DadTalk

Water Park Makes Big Splash

Our family had a great time at The Dells in Wisconsin. While much of the water park was over Lael’s head, literally and figuratively, Seth became a water-slide veteran.

Shortly after arriving at the hotel, we discarded our street clothes in favor of swim shorts and beach towels. Well, okay not beach towels. The park gave us sandpaper-quality washcloths, but we understand there is that theft problem.

But who cared? We were in the water most of the time anyway.

We started out with a gentle raft ride that all four of us could do together. We just floated around and around and around. After acclimating the kids to the water, I took Seth up a modest slide where we rode the same raft down together.

Seth overcame his fear of stairs and ladders and proclaimed the ride great. We did that one a dozen times.

From there, the rest was easy. As you can see in the top picture, Seth became an expert at the kids-only slides by overcoming another fear: getting splashed in the face.

Soon my boy graduated to a monster slide – three stories up – where you go down head-first on a mat. Seth was height-checked every time a new lifeguard was up there, but my boy passed by a hairs-width each time.

Then we would plunge through tubes side-by-side and down a ridiculously steep slide at fantastic speeds. Seth couldn’t get enough of it. (Nor could I.)

Lael had fun playing in the kiddy and splash pools. And she pushed a floating inner tube around the calm side of the wave pool. Lael even went down the raft slide with me twice, but that was enough for her. Hey, she’s only 19-months old.

Anne, whose blog Cybils announced the winners of her children’s literary contest the day before we drove up, says she had fun too. (I think Anne can’t wait until Lael is older so she can do more of the rides.) That the contest was a success certainly added to my wife’s enjoyment of the trip.

After getting back home and doing laundry on Sunday to get the chlorine smell out of our bathing suits, I noticed the newspaper advertising a new water park just opened up in the Chicago area. Can you say day trip?

My Kids Are All Wet

We arrived at the Dells yesterday. For those unfamiliar with the place, The Dells is a water park of sorts based around the Wisconsin River. When I was a kid, it revolved very much around hokum, with kids playing in arcades and eating from the bins of huge huge candy stores. (We never seemed to make it to the Tommy Bartlett water show.)

While it still has much of that flavor intact, the area has also grown up to have hotels attached to huge water-slide parks. The water parks evolved out of a need to draw people during the winters.

So, thanks to an unnamed friend who is sponsoring our trip here, Seth and Lael have had the run of the place. After some initial nervousness, Seth is now a pro going down (age-appropriate) water slides and riding an inner tube down one of the larger slides.

Lael has gotten a kick out of floating around on the inner tube and trying to dive headfirst into the water.

Today, more of the same.

Finally, Some Girl Toys

While I’m not overly concerned with gender-specific toys, my poor daughter has only had Seth hand-me-downs to play with. While I’m fine with Lael playing with dump trucks, cars and trains, it also is clear that Lael wants to play with hairbrushes, makeup and clothes.

How can we be sure? Oh, there are clues – such as my little girl raiding my wife’s purse for lip pencils and then smearing them all over her face. As we become more proficient hiding Anne’s purse, Lael resorts to using ink pens on her face, which ARE NOT EASY TO GET OFF. At least Lael never got her hands on one of the Sharpie’s we have all over the apartment.

Another clue that Lael wants girl toys? Well, she runs anything through her hair: A brush, comb, book, cheese and then poses with a smile that says, “Look at how beautiful I am.” That HAS to be a genetic trait because she certainly has not seen it on TV.

The good news is that Lael received a few girl toys while we were in Connecticut. The pictured stroller and doll – part of a twin set – are one of her favorites. Seth named the dolls Cutie and Handsome, but I don’t know which is which. As you can see from the second picture, Lael is still learning the proper care and feeding of her babies.

More importantly than gender-specific toys: Lael finally has toys that belong to her, including a castle and My First Dora’s Farm Adventure Ride-On.

The only problem – other than the annoying sounds these toys make – has been beating Seth off Lael’s toys before he breaks them. Sadly, Seth decided to use a tambourine as a drive-thru tunnel for one of his cars.

