sprout was a little meeker in her efforts, but following her brother’s lead she too hoisted her sign and yelled her little voice hoarse.<br />
<br />
A few friends stopped by to patronize the sale, but most of the customers were folks from the neighborhood who couldn’t resist the sight of two sweaty kids hustling in the hot Valley sun. The generosity of our neighbors amazed and warmed us, as more than a few people stuffed extra money in the till telling the kids to “keep the change”. WonderWife™ and I helped pour glasses and make change when the math got a little too hard, but the kids did the majority of the work. And nearly two hours later, their supply of lemonade was depleted.<br />
<br />
Over a celebratory meal of cheeseburgers we helped the kids count their profits. Incredibly, they each earned enough to buy the toy they wanted. We took them directly to the toy store so they could have the experience of handing over their hard-earned cash in exchange for prizes. Clutching his new Lego figures, the Bean declared it “the best day ever!”<br />
<br />
I was incredibly proud of my kids, and made sure I told them so as I
tucked them in that night. They worked hard and learned that earning
money isn’t easy. But it can be extraordinarily rewarding—especially if
you’re the parent of two entrepreneurial kids. <br />
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<div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-67661303891010746032012-09-19T07:45:00.002-07:002012-09-19T07:46:30.974-07:00Arrgh! Tis a good day, me hearties!Arrrrgh! September 19th is<i> International Talk Like a Pirate Day</i> so not only do tha Geek Boy family be talkin' like pirates all day, but I re-post the following audio treat from that scurvy dog, tha Bean (who was nearly 3 years-old at tha time).<br />
<br />
Enjoy, me hearties! <br />
<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/OF_DfGxJq5M&hl=en&fs=1"></param>
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<br><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/OF_DfGxJq5M&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-4631577782626448702012-09-10T08:25:00.000-07:002012-09-10T08:25:01.239-07:00Eternally DisgustingI managed to horrify even myself this year. In all it's shocking glory, I present the annual list of everything I ate at the Los Angeles County Fair:<br />
<br />
Brick o' Curly Fries. <br />Deed Fried Strawberry Cream Cheese Wonton <br />
Fried Spam<br />
3 Beers<br />
Trio of Street Tacos<br />
Trio of Sliders<br />
Pressure Cooked Fried Chicken<br />
Deep Fried Cookie Dough<br />
Deep Fried Trix Cereal<br />
Deep Fried Klondike Bar<br />
Cheesy Garlic Bread<br />
Homemade Potato Chips<br />
Deep Fried Hot Dog<br />
Apple Pulled Pork Grilled Cheese<br />
Traditional Grilled Cheese<br />
Hot Fudge Brownie Sundae<br />
Deep Fried Watermelon<br />
Deep Fried Red Velvet Cake<br />
Soft Pretzel<br />
<br />
<br />
(Amazingly, no bacon this year.)<br />
<br />
<div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-21314531104237971242012-08-08T10:22:00.000-07:002012-08-08T10:22:12.076-07:00Kiss Ass<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Sprout was being stubborn, her default position, and
refusing to brush her teeth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Bean was in the bathroom already, his vigorous scrubbing and foam covered mouth
giving him the appearance of a rabid animal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It had been an extraordinarily hot day in the Valley, as
they tend to be in August, and reserves of patience were in limited
supply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
Sprout sat on edge of the tub with the grin of a girl who
thought she was being cute.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
started with the calm approach but gradually worked my way up to full fledged
angry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was deliberately stalling
and being cocky about it, a move that pushes nearly all of my buttons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yelling soon gave way to a threat—the loss
of one of her prized toys.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That
snapped her into action and soon she too had a mouth full of foam.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br />
Meanwhile the Bean finished up his brushing, smiling the smile of a boy who was
glad not to be in Dad’s line of fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>On the way out of the bathroom, he stopped to give me a hug.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
“I love you, Daddy,” he said, drawing out the “love” in a sugary
sweet tone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“When it’s my
birthday, I don’t even need a present because I have you as my dad!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
He stood there, waiting for me to respond, waiting for me to
praise him for his compliment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
