So when you’ve finished with the vasectomy consult, it’s not exactly surprising to need some time for yourself. I had gone over the diagrams, procedures and expectations for post-op discomfort with my friendly doctor, and was now fully versed on what to expect. As I left, I decided to take myself to the gym – I figured if I’m going to give away some of my manhood, I’d might as well do so with strong pectoral muscles.
But after I’d finished working out, I still needed something more as I tried to prepare for the impending sensation of a frozen bag of peas at waist-level. So I called my wife and told her I was going to get us some pizza. She said no problem. But this wasn’t going to be just any pizza, I told her. This time, I was finally going to drive 15 miles to a place I’d been wanting to try for years. She knew it was that kind of day, so she told me to take my time.
When Amy and I were first married, we’d often drive around New York City to sample the pizzas that received the highest rankings from Zagat and The Times and New York magazine. Now that we live in New Jersey, we keep an eye on the pizza rankings dished out by the Star-Ledger and New Jersey Monthly. But we notice that the best pizzas come from all over the state, so it’s a little more difficult to try these places.
But every time we see a list of New Jersey’s best pizzerias, we always see one place on the list every time – a little joint in the shadows of the Goethals Bridge named Al Santillo’s Brick Oven Pizza. Santillo’s is a tiny pizzeria located inside a side entrance of an unimpressive building on South Broad Street in Elizabeth. It has no seating; just takeout and delivery. And as you might imagine, they don’t deliver to houses 15 miles away. With the spot located in a bleak little patch of urban landscape between the New Jersey Turnpike, the Goethals and Route 1, it’s not an ideal spot for laying out a blanket and having a pizza picnic.
So the time was never right for our family of four to try Santillo’s – until this recent evening, when I had the cojones to make it happen. As I pulled up to the two-story gray building, I saw the sign, and the walkway up the side alleyway. I stepped into the little place, and there was Al himself behind the counter. As he brought me my pizza, he asked if this was my first time at Santillo’s. I told him I’d been reading about his place for years, and was driving from 10 towns away.
He smiled. “Oh, you’re a pizza tourist,” Al said. Then he waved for me to follow him. I did.
Al brought me back to the brick oven itself, with its narrow height and intense heat. He explained that his family had made the oven in 1904, and it’s been operating for three generations. He showed me the long-handled, wooden pizza peels hanging above us, and we stared at a large cheese pie cooking inside.
I told Al that we’re from Staten Island, and we’ve always taken pride in eating good pizza. He nodded. “That’s what being Italian is all about to me,” he said.
Al asked me to sign an e-mail list, which I did. Then he shook my hand, and wished me well. I drove the 15 miles back home, where the girls and Amy were waiting patiently. It was clear, as we started eating, that the Santillo family knows how to make a pie. We ate and talked together, and my pizza journey seemed like time well-spent.
A couple of weeks from now, I will be sitting on our couch, watching a ballgame in significant discomfort. That bag of peas will be nestled comfortably in my crotch, I will be achy and irritable, and I’ll try to find a way of explaining what’s going on to a 9- and 6-year-old who don’t really understand what precipitates the need for such a procedure. The gym won’t really be a good idea, and I won’t be in the mood for much driving.
So Amy, my dear, if you’re reading this blog post at any point, I’m just letting you know that a nice pizza from Santillo’s would go over real well during that recovery time. You can say it was your idea, and I’ll go along with it just fine. I’ll take one large cheese pie – nothing special. We pizza tourists just need a little delivery every once in awhile.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Springing Forth Lessons
It’s been a whirlwind of a spring, one that has kept me away from this blog for far too long. As the school year nears its end and my students turn in their finals, I’m finally seeing some daylight. I can’t overstate how much writing means to me, so it’s been tough not finding the time to post some blog entries. So it is time.
I usually use this space to write about life, with a little baseball mixed in, since the world as I see it is framed by diamonds, chalk lines and foul poles. So with a little baseball and a lot of details, I thought I’d share nine lessons learned over the past three months – one for each inning.
Lesson No. 1: Don’t mix baseball getaway weekends with tattoo conventions. It was designed as a fun little chance for the guys to get together, drive around the Mid-Atlantic, and watch some games. My brother, our friend Neil and I braved the cold and rain of early April to catch a Rangers-Orioles doubleheader in Baltimore. While the games and the crab soup at Camden Yards were fabulous, we were a little surprised by the scene at the Sheraton Hotel that Neil had booked for us. We didn’t realize that (a) there was a tattoo convention in the hotel that weekend, (b) the convention took over the entire lobby, and (c) the elevator to our wing was at the end of the lobby, past every tattoo table. Now nothing against tattoos – I know plenty of people who have them. But when you’re dressed up for a ballgame, and you look the part – cap, jackets, souvenir cups – you kind of stick out when surrounded by body art. We made it through unscathed, though, and I managed to avoid the temptation to ask someone if they could ink an interlocking NY onto my shoulder. Wouldn’t have played well in Baltimore anyway.
Lesson No. 2: It’s OK to give away a foul ball. It is, of course, every child’s dream to catch a foul ball at a baseball game. When I was 16, I was lucky enough to catch a ball at Yankee Stadium. It was a foul tip off the bat of Yankees utility infielder Jerry Royster, and I caught it after it had bounced off the facade behind home plate, then off a few sets of hands, before settling into my right hand. The girl next to me told me she was impressed. I blushed. Some 24 years later, I was sitting in the stands at the aforementioned Orioles game, when Baltimore right fielder Nick Markakis knocked a foul ball my way. I tracked it, shifted to my left in the empty row in which I stood, and saw it land just over my head. But the man behind me couldn’t negotiate his beer and the ball, so it bounced off his hands and into my row. I picked it up quickly, sat down and studied the cowhide and red stitches. It looked fairly clean, and I thought of how much the girls would enjoy this souvenir. But then I thought about what had kept this ball out of the guy’s hands. He couldn’t two-hand it because he was trying to hold onto a beer that had probably cost half as much as the ticket he bought for the game. Could I blame him? Slowly, I stood up and walked over to the man. I handed him the ball. He thanked me, and I sat back down. Instead of handing the girls a ball when I got home, I told them my story. The moral, of course, is clear: Always treat Orioles fans better than Red Sox fans.
Lesson No. 3: You can speak to the enemy. In fact, you can even get him tickets to Fenway. A couple of weeks ago, our friend Tom had a 40th birthday party in his backyard. His wife, Kim, decorated the yard to look like Fenway Park, complete with a Green Monster made of tarp and tape, a cardboard Citgo sign and a spray-painted diamond on the grass. We were even asked to wear red. This is a difficult invitation for a Yankees fan to receive in the mail, and even more difficult to have to pay a babysitter for the opportunity to sit in a replica of my least favorite team’s home stadium. And yet, as we ate barbecue, listened to Irish music and chatted with friends, I handed Tom an envelope. Several of his friends had been e-mailing one another before the party about pooling their gift money for a larger present. As they discussed the options, the baseball fan in me kept coming back to the same idea. Tom is a wonderful guy – some Red Sox fans actually are, I have learned – and this year’s Boston team is one of the best that’s ever played in Fenway. So I recommended we all buy Tom and his father two tickets for a Red Sox game, with their seats atop the legendary Green Monster. All agreed, and we made this happen. And so, on a warm summer’s day, my friend will surely sit in the best seats he’s ever had for a ballgame. And aside from the design on the cap he’ll be wearing, I can’t imagine a much better way for him to spend the day.
