Let's not be fash-ists

It's true- our current First Lady seems clueless as to her surroundings, and how her actions and choices are perceived. We can debate whether or not she signed on for this- not just being the trophy wife of a walking conglomerate, but wife of the president of the United States- but by standing by her man she is complicit in his historical awfulness. 

So when I make this plea, it's not because I feel bad for her or think she doesn't deserve it or whatever- but nonetheless, it bothers me that people keep harping on her fashion choices: pumps to tour the Harvey aftermath, fancy Timberlands for her trip to Puerto Rico... I'd like to see people refrain from this activity. Because it feels a lot like how Michelle Obama would be criticized for what she wore to what and how she wore it. Granted, she caught grief when dressed completely appropriately, and I'm certainly not saying heels are appropriate attire for disaster recovery and surveying, but still.

My biggest issue is that it just does the work of the other side for them: "Oh these nasty elites, these liberals picking on the attire of the First Lady." Because it's petty, and it doesn't fucking matter what footwear Melania selects, no matter the task at hand. There's enough fighting to do without choosing to sink to the level of the other side and echo their petty criticisms of Michelle. 

Pick on her policy: her cyber-bullying platform when her husband is the poster child. Her utter lack of anything else substantial to offer. But her clothes? That only serves to turn her into a victim- another woman held to the impossible standard that is ignored for men. And the last thing that anybody associated with Trump needs is license to be cast a victim.  

The Paddy's Over

We’re all Irish on St. Patrick’s Day. For the rest of the year, I am myself, by blood, somewhere in the neighborhood of one-quarter Irish, give or take a few shamrocks. I’m a born fan of of Notre Dame Fighting Irish (my grandfather graduated from there in 1935), and I make sure to don a tasteful amount of green on March 17. I state all this to show that I have had, and generally do still have affinity for the holiday.

However, I work in Times Square - what some may call the “Crossroads of the World,” or the others “Armpit of NYC” - whatever you call it, it becomes the epicenter of post-parade amateur St. Paddy’s revelry: teenagers drunk on green beer, compounded in greater number by green-clad of those who think or wish they were still teenagers. The difference with this holiday is that those celebrating give themselves license- be it because of the stereotypical Irish proclivity for imbibing, or whatever- to start the party early. So by the end of the work day- and yes, a good number of us are indeed working when March 17 falls on a weekday- some are winding down, or at least taking a break so as to gear up for the home stretch.

While dodging drunken revelers for your 5pm commute is bad enough, there is one overlooked byproduct of the early wind down- and that is the (usually) late-night stabilizing meal. You know the meal, when you drunk so much, you are jones-ing for something else in your belly- anything to fill the void and soak up some of the alcohol currently taking up more than welcome space in your stomach. In NYC, there’s no end to perfect options for this: a hot from Gray’s Papaya, a big, greasy slice from most any pizza joint or even street-meat from any one of the many ever-present food carts.

When this ritual takes place at 3am, most others hanging about are more than likely in the same boat- focused desperately on restoring their sugar-balance before either hopping into a cab or the train, or back into the bar for more liquid nourishment- and therefore this behavior goes unnoticed. But when this activity takes place at 4:30pm on a Friday, for those sober of us making our way to the train, it is not a pleasant sight to behold. The shovelling, the lack of self-consciousness - in the light of day, it winds up reminiscent of something one might avert their gaze from on Animal Planet: ultimate carnage, the spoils of victory streaming down the predator’s face…

Not what pops into your mind, when you think of St. Patrick’s day. But once you’ve witnessed it, it’s not something that easily leaves you. Legend has it once you catch a leprechaun, to never take your eye off of it- when it comes to drunken folk dressed as leprechauns however, best to keep your head down, and think of the Blarney Stone and shamrocks.

Sláinte!

Nailing It (For a change)

There are fleeting moments- they are few and far between- where it would appear this parenting thing is working out pretty darn good. The other night, I had one of those moments stretch itself out for the better part of a couple of hours.