sounds of Sprout’s sporadic teeth brushing were all too present amongst the
silence. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
“Thank you,” I said after a deep breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Any chance you’re telling me this
because I’m yelling at your sister?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;">
“Uh huh,” he said as he practically skipped down the hall
into his bedroom.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-86127664133711455952012-07-30T13:50:00.001-07:002012-07-30T13:54:26.436-07:00Juvenile Guy BondingJuly was a cruel month for the Geek Boy family, resulting in me seeing the rest of the brood for literally three hours over the course of three weeks. At the end of it all, WonderWife™ needed some solitude and sanity and I desperately needed to reconnect with the kids. Thus the plans for a road trip were hatched. I loaded the kids into the ol’ Family Truckster* and we headed south to the San Diego Zoo.<br />
<br />
It was a great whirlwind of a weekend that involved sightseeing, junk food, laughter, room service, swimming and inexplicably waking Daddy up at 5:45am. It was such a jam-packed outing that it took approximately 10 minutes into the drive home for both kids to pass out in the back seat.<br />
<br />
The Bean began to stir 45 minutes later.<br />
<br />
I was excited. "Buddy…Buddy,” I whispered trying to roust him out of his groggy state.<br />
<br />
“What?”<br />
<br />
“Look.” I pointed to a sight just over the horizon. “Keep watching that as we get closer.”<br />
<br />
He leaned forward as much as his seat belt would allow and squinted. In a few minutes he smiled and suppressed a quiet giggle.<br />
<br />
“Should we wake Sprout to see?” he asked.<br />
<br />
“No. Let her sleep. This one’s just for you.”<br />
<br />
This is what he saw**:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-w_RojfrBmfI/UBbyzxw1soI/AAAAAAAAAmg/oaFfVzsLOeo/s1600/photo%281%29.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-w_RojfrBmfI/UBbyzxw1soI/AAAAAAAAAmg/oaFfVzsLOeo/s320/photo%281%29.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">*In real life, the Truckster may more closely resemble a well-worn Camry. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">**I am nothing if not <a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2008/07/in-weeks-before-my-first-comic-con-i.html">predictable</a>. </span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-34494348204516712952012-07-24T21:56:00.001-07:002012-07-25T14:08:07.070-07:00Guy TalkThe Bean was in the bathtub when I got home from work. He was really happy to see me and launched into details about camp. Having drunk several cups of coffee and water throughout the day, followed by a marathon of afternoon meetings and a long drive home, I was in desperate need of relief. I closed the door and told the kid of my intentions to pee.<br />
<br />
“It’s okay, Daddy,” he said. “I’ll turn away.”<br />
<br />
“You don’t have to. We’re both guys. It’s okay.”<br />
<br />
After the business at hand had begun the Bean said, “At camp after swimming today, my friends were talking about wieners.”<br />
<br />
“Like with your guy friends?”<br />
<br />
“Yeah, they were making jokes about wieners and…” The Bean got a guilty look on his face and stopped talking.<br />
<br />
“What’s wrong?”<br />
<br />
"Mom said I’m not allowed to say ‘wiener’.”<br />
<br />
“Listen, when you’re with guys or your dad there are certain things you can say that you shouldn’t say in front of mom. It’s called guy talk. With me, ‘wiener’ is okay.“<br />
<br />
The Bean soaked in that information before continuing to tell me the wiener jokes his friends made at camp.<br />
<br />
I smiled realizing that this conversation is going to be very similar but very different when he’s 13.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-30640574459672831552012-06-13T08:26:00.000-07:002012-06-13T08:27:01.914-07:00Everything You Need To Know About MeIn my formative years, one of my prized possessions was a book called "The World's Worst Elephant Jokes."<br />
<br />
<br />
The first joke in the book went like this:<br />
<br />
<i>What did Tarzan say when he saw elephants coming over the hill?</i><br />
<br />
<i>"Here come elephants over the hill."</i><br />
<br />
<br />
The second joke in the book went like this:<br />
<br />
<i>What did Tarzan say when he saw elephants coming over the hill wearing dark sunglasses?</i><br />
<br />
<i>Nothing. He didn't recognize them.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
Now you understand what my family puts up with. <i> </i><br />
<br />
<br /><div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-62085329855635223262012-05-30T23:24:00.000-07:002013-02-07T11:37:30.172-08:00RetaliationMy Facebook status read:<br />
<br />
<i>Hey WonderWife™, that thing with the glitter....? Nicely played. I hate you for it, but nicely played. </i><br />
<br />