Lesson No. 4: The tooth fairy works past dawn. It was 6:55 a.m., and Chelsea walked down the steps with sleep and bewilderment in her big brown eyes. “She didn’t come,” my 6-year-old said, holding her plastic tooth case, her baby tooth still snug inside the case and not a single greenback to be found. Think fast, I told myself. And so I did. “Chelsea,” I said, “that’s because the Tooth Fairy works until seven o’clock every morning. She doesn’t like it when curious little girls wake up early while she’s still making deliveries.” She nodded, as this seemed to make some sense to her. I saw the case in her hand, and added, “But, if you’d like me to place the case on the front steps to make it easier for her, I can do that.” Chelsea handed me the case, and this seemed to please the Tooth Fairy a lot. After a few frenetic moments involving a search of my wallet and a toss of glitter on the front steps, I was on my way to work. And I didn’t even notice the small child’s tooth in my back pocket all day.
Lesson No. 5: I have accepted my wife’s boyfriend. It took some time before I was willing to share Amy with another, but I have decided I can live with it. It’s still not much fun, watching them cuddle together on the couch, but we all make concessions. They commiserate over Facebook, weather updates and angry birds, and it seems to make her happy. I am speaking, of course, of Amy’s iPhone, which I have written about before. I’m not a big smartphone guy, and I’ve voiced concerns that too much of our society is becoming devoted to the tiny computers in our midst. And yet, we’re driving together, and trying to find a movie theater or a restaurant, and she just presses a button and finds the answer. I don’t have a response for why that kind of help is bad for me. As long as no one’s looking at that information while they’re driving, it’s actually pretty great. And so far, she has never denied my own requests for cuddling on the couch. Of course, sometimes it’s the three of us, and I say OK. She gets the best of both worlds.
Lesson No. 6: There’s always time in the day to create beauty. We had just returned from the unveiling of our friend Roy Chambers’ found-metal sculpture “Don Quixote,” outside the Raconteur Bookstore in Metuchen. This artistic wonder had captivated the girls and I both, and it certainly inspired Katie. So as our 9-year-old sat down to create an artistic rendering of Charlotte’s Web for her third-grade book project, she fed off of Roy’s inspiration and crafted the characters from E.B. White’s story out of clay. By the time she finished, Katie had completed her most impressive piece of artwork so far. She knew it, and she felt proud of it. Of course, she had Roy to thank. (See more of Roy’s artwork at www.artegrity.org)
Lesson No. 7: One man’s stadium theme song is another girl’s kindergarten swan song. If you’ve ever been to a ballgame at Yankee Stadium, you’ve heard Frank Sinatra’s voice. It booms out of the potent stadium speakers after the final out is made, and the Yankee fans love to sing along with Ol’ Blue Eyes, especially after a New York victory. The song, of course, is “New York, New York,” and it’s become a part of Gotham sports culture, even finding its way into Knicks and Rangers games. But last week, in a little auditorium in Central Jersey, a group of little boys and girls stood up and stole Sinatra’s – and Yankee fans’ – thunder as the piano began to play: “Start spreadin’ the news, I’m leaving today / I want to be a part of it: First grade, first grade.” And as they sang their way out of kindergarten, the little 5- and 6-year-olds sounded more lovely than 50,000 baseball fans ever could.
Lesson No. 8: It is possible to mix punk rock, mini golf and trapeze lessons. If you were in a certain part of New York City today, you would have seen adults swinging on a trapeze near a giant Mark di Suvero sculpture. And you would have seen families playing mini-golf with the Staten Island Ferry and Statue of Liberty as their backdrop. Oh, and you also would have seen moms, dads and kids bicycling their surreys past mosh pits. Only in New York, for sure, but more specifically – only on Governor’s Island. For years, this tiny island just off the southern tip of Manhattan has been in a sort of limbo, waiting for its next raison d’etre. And wow, has the city ever fulfilled its role of using its resources to create community, art and opportunities for wonder. We spent this Father’s Day biking around an island with panoramic views of New York Harbor, all the while experiencing other pieces of culture we never would have encountered. If you live anywhere near the New York City area and haven’t checked this place out, it’s time.
Lesson No. 9: There are fathers, and then there are fathers. My friend and colleague Darren lost his wife, Kelly, to cancer nearly two months ago. She was 32 years old and, like her husband, was a tremendous person. Darren is celebrating his Father’s Day with Elliot, their 2-year-old daughter who is obviously adjusting to a much different childhood than she had at first. My cousin, Tim, has a wife named Lauren who, a few months ago, developed bacterial meningitis while nine months pregnant with her daughter. The baby was delivered safe and sound, but Lauren fell into a coma and experienced severe swelling in the brain. She has been unable to walk or talk ever since, and has been fighting off infections for much of these past four months. As Lauren has bravely fought for her life and her health, Tim has cared for his 2-year-old son, Cohen, and his newborn daughter, Claire. As we send out our many Father’s Day greetings today, I think especially of my friend and my cousin, who have fulfilled the role of father in ways that surpass description. They are heroes in every sense of the word. Happy Father’s Day to them, and to all the dads out there.
As for me, it’s been a great day, and a very busy spring. A lot has been learned, with so much more yet to come. That’s what summer is for.
I usually use this space to write about life, with a little baseball mixed in, since the world as I see it is framed by diamonds, chalk lines and foul poles. So with a little baseball and a lot of details, I thought I’d share nine lessons learned over the past three months – one for each inning.
Lesson No. 1: Don’t mix baseball getaway weekends with tattoo conventions. It was designed as a fun little chance for the guys to get together, drive around the Mid-Atlantic, and watch some games. My brother, our friend Neil and I braved the cold and rain of early April to catch a Rangers-Orioles doubleheader in Baltimore. While the games and the crab soup at Camden Yards were fabulous, we were a little surprised by the scene at the Sheraton Hotel that Neil had booked for us. We didn’t realize that (a) there was a tattoo convention in the hotel that weekend, (b) the convention took over the entire lobby, and (c) the elevator to our wing was at the end of the lobby, past every tattoo table. Now nothing against tattoos – I know plenty of people who have them. But when you’re dressed up for a ballgame, and you look the part – cap, jackets, souvenir cups – you kind of stick out when surrounded by body art. We made it through unscathed, though, and I managed to avoid the temptation to ask someone if they could ink an interlocking NY onto my shoulder. Wouldn’t have played well in Baltimore anyway.
