Category Archives: Adventures in Los Angeles

Walking AT work: My new treadmill desk

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Sitting is the new smoking.

And, as of tomorrow, Monday, I will be working while I walk. Albeit, at the very slow pace of 0.7 mph, but moving and not sitting. And that’s what counts.

I’m now the proud owner of a LifeSpan walking treadmill, and builder of a homemade treadmill desk because I was too frugal to buy the fancy one that came with the treadmill.

This idea started when I read an excellent article in The New Yorker written by Susan Orlean about treadmill desks and the dangers of sitting all day. They’re bad, the dangers. In fact, as I told my wife, it’s more dangerous parking your ass all day if you’re a woman. My prediction: She’ll be using one of these within the next 6 months.

So, after weeks of reviewing treadmill ads on Craigslist, and having one sold before I could get there and finding another that required a moving crew to get it out of the condo, I decided not to take the risk of buying a dud with rat-chewed wiring and spiders living in it, and splurged and bought a new one designed for walking and working.

Saturday, I spent the afternoon building my desk. The first one I designed mirrored the one I didn’t buy and was pretty complicated, with lots of moving parts. So, as I didn’t want to spend two days building a desk, I pretended I was water and took the easiest path downhill: I attached brackets to the wall and a piece of wood for the desk. Total cost: around $40, which made the blow of the treadmill cost easier to swallow. Barely.

Here are some pictures. And here’s a nice page on the dangers of sitting, including some nice simple graphics that even idiots like me can understand. Sitting is killing you

I cleared out a bookcase and made room for the treadmill. These things are big and I have a small office. At first, I thought I'd slide it under my desk, but it was too cramped. So, bookcase to the garage and treadmill to the corner.

I cleared out a bookcase and made room for the treadmill. These things are big and I have a small office. At first, I thought I’d slide it under my desk, but it was too cramped. So, the bookcase moved to the garage and treadmill took its place.

I bought three brackets from Home Depot and mounted 2x4s on each. This way, if I'm not happy with the height I can take the 2x4 out or add to it. I thought about putting a cleat around the wall but I didn't think it would give the desk enough support beyond the wall and I'd need a leg or two. It's amazing how long it took me to find the studs and put the brackets in.

I bought three brackets from Home Depot and mounted 2x4s on each. This way, if I’m not happy with the height I can take the 2x4s out or add to them. I thought about putting a cleat around the wall but I didn’t think it would give the desk enough support beyond the wall and I’d need a desk leg or two. It’s amazing how long it took me to find the studs and put the brackets in, but I’m slow in the head, so it makes sense.

I bought this $22 piece of pine at Home Depot, where they've finally hired employees to help customers, thankfully. My wife helped out and put two coats of amber shellac on it. I added three more. I thought about using melamine, but I'm just a wood guy. Just am, always will be.

I bought this $22 piece of pine at Home Depot, where they’ve finally hired employees to help customers, thankfully. My wife helped out and put two coats of amber shellac on it. I added three more. I thought about using melamine, but I’m just a wood guy. Just am, always will be. (BTW, the sprinklers were on when I set this up for my wife to shellac. The board was a little wet and I told her it would be fine. I forgot shellac isn’t water based. Oops. She was pissed.)

Here it is, ready to go. Monday morning I'll be working and working on improving my health. It's a win/win. I still have some work to do with the cords, as one of my plugs isn't working properly.

Here it is, ready to go. Monday morning I’ll be working and working on improving my health. It’s a win/win. I still have some work to do with the cords, as one of my plugs isn’t working properly. I’ll get it all cleaned up and looking pretty. Or not.

Father’s Day 2013 and other thoughts

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I’m grateful for my wife and daughter and two labs, though the black one is a pain in the ass sometimes, but in a good way, or not. I’m not sure.

So, I received white boxers with blue whales on them, Godiva chocolate bars (because I’m eating a lot of it to keep me going during long workdays), and noise-reducing headphones to protect my Tobramycin-damaged hearing while I use power tools.

Best of all, my wife wrote a long note all about me and how great I am. I wrote back right away and asked who she was writing about and how I’d like to meet the guy who does all of this stuff.

I’m not going to post the entire letter here, as I don’t think I can live up to the high bar it sets, but here is one of my favorite quotes: “The father who quizzes us on how to spot potentially unsavory characters on the street and what we should do in any potentially risky situations.”