Earlier that day, WonderWife™ and I had what we’ll call a domestic squabble. It was a very rare occurrence for us, a couple that prides themselves on how little they fight. (A stark contrast to my parents, who I lovingly refer to as “The Costanzas”…but that’s another post for another time.) The fracas wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. At the core of it, a difference of opinion. It was the kind of row that all married couples have at some point in their relationship. But there was some anger. And by some, I mean a lot. Pointed directly at me. By her. All day I could feel her silently seething in my direction, the quiet aftermath of the initial battle.<br />
<br />
I shrewdly decided to keep my distance. Thankfully, it was a divide and conquer sort of day where each of us took a kid to a separate birthday party. As a result, there wasn’t a lot of interaction between us. WW™ took Sprout to a party in the morning while I escorted the Bean to an afternoon affair.<br />
<br />
In the evening, I went to my study to immerse myself in various forms of social media and tubes of You. There on my desk, directly in front of my laptop were two works of art from my daughter. The kids’ love of arts and crafts had been growing steadily and the walls of my office had become plastered with their various drawings and paintings. They would leave them for me on my desk or on the chair. But upon closer inspection, these pieces were different. They were absolutely the work of my little girl, but she had worked in a new medium. Glitter. Every square inch of the artwork was coated in a thick layer of sparkly art class glitter.<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2008/02/all-that-glitters.html">I abhor glitter with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns.</a><br />
<br />
I used to have a cat that loved me and was incredibly territorial. During my single days, if a woman started spending too much time with me and getting comfortable in my apartment the cat would leave a present on her pillow. And by present, I mean poop. (The cat did this the most to the woman who would become WonderWife™. Later the two of them strongly bonded.) In this moment, I couldn't help but to think of that cat. WonderWife™ was exactly like her.<br />
<br />
I carefully removed the glitter bombs from the room as carefully as Jeremy Renner in <i>The Hurt Locker</i>, knowing that one false move would mean debris, which would mean sometime in the near future I would be walking around with glitter embarrassingly attached to my face. All the while, WonderWife™ smiled a devilish smile. The message couldn’t have been any clearer if I had woken up next to a horse head.<br />
<br />
I was pissed at WonderWife’s™ retaliation but I also applauded her cleverness. This is why I love her.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-60036829805593058102012-05-07T21:07:00.000-07:002012-05-07T21:08:06.093-07:00This Story Does Not Make Me Look Good<style>
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</style>The Bean has hated getting water in his eyes since he was
old enough to sit up in the bath.
To this very day, he complains whenever he gets splashed while
bathing. Though he doesn’t seem to
have this problem when he’s swimming.
I don’t know why, but this has always bothered me. I guess that getting splashed in the
eye is one of those details that is so minor to me it should be minor to
him. I mean it’s just water. And he couldn't be complaining about shampoo in his eyes because
it’s not supposed to sting. It
says so right on the bottle. His sister even confirmed that it didn't hurt.
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was giving the Bean his bath when water splashed in his
face. As per his custom, he
freaked out and asked for a rag to wipe his eyes. Even though the rags were in a container that was literally
right outside of the bathroom door, I rejected his request. I’m not sure what compelled me to do
this. Ignoring the fact that he's six, I wanted him to stop being so dramatic over a little water. I figured in a minute he'd forget about his eye and continue on with his washing. Hee began to get really
upset—the screaming, red-eyed, nose-running, sloppy sobbing kind of upset. Instead of nurturing the problem that I
created and getting the boy a rag, I made it worse by calmly telling him to stop crying. The sobbing continued all the way through the bath
and only calmed down after a hug from his mom and some <i>Ninjago</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I felt really shitty about it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At bedtime, I tucked the Bean under his covers and sat down
on the bed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I inhaled deeply and said, “In the bath tonight, you asked
for a rag to wipe your eye and I didn’t give it to you. I was wrong and I’m sorry. I should have given you what you were
asking for and the next time I will.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Bean looked visibly relieved and a slight smile crept on
his face. We hugged. We kissed. We were good again.