Lesson No. 2: It’s OK to give away a foul ball. It is, of course, every child’s dream to catch a foul ball at a baseball game. When I was 16, I was lucky enough to catch a ball at Yankee Stadium. It was a foul tip off the bat of Yankees utility infielder Jerry Royster, and I caught it after it had bounced off the facade behind home plate, then off a few sets of hands, before settling into my right hand. The girl next to me told me she was impressed. I blushed. Some 24 years later, I was sitting in the stands at the aforementioned Orioles game, when Baltimore right fielder Nick Markakis knocked a foul ball my way. I tracked it, shifted to my left in the empty row in which I stood, and saw it land just over my head. But the man behind me couldn’t negotiate his beer and the ball, so it bounced off his hands and into my row. I picked it up quickly, sat down and studied the cowhide and red stitches. It looked fairly clean, and I thought of how much the girls would enjoy this souvenir. But then I thought about what had kept this ball out of the guy’s hands. He couldn’t two-hand it because he was trying to hold onto a beer that had probably cost half as much as the ticket he bought for the game. Could I blame him? Slowly, I stood up and walked over to the man. I handed him the ball. He thanked me, and I sat back down. Instead of handing the girls a ball when I got home, I told them my story. The moral, of course, is clear: Always treat Orioles fans better than Red Sox fans.
Lesson No. 3: You can speak to the enemy. In fact, you can even get him tickets to Fenway. A couple of weeks ago, our friend Tom had a 40th birthday party in his backyard. His wife, Kim, decorated the yard to look like Fenway Park, complete with a Green Monster made of tarp and tape, a cardboard Citgo sign and a spray-painted diamond on the grass. We were even asked to wear red. This is a difficult invitation for a Yankees fan to receive in the mail, and even more difficult to have to pay a babysitter for the opportunity to sit in a replica of my least favorite team’s home stadium. And yet, as we ate barbecue, listened to Irish music and chatted with friends, I handed Tom an envelope. Several of his friends had been e-mailing one another before the party about pooling their gift money for a larger present. As they discussed the options, the baseball fan in me kept coming back to the same idea. Tom is a wonderful guy – some Red Sox fans actually are, I have learned – and this year’s Boston team is one of the best that’s ever played in Fenway. So I recommended we all buy Tom and his father two tickets for a Red Sox game, with their seats atop the legendary Green Monster. All agreed, and we made this happen. And so, on a warm summer’s day, my friend will surely sit in the best seats he’s ever had for a ballgame. And aside from the design on the cap he’ll be wearing, I can’t imagine a much better way for him to spend the day.
Lesson No. 4: The tooth fairy works past dawn. It was 6:55 a.m., and Chelsea walked down the steps with sleep and bewilderment in her big brown eyes. “She didn’t come,” my 6-year-old said, holding her plastic tooth case, her baby tooth still snug inside the case and not a single greenback to be found. Think fast, I told myself. And so I did. “Chelsea,” I said, “that’s because the Tooth Fairy works until seven o’clock every morning. She doesn’t like it when curious little girls wake up early while she’s still making deliveries.” She nodded, as this seemed to make some sense to her. I saw the case in her hand, and added, “But, if you’d like me to place the case on the front steps to make it easier for her, I can do that.” Chelsea handed me the case, and this seemed to please the Tooth Fairy a lot. After a few frenetic moments involving a search of my wallet and a toss of glitter on the front steps, I was on my way to work. And I didn’t even notice the small child’s tooth in my back pocket all day.
Lesson No. 5: I have accepted my wife’s boyfriend. It took some time before I was willing to share Amy with another, but I have decided I can live with it. It’s still not much fun, watching them cuddle together on the couch, but we all make concessions. They commiserate over Facebook, weather updates and angry birds, and it seems to make her happy. I am speaking, of course, of Amy’s iPhone, which I have written about before. I’m not a big smartphone guy, and I’ve voiced concerns that too much of our society is becoming devoted to the tiny computers in our midst. And yet, we’re driving together, and trying to find a movie theater or a restaurant, and she just presses a button and finds the answer. I don’t have a response for why that kind of help is bad for me. As long as no one’s looking at that information while they’re driving, it’s actually pretty great. And so far, she has never denied my own requests for cuddling on the couch. Of course, sometimes it’s the three of us, and I say OK. She gets the best of both worlds.
Lesson No. 6: There’s always time in the day to create beauty. We had just returned from the unveiling of our friend Roy Chambers’ found-metal sculpture “Don Quixote,” outside the Raconteur Bookstore in Metuchen. This artistic wonder had captivated the girls and I both, and it certainly inspired Katie. So as our 9-year-old sat down to create an artistic rendering of Charlotte’s Web for her third-grade book project, she fed off of Roy’s inspiration and crafted the characters from E.B. White’s story out of clay. By the time she finished, Katie had completed her most impressive piece of artwork so far. She knew it, and she felt proud of it. Of course, she had Roy to thank. (See more of Roy’s artwork at www.artegrity.org)
Lesson No. 7: One man’s stadium theme song is another girl’s kindergarten swan song. If you’ve ever been to a ballgame at Yankee Stadium, you’ve heard Frank Sinatra’s voice. It booms out of the potent stadium speakers after the final out is made, and the Yankee fans love to sing along with Ol’ Blue Eyes, especially after a New York victory. The song, of course, is “New York, New York,” and it’s become a part of Gotham sports culture, even finding its way into Knicks and Rangers games. But last week, in a little auditorium in Central Jersey, a group of little boys and girls stood up and stole Sinatra’s – and Yankee fans’ – thunder as the piano began to play: “Start spreadin’ the news, I’m leaving today / I want to be a part of it: First grade, first grade.” And as they sang their way out of kindergarten, the little 5- and 6-year-olds sounded more lovely than 50,000 baseball fans ever could.
Lesson No. 8: It is possible to mix punk rock, mini golf and trapeze lessons. If you were in a certain part of New York City today, you would have seen adults swinging on a trapeze near a giant Mark di Suvero sculpture. And you would have seen families playing mini-golf with the Staten Island Ferry and Statue of Liberty as their backdrop. Oh, and you also would have seen moms, dads and kids bicycling their surreys past mosh pits. Only in New York, for sure, but more specifically – only on Governor’s Island. For years, this tiny island just off the southern tip of Manhattan has been in a sort of limbo, waiting for its next raison d’etre. And wow, has the city ever fulfilled its role of using its resources to create community, art and opportunities for wonder. We spent this Father’s Day biking around an island with panoramic views of New York Harbor, all the while experiencing other pieces of culture we never would have encountered. If you live anywhere near the New York City area and haven’t checked this place out, it’s time.