I've been recovering from a broken collarbone, and then surgery thereafter, so to preface this story, I've been feeling like a parent in absentia, between not physically being able to do stuff and being loopy on pain meds. My trooper of a wife has been working overtime, and had the opportunity to enjoy an evening at the theatre- so I am implored her to take it, we'd be fine.

On a normal Daddy-Daughter night at home, we'd order pizza for dinner end of story no discussion. But, due to the aforementioned pain meds, my stomach had not been all that great and therefore ramen noddles were on the menu. She's tried ramen before and has liked it, but that's no guarantee she'll agree to eat it, especially since it is what I am having for dinner.  But when I brought it up, she seemed almost excited to have it. Boom, score one for Dad - preparing ONE thing for dinner for the two of us. Unusual, but awesome.

I start to get things situated for dinner, and we have an awesome conversation that could have been ripped from a script of Friends or Seinfeld:

Her: Dad you know what's weird?
Me: What's that?
Her: Donald Duck, he doesn't wear pants- everyone else, Mickey, Minnie they wear pants, and Daisy doesn't either.
Me: Yeah, must be a duck thing- their tail feathers or something.
Her: Yeah it's weird.
Me: Wanna know something else strange?
Her: What?
Me: Goofy and Pluto are both dogs, but only Goofy talks and wears clothes, Pluto doesn't- he's Micky's pet.
Her: Yeah, wait- Goofy's a dog??? How did you know??

And so on. I seriously could have been sitting in a bar over-hearing this conversation. It's like I was talking to a person- not my little baby. No you're getting emotional.

I hadn't been wearing my sling for a couple hour, I thought I better put it on so I don't hurt myself in the kitchen. As I struggled a little to get it on, she asked me, "Do you need help?" WHAT? Is that... EMPATHY? This is new for my six-year old. My wife or I could be carrying six massive bags of groceries and she'll decide she doesn't want to wear her jacket and can't understand why we won't hold it for her. Needless to say, I accepted her help, and made a point of expressing my gratification.

Moments later, as I "cook" - she's wasting time and burning brain cells on the iPad, then all of a sudden she puts it down and says, "Dad, can we do homework?" She doesn't get her enjoyment of doing homework from me, but she really does like it. But since this occurrence happened on my watch, I'm putting it in the good dad karma jar. 

She offers to carry not only her own dish to the table, but insists on going back to the kitchen get mine as well. Who is this kid? We sit down to dinner, and not only did she agree beforehand to the ramen, but when in front of her she actually ate the ramen as well.  Again, not normal- she's a legendary terrible eater for us. Boom. 

After dinner we get our PJs on, pile onto the couch to watch the movie "Annie" (the Carol Burnett, Tim Curry one from the 80's, not any of the impostors that have arrived on the seen since). My kid. She requests I take my sling off, and switch sides so she can snuggle up close to me. I mean, honestly- it can't get more slam dunk as a father than that. And with the state of the world and my own body these past few weeks, I am going to claim victory when I can. 

On Grief, Democracy, and Common Decency

The stages of grief have been well on display all over social media this week after the election of Donald Trump to the leader of the free world. I know I personally have gone through the five stages at least a few times, sometimes two or three at the same time, skipping a stage, repeating one, going back... 

It's devastating to see so many of my family and friends and colleagues struggling to make sense of what has happened. We had a candidate- although as qualified as any in history to ascend to the presidency- who was a flawed candidate. Whose campaign made some mistakes, overlooked some key demographics, but still seemed primed for a win, if you believed- well, just about anyone. 

In the other corner was candidate like no other in history, a daily flub, repeated, tireless baseless claims, another day another group of human beings insulted or demeaned- and yet, by the power of the Electoral College- the law of our land- miraculously emerged as the winner. 

The Electoral College was started because the founders were highly protective of their new experiment and uncomfortable with their ability to disseminate information about candidates to far flung people outside of the population centers. They were also distrustful of the masses, and therefore the first electors were often wealthy land owners, those who had a close connection to those in government.