You bet I do, baby. And you better pass that quiz each time. Keep your eyes open for those “unsavory” types, though I’m not sure I’ve ever used the word “unsavory,” which makes me think of poorly cooked food, not scumbags.

This reminds me of one of the first dates I was on with my future wife. I had a black soft-top Jeep Wrangler and we were in West LA stop and go traffic and one of them thar’  (cowboy voice) “unsavory” types approached my honey bunny while we were waiting at a light. With no windows on the Jeep and no six-shooter at my hip, I had to use my highly advanced communication skills to defuse the situation.

“BACK OFF, dickweed,” I said.

What did he call me? © igor - Fotolia.com

What did he call me?
© igor – Fotolia.com

Being that my wife is a nice catholic girl and lived a sheltered life, her first question was, “What’s a dickweed?”

It was a really tough question. And I wasn’t sure how to answer it. But I guess my overpowering delivery won her heart and she stayed with me. I’ll never understand why, but then it’s never a good idea to question or analyze love.

It just is, and I’m lucky I have it.

Man Musk

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“What’s that smell?” my wife asked, as I stood there, sweating, after working outside on a hot day.

Now this was a few years ago and I probably had my manly tool belt strapped on and was looking pretty studly, or as studly as I can possibly look without a bag on my head.

“It’s my Man Musk,” I said. “Would you like some?”

Hey, it's my Skuncle Joe.

Hey, it’s my Skuncle Joe.

“No, I don’t want some. You smell ripe.”

This confused me because don’t we eat fruit when it’s ripe? So, I smelled good enough to eat?

Nope, wrong, not good enough to eat, as I chased her around the kitchen trying to hug her and cover her face with my armpit. But she’s quick like a rabbit, and I couldn’t catch my baby mama.

So, “man musk” is our term now for me working up a nice musky smell. And, after eight days in the hospital and my last shower the day of my jailing, I’ve brewed a nice healthy batch.

It may be my imagination, but while I was outside building a gate today I noticed a number of attractive female joggers running by my house – some more than once. I told my wife, who rolled her eyes, but reminded her that man musk is high in protein and pheromones. It makes me irresistible, romance-novel desirable.  And there was a breeze today, so it all makes sense.

Man musk has a quite a history, dating back 100s of years. Check out this lesser-known Robert Frost poem:

Oh, Man Musk, how I love ya,
My eyes burn, my nose runs,
Watch me work and saw,
And flex me mighty guns.

Ladies stop and stare,
Nose up in the wind,
Take a deep sniff if you dare,
Soon, you’ll say, “I sinned.”
Oh, the power of Man Musk,
Rhino horn mixed with beaver tusk.

Yeah, I’m ripe and tart,
Smelling worse than a fart.
I’m too stupid to know,
Not as smart as your average Joe.

How NOT to build a linen-closet door

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Dear Linen-Closet Door,

I forgive you.

Yes, you fought me during every step of the build, but it’s all over now. I’m done with you, and you’re where you’re supposed to be, attached to a frame, and hiding towels and bathroom supplies.

But what a battle it was.

Respect, 

Unknown

When I remodeled one of our bathrooms, which was a crazy project, I built some shelving outside the door. This was four years ago. I finally got tired of looking at the mess and decided to build a door to hide it.

When I remodeled one of our bathrooms, which was a crazy project that took me six months, I built some shelving outside the bathroom door. This was four years ago. I finally got tired of looking at the mess and decided to build a door to hide it.

First mistake: I used poplar. It's soft and when I look at in the wrong way, it dents. In the end, it came out okay, but I would never use this wood again. I drilled pocket holes and glued the joints. I probably didn't need all of the pocket holes. In fact, I own a router now so I can join wood easier than the way I did for this project. Yay.

First mistake: I used poplar. It’s so soft that just looking at it the wrong way causes it to dent. In the end, it came out okay, but I would never use this wood again. I apologize to Pine and Maple for not using them instead. 
I drilled pocket holes and glued the joints. I probably didn’t need all of the pocket holes. In fact, I own a router table and glue joint bit now so I can join wood easier than the way I did for this project. No more pocket holes for projects like this one.

I didn't have enough pipe clamps so I borrow some from a neighbor. I made another mistake here by not clamping the ends with wood pieces, which will keep the ends even and won't let them warp. Oops. Another mistake. And my door is a little warped because I didn't know this step.