Lesson No. 9: There are fathers, and then there are fathers. My friend and colleague Darren lost his wife, Kelly, to cancer nearly two months ago. She was 32 years old and, like her husband, was a tremendous person. Darren is celebrating his Father’s Day with Elliot, their 2-year-old daughter who is obviously adjusting to a much different childhood than she had at first. My cousin, Tim, has a wife named Lauren who, a few months ago, developed bacterial meningitis while nine months pregnant with her daughter. The baby was delivered safe and sound, but Lauren fell into a coma and experienced severe swelling in the brain. She has been unable to walk or talk ever since, and has been fighting off infections for much of these past four months. As Lauren has bravely fought for her life and her health, Tim has cared for his 2-year-old son, Cohen, and his newborn daughter, Claire. As we send out our many Father’s Day greetings today, I think especially of my friend and my cousin, who have fulfilled the role of father in ways that surpass description. They are heroes in every sense of the word. Happy Father’s Day to them, and to all the dads out there.
As for me, it’s been a great day, and a very busy spring. A lot has been learned, with so much more yet to come. That’s what summer is for.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Forward, March
March can be a grind. It’s a month that does what it wants, when it wants, and leaves the rest of us to pick up the pieces. Like Tom and Daisy Buchanan in The Great Gatsby, March recklessly disregards anyone else as it whirls and swirls its way toward selfish ends. One day, it’s 70 degrees. The next, it’s snowing.
Spring begins, and we lift our hopes at the sight of crocuses blooming. But then March startles the crowds by announcing that nothing’s changing yet, and a deep chill returns. Eventually, of course, March and Old Man Winter will step aside and allow the more temperate April to take center stage. We’ll sigh with relief, only to groan a few days later when the temperature soars to 85 degrees.
You don’t feel much like spring when there’s snow on the ground. They tell you that the baseball season begins next week, but that seems like a farce. March leaves us in this netherworld, unable to plant our feet squarely on any settled ground. So, as a means toward survival and pleasure, we stay inside and turn on our televisions. We break out our brackets and watch young men glide across hardwood courts, in a dance they like to call March Madness.
The NCAA men’s basketball tournament offers a surfeit of athletic drama, equaled only by a few other sporting events – the Olympics, Wimbledon, the Kentucky Derby, and the World Series. To turn on your television and know for a fact that somewhere over the course of a few hours you will see a season hanging on 1.7 seconds – that’s just a sports fan’s dream. So please, let the baseball players shag some more flies and get in their morning workouts down in Florida and Arizona. No rush – we don’t need them yet.
I’ve got my eyes set on Harrison Barnes right now. I’ve been following North Carolina basketball closely since I stepped foot on the Chapel Hill campus some (gulp) 22 years ago. I’ve seen a lot of players in Carolina blue touted as the “best since Michael Jordan.” It’s become a cliché of sorts. But this time, it may be for real. UNC has won three national titles since Jordan left for the NBA Draft 27 years ago, but I’m not sure the school has produced as skilled a player as Harrison Barnes in that quarter-century. At 6-foot-8, Barnes is long, lean and lithe. He does not run; he glides. The freshman can shoot a 3-pointer as easily as he can dunk, and he can steal a ball as easily as he can pop a jumper. He will be playing basketball for a long, long time. For now, though, the Tar Heel faithful are the ones lucky enough to have him on their side.
Soon enough, Barnes’ season will be over – either with a tough tournament loss, or with a terrific title run. And then baseball will drag spring back to us, and we’ll have reason to stand outside again and think about doing some lawn work. I’ll plant some grass seed while daydreaming about the Yankees’ chances this season.
Tonight, though, the snow continues to fall. And March exudes its ever-present madness. It’s not a day to dream of pinstriped sluggers; it’s a day for freshman forwards in high tops. I’m ready for tip-off.
Spring begins, and we lift our hopes at the sight of crocuses blooming. But then March startles the crowds by announcing that nothing’s changing yet, and a deep chill returns. Eventually, of course, March and Old Man Winter will step aside and allow the more temperate April to take center stage. We’ll sigh with relief, only to groan a few days later when the temperature soars to 85 degrees.
You don’t feel much like spring when there’s snow on the ground. They tell you that the baseball season begins next week, but that seems like a farce. March leaves us in this netherworld, unable to plant our feet squarely on any settled ground. So, as a means toward survival and pleasure, we stay inside and turn on our televisions. We break out our brackets and watch young men glide across hardwood courts, in a dance they like to call March Madness.
The NCAA men’s basketball tournament offers a surfeit of athletic drama, equaled only by a few other sporting events – the Olympics, Wimbledon, the Kentucky Derby, and the World Series. To turn on your television and know for a fact that somewhere over the course of a few hours you will see a season hanging on 1.7 seconds – that’s just a sports fan’s dream. So please, let the baseball players shag some more flies and get in their morning workouts down in Florida and Arizona. No rush – we don’t need them yet.
I’ve got my eyes set on Harrison Barnes right now. I’ve been following North Carolina basketball closely since I stepped foot on the Chapel Hill campus some (gulp) 22 years ago. I’ve seen a lot of players in Carolina blue touted as the “best since Michael Jordan.” It’s become a cliché of sorts. But this time, it may be for real. UNC has won three national titles since Jordan left for the NBA Draft 27 years ago, but I’m not sure the school has produced as skilled a player as Harrison Barnes in that quarter-century. At 6-foot-8, Barnes is long, lean and lithe. He does not run; he glides. The freshman can shoot a 3-pointer as easily as he can dunk, and he can steal a ball as easily as he can pop a jumper. He will be playing basketball for a long, long time. For now, though, the Tar Heel faithful are the ones lucky enough to have him on their side.
Soon enough, Barnes’ season will be over – either with a tough tournament loss, or with a terrific title run. And then baseball will drag spring back to us, and we’ll have reason to stand outside again and think about doing some lawn work. I’ll plant some grass seed while daydreaming about the Yankees’ chances this season.
Tonight, though, the snow continues to fall. And March exudes its ever-present madness. It’s not a day to dream of pinstriped sluggers; it’s a day for freshman forwards in high tops. I’m ready for tip-off.
Friday, February 18, 2011
iLost Her to iPhone
Twenty-two years ago this week, I found the nerve to ask a cute red-head if she’d go out on a date with me. She said yes, and after more than two decades she still hasn’t said no. In a generation in which high school sweethearts are no longer common, Amy and I have managed to stay together from proms to college diplomas to career changes to parenthood. We’ve gone from singing Debbie Gibson songs to each other to crooning Bruno Mars to each other.
We’ve called four different states home, lived together at five different addresses, owned two dogs and begun raising two children. With all that under our belts already, you’d figure we’re a sure thing for one of those golden-anniversary celebrations someday.
You might think so. But you’d be wrong. In the same week that we celebrated our anniversary of being together, Amy made a swift and decisive choice. She’d had enough. My wife has left me – for an iPhone.
She waited impatiently for February to arrive, when Verizon finally began carrying the smartphone of her choice. When the e-mail arrived in her inbox announcing that orders could be taken, she pounced on it like a tiger, and in a few days’ time she held a sleek, black computer in her hands. Amy began making phone calls with it, texting her friends, taking photos, surfing the Internet and downloading applications. She sat up in bed each night this week, transferring her contacts and figuring out how to use this expensive and tantalizing device.
