Why I Hate the Winter Olympics

When the Seattle Seahawks annihilated the Denver Broncos earlier this month in the Super Bowl, among other things it meant that self-proclaimed “Football Widows” received their spouses back until training camps begin over the summer. What I personally didn’t anticipate was becoming a Sports Widower myself less than a week later.

In the interest of full disclosure, I will admit that I’m a big sports fan. I’m also a long-suffering one as I grew up a Cleveland sports fan. If you’re not a sports fan, I can best explain being a Cleveland sports fan like being the punchline in a nightmare. Anything that could go wrong inevitably does in the most publically embarrassing way. But I’ve grown to live with that. And now that I live on the West Coast with two young sons I seldom make time to sit through many games these days that aren’t Go Fish.  

So how did I come to find myself in the position of asking my non-sports fan wife approximately every 15 minutes every night for the last 2 weeks “is this almost over?” Two words: Winter Olympics.

Don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t be any more pro-American if I had a pet Bald Eagle named Uncle Sam. I just can’t get into the Winter Olympics, no matter how half-heartedly I try. As I mentioned, I grew up in the Midwest, about 20 minutes from a place where I could have gone skiing every winter for 20+ years and opted to never do so. Intentionally. Unlike Elsa from Frozen, the cold always bothered me anyway.

Over the decade-plus my wife and I have been together, I’ve tried watching some of the Winter Olympic Games with her. However, beyond that I have a hard time recognizing it as a sport, spending time watching sequined couples “Ice Dancing” just doesn’t do it for me.

From what I’ve seen the primary objective of at least half of the Winter Olympic events could be listed as “not dying”. Hell, there’s a sport where the “athlete” lies face down on a tiny metal sled going 80+mph down a curvy icy chute, which is actually called “Skeleton”. Foreshadowing much?

This Skeletoner is laying still like a corpse.
How is this a sport?

Then there’s the Biathlon which combines that natural duo of skiing and shooting a rifle which so many people seemingly do every day. I’d call that Polar Military Training before I’d call it a sport. What about Cross Country, which most people who live in cold weather places refer to as “walking on snow”.

And don’t even get me started on Curling, a “sport” which my housekeeper could likely medal in based on her expert-level proficiency at removing piles of Cheerios from the floor with a broom.

As if their "sport" didn't make them look silly enough...

I was sitting with my wife the other night while she watched the 1^st of something like 86 rounds of some skiing event and kept hearing the announcers mention Rosa Khoutour, which I assumed was some sort of Russian fashion brand. Turns out it’s a mountain. Who would have known?

The centerpiece of the Winter Olympics is always the Figure Skating events, and those have eaten up a big chunk of my TiVo for the last 10 nights. No interest. I didn’t even like Blades of Glory and that starred Ron Burgundy and Napoleon Dynamite, two of the funniest dudes from the last decade.

Part of my ancestry actually stems from Russia and I still couldn’t be less interested in a “Homeland vs. Birthland” story line if NBC created one specifically about me, like the packages they show about athletes suffering from hangnails, misplaced iPhones and other tragedies.

The truth is that the most interesting part of the Olympic coverage to me so far has been Bob Costas’ Pink Eye, which would be a great name for a punk-rock band. Bob’s Oozing Oculars (another good band name) has kept me wondering what kind of medical attention he’s getting that he couldn’t work at an event he’d probably be preparing 6 months to a year in advance for. Who is his MD, Dr. Frankenstein?

The good news is that the games will be over in a few more days and I’ll get 4 glorious sequin-less years until they resume. How long until baseball season begins?

You Know You're a SAHD if...

For the past 2 ½ years I’ve been lucky to be a part-time Stay-At-Home-Dad (SAHD). On a daily basis it’s afforded me the pleasure of interacting both with those who whine and cry all day, as well as toddlers. I’ve spent a surprising amount of time doing things that I never could have imagined just a few years ago. Like watching the same 3 Pixar movies over and over. And over and over. And that’s just in one day. 

The reality is that being a SAHD is a gift. I get to spend quality time with my Little Dude and not worry about the stains on my shirts while out in public, which strangers (usually incorrectly) assume were caused by him. During a recent viewing of Cars, I started thinking about some of the unique characteristics of SAHDs and came up with this short list. 

“You Know You’re a SAHD if...”  

1)     You own what you refer to as your "good" sweatpants.