The bi-cameral legislature was as far as they were willing to go- keeping the more easily controllable numbers of the Senate, and pairing that with the proportional representation of the House. The idea of proportional representation is an excellent one, and works to this day- giving each legislative delegation power reflective of the size of their constituency. 

Unfortunately, that idea isn't so easily transferable when you are talking about one vote per person. While in theory it's nice to give the appearance of giving the "little guy" more of a voice, the flip side is that it actually devalues the vote of those in the population centers.

The most fervent defense of the Electoral College usually comes from the right, because the population centers in this country tend to skew liberal. The Electoral College does a good job of keeping the left in check. What it tells me is that conservatives have done a poor job appealing to these voter-bases, and continue to do so, and leaning on the validity of an arcane system of electing a President seems to be the much easier path.  So it's also no coincidence that since the Civil War, only three times has a President has lost the popular vote but gained the White House via the Electoral College, and all three times it has benefited the Republican candidate.

Now, I'm not in the camp in favor blowing of blowing it up- I'm not signing those petitions floating around to abolish the Electoral College immediately. I believe that major change should be incremental, democratic.  

I guess the problem is that the change that's now being ushered in with the new administration feels neither incremental, nor democratic- but it's major. Ideologies that existed on the fringe are now front and center, and with such speed that our system of government doesn't seem deft enough to counter. And that's when people take to the streets. 

I'm a proponent of peaceful protest. And I admire those out in front, making their voices heard. But we have an opportunity to rise above the dangerous noise that's coming from the supporters of the new administration. To say no to violence, and no to name-calling and hate speech.

A friend of mine brought up a point that had been on my mind- the use of the phrase: "Not my President" whether it be in hashtag or published or plaquard form. Because for me, it feels a lot like the rumblings we've heard for the past eight years. That despite this man winning two fair elections, and exemplifying grace under demands to prove his citizenship and other attacks from the people and even his colleagues in government - that this man didn't deserve or ever received from many- the slightest ounce of respect the the office of the President this county deserves. So, despite the fact that Donald Trump won this election by fear-stoking and hate-mongering, it hasn't been proven to me that he achieved the office outside of the laws of this democracy- arcane though they may be- and therefore should be afforded his title of President of the United States. I'm not asking anyone to love or defend him, but like it or not, like him or not- he is our President. All of us. And I get it- he's done nothing to garner the benefit of the doubt, quite the opposite- he's marginalized with his rhetoric so many, so unfairly. But we can't afford to see the office of leader of our land be demeaned at our own hand. Here's an opportunity to take the high road, that doesn't involve giving up principle. 

I am taking my lead from the sitting President.

Now, who knows what he's saying when the cameras are off, in the confidence of colleagues- but outwardly he is displaying nothing but grace and deference to something that he knows is bigger than him. He's been called arrogant by so many throughout his term, but now it's his humility that is a shining example. 

This is not a call to end the protest- never stop fighting for what is in your heart. This is a plea, that despite the frightening and emotional battle that is raging, that we be thoughtful with our actions. That we "go high" as Mrs. Obama has recently said. It's the only way to get through this. I know that I cannot marshall hate, the way I can love. 

 So keep up the fight, but definitely keep it UP. Show the world and our country what it is to be united in goodness, not in bitterness. To stand for something instead of just standing against something. I choose love. I choose light. I choose up. 

Based in reality

A while back, I wrote about my daughter's connection to her stuffed animals, as it applies to gender. I still get corrected if I call Goldie the Octopus, or Blue Bunny "he" - they are girl stuffed animals (duh). One thing that's never been on the table is a deep emotional connection to any of her stuffies. From the time she could form sentences, anytime I tried to personify one of her fluffy buddies, she would look up at me and say, "It's not real Dad." I, of course, know that (we've yet to consult the stuffed animals themselves on the feel about it).

She tends to through phases where she's really into her dolls, and will want to bring one or more along when we are going out. The answer is usually, "No," especially if we are doing a lot of walking, because five minutes after being out my wife or I are pressed into carriage of the doll. But if we're getting the car, "Okay, sure- but it stays in the car when we get to Target (or wherever)."