I was in the house during much of this time, but I wasn’t noticed. The card I had bought for her lay on her night table, and the white daisies (her favorite) that I’d bought stood all alone in a vase. But Amy didn’t see these things. She was busy getting the Weather Channel app on her phone, and choosing separate rings for her calls and texts.
In school, my seniors are currently reading Frankenstein, and we’re talking about the ways in which human creations can become “monsters” that end up hurting us in ways we never anticipated. During this past month, we’ve seen computers used to propel revolutions for democracy in the Middle East. We’ve also seen a computer beat the best human contestants on Jeopardy! And we’ve seen computers used to keep baseball fans updated every hour on the St. Louis Cardinals’ contract talks with Albert Pujols. In class, we’ve talked about the ways in which computers and smartphones have been used not only to help, but also to stifle society, creating problems such as texting while driving, cyber-bullying and a dearth of face-to-face communication. At home, I’ve begun reading M.T. Anderson’s gripping novel Feed, a futuristic tale in which computers are inserted inside the heads of human beings. Our technological revolution knows no bounds, and so it’s worth wondering just how Mary Shelley’s novel of nearly 200 years ago intersects with Anderson’s modern-day, cautionary tale.
In my pocket, I carry a simple flip phone, and it allows me to call people when I need to reach them. I’ve started texting a bit, so I wouldn’t mind a little pull-out keyboard. But that’s all. If I need to write someone an e-mail, it can wait until I get home or arrive at work. I think the computer’s got me hooked more than enough as it is.
But as for Amy, she has chosen to embrace the monster. Her phone/camera/radio/video-game player is in a nice yellow case, and she’s showing it to anyone who asks. Her doctor’s visit the other day was extended by several minutes as her doctor and nurse asked her to show them the phone and its features. She has given our girls a chance to play some games on it, and she’s ready to get some music on her new toy this weekend.
She and I remain in the same home, and there are times when she says a brief hello. But for now, my Sharona has found herself a new beau. I asked her if she’d given it a name yet, and she said no. I guess they’re still getting to know each other.
I’ll keep the hope alive, and wait for a quick glance up from the Pac Man app or the photo library. I even used my own technology to make her a little playlist for our anniversary. Instead of a 1989 mix tape with Gibson’s “Lost in Your Eyes” on it, this was a 2011 MP3 file anchored by Mars’s “Just the Way You Are.” But amidst the sweet love songs, I snuck in a subtle warning. It was another Mars song, the pop hit “Grenade.” In the tune, Mars sings vividly about all the things he’d do for his love – from catching the aforementioned grenade to taking a bullet to jumping in front of a train. The catch, however, is that the narrator’s lover “won’t do the same.”
Bruno doesn’t tell us exactly why his lover won’t return his passion. But after this week, I think I know the answer: She had Verizon, too. And during this winter of Bruno’s discontent, his girl also found a 3G, 16-gigabyte other man. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been with her for 22 days or 22 years – that iPhone is luring her away with ease.
You can buy her daisies, sure. But in a moment’s time, she can call up a crisp photo of a daisy bouquet and use it as her phone’s wallpaper. Here in the confines of Appledom, the petals never die and fall all over your table; they’re always pristine. And she can play Debbie Gibson songs whenever she wants. If she’s bored enough, she might even call up a photo of you. Until, of course, another text arrives.
We’ve called four different states home, lived together at five different addresses, owned two dogs and begun raising two children. With all that under our belts already, you’d figure we’re a sure thing for one of those golden-anniversary celebrations someday.
You might think so. But you’d be wrong. In the same week that we celebrated our anniversary of being together, Amy made a swift and decisive choice. She’d had enough. My wife has left me – for an iPhone.
She waited impatiently for February to arrive, when Verizon finally began carrying the smartphone of her choice. When the e-mail arrived in her inbox announcing that orders could be taken, she pounced on it like a tiger, and in a few days’ time she held a sleek, black computer in her hands. Amy began making phone calls with it, texting her friends, taking photos, surfing the Internet and downloading applications. She sat up in bed each night this week, transferring her contacts and figuring out how to use this expensive and tantalizing device.
I was in the house during much of this time, but I wasn’t noticed. The card I had bought for her lay on her night table, and the white daisies (her favorite) that I’d bought stood all alone in a vase. But Amy didn’t see these things. She was busy getting the Weather Channel app on her phone, and choosing separate rings for her calls and texts.
In school, my seniors are currently reading Frankenstein, and we’re talking about the ways in which human creations can become “monsters” that end up hurting us in ways we never anticipated. During this past month, we’ve seen computers used to propel revolutions for democracy in the Middle East. We’ve also seen a computer beat the best human contestants on Jeopardy! And we’ve seen computers used to keep baseball fans updated every hour on the St. Louis Cardinals’ contract talks with Albert Pujols. In class, we’ve talked about the ways in which computers and smartphones have been used not only to help, but also to stifle society, creating problems such as texting while driving, cyber-bullying and a dearth of face-to-face communication. At home, I’ve begun reading M.T. Anderson’s gripping novel Feed, a futuristic tale in which computers are inserted inside the heads of human beings. Our technological revolution knows no bounds, and so it’s worth wondering just how Mary Shelley’s novel of nearly 200 years ago intersects with Anderson’s modern-day, cautionary tale.
In my pocket, I carry a simple flip phone, and it allows me to call people when I need to reach them. I’ve started texting a bit, so I wouldn’t mind a little pull-out keyboard. But that’s all. If I need to write someone an e-mail, it can wait until I get home or arrive at work. I think the computer’s got me hooked more than enough as it is.
But as for Amy, she has chosen to embrace the monster. Her phone/camera/radio/video-game player is in a nice yellow case, and she’s showing it to anyone who asks. Her doctor’s visit the other day was extended by several minutes as her doctor and nurse asked her to show them the phone and its features. She has given our girls a chance to play some games on it, and she’s ready to get some music on her new toy this weekend.
She and I remain in the same home, and there are times when she says a brief hello. But for now, my Sharona has found herself a new beau. I asked her if she’d given it a name yet, and she said no. I guess they’re still getting to know each other.
I’ll keep the hope alive, and wait for a quick glance up from the Pac Man app or the photo library. I even used my own technology to make her a little playlist for our anniversary. Instead of a 1989 mix tape with Gibson’s “Lost in Your Eyes” on it, this was a 2011 MP3 file anchored by Mars’s “Just the Way You Are.” But amidst the sweet love songs, I snuck in a subtle warning. It was another Mars song, the pop hit “Grenade.” In the tune, Mars sings vividly about all the things he’d do for his love – from catching the aforementioned grenade to taking a bullet to jumping in front of a train. The catch, however, is that the narrator’s lover “won’t do the same.”
Bruno doesn’t tell us exactly why his lover won’t return his passion. But after this week, I think I know the answer: She had Verizon, too. And during this winter of Bruno’s discontent, his girl also found a 3G, 16-gigabyte other man. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been with her for 22 days or 22 years – that iPhone is luring her away with ease.