I didn’t have enough pipe clamps so I borrowed some from a neighbor. I made another mistake here by not clamping the ends with wood pieces, which keeps the ends even and reduces warping. I learned this after the glue-up phase. Oops. Another mistake. And my door is a little warped because I didn’t know this step. Also, I hand cut and glued contrasting walnut plugs for each pocket hole.

After I took the boards out of the clamps, I noticed the sides weren't flush and has some mall gaps. So, I made a rabbet cut on each edge and cut small pieces of bubinga, rosewood and pine for the inlay groves. My daughter designed the layout.

Before I glued the boards together, I noticed the sides weren’t flush and had some small gaps when placed next to each other. So, I made a rabbet cut on each edge and cut small pieces of bubinga, rosewood and pine for the inlay groves. My daughter designed the layout.

I poured glue in the groups and we placed the inlay pieces. I added too much glue to the first joint and made the mistake of wiping it when it was wet. I should have let it dry and chipped it off. Notice the inlay sticking up above the wood. I had to take my flush cutter and cut the excess off of each piece. That was a joy. I'll take better measurements next time.

I poured glue in the grooves and we placed the inlay pieces. I added too much glue to the first joint and made the mistake of wiping it when it was wet. I should have let it dry and chipped it off later. Instead I rubbed it into the wood. Rookie error.
Notice the inlay sticking up above the wood. I had to take my flush cutter and cut the excess off of each piece. That was a joy. Some of the pine was too low. I’ll take better measurements next time.

This was the most heartbreaking mistake I made. And I almost gave up. I was tired and impatient and decided to use the router by hand and not on the router table. Oops, big slip. Edge ruined. Goodbye overlay door, hello inset door. That's right. I cut off an equal amount from each side and a little off the top and made it fit inside the closet opening.

This was the most heartbreaking mistake I made. And it almost caused me to give up. I was tired and impatient and decided to use the router by hand and not on the router table. Oops, big slip. Edge ruined. Goodbye overlay door, hello inset door. That’s right. I cut off an equal amount from each side and a little off the top and made it fit inside the closet opening, not over it.

Ah, hubris. To think I was ready to use Tung Oil. It's not that hard according to the instructions. Apply it, rub it in, wait 15 minutes and wife off excess. 10 coats later, it got a little shiny but not where I wanted it. And worse of all I had to wait 24 hours between coats. Back to shellac for me.

Ah, hubris. To think I was ready to use Tung Oil. It’s not that hard according to the instructions. Apply it, rub it in, wait 15 minutes and wife off excess. 10 coats later, it got a little shiny but not where I wanted it. And worse of all I had to wait 24 hours between coats. Back to shellac for me. Or Briwax.

Here's the finished door mounted with four soft-close hinges. It came out okay. I'll replace the painted wood boarder in about 4 years or so.

Here’s the finished door after 10 coats of Tung Oil. I hung it with four soft-close hinges. It came out okay. I’ll replace the painted wood border in about 4 years or so. This project was about the lessons learned, not the finished product.

I originally had the frog heads up but then realized the door reminded me of Frogger. Sideways he went to cross the road.

I originally had the frog heads up but then realized the door reminded me of Frogger. Sideways he went to cross the road and avoid getting smashed by traffic. That’s it. On to other projects, like replacing a painted closet door with one like this. Thanks for reading.

Dear Unknown,

You suck.

Sincerely,

Linen-Closet Door

All work and no play, or blogging

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This is fun with hypertonic saline at a hotel. The sun was coming in the window and I thought it was cool looking to blow into the light. Yes, I have problems, like having to get up early on business trips to do treatments.

This is fun with hypertonic saline at a hotel. The sun was coming in the window and I thought it was cool looking to blow into the light. Yes, I have problems, like having to get up early on business trips to do treatments.

I just finished two back-to-back work trips. Drove for both of them as I haven’t been on a plane in . . . a long time. So long I don’t remember.

Bad things happen to me on planes. But I do miss going places on business and with my family. We do, however, seem to find plenty of local places to drive to and still have a boatload of fun.

I do miss going to Hawaii. And I’d like to go to England to see a soccer game with a couple of friends, then get arrested and spend the night in an English jail. How cool would that be? Would I get “the rack”?

When I saw the date of my last post, I couldn’t believe how long it’s been since I’ve written anything. I know why blogs die off. It takes a lot of energy to keep them going. I’m in year four. Yay.