So the other day, we three (K, the doll, and I) got in the car. I buckled K in and got up in my seat and realized she was fumbling in the back with the middle seat belt, and when I looked back K was buckling her doll in as well. Hm, I thought. Giving into the mystery, taking care of of her doll as is she were real. I didn't voice this, just a "We all set back there?" And we were off.

When got back in the car, I got K situated and realized the doll was just kind of lying on the passenger seat (she had been unbuckled when we were getting out of the car). So before getting in up front, I made may around the car to help get her belted in as well.

"What are you doing?" asked K.

"I'm just getting her all buckled in."

"Why?"

"I don't know I just thought maybe you wanted her to be." Then I added, "To keep her safe."

K never looked up from the piece of paper she was looking at, and offered, "SHE'S NOT HUMAN, DAD."

Point taken.

I still belted the doll in. Safety first.

Safety first.

Time(s Square) Travelling

A friend of mine posted a picture on the Facebook of the old Howard Johnson's in Times Square the other day, circa the good ol' days, complete with vestiges of pre-Guiliani ill-repute accompanying the Americana. In this day of Times Square looking more like a flashy strip mall, many folks pined in the comments section for that lost New York. More strip, less mall. Well if you're one of those feeling nostalgic, just mere steps up Broadway there is a little slice of heaven that might just feel like you've gone a bit back in time. 

There's a series of storefronts in the low 50's that recently housed things so unmemorable, that despite the fact I had probably walked by them a few hundred times, I can't now for life of me recall what they were. Fact is, they're vacant now- gutted on the inside, more than likely eventually to be snazzed up for some new high-rent tenants, to replace those others that wouldn't or couldn't pay the high rent anymore. The storefronts are glass, top to bottom, and there's nothing to block a fair view of the lack of action that has taken place over weeks of time. 

Here's where the old NYC charm comes into play- there are signs posted on each door letting passers-by know that what they are walking by is a war-zone: man vs. rat. Well, poison en loco man, vs. rat. "WARNING KEEP OUT POISON BAITED AREA" the signs read. Skull and corss-bones, the whole deal. Fantastic. So urban. I'm sure the tourists are tickled and take pictures. But the added whimsy to all of this, is that someone or ones, has taken the trouble to slide under or through the glass doors of a few of the storefronts, magazine pages taken from some of your finer pornography. I thought to myself when I first noticed things laying on the floor just on the other side of the glass, "That's not... is it?" And then after my eyes adjusted to the mid-morning glare, I realized I was indeed looking at very close up photograph of the very spot where so many are brought into this world. It was only then- after I took the time to (I'm not going to say stop and smell the flowers) take a gander that I realized the other storefronts also had some choice photos skillfully maneuvered through the doors and onto the floor just beyond. Excellent. There's your homage to a simpler time. Times Square. I almost felt like mugging someone, just because. 

Never you worry, fans of New(er) York City- just two blocks down on your left is a Starbucks and a drone shop. These days there's a lot of in-with-the-new in this little town, but there will always be shadows of days past, if you let your eyes adjust to the glare. 

Porn, downstage center.

Score one (or two) for Dad

I'm a carney hero. A legend, if only for a few fleeting moments.

My shining moments took place yesterday at Luna Park in Coney Island, where I won two successive carnival games for my daughter, and thereby winning her undying love for a total of at least five minutes.

First up was the "Frog Bog," a pretty standard carnival game where one uses a mallet to attempt to propel a rubber frog into a rotating pool of makeshift lily pad cup thingies. One of those, you'll never get it games. My daughter scooped up the mallet, and then said (in her six year old baby-talk voice) "Daddy do it," while handing it off to me. Well on my third attempt of three, my mallet struck the target with just enough force- no too hard, like my first go, not too soft like try two- and the rubber frog flung its way into one of those lily pads, immediately eliciting a monster hug and a squeal from my daughter. Feeling pretty good.