And I walked out of his room learning a very valuable lesson—if it’s
important to him, it doesn’t matter if it’s not important to me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-15190100763979412642012-05-04T10:48:00.001-07:002012-05-04T10:53:24.616-07:00Chocolate TwinkiesMy sister texted me: <i> Have you tried chocolate Twinkies yet? </i><br />
My text back: <i>Whaa?? </i><br />
<br />
A few days later, a package arrived containing a box of chocolate<br />
crème Twinkies. (I love my sister.)<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DMi-SnzuZfk/T6QWxbOMtAI/AAAAAAAAAmM/RPGXTpufdn4/s1600/1983.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="143" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DMi-SnzuZfk/T6QWxbOMtAI/AAAAAAAAAmM/RPGXTpufdn4/s200/1983.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<br />
Mere moments after the kids were in bed, WonderWife™ and I broke open the box. She took the first bite.<br />
<br />
“Doesn’t really do anything for me,” she said between bites. “But then again, neither do regular Twinkies.”<br />
<br />
“So you totally don’t count on this one,” I said.<br />
<br />
“Don’t get me wrong,” she shot back, “I’d eat the whole box if given the chance.”<br />
<br />
My wife sometimes confuses me. I rolled my eyes at her as I opened up mine. The snack looked like a normal Twinkie—same size, same shape. The only discernible difference was the color of the three dots on the bottom of the cake. They were brown instead of the traditional white. It was only upon taking a bite that the chocolate Twinkie revealed how different it was. In a standard Twinkie the crème and cake are both vanilla, so besides moisture the crème doesn’t add a lot to the flavor of the snack. But the chocolate added an entirely new dimension to the familiar Twinkie flavor. The crème had a richer-than-expected taste that stood out nicely against the spongecake.<br />
<br />
The new flavor is a welcome addition to the Hostess arsenal and while I give them a lot of props for creating a new variation that actually tasted new, in the great chocolate vs. vanilla debate I am solidly in the vanilla camp. Also, I’m a Twinkie purist. So if given the choice I’d pick the standard version over the chocolate crème. That is until they make a peanut butter version.<br />
<br />
(Have I mentioned lately that I love my sister?)<div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-61532733686520926072012-04-18T16:07:00.002-07:002012-04-18T16:13:14.578-07:00Holding HandsI panicked for a moment that I was not holding the Bean’s hand on the escalator, forgetting that he’s old enough to ride it by himself. This was followed by the sharp shot of melancholy that accompanies the realization that your kid is growing up. The Bean no longer needs to hold my hand while crossing the street or in a parking lot. <br />
<br />
Sometimes he will take my hand out of habit and I enjoy the feeling of being connected with my first born as we walk. Sometimes he too forgets that he doesn’t need to hold on to me and clasps his hand with mine for a moment before letting go.<br />
<br />
It’s only a matter of time before he stops taking my hand altogether. It will be added to the list of things that I miss, along with carrying him on my shoulders and tossing him up in the air. <br />
<br />
It’s wonderful to see my son grow up. But there are times when I long for the little boy he used to be. Letting go of his hand is only the beginning.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-17784977695138482292012-04-11T22:55:00.000-07:002012-04-11T22:55:34.323-07:00The Wit and Wisdom of the Bean: Volume 8After rejecting being taught how to tell time after getting a watch: “I don’t need to know how to tell time with a watch!” <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(12/11)</span><br />
<br />
The Bean: Can you get me the cereal? <br />
DGB: Who am I, your butler?<br />
The Bean: (pointing) Hey everybody, this old man said booty! <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(1/12)</span><br />
<br />
At a hockey game: "Why do they say <i>'go Kings g</i>o? They don't move." <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(1/12)</span><br />
<br />
The Bean: This watch makes me look fancy.<br />
DGB: Oh, you want to look fancy?<br />
The Bean: Duh, I'm a boy! <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(1/12)</span><br />
<br />
“School is so worky!” <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(10/11)</span><br />
<br />
“I keep thinking, why am I me? It’s hard to explain. Why am I me? I don’t even remember being in mommy’s tummy.” <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(11/11)</span><br />
<br />
WonderWife™: Why weren’t you wearing underwear?<br />
The Bean: Because it was Wednesday. <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(11/11)</span><br />
<br />
"I smell stinky chocolate, or is it my feet?"<span style="font-size: xx-small;"> (12/11)</span><br />
<br />
The Bean: "I expected Disney World to look more like Mexico."* <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(12/11)</span><br />
<br />
The Bean: Those things are in a force shield<br />
WonderWife™: A force <i>field</i>.<br />
The Bean: No, a force <i><b>shield</b></i>! <span style="font-size: xx-small;"> (1/12)</span><br />
<br />
The Bean: Aki. Aki ya.<br />
DGB: What are you doing?<br />
The Bean: Speaking Spanish.<br />
DGB: That's not Spanish.<br />
The Bean: I know!! <span style="font-size: xx-small;">(4/12)</span><br />
<br />
<br />