So, what’s new to report on. Looks like a good chunk of my lung function isn’t coming back. I’m hovering around 50%. It seems like I went from 70 to 50 overnight, but that’s not true. It took some years to do it. I fought every step of the way. However, whereas my PFT chart use to contain flowing, smooth hills and valleys, it now looks like an earthquake graph. Up and down, up and down, but mostly down.

I had to work during my daughter’s spring break. Not much choice, but I felt bad. It’s always a balance between keeping the job that pays well and gives great benefits and spending time with my wife and daughter.

I’ve also been building a linen closet door. It’s the door from hell and has schooled me, and beat me, and perplexed me throughout the process.  I almost gave up. But I’ve learned a lot of lessons, and that has value. I added my ninth coat of Tung oil tonight and will never use the stuff again. Back to shellac. I’ll post some pictures next week.

That’s it. I’m here, breathing. I woke up today, which is always a huge win. The rest is a bonus.

Craigslist find: Two driftwood benches

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My wife, daughter, and I search for driftwood when we go to the beach. So far, we’ve had little luck. We found a 1-foot piece but I left it on our back patio to dry off and our black lab chewed it to pieces. Then we found a nice, hefty 2-foot chunk when we stayed at the Marriott in Ventura. I hid it in the parking lot because it was wet and smelled. Then it rained overnight and soaked the wood, strengthening its odor and increasing its number of flies. So we abandoned it in the parking lot and drove home.

This piece was ginormous. Around 8 feet long. I would have needed a crane or team of vikings to lift it up and get it home.

This piece was ginormous. Around 10 feet long. I would have needed a crane or team of vikings to lift it up and get it home.

Then we discovered a giant piece of driftwood that looked like a dinosaur fossil, (pictured to the right), but I couldn’t figure out a way to get it home.

This makes us 0 for 3 when it comes to driftwood hunting.

Until today when I hit the mother lode of driftwood – on Craigslist.

My Craigslist app beeped and showed two driftwood benches in my city. $25 each or $40 for both.

40 bucks? Seriously? For giant pieces of driftwood? Bargain alert.

This bench is 7-feet wide and heavy. But oh what a piece of wood it is. Or pieces of wood.

This bench is 7-feet wide and heavy. But oh what a piece of wood it is. Or pieces of wood.

I believe in luck and making your own. No hesitation, I called the seller and told him I’d buy both benches. At lunchtime, my neighbor in tow, I was at his house with $40.

Lesson learned today about large pieces of driftwood: they weigh a friggin’ ton. It took all three of us to lift the large bench down a flight of outdoor steps – one step at a time. Then we had to lift it up and into the bed of my friend’s pick-up truck.

The seller was super nice. He said he received several calls after mine, and a couple of people offered him more. And he didn’t say this next part, but he still honored the deal and didn’t sell to the other caller. I respect that in this today’s world of “anything for a buck.”

This is the small bench. It's almost 5-feet long and takes two people to lift it.

This is the small bench. It’s almost 5-feet long and takes two people to lift it.

I looked up driftwood benches when I got home. I found one that was similar and sold for $600. Now I feel guilty about the great deal I got.

Should I?

I am thinking of sending the guy a thank you note and $20 in the mail he can put in his son’s college fund. I know. I’m nuts. But if I ever wanted to sell these, I could make a good chunk of change. 

What would you do?

When did Disneyland get so expensive?

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We had a rip-roaring good time at Disneyland and California Adventure on Monday. Perfect weather, reasonable lines, fantastic new Cars Land, and plenty of fun, fun, fun.

Then I did the math.

Here is some of the damage done to our bank account. But it was worth it. We just won't be going as often as we'd like.

Here is some of the damage done to our bank account. But it was worth it. We just won’t be going as often as we’d like.

Holy Empty Wallet, Batman.

My chest. The pain, like there’s a giant mouse sitting on it. 

Here’s the math: $375 for parkhopper passes for three; $15 to park. $3.75 for a churro, which, according to a Disney fanatic and Churro lover standing in line, just shot up in price from $3.50 a week ago. (I know some princesses – or Disney shareholders – who are going to get new dresses.)

More math: Locker rental was . . . hmm, they don’t print it on the receipt . . . $7? Add 10.98 for two Mickey Mouse Pretzels for my wife and daughter (ketchup and mustard were free and all you could eat). Lunch for me: $15.

Endless bottles of water during the day: I don’t remember, but I don’t think they were “out of the park” expensive.

Even more math: Minnie Mouse headband for my daughter, $15. Dinner: $50. A “free” stuffed Bullseye my daughter won by rolling balls into holes faster than half-a-dozen strangers did only cost me $30 on the gaming card to win it.