Then we walk over to "Stinky Feet," a variation of the classic shoot-the-water-into-the-clown's-mouth-and-pop-the-balloon game. It's another game that no matter how close you are to winning, that ugly kid at the end of the row always somehow winds up with prize. This version involved alternating targets on a cartoon-ish gentleman sitting in a bathtub, his (as we've been led to believe) stinky feet hanging out. The winner brings on the shower over his head. My daughter generally enjoys doing this game on her own, so I was getting her set up. I don't know if it was the alternating targets, or if maybe she just sensed greatness in her presence, but she told me to sit down and "Daddy do it" again. And daddy do it I did. With precision I moved the stream of water from foot to foot, to soap bar, back to foot... and when the bell rung, it was our bath guy that got the shower. More hugs and hero worship, maybe even a "You're the best Daddy ever" - a line usually reserved for when I allow her to do something that I have just previously told her she can not do. In any case, I win again, and my child's adoration is my great reward.

Her reward in both cases were plush somethings she'd more or less forgotten about by the time we got home. But my, albeit faded, glory shall endure- if not in her memory, at least in mine. And may it always be that simple to gain hero-status in my daughter's eyes.

Silver lining

I'm relishing this moment. It's before 7am and my wifey is out exercising. I'm not sure what if anything she ate prior to heading out, but the point is- she didn't use any silverware.  

You see for her, everyday is a race to use every single implement she can in order to complete the gastronomical chores necessary for the day. When it's my turn to do the dishes, my go to lines are, "Did you host a dinner party I wasn't invited to?" or "Did you borrow silverware from the neighbors today?" (These are good lines, in case you're wondering- and I authorize you to use them as you see fit.)

So I'll go to the drawer for a spoon- of course there's no spoons in the drawer. Need a knife? Well hopefully there's a clean one in the drain, or I'll have to do a quick wash of the seemingly dozens in the sink. 

It may seem like the easy solution is: more silverware! Never mind that more silver in our New York City dwelling would probably cause the floor in the kitchen to slant even more than it already does- but it would matter. It won't stop her. It will just mean more to wash at the end of the day.  

So, with my daughter quietly becoming one with the couch in the living room, the soft glow of Disney Magic eminating from the TV screen, I set about putting away last night's haul of dishes and silverware. And when I finish: All. Of. Our. Silverware. Is. In. The. Drawer. It's like a Bigfoot sighting, people. And like Bigfoot, it will quickly disappear into the mist- I get that. But for one shining(ish) moment the assurance that these things can happen... well I don't want to wax poetic too much. But, maybe one haiku:

Silverware all in.  

In the early morning light- 

I wink at Bigfoot.  

Supreme Court (Dis)appointment

This started as a reply to an article about the Republicans approach to the pending Supreme Court nomination, that a friend of mine posted on Facebook. And if anyone cares, I decided turn it into this post. Enjoy, or, if not- help me understand why I am wrong.

This issue makes me want to scream. Presidential terms last 4 years, not 3 years. And if hear one more person refer to Obama as a "lame duck President"... (screams into pillow) The so-called lame duck session doesn't begin until the election had taken place, running through when the elected actually take office. In the current use of the term- when does the lame duck session begin, if it happens before the election? Two years? A year and a half? Should a President even get a whole year to perform his Constitutional duties?

Obama's been the piñata since day one of his presidency. This is just another in a long line of stalemate tactics by this Republican congress, holding the legislative process and the American people hostage.

I would agree with the thoughts broached in the article- that with all that's swirling around a potential nominee, why would someone want to put themselves through what amounts to a dog and pony show, being dragged through congressional trench-warfare? But I've yet to hear a single succinct, Constitutionally-backed argument from a single Republican as to why this President should not be allowed to do his job. At least the President is still trying to to do his job- which is more than I can say for McConnell and his "let the people decide" pals. 

There is still nearly a full quarter of this Presidential term left- to suggest otherwise is blatant politics, and a slap in the face- not just to mathematics- but to the intelligence of the people who voted for Obama- twice. I'd say the people have decided.