Since the person who gave us that present reads this site, let me say in advance, “Sorry!” We made Seth give Lael one of his treasured cars to Lael, but somehow I think the lesson was mostly lost on him and her.

Sigh.

Uneventful Holiday Travel – Hah!

Well, the drive out to Connecticut has been relatively uneventful so far. As long as you ignore the little incident of Lael gagging on a red pepper, me crossing three lanes on I-80 in Pennsylvania at 75 miles per hour before stopping to help her.

I thought Lael was okay, so I handed her to Anne for comforting. Wrong. She was still gagging, then proceeded to barf red peppers all over my poor wife. Red pepper barf does not do clothing good.

Lael was fine after that, but wanted out of the car; my wife wanted out of her clothes. We picked a Holiday Inn with an indoor pool for our night stay after another hour of Lael screaming. (We finally calmed her down by singing every kid song I know.)

Unfortunately, there is a family emergency, so we may now have to head out to D.C. instead of Connecticut.

See, uneventful.

If I don’t get a chance, Happy Holidays everyone.

Debate on Truck Rules Masks Reality About Highway Deaths

When I was about 8-years-old, a driver played a trap-the-car-behind-his-truck game with my dad on the New Jersey Turnpike. Dad was so mad at this joker that he raced past the 18-wheeler, found the first highway patrolman (on the shoulder) and asked that the trucker be pulled over.

Amazingly, the officer managed to signal the truck driver, who pulled over and then played coy about the whole incident. But I knew the cop had the right guy because I recognized his face when dad raced by him.

In the late 1980s, I had my own experience with big rigs. I was driving from San Diego to Phoenix in my tiny, silver Nissan 200SX. A gaggle of trucks trapped me in the slow lane.

I happened to have a CB radio in my car – that’s another story – when I suddenly heard a thick drawl. The conversation went something like this:

“Hah, hah, hah! I have that little race car trapped!”

Huh, I never thought of my 105-horsepower Nissan as a race car.

“Wooo hooo! Way to go Hank (I made up the name.) I jus’ hate when those city boys try whipping past us.”

I picked up my microphone and in very colorful language told the drivers what I thought of them. Then I drove out onto the shoulder and accelerated to about 95 miles per hour to get past the convoy. Unfortunately, there are fewer highway patrol officers to be had in the Sonoran Desert than the New Jersey Turnpike.

I bring this all up because of a New York Times Magazine article about fatalities caused by truck drivers. It’s an account between competing forces: regulators and business owners fighting for profits versus victims and profit-motivated insurance companies seeking safer roads.

During the Clinton Administration, trucking rules were intensified and deaths from accidents were declining. The Bush Administration loosened the rules and death rates leveled off at about 5,000 killed each year, a Times’ graphic reveals.

Even without an increase in deaths, about 75,000 people were killed in truck-related accidents during the last 15 years, according to the Times. And it is likely the death rate will surge now that regulations have been loosened and remaining rules are not enforced.

“These truck crashes happen one at a time in communities across the country and get little attention,” Jacqueline S. Gillan, vice president of Advocates for Highway and Auto Safety, tells the Times. “Can you imagine what the outcry would be at the F.A.A. if we had 25 major airplane crashes a year, which is the equivalent of what is happening with trucks?”

I guess I’ll never understand why politicians are willing to sacrifice so many lives – many of them children – just to make a few friends a bit richer.

Mom Kicked Off Plane For Breastfeeding Child

One of the saving graces of flying with our young children is that my wife was able to breastfeed them.

Why? Because the taking off and landing was hell on their ears, and it was the only way to keep our kids from screaming.

A mom waiting to take off from a Vermont airport was not so fortunate, reports USA Today. A flight attendant told the woman to stop breastfeeding her child because it offended her. When the New Mexico woman refused, Freedom/Delta Airlines removed the mother and her husband from the plane.

Say what? Airlines have always made it difficult to fly with children – have you ever tried to change a baby’s diaper on the plane? But this is ridiculous, not to mention a possible violation of Vermont law.