2)     You know about all of the "kids eat free" deals at nearby restaurants and exchange birthday cards with the manager at your local IHOP.

3)     Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name and that place is MyGym.

4)     You like taking your kids to story time at the library so you can get caught up on 5 games of Words With Friends while they listen to a librarian read 5 books about talking elephants.

5)     Your most recent Facebook status update was "jklljhhhhlppnnn".

6)     You used to know the names and statistics of all your favorite athletes. Now you know the names and numbers of Thomas the Train and his friends.

7)     Your Breaking Bad episodes have accidentally been deleted from your TiVo to make room for additional episodes of Super Why.   

8)     You are more than a little freaked out by your kid’s seemingly innocuous toys after repeated viewings of Toy Story.

9)     The backseat of your car contains more Cheerios than the General Mills factory.

10)  You think Sesame Street jumped the shark when Mr. Noodle's brother Mr. Noodle joined the cast. 

11)  You can justify why dunking your head in the sink and some strategically placed baby powder are just as good as a real shower.

12)  You have plenty of time to finish writing a list like this. At 1:30am.

What unique traits do you associate with SAHDs and SAHMs?

Who Picked This Pickiness?

One of my first posts when I started this blog a year ago was about my frustration at having the pickiest eating toddler in the history of civilization.  Just like they do on TV about old shows no one has thought about in decades, I thought I’d do a “Where Are They Now?” look at, well, where we are now in regard to the diversity of the Little Dude’s palate.

Spoiler Alert: It still sucks.

I expected his picky eating to be a phase that he’d grow out of, as countless people assured me it would. I suppose there is still time for that to occur, since he’s only 2 ½ years old, but it seems like it never will. Especially when we are at kids’ birthday parties and the inevitable cheese pizza is served. Mine is the only kid who would rather eat a bag of Baked Snap Pea Crisps than that mozzarella-covered cardboard they often try to pass off as pizza.

Mandatory Kids' Birthday Party Meal

You might be thinking that it’s much better for him to eat baked vegetable snacks than greasy pizza, which is probably true health-wise. I often wonder about the social component of his pickiness. People have suggested that he’ll evolve when he is around other kids. Um, he’s sitting next to 20 other kids who are all eating pizza and he’s not. Must he go to Burning Man for a bigger crowd?

We are very lucky to have a happy, healthy boy who is consistently near the top of the growth chart, so I shouldn’t be complaining. But the frustration caused by his unwillingness to even taste certain foods is compounded by the fact that he frequently talks about them. Yes, my son is an E.T., an Eating Tease.  

Sometimes Mrs. Dude or I will ask what he wants to eat, though we know it’s really a rhetorical question since he eats the same 5 things every day. Occasionally he’ll surprise us and say he wants pizza, for example, and immediately qualifies his request with “for real!” to add validity.  So we make the pizza, put it in on his plate, and watch as once again he’d rather skip dinner than suffer through the horror of cheese baked on top of tomato sauce and dough.  And every time this happens I feel like Charlie Brown when Lucy pulls the football. Good grief. 

The Little Dude’s eating repertoire has been virtually the same for the last year and a half. He does have an affinity for breakfast food, but beyond that I’m running out of ideas.  This is the same kid who ate Kraft Macaroni & Cheese for dinner EVERY NIGHT for more than a year, and that only ended because we stopped giving it to him every night. Now the great majority of his evening meals are anchored by (Nitrate-Free) Turkey Dogs, aka the only type of “meat” that he’ll consider eating.

There is one exception to his edict of not trying new foods, and that is if he determines that an item is a cookie, cake, candy or other type of sweet. He can hone in on a dry-looking Do-Si-Do from 20 yards away even though he’s never seen one before but the thought of a dinosaur-shaped chicken nugget is torturous. How he developed that sixth sense, I’ll never understand.  

Double-fisting vanilla cones

People who know me well have suggested that this is my payback for behavior from 25-30 years ago. You see, I was a picky eater once, too. In fact, I ate the same lunch virtually every day from kindergarten through 6^th grade: peanut butter & jelly. I’ve broadened my horizon since then, but even at my pickiest stage I ate at least a few other items. I think I can count every item the Little Dude eats on my fingers and toes. And that’s including both Original and Honey Nut Cheerios.