And at the end of the night, 50 more dollars for Goofy Gummies, cookies, gourmet marshmallows, and Mickey Mouse gingerbread mice for the ride home up the 5 freeway, which is the nastiest freeway to travel before and after going to the pleasant confines of the Magic Kingdom.

I would appreciate it if Disney would buy all of the properties next to the 5 freeway and sprinkle some Imagineer Magic on them.

So, taking into account that I lost some receipts, my grand total was over $550 for the day.

“Let the Memories Begin” is printed on the receipts. I get it. We have great memories of the day, but this is the first time I have memories of what we spent.

I so miss Disney’s recession pricing.

Some days, it’s hard being a husband

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Message from Fox: Unknown, you big pussy. Get off your lazy ass and make the magic happen. You're the king of excuses.

Message from Fox: Unknown, you big pussy. Get off your lazy ass and make the magic happen. You’re the king of excuses.

I should have paid more attention in school when I was younger.

If only my parents had given me a modicum of guidance how to be successful in life, though they weren’t exactly models of it.

It probably would have been better had I not spent years 18 – 25 watching TV, going to movies, reading comic books, thinking I wouldn’t live to see 25, and not doing anything to build for my future.

Oops. Slight miscalculation on my part.

Would have, should have, could have. Famous last words of most f**k-ups.

And though I feel like I turned my life around by finishing college and getting a good job, I am paying a price for my stupidity and laziness that reveals itself – painfully – in my role as husband.

The short of it: My wife hates her job, but it affords her a very good salary for part-time work, though she works full-time a lot, which is sort of the American way, isn’t it? We all work more hours than we have to for fear we’ll lose our jobs to one of the many unemployed.

But aren’t there so many unemployed out there because we’re working extra hours and companies don’t have to hire more employees?

I digress with a topic for another post.

If I were a successful husband, my wife would not have to work, would be happier, and we would have everything we need based on the results of my labor.

We do all right and aren’t living paycheck to paycheck like we were many years ago. And I know some of the responsibility lies with the fact this country demands both parents work to get by – it’s not the 1950s anymore. But I live in a city full of million-dollar homes and 75K cars and its difficult not to notice and want.

It’s hard not to feel like a failure when my wife comes to me each day with stories about her stressful job, and I see the toll it takes on her. And no amount of my advice, suggestions, or feedback can save her from it. And there’s no way to rescue her with the income from the company I don’t own, or the invention I never invented, or the stand-up career I never had because I was afraid.

I have yet to crack the code of big success, despite what some say about it being so easy in a country of opportunity. It’s beyond me. I’m still trying, but time is running out.

Day of the Dolphins

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(Warning: No dolphins were harmed in the writing of this post. And, as it is with all human interactions in my life, everything is my fault)

Pop Quiz

1) The primary reason I, the Unknown Idiot, don’t go to children’s birthday parties is:

A. I hate birthday parties
B. All of the mothers stare at me and undress me with their eyes
C. I believe I will catch a cold and end up in the hospital
D. I break out in hives if I eat cake without first drinking a six-pack of Old Milwaukee

2) True or false: Raising an 11-year old daughter can, on certain days, make you want to ram your head into a brick wall.

A. True
B. False

********

I broke my rule of not going to birthday parties with my daughter. However, I had a good reason to jump aboard the most recent invite: whale watching.

Spending the afternoon on a boat on the Pacific Ocean looking for giant mammals? I was so there.

And there I was with my wife and daughter Sunday afternoon as we boarded a double-decker boat for a four-hour journey to the waters of two Channel Islands: Anacapa and Santa Cruz.

********

Anacapa in the distance. A perfect February day on the Cali coast. Life is good.

Anacapa in the distance. A perfect February day on the Cali coast. Life is good.

3) Approximately, how many Anacapa islands can you fit on Santa Cruz island?

A. 1
B. 10
C. 100
D. None unless you’re Godzilla and you like to tear up islands and move them other places

********

According to the tour guide, you can fit about 100 of the tiny Anacapa on Santa Cruz, the largest of the Channel Islands. Good to know.

So, the boat ride was a blast, as the wind created exciting swells. I stayed on the covered upper level by myself, away from the lower deck, the elements, and the party with its toilets filled with vomiting parents, and had my own zen moments staring at the water and watching people flinch every time they thought a whale popped its head out of the water. None did.