The incident once again lends credence to my belief that this nation has become hostile to parenting. Just take a look at our school system if you don’t believe me.

At least the mom in this case struck back. She’s filed a discrimination complaint with the airline. Good for her.

USPS Delivers Rain or Shine – Eventually

Moving your family halfway across the continent can be a challenge, especially with a limited budget. First, there’s the long planning conversations with your spouse, getting the house ready for sale and researching your destination.

Then there’s closing up shop at work, the home-sale process, visiting your potential destinations, packing up, finding a mover and driving cross-country in a locker-smelling, overcrowded mini van with two yelling kids and a flustered grandma.

Let’s not forget squeezing into a tiny hotel room for a month and looking at apartments rejected by the kids from animal house – all the while your credit card is melting from extreme overuse.

None of all this bothered me that much. The real terror comes from banks, credit card companies and utilities all wondering where you disappeared to. But they’re not to blame.

Oh no. The real problem is the U.S. Postal service, which after all these years still can’t handle a change of address. Despite following their directions to a tee, mail sent to me months ago is still straggling in to our new mailbox.

Who knows why the Postal Service can’t get it right – I used both their online service and the old-fashioned card service – after a few hundred years of handling mail is beyond me.

To keep my credit rating from dropping into the toilet has required an inordinate number of phone calls to my old electric, gas, water and credit card companies. Thanks USPS, I love yah.

Chicago Versus L.A. Part I

The moment has arrived. I’m human, and I just can’t help myself. It’s time to compare Chicago to Los Angeles. I’m sure it’s been done before, but I just can’t help myself...

Commuting (car)
Los Angeles: The city is a frigging nightmare to get around. It took up to an hour and a half to go 42 miles. I have friends who sit on the freeways 2+ hours to go 65 miles. On the other hand, virtually all drivers zip along – unless there is a cool accident to rubber neck. Freeways are constantly being widened.

Worst situations? Hot-rodders at night who watch TVs embedded into the steering wheel during rush hour and then zoom down the highway at 100+ once it gets later.

Chicago: Holy crud, it took 1.5 hours to go 12 miles to the airport. There are no east-west freeways 15 miles north or south of us, so no easy way to get out of town. It’s amazing to realize that in the 20+ years I’ve been gone, the freeways are still 3-lanes wide with no new ones. They just keep repaving the same freeways over and over.

Worst situations? Some Chicagoans only drive a few times a month because they can walk everywhere. These folks blithely cut everyone else off as if there aren’t any other cars on the road.

Chicago double negative: Toll roads everywhere. They’ve been adding booths every 20 feet to keep traffic crawling. They’re called Open Road Tolling. Should be called “Get a Loan Tolling.”

Los Angeles: We had to drive 25 miles for the nearest Whole Foods. It took 22 minutes on the weekend.

Chicago: We have to drive 5 miles to get to a Whole foods. It takes 23 minutes.

Los Angeles: There is something to be said about fast-moving freeways.

Commuting (bus)
Los Angeles: The buses I took were generally clean and arrived on time.

Chicago: The bus takes 40-60 minutes to go 6 miles. They break down regularly and as a result don’t always show up. On the plus side, my bus goes down Lake Shore Drive, which reveals amazing views of Lincoln Park, Lake Michigan and downtown.

Commuting (rail)
Los Angeles: MetroLink trains – heavy rail – are paradise: they are clean, roomy and efficient. Trains are late about twice a month, but rarely beyond 15 minutes.

Chicago: Holy crud II, the Elevated – light rail – looks much as it did when it was built by the Romans. I recommend geologists carbon date the wood to see just how far back this petrified system goes. Trains are repeatedly late, break down often and the interiors are dirtier than the La Brea Tar Pits.

Commuting (walking)
Los Angeles: Unless you are lucky enough to live along the ocean, the mountains or in one of the cooler downtowns such as Pasadena, it’s all by car, baby. L.A. still has the ugliest big-city downtown in the nation, despite all the claims it’s “coming back to life.”