Overcoming Stuffed Misogyny

When K was a baby, my wife and I took it upon ourselves to name her toys and stuffed animals- because, I mean, they needed names: how else would they know when we were talking to/about them?

As she's gotten older, we've relinquished (although begrudgingly) naming rights to K. For quite a while, creativity was not paramount in naming an object. A baby was "Baby," a dog was "Doggie," etc. As her creativity has increased, so has her awareness and importance that these stuffed animals have specific genders- and generally she pitches toward her toy friends being female. 

So, when someone new comes on the seen (which is often as K forms no real lasting bonds with her stuffed comrades), my predilection is to call whatever it is a he. "What his name?" "Where did you put him?" Unless of course it's a pink cat, or if it's a rabbit with bows in its hair- then, I mean, of course it's a girl. I know. I'm unwittingly forcing my gender identification on these unsuspecting and undeserving stuffies.

For a while it went unnoticed- but now I'm being corrected. As in the case of "Sheepo" a little stuffed hamster, that came with its own little pet carrier and everything. K and I (and Sheepo) were on the train the other day, and I asked a question about "him." Realizing what I was doing, I checked myself by inquiring of Sheepo's gender. 

"She's a girl, Dad," K replied, "Otherwise her name would be "Hee-po."  

Boom. I got schooled. It was a hilarious insight into her reasoning process, and yet another step in the learning process of a father raising a daughter. I hope she keeps this sharp, comical edge to her- and that however she identifies herself in this world, she does so with confidence. 

Issues (A New York[er] Romance)

It's begun again. The anxiety. The fear that you can't keep up. That no matter how many hours are in a day, it's just never going to be enough. I could be talking about life- sure- but what I am specifically speaking of is that I recently renewed my print subscription to the New Yorker.

I had been getting the issues delivered to my old-school Kindle. Couldn't be more convenient. And good for the environment. Every week a mostly text-based version of the current issue, showed up on my Kindle's home screen. Great!

But... if I'm reading a book on the Kindle, I may not regularly visit the home screen- and weeks go by and I haven't even clicked on the New Yorker- which auto-archives the back issues as the new ones come in. Again, so super-easy and space-saving. But however easy and convenient and green it was- I wasn't reading it, and I missed it (even though, yes- it was right there for me at all times, just waiting for me to click). 

A good offer came my way, and so I dove back into the print version! The first issue came- the smell, the tactile feel of the pages, even the old formatting were like coming home. As I thumbed my way through the familiar pages, the dread began. Was today the day I would go to the mailbox and I find the next issue, when I had but begun to make a dent in this issue? Would it be tomorrow? And then another? How long before the pile begins- mocking me that haven't even made my way through "Talk of the Town" yet- from a month ago. "Town's not talkin' about that anymore," the pile snickers (and maybe spits some tobacco into an imaginary spittoon). The pile gets moved, reshuffled- organized by date, by articles within I wanted to read. Eventually the pile gets recycled, passed on to friend- with the self-encouraging thought that I'll read those articles on the Internet- more broken promises. 

I should mention at this point that I'm only two issues into this current fling. Things are going okay. I haven't started the second issue- but I've got a a few days before the next one comes. So we're in a good place. I've pratically read the first issue cover to cover...ish. Honeymoon's not over yet. The second issue hasn't yet given me the glare of the mistress on Valentine's Day. But I know what a fickle friend this publication can be. And much like the ocean- you don't want to turn your back on it.  

I can't decide if the moniker The New Yorker is fitting, or an contradiction in terms. Sure, making your though the grid-like, tall columns takes a lot commitment and energy. But in a place where expedience is prized- these issues force you to slow down and languish. 

So it's another New York(er) romance. Sure there will be issues, the trick is to not let those issues pile up. 

Divided, we... are.

I would love for a day (longer would be nice), that Facebook be filled with positivity- whatever that means to you- and void of vitriol: the back-biting, finger-pointing partisanship that tends to clog up these social media sites. No rants about cups, no memes taking down a person or groups people, no matter what side any of us are on. After the awful events in ‪#‎Paris‬ last night, I want to be on the ‪#‎HUMAN‬ side. That's something we should be able to get behind. And in that way- albeit a small way- we can all be ‪#‎HELPERS‬. Everyone affected by last night's tragedy needs now to heal, and if all of us can do small things to help that happen- then at least for a while we can all be on the same side. HAPPY Saturday, Facebook.