You can buy her daisies, sure. But in a moment’s time, she can call up a crisp photo of a daisy bouquet and use it as her phone’s wallpaper. Here in the confines of Appledom, the petals never die and fall all over your table; they’re always pristine. And she can play Debbie Gibson songs whenever she wants. If she’s bored enough, she might even call up a photo of you. Until, of course, another text arrives.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
The Alps, Applebee's & Andy
According to Major League Baseball’s schedule, pitchers and catchers report to Spring Training in just nine days.
No way. This is impossible to envision. Young men in short-sleeve shirts, fielding grounders? Sorry, bud – that’s beyond my ken. Not in this winter of 2011, when everyone from Maine to Mexico is feeling the wrath of Mother Nature. Video from Spring Training seems about as plausible as live footage from Oz.
In much of America and Europe, the onslaught of snow and ice this winter has been as relentless and frightening as the slew of 90-degree days were this past summer. Scientists tell us that climate change brings with it extremes, and so here we are, with several feet of snow blanketing New England and several feet of rain falling in Australia.
Here in Central Jersey, there’s usually no snowstorm that can stand in the way of a good day’s shopping. But even in the malls, you see the haggard looks and hear the groans of frustration. Outside, the snow-plowed parking lots leave mountains of the white stuff. It’s like the Alps, but with Applebee’s.
In the midst of an all-out ice storm Wednesday morning, Punxsutawney Phil had the effrontery to forecast an early spring for us all as he waddled out of his little hole in Pennsylvania. Thanks for the pick-me-up, little guy, but you don’t get the pleasure of my attention this year. You can’t waddle out of a cozy little hibernation hole and tell me I won’t be shoveling for long, while you and your little groundhog friends kick back and cuddle where the snow don’t fall.
We try to follow incredibly important news stories from Egypt, Tunisia and Washington, yet find ourselves constantly clicking over to The Weather Channel, where we find Jim Cantore howling with shock over the sound of thunder in the midst of a Chicago blizzard. Revolutions in the Middle East are world-changers, but it can be hard to focus on that when I’ve got a constant “Winter Storm Warning” box at the top of my weather.com page. And when I see a story in The New York Times explaining that this is the second consecutive mild winter up at the Arctic Circle, I am rendered speechless and feel the urge to re-watch An Inconvenient Truth.
Pleasant diversions come at us throughout February – Super Bowl Sunday, Valentine’s Day, President’s Day Weekend, the Grammys, the Oscars. We grab hold of these and search for a way to forget about the shovels and rock salt. We rent a movie, stir up some hot chocolate, hop on the treadmill. But then we look out the window again, and the frosted flakes are falling once more.
So yes, February 14th is the first day that teams require pitchers and catchers to report to Florida and Arizona for their first Spring Training workouts. Any ballplayer with fire in his belly has been getting his body ready for several weeks now, but next week the athletes start gathering in the same facility with their old and new teammates. Over in Tampa, the Yankees will start their “spring” without Andy Pettitte, the lefty legend who chose to retire Friday rather than leave his family for another long season. After 240 wins, it’s been a terrific career for Andy. He leaves his team with class and dignity.
I can recall a summer’s day, 13 years ago, when I sat with my brother in the old Yankee Stadium and watched Pettitte strand Florida Marlins baserunners all over the basepaths en route to another crafty victory. It was vintage Pettitte – double-play grounders, clutch strikeouts, fist pumps. As I sat in my shorts and T-shirt and cheered Andy on, all seemed right with the world.
Now, as Andy Pettitte retires, he heads back home to Texas – typically a warm state year-round, yet one that has experienced bitter cold and severe storms this winter. As the Super Bowl is played in Cowboys Stadium tomorrow, we’ll find folks bundling up for the game just a few hundred miles north of Mexico. We’ll shake our heads in disbelief.
Up here in Jersey, we’ll remember Andy Pettitte fondly, and we’ll tune into the big game tomorrow as well. But as much as I’d like to read a reflection on the Yankee pitcher’s career or watch a preview of the Super Bowl, I have a sinking feeling that I’ll be checking in with Jim Cantore and those ceaseless storm warnings. Andy Pettitte always knew how to gut it out through those tough spots; those of us living through this bewildering winter know deep down that we must do the same.
No way. This is impossible to envision. Young men in short-sleeve shirts, fielding grounders? Sorry, bud – that’s beyond my ken. Not in this winter of 2011, when everyone from Maine to Mexico is feeling the wrath of Mother Nature. Video from Spring Training seems about as plausible as live footage from Oz.
In much of America and Europe, the onslaught of snow and ice this winter has been as relentless and frightening as the slew of 90-degree days were this past summer. Scientists tell us that climate change brings with it extremes, and so here we are, with several feet of snow blanketing New England and several feet of rain falling in Australia.
Here in Central Jersey, there’s usually no snowstorm that can stand in the way of a good day’s shopping. But even in the malls, you see the haggard looks and hear the groans of frustration. Outside, the snow-plowed parking lots leave mountains of the white stuff. It’s like the Alps, but with Applebee’s.
In the midst of an all-out ice storm Wednesday morning, Punxsutawney Phil had the effrontery to forecast an early spring for us all as he waddled out of his little hole in Pennsylvania. Thanks for the pick-me-up, little guy, but you don’t get the pleasure of my attention this year. You can’t waddle out of a cozy little hibernation hole and tell me I won’t be shoveling for long, while you and your little groundhog friends kick back and cuddle where the snow don’t fall.
We try to follow incredibly important news stories from Egypt, Tunisia and Washington, yet find ourselves constantly clicking over to The Weather Channel, where we find Jim Cantore howling with shock over the sound of thunder in the midst of a Chicago blizzard. Revolutions in the Middle East are world-changers, but it can be hard to focus on that when I’ve got a constant “Winter Storm Warning” box at the top of my weather.com page. And when I see a story in The New York Times explaining that this is the second consecutive mild winter up at the Arctic Circle, I am rendered speechless and feel the urge to re-watch An Inconvenient Truth.
Pleasant diversions come at us throughout February – Super Bowl Sunday, Valentine’s Day, President’s Day Weekend, the Grammys, the Oscars. We grab hold of these and search for a way to forget about the shovels and rock salt. We rent a movie, stir up some hot chocolate, hop on the treadmill. But then we look out the window again, and the frosted flakes are falling once more.
So yes, February 14th is the first day that teams require pitchers and catchers to report to Florida and Arizona for their first Spring Training workouts. Any ballplayer with fire in his belly has been getting his body ready for several weeks now, but next week the athletes start gathering in the same facility with their old and new teammates. Over in Tampa, the Yankees will start their “spring” without Andy Pettitte, the lefty legend who chose to retire Friday rather than leave his family for another long season. After 240 wins, it’s been a terrific career for Andy. He leaves his team with class and dignity.
I can recall a summer’s day, 13 years ago, when I sat with my brother in the old Yankee Stadium and watched Pettitte strand Florida Marlins baserunners all over the basepaths en route to another crafty victory. It was vintage Pettitte – double-play grounders, clutch strikeouts, fist pumps. As I sat in my shorts and T-shirt and cheered Andy on, all seemed right with the world.