Chicago: Okay, it’s paradise during the summer and a bit nasty during the winter. There is nothing like walking along the lake front on a warm, sunny day or night. And unlike Los Angeles, it’s (sort of) affordable to live near Chicago-area’s numerous lakes, rivers and parks. And let’s not forget downtown, which is eye candy for anyone who loves architecture.

Comparisons: Most of the buses in Chicago use diesel instead of natural gas. While Los Angeles may have worse overall air, I’m breathing black clouds of death at street level. I find myself holding my breath 30 times a day to avoid inhaling that crap.

To make matters worse, everyone smokes on the street in Chicago. I’m holding my breath when I pass these folks, too. By the time I get into the office, my face is blue and I’m close to passing out.

Which city has the worst overall commutes? Chicago.
Which city has the prettier commutes? Chicago.
Which city can you walk in? Chicago

Clothing
Chicago: When we arrived, all the women in Chicago were tastefully exposing their midriffs and legs. Suddenly (as in the temperature dropped 45 degrees overnight) they all were wearing heavy clothing covered up by long black jackets. I didn’t notice any appreciable difference in men’s clothing except the jackets.

Los Angeles: Men and women wear same clothes year around. Okay, that’s not entirely true – except for flip-flops – but I do have sweaters that are 10 years old that look brand new. To be honest, Los Angeles clothing styles are all over the map so I won’t even pretend to stereotype.

Who dresses better? Chicago in the summer, L.A. in the winter.

Additional:
Part II

Should I Feel Unclean After Finding Woman’s Clothes in My Laundry?

After working a short Friday, I rushed back to the apartment to pack for my flight to Los Angeles. While my family is Connecticut, I’m spending the Jewish High Holy Days helping out the Los Angeles Times redesign its news sections.

Okay, so I’m not a very good Jew, but then I never claimed to be. On the other hand, I am religious about wanting to spend more time with my family. I miss them, but at least by traveling the same time they are, I’ll miss them for only two weeks instead of THREE.

And this way I get to visit with close friends even if I’m working instead of playing. I hope to post more about the trip later, but this one is about laundry.

You see, I got it into my head that I would do a load before catching my plane. I didn’t really need to clean clothes for this trip – different wardrobes for different climes – but I figured it would be wise to have clean work shirts for when I get back. I’m working 12-days straight you see and opportunities are limited.

Anyway, as I started to take my clothes out of the washer, I was a bit surprised to find women’s underwear, shorts and tops. Not a lot of pieces mind you, but a few. After years of marriage, this would not be an unusual thing, except the clothes were NOT my wife’s.

I’m thinking, “I know what happened; a coed ran back down with a few extra pieces of lingerie she found on a lamp and mistakenly put them in my washer.” So I put the clothes in the adjacent washer, which was at the beginning of its cycle.

I put my clothes in the dryer, return to my room and continue packing. Forty-five minutes later, I discover one of my socks hanging out of the dryer. It was pretty clear that someone had opened the door, but didn’t turn the machine back on.

My clothes were sopping wet, but it was time to leave for the airport! Also, the mystery woman’s clothes I put in the washer were now piled in a heap on a ledge, which means my theory was wrong.

I put another $1.10 in the the dryer and let it run as long as I could before pulling out my damp shirts, pants and underwear. Sigh, they’re now hanging all over our bedroom as I write this from Los Angeles.

While flinging my laundry around the bedroom, I discovered a halter top mixed in. I dropped it off in the laundry room on my way to the car.

Traffic to the airport was abysmal, of course. It took 1.5 hours to go 12 miles. I think it’s safe to say that Chicago traffic sucks as bad as in Los Angeles. Fortunately, I arrived at the airport in time. Good thing I gave myself 3 hours.

No, real harm done, though I’m glad I didn’t leave the apartment with ANOTHER woman’s clothes laying all over our bedroom. My wife has a good sense of humor about this, but I feel so unclean.

And I can’t help wonder why. Was some poorer-than-us coed piggybacking on my wash? Or maybe she just likes to taunt middle-aged married men and get them in trouble with their wives?