*He's never been close to Mexico. <br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Past Wisdom:</b><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2009/06/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean.html">Volume 1</a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2009/09/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean-volume-2.html">Volume 2</a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2010/01/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean-volume-3.html">Volume 3</a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2010/06/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean-volume-4.html">Volume 4</a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2010/10/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean-volume-5.html">Volume 5</a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2011/04/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean-volume-6.html">Volume 6 </a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2010/12/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean-holiday-edition.html">Holiday Edition</a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2011/02/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean-valentines-day.html">Valentine's Day Edition</a><br />
<a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2011/10/wit-and-wisdom-of-bean-volume-7.html">Volume 7 </a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-86858557324251779402012-04-04T22:15:00.000-07:002012-04-04T22:15:17.005-07:00Pain in the Chest<i>I’m dying</i>, I thought to myself as I woke up. It was my fifth day living with an unidentified pain that resided in my chest near my heart. As I rolled over, my arm felt numb. <i>This is it</i>, I nearly said out loud, <i>this is the beginning of my end.</i> For a few minutes, I was too groggy to realize that I had been lying on my arm, thus the pins and needle sensation. Thankfully, WonderWife™ wasn’t making toast for breakfast because that might have sent me into a tailspin. So I wasn’t having a heart attack, but I didn’t have an answer for the ache in my chest.<br />
<br />
I’m not a hypochondriac. I rarely get sick. I didn’t want to go to the doctor. I wanted to hide in the back of my closet. This was impractical, unrealistic and foolish. I needed to act. People in this world depended on me and loved me. But I was scared. Scared of what this pain might mean. Scared of what the doctor could tell me. I forced myself not to look anything up on the internet. <br />
<br />
Before I could talk myself out of it, I told WonderWife™ about the pain knowing that once I blurted the truth to her, I couldn’t run away from it. She wouldn’t let me. <br />
<br />
“I need to go to the doctor,” I told WW™ quietly over breakfast. “There’s something wrong with me. I know it. I’m scared. I’m dying.”<br />
<br />
She rubbed my shoulder and reassured me in a way that said, “you’re going to be fine” and “you’re a freaking lunatic.” I wished she would have said, “You’re not dying you just can’t think of anything better to do.” But that’s a foolish pipe dream.<br />
<br />
At this point I did what any rational non-rational person would do and made an appointment with the my GP. After I carefully laid out my symptoms, the doc seemed rather nonplussed about my condition. I didn’t take this as a sign of encouragement, because the man might be the most blasé person I’ve ever encountered. He did tell me that it was unlikely I was dying, but so that I might someday be able to get back to sleep he would run a few tests. <br />
<br />
I was escorted to a small, seemingly little-used back room of the office where, sitting amongst boxes of files haphazardly strewn about, was a treadmill. Electrodes were glued all over my body and I tried not to think about how they would feel later being pulled off of my fuzzy chest. I ran on the treadmill while the doctor and a nurse cranked it faster and higher all the while reading beeps and lines of the machine that was connected to me. Or they could have been playing Angry Birds. I’m not really sure because I was busy huffing it on the treadmill, silently pleading for them to stop the machine before I passed out.<br />
<br />
As predicted, none of the things a doctor wouldn’t want to see on the test were there. Everything was fine. Sure I had blown through my deductible in one visit, but I now had peace of mind. For now. I’m getting older. It’s really just a matter of time before something else happens.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-48504574121547605812012-03-29T12:18:00.000-07:002012-03-29T12:18:02.089-07:00The VoicesI give different voices to the characters in some of the books I read to my kids. Not all of them, but some. I don't what it is about a particular book that inspires me to do it, but I am compelled each time I read them aloud to add this performance element. Though I possess a few talents, <a href="http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2009/02/man-of-only-few-voices.html">the ability to create cartoon quality voices escapes me</a>. Most of them end up sounding a lot like Marvin Martian/Kermit the Frog mutations. <br />
<br />
I started doing the voices for the Bean though I am not sure if he didn't notice or just didn't care because he never said anything about them. Maybe he just accepted that this is what some grow ups do when they read books. Sprout, on the other hand, has become enchanted with them–well two of them, at least. <br />
<br />