The morning after the attacks in Paris (and therefore a couple days after the much less publicized Beirut bombings)- I posted the above message to my Facebook account, with a link to a video of Mr. Rogers telling his "look for the helpers" story.

I then tried to follow my advice, and avoided posting politically or anything that could be considered negative (outside of maybe knocking a sports team or two- but no "real life" negativity). What I should have done was stayed away from social media. Because I kept seeing the same old crap- blame game finger-pointing, sometimes hateful posts under the guise of patriotism or intellectual elite-ism. It took a good deal of will power not to comment- not to engage.

Well, just two days later, I found myself posting an article about a divisive issue, with my commentary on the issue tagged on top. I had made it a bit more than 48 hours before jumping back in partisan posting game. Having had my earlier plea land deafly on many in my circle, and reflecting on what I said- I demurred and went back and deleted my post.

And then I immediately began thinking about the line between a negative post, and standing up for what I believe. Of speaking out against hate, and challenging that ideology. And realizing that while it may be divisive, it may indeed be partisan, it might not be necessarily negative. Confrontational, perhaps though. And that's really what my plea was- not to be at or against each other, and thereby in absence of partisanship, we could all pretend for a little bit that we were all in this together. But I suppose that's what it is- pretend. Kumbaya bullshit and a pipe dream.

Or is it? If we can't be united in love, can we not find common ground in our hatred? We all deplore these acts of terror and the individuals carrying them out- why get bogged down in semantics? Of who said what and when? Let's all hold hands and denounce terrorism! Who's with me? A hate-in for peace!!

But hatred is blinding. Hatred causes blanket statements and jumps to conclusions without benefit of facts and logic. Well, dammit- there goes common ground!

As for me? I'm jumping back in the pool. I'm not going to sit on the sidelines while things I know are true get trampled on. But I am going to strive to rise above the ugliness. To voice my opinion without tearing others down. I don't know if I'm strong enough to do that- it can be so tempting and satisfying to attack those in opposition to us- but I'm not staying silent.

You see, I too hate. I hate injustice. I hate ignorance. And I'm not ready to drop it all and hug it out with people that spread those messages. Kumbaya will have wait, I guess.

The Gift

And so it is I find myself once again at the monstrous Toys R Us in Times Square, tasked with finding a gift for a child I do not know. It's the age where our little one gets invited to birthday parties galore! Kids she goes to school with, that she knows from camp, from online chatrooms- okay not that, but it might as well be. They're strangers to me. It's different when it's your friends' kids- then the party is more for the parents anyway and everyone gets cake and goes home happy. You know what to get that kid.

But to buy a gift for kid you don't know- this isn't toys for tots where little Jimmy hasn't had a real gift since "the accident" - and he'll be pleased as punch and his parents will glow knowing that there truly is a Santa Claus this year! Nah- this is a kid who probably has way too much already (like my child) and whose parents maybe don't let him play with certain toys because of whatever reason, and only read him passages of Proust and let him listen to NPR on Saturday mornings as a treat!

So no pressure, is what I'm saying.

It's only my daughter's reputation as a party guest going forward that's at stake. Like, "Oh her- yeah she was the one who got me clothes for my last birthday! Ugh She's off the list!" Or the parents, "Ah yes, her, who brought little Jimmy those vile mutant turtle figurines last year, no e-vite for her!"

Yes. These are real scenarios I play in my head as I am wandering Toys R Us, noise-canceling headphones in, dodging tourists pretending to be chased by the giant T-Rex (okay, I've done it before... a few times). And you certainly don't want to fall into gender-stereotypes - "Oh I get it, little Jimmy is a boy, so you got him Captain America riding a motorcycle. Very original."  But what can you do?