Now, as Andy Pettitte retires, he heads back home to Texas – typically a warm state year-round, yet one that has experienced bitter cold and severe storms this winter. As the Super Bowl is played in Cowboys Stadium tomorrow, we’ll find folks bundling up for the game just a few hundred miles north of Mexico. We’ll shake our heads in disbelief.
Up here in Jersey, we’ll remember Andy Pettitte fondly, and we’ll tune into the big game tomorrow as well. But as much as I’d like to read a reflection on the Yankee pitcher’s career or watch a preview of the Super Bowl, I have a sinking feeling that I’ll be checking in with Jim Cantore and those ceaseless storm warnings. Andy Pettitte always knew how to gut it out through those tough spots; those of us living through this bewildering winter know deep down that we must do the same.
Monday, January 17, 2011
The End of Restlessness: Mr. Intensity Turns 40
As Amy and I snuck out to see True Grit Friday night, I found myself identifying more with Matt Damon’s LaBoeuf character than with Jeff Bridges’ Rooster Cogburn. The younger, greener LaBoeuf seemed more like me than the jaded, grizzled Cogburn. But as I write this blog, and reflect on the reality that I have turned 40 years old today, I must ask myself when it will be that I start identifying more with cagey curmudgeons than with young idealists. After all, does the word “young” even apply to me anymore? And what about that 6-year-old who was jumping on me Saturday morning, taunting me about being “old and 40”?
Resolutions. It’s the time of year when we make – then break – them. Chelsea, at 6, is working on limiting the amount of tattling she takes part in during 2011. I’ve taken to calling her WikiChelsea due to all the leaks she’s spilled on her sister lately. Katie, who is now 9, has apparently resolved to play outside as much as possible, perhaps taking our advice that she has her whole life to watch Teen Nick but only a few precious years of so much blissful free time to venture out and imagine.
My wife Amy has resolved to make no all-encompassing resolutions this year, but instead to take what each day brings and handle it with care. Not a bad idea. As for this 40-year-old, my 2011 resolution is a simple one: to relax.
It sounds so easy, of course. But for a man once nicknamed “Mr. Intensity” in college, making room for down time is about as foreign to me as rooting for the Red Sox. It’s just not really a part of my makeup. I am the kind of person who has always chosen to clean the house over sitting down and watching TV. My young adulthood is chronicled extensively through two decades of to-do lists, day-by-day calendars and white-board scribbles.
A week ago, my last full weekend as a 30-something was filled not with writing or relaxing but instead with a sudden realization that I needed to re-insulate the attic. After six hours of non-stop work, I collapsed into bed only to awaken the next morning with an allergic reaction that led, eventually, to a doctor’s visit and a round of antibiotics. So much for resolutions.
When I reflect on the now-completed portion of my life known as young adulthood, I think of so many fabulous moments – of marriage, parenthood, family life, friendships, teaching, writing, baseball, vacations and service. But I also view my young adulthood as an era of restlessness: No matter how great the moment was, I was always thinking, “What next?” I never felt quite satisfied with the present, and always found myself pushing hard for something bigger and better in the future. While this bespeaks a certain kind of optimism, it also makes it awfully hard to relax.
So perhaps it was fitting that the last weekend in my 30s was spent exhausting my body in order to save on heating bills. It served as a perfect bookend to a young adulthood that began with the mass-mailing of 125 resumes to newspapers across the country. I’m not a 22-year-old embarking on the life of an independent young adult anymore, but I have maintained that restless soul. And while it’s helped me get a lot of stuff done, I have to admit it’s worn me down a bit.
And so 40 arrives. The attic is insulated now, and that should cover a good 25 years. The medicine has me starting to feel better again, as I hoped it would. But will I respond to the return of bodily energy with yet another grand idea that requires 110-percent effort? Will Mr. Intensity be at it again? Which project will the to-do list herald next?
I don’t know. I did ask Amy for some yoga classes for my birthday. I don’t know how it will work out – when I tried yoga 15 years ago, I found myself sitting there thinking about the things I needed to get done during all those quiet moments with the lights turned off. But perhaps two decades of restless exhaustion have produced at least the awareness that it’s time to make this year’s resolution stick. I’m not talking about an end to goals and dreams – they live on forever. But if 40 teaches me anything, it may be that a little relaxation can do more for those goals and dreams than any day-by-day calendar ever could.
Some down time might just slow the pace enough to carry me from a state of frenetic accomplishment to one of peaceful fulfillment. And if that’s where I’m headed, then please, bring on the yoga, the meditation, and the big four-oh. I will trade you my hectic young adulthood in exchange for an era of composure and perspective. It may be a sign of age, but that’s OK. It’s time.
Resolutions. It’s the time of year when we make – then break – them. Chelsea, at 6, is working on limiting the amount of tattling she takes part in during 2011. I’ve taken to calling her WikiChelsea due to all the leaks she’s spilled on her sister lately. Katie, who is now 9, has apparently resolved to play outside as much as possible, perhaps taking our advice that she has her whole life to watch Teen Nick but only a few precious years of so much blissful free time to venture out and imagine.
My wife Amy has resolved to make no all-encompassing resolutions this year, but instead to take what each day brings and handle it with care. Not a bad idea. As for this 40-year-old, my 2011 resolution is a simple one: to relax.
It sounds so easy, of course. But for a man once nicknamed “Mr. Intensity” in college, making room for down time is about as foreign to me as rooting for the Red Sox. It’s just not really a part of my makeup. I am the kind of person who has always chosen to clean the house over sitting down and watching TV. My young adulthood is chronicled extensively through two decades of to-do lists, day-by-day calendars and white-board scribbles.
A week ago, my last full weekend as a 30-something was filled not with writing or relaxing but instead with a sudden realization that I needed to re-insulate the attic. After six hours of non-stop work, I collapsed into bed only to awaken the next morning with an allergic reaction that led, eventually, to a doctor’s visit and a round of antibiotics. So much for resolutions.
When I reflect on the now-completed portion of my life known as young adulthood, I think of so many fabulous moments – of marriage, parenthood, family life, friendships, teaching, writing, baseball, vacations and service. But I also view my young adulthood as an era of restlessness: No matter how great the moment was, I was always thinking, “What next?” I never felt quite satisfied with the present, and always found myself pushing hard for something bigger and better in the future. While this bespeaks a certain kind of optimism, it also makes it awfully hard to relax.
So perhaps it was fitting that the last weekend in my 30s was spent exhausting my body in order to save on heating bills. It served as a perfect bookend to a young adulthood that began with the mass-mailing of 125 resumes to newspapers across the country. I’m not a 22-year-old embarking on the life of an independent young adult anymore, but I have maintained that restless soul. And while it’s helped me get a lot of stuff done, I have to admit it’s worn me down a bit.