So much happens in that laundry room that I’m thinking about starting a blog that airs Chicago’s dirty laundry. Oooo, the fun I could have with double meanings.

So (deep voice over) tune in next week to our soap opera, “One Lint Trap to Live.” Or should I call it “General Washable?” How about “All My Laundry?” or “As the Clothes Turn.” (I can’t wait to see what my wife comes up with.)

My Trip to Jiffy Lube Becomes Greasy Mess

Sorry for jumping around chronologically on our move-to-Chicago stories, but I almost forgot the best story...

I nearly was arrested the day before we left for Chicago. How? I seriously pissed off Jiffy Lube.

As I’ve mentioned in earlier posts, we were running wayyyy behind getting ready for our cross-country drive from Southern California to Chicago. In the mad-rush morning before we left, I had scheduled one last dental cleaning to be followed by an oil change.

I really needed to be packing those hours, so I felt super hurried. After the dental cleaning I stopped at an Upland Jiffy Lube, gave the male attendant my cell phone number, license and credit card information, took the sheet of paper he gave me, then ran across the street to Wal-Mart for packing tape and a few other odds and ends.

About 30 minutes later, I return to the Jiffy Lube and ask if my car is ready. He says yes, the keys are in the office. There is no one else around, and the keys are sitting right up on the counter. I grab them and practically sprint to the car.

Looking back, I realize how this may have looked: A grubby-looking guy runs in, grabs the keys and takes off.

A few minutes after my 10-minute drive home, I’m trying to figure out what’s for lunch. My cell phone rings.

“Are you Brett?”

“Yes.”

“You forgot to pay your bill.”

I pause for a minute and then laugh a bit.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’ll be right back.”

“Well it’s too late. We had to call the .... okay.”

I look at the sheet of paper the attendant gave me, which read “estimate.” Oops. Now although I was rushed, I was in a pretty good mood. I did worry a millisecond about the last few words from the attendant, but then figured he’d take care of it.

I get back to the Jiffy Lube, and a female clerk spoke in a clearly sarcastic voice.

“So, trying to sneak out without paying, huh?”

Trying to be light as I could, I said, “No, I’m just in a hurry. We’re moving out of town.”

She slightly shakes her head as I pay the bill.

“I thought the piece of paper the attendant gave me was a receipt.”

The clerk seems to be listening, as well as the 12 burly guys in the waiting room staring at me. An Upland policeman walks into the office.

He starts out with a distinct tone of indictment in his voice. I tell him my story, keeping the mood light and saying that it was a misunderstanding.

When the officer realizes that I paid immediately, the edge in his voice eases just a teeny bit. “Well, I still have to check you out.”

So the officer calls on his radio asking if I have any priors, which is a hoot because I haven’t had so much as a parking violation since 1997 and a speeding ticket since 1981.

It takes for ever. In the meantime, I have another Jiffy Lube attendant show me how to reset the oil warning lamp on our dashboard. I mean heck, I didn’t want the stupid thing warning me I needed an oil change during our 2,000-mile drive. I did pay for the service.

I go back over to the police officer, who again says I can wait inside out of the heat. “No thanks,” I tell him.

No chitchat with this guy. Another several minutes pass. It’s about 100 degrees out.

“Boy it sure is taking them a long time,” I say. “I thought there is a computer in your patrol car.”

Just then a voice on the radio gives me the all clear.

“We’re training someone new. I looked you up before I got here. Have a nice day.”

The officer already knew. No wonder he kept telling me to wait inside or in the car. I was waiting for no reason except that he was training a new dispatcher. That’s when the whole incident stop being amusing for me. Finally, I was annoyed and really, really hungry.

In the whole escapade, I must have lost an 45 minutes or more. I needed to pack. I drove home, careful not to incur a traffic violation as the policeman watched me drive off.

I’ve decided that I will be skipping Jiffy Lubes for the rest of my life. (Oh, I probably won’t really do that.) But the attendant didn’t need to call the police. He had my license, credit card, phone number and address. I made a simple mistake, he overreacted. The end.