Piggy (a pig) has a nasally whine. Gerald (elephant) has a dumb sounding voice kind of like Petey Puma when he's asking for a whole lotta lumps. They are the stars of a series of books by the immortal Mo Willems. The Bean went through big phase with these books that burned hot and fast. They soon collected dust on his shelf–until the girl found them. I've been reading them to her for a few weeks now in the exact same way that I read them to her brother, with these goofy voices. Each performance is fairly consistent, the cadence and inflection of the characters were cemented in years ago. Surprisingly, Sprout not only noticed the voices she soon asked me to sing her goodnight song in Piggie's voice. <br />
<br />
The singing requests came through for the next few nights and it wasn't long before Gerald joined the act, helping Piggie sing <i>Mary Had a Little Lamb</i>. Without a book to follow, the act varied a bit from night to night. Sprout was enthralled. Next Sprout discovered the Bean's old Gerald and Piggie dolls and they were added to the song. Sprout now squeals with delight when her nighttime routine turns into a puppet show.<br />
<br />
And I must admit that I am very much enjoying performing nightly for an audience of one.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-69609555449544434072012-03-23T15:03:00.001-07:002012-03-26T11:59:40.191-07:00He Ski“I want to be there now!” the boy said brimming with excitement. “It’s the afternoon already.”<br />
<br />
Actually it was 8:30 in the morning. But since the Bean and I had only been awake for 2 hours and an hour and a half of that was spent in the car, I couldn’t blame him for being somewhat confused. We had gotten an early start on our way to the mountains. Today was the day I was going to introduce the Bean to skiing. <br />
<br />
I am a terrible athlete. I can barely throw and I have been literally laughed at by my closest friends while playing basketball. But despite all of this somehow I have emerged a decent skier. (Back before I had kids, when I used to hit the slopes on a regular basis, I was actually a really good skier.) Skiing ranks up there with roller coasters and going to the movies as one of my favorite things to do. Of course like roller coasters and movies, my chosen partner in crime, WonderWife™, has no interest in it. This is why I’ve been not so secretly hatching a plan to get at least one of my kids into ski. And since the Bean is the oldest, he was lucky enough to try first. <br />
<br />
In order for this plan to work, I had to be smart and patient. The Bean hasn’t always taken to new things, especially ones that require practice when you’re a noob (just ask WonderWife™ who’s been an unfortunate spectator when the kid first started playing Lego Batman). While some kids start skiing as young as 3 or 4, I knew that I needed to wait a bit longer. I couldn’t just shove him in ski pants, plop him on a mountain and expect him to like it just because I want him to. I’d have to strike at the right time. Thankfully, this past summer the Bean started asking about snow. He wanted to go to the mountains and have a snowball fight. When the weather turned cold, I told the Bean I was going to take him to snow and take him skiing. He was excited and we were off to a good start. <br />
<br />
On the way up to the mountain, I reminded the Bean that he was not going to be a very good skier at first. He was going to spend a lot of time falling down. He was okay with this—mostly because when he plays the We Ski video game he loves making his avatar crash into things. I also reminded him that falling in real life may be a bit more painful than when done virtually. <br />
<br />
We rented his equipment and I stuffed his feet into his ski boots. I tried not to laugh as he struggled to walk in the clunky gear. He didn’t find it funny. We had an hour before his lesson so I took him to a flat section near the base of the slopes and showed him how to get into his skiis. Pretty much immediately he was on his ass. A lot of frustrated yelling was soon hurled my way and I quickly realized that although I know how to ski myself, I had no idea who to teach somebody to do it. We soon gave up skiing in order to have the snowball fight he so desperately wanted. <br />
<br />
I dropped the Bean off with the ski instructor and made my way to the lodge where stood with the beauty of a mirage in the desert a patio that overlooked the bunny slope next to a bar. I ordered a brew and covertly watched my boy learn “pizza.” It wasn’t long before he took a small run, his instructor in tow. Near the end of his lesson, he was turning by himself. I beamed with pride, suppressing the urge to point out my kid to the rest of the bar patrons. <br />
<br />
I was standing at the top of the moving carpet lift when the Bean crested the hill. He saw me and through the biggest smile he could muster said, “I love this! I want to do it more!” <br />
<br />
It seemed my plan had worked. Sadly, the Bean will have to wait another year to ski again. Jelly legs prevented us from taking any more runs that day and there is a painfully limited window of opportunity to ski in Southern California as the season is so short. But rest assured, as soon as the next snow falls I will be making the trek with my young Padawan to the mountains to continue his training.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-43746934341274008632012-03-12T06:00:00.001-07:002012-03-12T06:00:06.350-07:00Birthday Cake OreosWonderWife™ was in the desert for a girl’s weekend. Knowing that once the kids were in bed, the evening was mine, I stopped to pick up a bottle of wine when out of the corner of my eye I noticed a brightly colored change on an ordinarily familiar package and there in the corner…yup “limited edition.”<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fD1geVxBo0M/T11_k8zU19I/AAAAAAAAAlo/RyPR5VWNXw4/s1600/photo%281%29.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-fD1geVxBo0M/T11_k8zU19I/AAAAAAAAAlo/RyPR5VWNXw4/s320/photo%281%29.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
