Indecent proposal

Earlier this week, I was on my way to the playground with my son, when I noticed an agitated looking Asian man trying to make eye contact with me. I am often accosted by agitated Asian people, so I figured that this one would be disposed of by the usual “I’m sorry, I don’t speak [Korean, Chinese, Japanese, Tagalog, etc.].” But this guy was seriously persistent. He was saying something to me about his car and beckoning me to come with him. I had my son in the stroller so I was very wary, but I followed him halfway down the block to his minivan. He jabbed his finger at the passenger side window. Ok, I’ll bite. I peeked inside and saw his car keys lying on the passenger seat. Ouch. Just as I was about to say something bland about coat hangers and triple-A, he walked to the back of the minivan and opened a small rear window. He gestured at my son and then I finally get it. This guy wanted me to put my two-year old baby boy IN that window and somehow convince him to scramble over two rows of seats to the front of the vehicle, retrieve the keys, and return to sweet freedom of the back window. Uh-huh. I declined. Some people will do anything to save a buck.

Slap happy

My son has taken to pummeling me lately. I’ll be carrying him down the street, maybe headed to the park or a local shop, remarking on the weather, pointing out semi-domesticated animal friends, when all of a sudden, he’ll rear back and crack me one across the cheek. Then he laughs. Loudly. The first time this happened, I was so shocked and taken aback that I started laughing too. Big mistake. Emboldened and encouraged by my laughter, eyes aglitter, he started whaling away with the rapidity of a lawn sprinkler. I had to put him down I was laughing so hard. 

He’s also into head-butting. This is a more serious matter, since his head is just tremendous, a real wrecking ball. He’ll lower his head into my jaw and erupt in peals of laughter. Before I can get the first “hey, stop that” out, he’s head-butted me again. And again. I try the advanced parenting stuff I think I know. “Kiddo, when you hit me with your head, that hurts me.” He responds with raucous laughter and another head-butt. My only option for preserving my jaw and his head is to carry him home under my arm, like the Sunday paper.

Making my list, checking it twice

Caught a half hour of The Bucket List on cable tonight. The whole concept of this movie just makes me queasy. A billionaire and a mechanic, both dying, become friends in a cancer ward and then proceed to jet all over the world, crossing off items on their grandiose list of things to do before… kicking the bucket. As if doing this would allow these men to find joy in their lives, die happy, go to heaven, get reincarnated, what have you. There’s a whole crass-ass industry built around this idea (have you seen the 1,000 Places to See Before You Die series of books?) that masquerades as inspiration. It used to be that “he who dies with the most toys wins” but now it seems that “he who dies having had the most peak experiences wins.” Puh-lease. I have no trouble grasping the concept of wanting to squeeze some extra sweetness out of life, especially when things get dire. Believe me, I get this. However, why do these lists always seem to involve herding wildebeests in Kenya or biking the Great Wall or skiing down Mount Everest? What in the name of Sarah Palin would an average Joe get from seeing the pyramids?

Why can’t we instead focus on the countless moments in every day when we don’t take risks, when we deny ourselves, when we hurt ourselves and others? I would pay good money for any book that could teach me to go a whole day, just one day, without feeling mortified or embarrassed. My all-time favorite vision of life after death is Albert Brooks’ Defending Your Life. In this 1991 comedy, heaven is a cross between Disneyland and city hall, where your life is judged on the basis of whether you lived fearlessly or not. It’s beautiful because it’s simple. Doesn’t matter if you are a lawyer or a street cleaner, if you’re afraid, you’re not living the life you can and should be living.

Potty mouth

There are few things as adorable and troubling as a toddler using bad language. You hear it and laugh reflexively (hard), fade into an awkward smile, and finish with a distant, guilty grimace. Since I’m the only adult in my house that curses, whenever my 28-month old (2.25 years, for you non-parents) son decides to spout off, the finger of blame sits squarely and heavily on my head. Yeah yeah, I’m not winning any parenting contests anytime soon. The good news is that unlike other young kids who might simply parrot naughty words at random moments, completely ignorant of context, my son knows exactly when to employ these words – moments of anger and frustration. I feel a strange sense of pride about that. His burgeoning vocabulary currently includes such classics as fuck (pronounced “fucks”), damnit, shit, and stupid. Today, when he couldn’t  quite figure out how to use the remote control to turn on the TV and DVD player and play one of his favorite videos, he yelled “Come on! Shit!” That’s my boy!

Damn you, Doogie

God, I wish I was Doogie Howser. That freaking kid had it all: M.D., understanding parents, hot/cool girlfriend, and a loyal and non-threatening sidekick. But I envy him most for his ability to sit down at his computer at the end of a day and just start typing away, capturing the sum and substance of his day’s adventures in a short and witty paragraph or two. He is my bloggy hero.

My first blog, A horse a horse, was great fun but ultimately failed because I got burned out trying to be too Doogie-like. Every post had to be very themed, tight, nuanced, and memorable. Well, I’ve decided to go a different direction this time around – more regular posts with rougher edges – in the hope that the whole will end up greater than the sum of the parts.

The plan with Eatist is to focus on food posts (recent/planned meals, favorite chefs and restaurants, ingredients, top 10 lists, etc.), but still touch on movies, books, and other consumables. I will also try to write about my usual screw-ups, foibles, and faux pas, categorized under the “human condition.” I hope you will read and let me know what you think.

P.s. Eatist is obviously a twist on eater and is also meant to recall John Wayne’s poignant last film, The Shootist.