So what should we do? As a parent, this is incredibly frustrating on so many levels.  We can’t go to a restaurant without packing a full meal, because the likelihood of him eating something from the menu is almost nil. Unless they serve hotdogs.  And even then, he won’t eat the French fries or carrots served with it.  He’d much rather eat a half-dozen Trader Joes rice cakes.  Maybe he has the right idea after all.

 How have you dealt with a picky eater?

All By Myself

I’ve learned that a lot of people don’t like doing things by themselves. They get freaked out or nervous or scared. Me?  I have a great time.  Whether it’s going to a movie or a restaurant or the mall, I really don’t mind.  I don’t want to give you the wrong impression, though. I’m not anti-social or a hermit or a leper. For the most part.

I don’t mind being alone.  I lived alone for two years in college, which was quite different from many of my friends who shared houses with 9 other Dudes.  I’m the youngest of three siblings by several years so my brother and sister were in college before I was even in high school. When I moved to California a dozen years ago I lived with my brother. Technically. Really he spent most of his time at work or his girlfriend’s house so I had the run of our 900 square foot palace including my luxurious futon and papasan.  I guess that worked out for everyone since they've been married for over a decade. Sadly the futon and I went our separate ways a few years ago.

My first home in Los Angeles: 802 West Knoll

SS and I have co-habitated for nearly 6 years.  It took a lot of getting used to for a variety of reasons but I’ll get to that in another post soon.  Over the last almost-two years however, I never knew I could enjoy living with someone as much as I do.  It’s cliché to say that since BC was born, my whole world has changed.  Not only is that very true, but so has my general outlook on life. And not just because his fingerprints are usually all over my glasses.  

Given the nature of my occupation, I’ve been fortunate to spend more time with my son than most fathers do. And it’s been great.  Even when he’s screaming like Richard Simmons at a glitter factory, I know what to do to make him laugh and suddenly everything is OK with the world again.  Sure, I could do without an extra person in my bed at around 6:30AM and the “Little Einsteins” playing in the background of my waning moments of slumber. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything.  

So in an interesting twist my wife took the Little Dude to see her sister, brother-in-law and our infant nephew in San Francisco recently.  If you know me well you know I loathe the Bay Area but will go for a few days to see family every so often.  Or if I'm promised pizza. I had a conference to attend in LA so I couldn’t go with them on this trip (DARN!) but I figured I’d be so busy that I would hardly notice they were gone.  I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Their trip was 5 days long and it felt like 50. Yes, I talked to them every day and Skyped a few times but we were on different schedules and it seemed like different planets.  I had obligations to occupy me during the days, but at night when I’m usually the Dude on Duty (and often doody, too) I was a free man.  I didn’t have to worry about slicing turkey dogs into bite size pieces or giving bubble baths or watching Elmo. Well, at least for BC, that is.

Sure, I got to watch whatever I wanted on TV and stay up as late as I desired, but there was an obvious void around the house.  I had the dog to keep me company but she’s basically an 8 pound lump.  Regardless, I figured I could work on some blog posts, catch up on some other projects,  get some sleep  and generally have a mini-staycation.

Free time never quite turns out to be as free as expected for me though. My car had issues.  I had to attend the conference.  I had to work. I intended to do a few important tasks around the house that needed to be done: cleaning, laundry, sleeping. Of course that stuff all got put off until the night before they returned. Somehow after a couple days, I thought I needed 5 or 6 more to get caught up on life. And when I went into BC’s room to straighten up, it hit me how much I really missed him.  Sure, getting drenched during his bath and having to chase him around afterward while hoping he won’t pee on the floor aren’t my primary ideas of fun. But either is chasing the lunatic dog around at all hours of the night because she guesses (wrongly) that SS is coming to rescue her from my evil grip as though I was Buffalo Bill and she was Precious. 

This trip was the longest period that I have gone without seeing BC since he was born.  When he returned he seemed like a different kid. He said new words. He ate new foods. He seemed taller. It had only been 5 days. I can't fathom what it will be like when he goes to college.

While I was glad to have a little free space for a few days and reminisce about my days of bachelorhood, I was happier to have my Little Dude back in the chateau doing the things he does best: poking me in the face while I’m sleeping, spilling Cheerios all over the floor and grabbing the dog’s tail then squealing in delight. I was very glad to have him back. Not sure if the chihuahua would agree, though.

Thanks for reading The Dude of the House! Tell your friends... 

--JJ aka The Dude of the House