In case you hadn’t heard, the famous Oreo cookie turns 100 this year. That’s quite an accomplishment for anyone, let alone a snack food. To celebrate, they created a special edition Birthday Cake version.<br />
<br />
Even though both kids were in tow, I somehow managed to buy the cookies right in front of them without either of them noticing what I had done. (Of course I gave them a sample later.)<br />
<br />
I was wondering how much Birthday Cake Oreos might differ from the original. The flavor of an Oreo cookie is so familiar that it’s easy to tell when there’s something different or amiss. I discovered this when trying a Canadian Oreo for the first time. Although the cookie was basically the same, there was something slightly unusual about the taste. (I later found out that Oreos are made with coconut oil in Canada, thus the difference.) From the package it looked like Birthday Cake Oreos had colored sprinkles in the crème. But there was no other indication on the bag that they might not be regular Oreos. The cotton candy-like aroma that wafted out of the bag once opened gave the first clue that something was different. <br />
<br />
On the cookie, a minimalist “Oreo 100” design replaced the familiar Oreo pattern on the top wafer. Inside was a double-stuff amount of crème that had the appearance of a regular Oreo (taking the aforementioned sprinkles into consideration) but the distinct flavor of vanilla birthday cake. Yet even though the flavor was different, the cookie still unmistakably tasted like an Oreo. The subtle change of the crème added a new, somehow sweeter, dimension to the cookie. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Wn7ecgfAjyw/T11_oyq3FsI/AAAAAAAAAlw/aL1tiOXyVS0/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Wn7ecgfAjyw/T11_oyq3FsI/AAAAAAAAAlw/aL1tiOXyVS0/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I get asked a lot why “new” food products excite me. To fully answer that might require delving too deeply into my psyche than one could do in a blog. But a simple explanation is that I’m impressed when making a small change to something can create a product that resembles the original but has its own new identity. The Birthday Cake Oreo is about the best example of a new product that does its namesake justice. They're just really good. Happy birthday Oreo and thanks for your present to all of us.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-30689463929100468002012-03-01T22:59:00.002-08:002012-03-01T22:59:14.740-08:00The CowIt had been a long day at work and a long day at home. I was starving by the time the kids were corralled, bathed, dressed and put to bed. Thankfully WonderWife™ had a plate of that night’s dinner waiting for me in the fridge. Peeling back the foil I discovered chicken and pasta in a béchamel sauce (that’s white sauce for all of you non-Food Network addicts out there). It might have looked monochromatic, but it was tasty.<br />
<br />
I had just hunkered down in front of the TV digging into the meal when the Bean emerged from his bedroom. <br />
<br />
WonderWife™ and I turned our heads and said, “Go to bed!” with the precision of a pair of synchronized swimmers.<br />
<br />
“But, but…” the Bean stammered. “But I need to tell Dad about the cow.”<br />
<br />
Apparently livestock was brought to the Bean’s school as a teaching aid. It was clear that the Bean was not going to even attempt to sleep until his story was told.<br />
<br />
“Go ahead,” I said shoving another forkful of dinner into my mouth.<br />
<br />
His eyes lit up. “Did you know that a cow has four sections in his stomach? And that it eats food and it goes into the first part of the stomach and gets moistened and then it goes back into the mouth and chews it again and it goes through all four of the stomachs.”<br />
<br />
I looked down at my dinner plate, chunks of chicken and pasta covered in that creamy sticky white sauce that didn’t seem as appetizing as it had moments ago. I realized that I was still chewing my last bite of food.<br />
<br />
“Then the cow peed and we all laughed,” the Bean said gleefully. <br />
<br />
He was beaming, waiting for my response. I slowly swallowed. <br />
<br />
“Thank you for that enlightening dinner conversation,” I said. “Now please go to bed.”<div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-19984483992201421412012-02-23T10:31:00.002-08:002012-02-23T10:31:57.871-08:00AfterIt was hard to tell where the body was buried. The only clue was the small pile of loose dirt that all but blended into the debris that surrounded it. I held my children’s hands as we stood in a circle around the grave. We were there to say goodbye to our pet.<br />
<br />
The Bean was adamant with his suggestion that we mark the occasion by reciting “The Plegible Legions.”* With no better ideas on the table, we did it. In the middle of it WonderWife™ and I caught each other’s gaze. The emotions of the past few days mixed with the absurdity of the moment and we couldn’t keep ourselves from laughing. <br />
<br />
The kids had handled the news that their pet was being put to sleep remarkably well, all things considered. WonderWife™ and I had planned for the conversation with the precision of a military strike. We decided not to pull any punches with them. We would not invent wild fantasies to disguise the truth with sugary sweetness. There would be no talk of kitty heaven. We planned for lots of tears and lots of questions. Both were in plentiful supply.<br />
<br />