I made trips outside to the exposed deck and cold wind – it was ball-freezing cold – and enjoyed the sun and heaving. I wore my hunting cap, not that I hunt, but it covers my ears better than the paper bag I usually wear over my head.

The offending pants. The front isn't looking so hot either. Retire or wear?

The offending pants. The front isn’t looking so hot either. Retire or wear?

The rest of my stylish ensemble included a windproof, lined jacket, turtleneck, two t-shirts and my special “hot pants.” Not the “hot pants” that models wear, though I am a male underwear model in my spare time and could totally get away with wearing the short type of hot pants.

When you're on the water looking for whales, look for birds. That's what they told us. We found the birds, but we didn't find the whales. But we found something better.

When you’re on the water looking for whales, look for birds. That’s what they told us. We found the birds, but we didn’t find the whales. But we found something better.

My hot pants, made by Abercrombie, are literally “hot” because they’re lined with flannel, keeping my rock-hard buns and jewels nice and warm on cold days. Unfortunately, after 15 plus years of wearing them, they’ve seen better days. One might say that I look homeless wearing them.

Oh, and they upset my daughter now that she’s a self-conscious 11-year old (more on this later).

Though no whales made an appearance during our trip, we did see something very special: hundreds of common dolphins racing to a feeding area occupied by hundreds of gulls.

Think: dolphin party.

They swam next to the boat, under the boat, around the boat, in the distance, and up and out of the water. Hundreds of them.

All I can add is that it’s a good thing the fuckers can’t fly because we would have shot them out of the sky and feasted on dolphin stew. Kidding, this isn’t “the cove” where killing dolphins is allowed.

No, this is California and we don’t eat our dolphins here. We love our dolphins. We shoot them with iPhones and digital cameras and post their pictures to our blogs with cute captions, like “Hey, it’s Flipper, my little dolphin buddy.”

Back to the day trip.

It's very hard to photograph dolphins, as they don't listen to direction and surface in a coordinated fashion. The white splashes, well, I just missed them.

It’s very hard to photograph dolphins, as they don’t listen to direction or surface in a coordinated fashion. The white splashes, well, I just missed them.

Whales: zero, dolphins: a ton.

Back to shore we headed. Shortly after 5 we were off to downtown Ventura for some Thai food, where we joined a good friend and her daughter.

Now my daughter, who was tired and hungry from being in the cold and running around the boat with her friends, sat there on the vinyl bench-seat one wrong comment away from Tasmanian Devil mode.

And sure enough the spark arrived when her friend said to me: “Hey, you have holes in your pants.”

I find that lying in these situations is best.

“No, I don’t. You’re imagining things.”

But she stuck to her guns and disagree with my attempt to deflect by telling a blatant lie.

Hey, it's Flipper, my little dolphin buddy.

Hey, it’s Flipper, my little dolphin buddy.

My daughter’s eyes focused on me. Arms crossed. She shook her head in disgust.

“What?” I said to her in a light and fun tone, hoping to make her smile.

“You embarrassed me, daddy.” Repeat that sentence two more times.

Scene: Angry daughter, all conversation at the table halted.

Disappointed my usual charm didn’t work, I let it go and focused on my Tom Kha soup. I decided to discuss it at home and not get into a fight that would have led to the burning down of one of my favorite Thai food restaurants, then going to jail for it, with my daughter telling me, as they took me away in handcuffs, I shouldn’t have worn those pants,.

“But I didn’t even get to taste the pumpkin curry with chicken,” I would have said, adding to my wife, “Honey, get it to go. I’ll be out in five years. Wait for me.”

Well that didn’t happen. Fortunately.

But we did talk about it later, which was like me talking to a dolphin about not worrying about what other dolphins think of her daddy dolphin.

“What?” the daughter dolphin said. “No comprende human language.”

Then my daughter gave my wife some attitude and that was all she wrote. My wife delivered the hurt and guilt. Tears, crying, and an apology for moi. Nice job, Hon. Hey, that worked out. Boy, this parenting stuff is a boatload of fun. A boatload.

All I can think these days, and that night, as I tried to go to sleep and the bed rose and fell, “God, don’t let me mess her up for life.”

It was so easy when my daughter was 4 or 5 or 7. Now she’s a genius whirlwind of love and emotions, and dynamite.

Look at her the wrong way, wear the wrong pants, discount how she’s feeling about a situation (Mommy understands, you don’t), and “bang,” here’s a boat oar to the head.