And so 40 arrives. The attic is insulated now, and that should cover a good 25 years. The medicine has me starting to feel better again, as I hoped it would. But will I respond to the return of bodily energy with yet another grand idea that requires 110-percent effort? Will Mr. Intensity be at it again? Which project will the to-do list herald next?
I don’t know. I did ask Amy for some yoga classes for my birthday. I don’t know how it will work out – when I tried yoga 15 years ago, I found myself sitting there thinking about the things I needed to get done during all those quiet moments with the lights turned off. But perhaps two decades of restless exhaustion have produced at least the awareness that it’s time to make this year’s resolution stick. I’m not talking about an end to goals and dreams – they live on forever. But if 40 teaches me anything, it may be that a little relaxation can do more for those goals and dreams than any day-by-day calendar ever could.
Some down time might just slow the pace enough to carry me from a state of frenetic accomplishment to one of peaceful fulfillment. And if that’s where I’m headed, then please, bring on the yoga, the meditation, and the big four-oh. I will trade you my hectic young adulthood in exchange for an era of composure and perspective. It may be a sign of age, but that’s OK. It’s time.
Saturday, December 18, 2010
Elf Meets Dog; Chaos Ensues
The elf is most assuredly on the shelf. Even in baseball’s off-season, the injuries can pile up. Especially when you pit a few ounces of innocent felt against 58 pounds of curious canine.
Last year, my girls joined an ever-growing number of children whose holiday seasons are now overseen by a wide-eyed creature dressed in red. The “Elf on the Shelf” has taken the Christmas season by storm, adding several more reasons for children to be nice rather than naughty. This elf is a wee 13 inches from his toes to the point of his red cap. He’s dressed in red and white felt, and his big blue eyes stare at you with a mixture of wonder and wildness.
He sits in a spot inside our house each day, watching the girls closely with those big eyes. At night, he flies to the North Pole to give Santa a kid-behavior report, then catches the red-eye back to our house by morning. Each day, we find him in a different surveillance spot.
The girls named our elf Freddie last November, and declared that he was a she. A white skirt was produced, and Freddie seemed to enjoy her time with us last year. But oh, how things have changed.
In February, the girls’ birthday gift was a very cute and fluffy golden retriever puppy named Daisy. Some nine months later, that puppy has grown plenty big and strong. In late November of this year, Daisy met little Freddie. It began with a sniff here, and a tail-wag there. And then it got ugly.
One morning, Freddie thought she’d be safe inside a ceramic boot Christmas-card holder. It felt secure enough to her. But Freddie forgot to take into account that she was now within Daisy’s reach. What happened next, only Daisy and Freddie know for sure. I can only describe the grisly aftermath.
The dog was standing over the red elf, whose body lay splayed across the rug. Daisy was licking the red fabric of Freddie’s jacket, but that was certainly not the worst of it. As my wife picked up Freddie, she noticed the tear. The elf’s right shoulder was partially detached from her body. This was a torn rotator cuff of the worst sort. Were Freddie a pitcher, she’d be out of action until 2012.
In the case of felt elves, glue surgery works better than anything involving tendons, ligaments and bone spurs. Freddie was given a night off from flying, and permitted to rest on the kitchen counter while the glue hardened. By morning, she was scarred, but ready to return to work.
Daisy turned one year old on Thursday, and we celebrated by giving our dog some toys and treats. She’s matured in plenty of ways over the past year, from knowing when and where to poop to knowing how to sit, stay and roll over. But there are other ways in which Daisy is still very much a puppy. She still has a tendency to view her own poop as a snack, and she has a fetish for dirty socks, tissues and just about anything else left on the floor. As my dad has noted, she is no scholar.
When Daisy goes after a newspaper or a paper-towel roll, she gets disciplined and hides beneath the table. She knows, in some way, that the thing she just did was wrong. In the case of Freddie, she did the same. But at this moment, her loss of self-control had done more than just damage some paper. It had placed an innocent helper of St. Nick on the North Pole Disabled List. For a half a second or two, I think Daisy might have felt badly about it. But then she moved on.
As for Freddie, I don’t think she’ll ever forget the night she and Daisy met face to face. Elves can do a lot of cool things, but even Santa can’t save them from the nosiness of a golden retriever. The shelf can never be high enough.
Last year, my girls joined an ever-growing number of children whose holiday seasons are now overseen by a wide-eyed creature dressed in red. The “Elf on the Shelf” has taken the Christmas season by storm, adding several more reasons for children to be nice rather than naughty. This elf is a wee 13 inches from his toes to the point of his red cap. He’s dressed in red and white felt, and his big blue eyes stare at you with a mixture of wonder and wildness.
He sits in a spot inside our house each day, watching the girls closely with those big eyes. At night, he flies to the North Pole to give Santa a kid-behavior report, then catches the red-eye back to our house by morning. Each day, we find him in a different surveillance spot.
The girls named our elf Freddie last November, and declared that he was a she. A white skirt was produced, and Freddie seemed to enjoy her time with us last year. But oh, how things have changed.
In February, the girls’ birthday gift was a very cute and fluffy golden retriever puppy named Daisy. Some nine months later, that puppy has grown plenty big and strong. In late November of this year, Daisy met little Freddie. It began with a sniff here, and a tail-wag there. And then it got ugly.
One morning, Freddie thought she’d be safe inside a ceramic boot Christmas-card holder. It felt secure enough to her. But Freddie forgot to take into account that she was now within Daisy’s reach. What happened next, only Daisy and Freddie know for sure. I can only describe the grisly aftermath.
The dog was standing over the red elf, whose body lay splayed across the rug. Daisy was licking the red fabric of Freddie’s jacket, but that was certainly not the worst of it. As my wife picked up Freddie, she noticed the tear. The elf’s right shoulder was partially detached from her body. This was a torn rotator cuff of the worst sort. Were Freddie a pitcher, she’d be out of action until 2012.
In the case of felt elves, glue surgery works better than anything involving tendons, ligaments and bone spurs. Freddie was given a night off from flying, and permitted to rest on the kitchen counter while the glue hardened. By morning, she was scarred, but ready to return to work.
Daisy turned one year old on Thursday, and we celebrated by giving our dog some toys and treats. She’s matured in plenty of ways over the past year, from knowing when and where to poop to knowing how to sit, stay and roll over. But there are other ways in which Daisy is still very much a puppy. She still has a tendency to view her own poop as a snack, and she has a fetish for dirty socks, tissues and just about anything else left on the floor. As my dad has noted, she is no scholar.
When Daisy goes after a newspaper or a paper-towel roll, she gets disciplined and hides beneath the table. She knows, in some way, that the thing she just did was wrong. In the case of Freddie, she did the same. But at this moment, her loss of self-control had done more than just damage some paper. It had placed an innocent helper of St. Nick on the North Pole Disabled List. For a half a second or two, I think Daisy might have felt badly about it. But then she moved on.
As for Freddie, I don’t think she’ll ever forget the night she and Daisy met face to face. Elves can do a lot of cool things, but even Santa can’t save them from the nosiness of a golden retriever. The shelf can never be high enough.
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