That morning, the Bean said his final goodbyes to his cat and left for school. Sprout didn’t have pre-school that day, so my job was to plan a morning of activities that would distract her while WonderWife™ took care of the unpleasantries. While it was hard to plaster a happy look on my face to keep my daughter focused on playing, I knew that my wife was dealing with the way more difficult task. <br />
<br />
That afternoon, we sat shiva. WW™ made a pie and we lit candles and said a few nice words about our departed cat. After the sugar worked its way into the Bean’s system, he declared the day “the best ever!”, oddly seeming to forget that a just few moments earlier we stood over the grave of our companion performing an inappropriate eulogy. It didn’t matter. The tension had been broken. <br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">*Say it out loud.</span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-12655773729242852862012-02-17T12:00:00.000-08:002012-02-17T12:00:04.155-08:00Losing a PetTwo weeks ago, I awoke in the middle of the night to the unpleasant sensation of being pissed on by my cat. Initially, I thought he might have been exacting some sort of feline revenge on me because I’m usually the one who ends up shooing him out of rooms where he’s not supposed to be. Yet anyone familiar with cat behavior knows that a lot of the time something like this isn’t an act of aggression but a signal that something is wrong. Something was indeed wrong—the un-fixable kind of wrong.<br />
<br />
Three years ago we adopted a stray kitten who grew <a href="http://www.blogger.com/%20http://www.daddygeekboy.com/2009/01/geekboy-family-pet-update.html">big and fluffy</a> and burrowed his way into our hearts. We dubbed him Ginko. In Ginko, WonderWife™ found a cat who adored all things fabric and would magically appear whenever she was working on a quilt to lay amongst the scraps on her sewing table. Sprout found a pet who wouldn’t run away from her attempts at affection, like our other, more nervous cat. The Bean found a best friend. The bond between Ginko and the Bean was palpable and touching. The cat followed the boy around the house during the day and happily rested on his bed as the Bean drifted off to sleep. Ginko would often howl outside of the Bean’s door at night, wanting to be closer to his friend. <br />
<br />
WonderWife™ and I are burdened with the heavy knowledge that tomorrow will be Ginko’s last. As of my writing this, we haven’t yet broken the news to the kids. I imagine it’s going to be very hard for them to understand. Despite outward appearances, we have a very sick cat and based on what the vet tells us, the only humane decision is the most difficult one. Not only must we grieve, but we must guide our children through their first experience losing someone they love. <br />
<br />
WonderWife™recently told me she had been looking forward to Ginko growing older, when his wild kitten-like nature would calm and he’d become a true lap cat. I was looking forward to watching my son grow up with his favorite pet. But that isn’t going to happen, because sadly sometimes pets get sick. And sometimes pets die young.<br />
<br />
By the time you’re reading this Ginko will be gone and the Geek Boy family will be drowning our sorrows in giant bowls of ice cream. I’d give a lot if tomorrow morning I could wake up to him pissing on me. <br />
<br />
RIP Ginky Malinky, rapscallion cat. You will be missed. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zZUWm_pHRhI/Tz32_dJ6nYI/AAAAAAAAAk8/n-hQdmVoBDY/s1600/photo%284%29.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zZUWm_pHRhI/Tz32_dJ6nYI/AAAAAAAAAk8/n-hQdmVoBDY/s320/photo%284%29.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7705668035251136169.post-76425129045405732062012-02-14T10:50:00.000-08:002012-02-14T10:51:23.644-08:00Happy Fried Chicken DayBy the time I met the woman who would become WonderWife™, I had been through the dating gauntlet. I had J-Dated, Speed Dated, blind dated, double dated… Frankly, I was exhausted. Thankfully everything about dating the future WW™ proved to be easy. We had been together for seven months before we faced our first Valentines Day. Normally I would panic on a supposed big day like this, trying to plan every detail to be just right. But there was something about FWW™ that drew the honesty out of me, like putting sugar on a strawberry draws out the juice. After talking about our expectations for the day, we both concluded that the idea of battling other love struck couples while spending an outlandish amount of money at a restaurant that had artificially inflated the prices for one night was…well stupid. Instead on the way home from work I picked up fried chicken and waffles from Roscoe’s and we sat cross-legged on the floor of her apartment happily gorging ourselves. It was one of our best moments and one of the things that helped further cement our already solid relationship. <br />
<br />
We’ve spent 11 years together and we still don’t make a big deal out of Valentines Day, but we do continue to eat fried chicken to commemorate it.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TmuyDSo2EuE/Tzqs36jpzGI/AAAAAAAAAk0/OKzfGMt37eQ/s1600/i_love_fried_chicken_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-TmuyDSo2EuE/Tzqs36jpzGI/AAAAAAAAAk0/OKzfGMt37eQ/s320/i_love_fried_chicken_.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
Happy Fried Chicken Day!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><hr/><br/>
Hey you! Yes, you with the reader. Don't be shy..click on through and leave a comment.</div>DGBhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01302995272029761401noreply@blogger.com1