But still, even with a cracked skull, it’s impossible not to love this little dophin girl more than life itself.

********

4) True or False: The loser known as Unknown is always one step away from a major disaster of some sort or another. 
A. True
B. True

I fail a sleep test and O2D2 comes to live with me

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Here are the fantasy and reality versions of my recent sleep test:

Fantasy: I enter a room that resembles a science lab with machines beeping, beakers of liquid bubbling dry-ice steam, and scientists with clipboards taking notes. A large one-way glass wall hides the doctors. The bed is round with a vibrating feature that costs 50 cents. A stack of quarters waits on the nightstand. Jackpot. A 72-inch flat screen is mounted to the ceiling and a Die Hard film festival is playing.

Reality: I enter a dim hospital room with one small overhead fluorescent light glowing and a king-size, rock-hard bed covered in 25-count white hospital sheets with old blood stains covered by a thin, crappy blanket. Ah, prison, I remember thee, my second home. The cushion on the single, lonely “not J-Crew green” chair has a torn fabric seat and would sell on Craigslist for a maximum of $10, which I know because I measure everything in Craigslist value. Crappy hospital flat screen: $45 – $60.

Fantasy: I’m greeted by two nurses who model on weekends. They insist on giving me a shiatsu massage to make sure I’m relaxed and ready for a good night’s sleep. They talk softly and compliment my muscle tone and how solid I feel. Yep, ladies, keep dreaming, I tell them, this ab table is reserved for one woman, my wife – but don’t stop the massage just because I popped your dream balloons. And they continue, little tears falling from their sad blue eyes.

Reality: I’m greeted by a young male lab-tech who just graduated college, looks 10, and speaks in a monotone, as he explains every technical detail of the test at a volume I stopped being able to hear when I was 18 and sat in the front row of a Who concert. Why can’t I sleep through this drone of medical detail, God? Why? Tell me.

Fantasy: After my massage, I’m dressed in Hugh Hefner Collection black and red silk pjs and tucked into bed by the nurses. Two electrodes are placed on my head, Bruce Willis shoots bad guys above me, and the ladies sing Beatles songs until my eyelids can no longer resist their siren powers. And I dream of . . . .

Reality: The lab tech robs Home Depot of every foot of wire they sell, then uses a thick gel-like glue to plaster all of it to my face, head, shins and stomach. The process takes 45 minutes and feels like watching King Lear in German. Worst of all, he asks personal questions of me. I’m grumpy, tired and want to sleep. I don’t like telling him about my life but can’t escape his suffocating, questioning captivity, while wishing he might accidentally stick one of the wires in a live socket and electrocute me.

Fantasy: I sleep like a rock.

Reality: I sleep like shit.

Fantasy: The nurses gently wake me in the morning with soft kisses. You taste like maple bacon, they say, delicious. The doctor interrupts and tells me she watched my brain waves with great interest last night and has never seen anything quite like them. Would I mind coming back next week when her colleagues from Austria will be visiting? They’d like to study my magnificent brain. Of course, my good doctor. Of course. Anything for science and my two nurse gal-pals. 

Reality: I wake up in the middle of the night and can’t sleep. I see the infrared camera and decide to give him the tech something to watch. So, I squirm around the bed, stretch, and dredge up any and every memory I can, flipping back and forth from childhood to adult memories, from terrible events (coughing up blood on a plane over the Atlantic Ocean) to the best moments (my daughter being born). Back and forth I go, lighting up my brain waves (so, I think), living my life over in my head, expecting the tech to come tell me the computer is on fire and to stop thinking before I burn down the entire hospital.

The air hose they gave me is probably long enough for me to walk to the grocery store a mile away.

The air hose they gave me for O2D2 is probably long enough for me to walk to the grocery store a mile away.

Fantasy: I am a perfect sleeper. No farting, snoring, no scratching body parts, nothing. Perfect lamb, I am.

Reality: My oxygen dips below acceptable levels and I’m given 1 liter of O2 for the remainder of the test. Four days later, R2D2’s little brother, O2D2, shows up at my home and starts humming and burping in my bedroom each night delivering oxygen.

Fantasy: I fly home instead of driving.

Reality: I don’t let this new milestone rock my world. My new positive attitude of “one day at time” shields me against bad thoughts and self-pity. I am grateful. I am lucky. I have so much to be thankful for. I repeat this over and over until it sinks in and life goes on.