So I walk out of Toys R Us, sanity intact (somewhat), with Captain America bouncing along on his motorcycle in the bottom of the shopping bag. You and your parents don't like it, little Jimmy? I've attached the gift receipt. Oh and you're welcome. And there better be some some awesome cake.

Rain, rain ...come today (please)!

File this one under my on-going nomination for parent of the year:

After working all day, riding the train home, and picking up my little girl from the babysitter, the last thing I want to do is go to the park. And of course, that's what my little girl wants to do more than anything. Maybe if it was a quiet park, where quiet jazz is playing, and children are sitting around in the grass reading... this isn't that park (and yes I know that park doesn't exist). This the playground! Screaming kids, cooped up in school or daycare all day, flailing about and yearning to break free (I suppose that makes us parents the huddled masses).

I will bribe her with treats (you want TWO Oreos when we get home?). I will threaten loss of other privileges (well, then no TV tonight!). I will bargain (let's say we go home tonight, but then we can go the next two days in a row!). None of which usually works.

The one x-factor: the weather. If it gets to be 3:30-4pm, and the clouds start rolling in a bit-- I get that excited feeling in the pit of my stomach. While most people are fretting the possibility that their commute might be made unpleasant by the rain, I am reveling in the fact that I may just get out of going to the park! Come on water droplets, you can do this (a short, yet purposeful rain dance may ensue)!! No umbrella, no problem! This will only enhance my argument when I show up at the babysitter's door: "Sorry, sweetie not tonight. It's raining out," I'll say, suppressing a smile and trying my best to sound apologetic- all the while doing back flips in my mind. 

Even still, a little moisture doesn't always end the battle- in which case the bribery can be upped if necessary (okay, how about two Oreos and a bubble bath??). And now as fall is upon us, winter approaches, and the days grow shorter and colder- soon the park at the end of the day gets taken out of the equation for logistical reasons (my logic, not hers: "the park closes at nightfall" and "it's 14 degrees out" just aren't logical deterrents to her).

But for now the battle rages, and after a brief hibernation the cycle will repeat itself. And so will my mid-day rain dances at my desk.

All hallows... Eve?

I don't consider myself a gender-stereotype warrior. My wife and I did try to fight the good fight with the pink for girls/blue for boys battle when we found out the sex of our little girl. We're not registering for a bunch of pink clothes, bottles, blocks! The room that was to be her room was already blue, so we said dammit- we're keeping it blue! Well the walls are still blue, but the rest of the room looks like Hello Kitty ate some glitter glue threw up all over the room. That said- she still makes plenty of choices that don't always go down the sugar and spice and everything nice trail.

So when Halloween rolls around- we encourage her to do whatever she wants, now that she's making the decision: she was a genderless Minion a couple years ago- cool. She was Rapunzel last year (the whole princessy dress thing)- adorable. This year, very undecided- so we took to the interwebs to show her some options. So my biggest question is: Why do "girl" costumes come with skirts? Sure there are plenty of costumes where skirts are appropriate. But Police officer (girl)? Construction worker (girl)? A friggin Stormtrooper??? (And I'm not even going to into the whole sexualization of little girls argument here, I'm going to keep it practical) There are even costumes of characters from TV shows and movie that she watches- female characters, whose costumes on the screen don't contain a skirt -- but when it's time to dress your daughter like them for Halloween- skirts!! Why??

Sure, we could buy the "boy" version of the costumes, but that's not the point. I'm happy and lucky that my daughter is just as comfortable in glittery gear as she is in a plain old Yankees t-shirt, but I have to feel for the kids out there struggling with gender identity or just being comfortable with who they are, as they are. Telling a girl who might not like wearing a skirt or dress, that they have to purchase the costume modeled by a boy in order for them to meet their needs? That's the answer? I'd like to think we're further along than that in the world, but I guess not. I get that there will always be girl and boy specific costumes- but the way we market them could use an update.

Now, I don't want to spoil the surprise of what my little lady will be wearing this Halloween... but suffice to say it involves a tutu. And that's what she wanted. And that's all I want for her.