Cheeky's Hideaway

The Obligatory Halloween Pictures: 2009 Edition

Behold, Fairy Princess Princess Butterfly Cinderella Butterfly Princess!

 

 

THIS is Why those Damn Princesses Scare the Bejesus Out of Me

I've mentioned my deep distrust of Disney--and its sub-context of feminine enslavement--before, but for those of you deaf to my pleas this should help bring some clarity to my concerns.

Just one more reason to introduce Cheeky to Star Wars.  At least THAT princess killed a Hutt.

Like a Kelsey Grammar Show, And Unfortunately Just as Funny

Apparently you forget a few things when you live in a city apartment for a decade.

Like what to do with all that shit in your yard that can't be mowed.

Or how far away things are when you leave them upstairs.

Or the importance of getting your garbage out on time.

Or just how many bugs there are in the world.

Everyone else on the planet has already figured this out.  You've probably all got rakes and screen doors and a baseline knowledge of how to adjust your water temperature.  We, on the other hand, curse that vile temptress Fate that would give us a house that requires cleaning and maintenance...and thought.

It's sort of pathetic, really.  A couple of flies buzz around our heads and we start swinging wildly in the air, like inflatable advertisments. We cook without pot lids because we can't remember which drawer we put them in.  We shrug at burned out ceiling lights. "Too high...guess it can't be fixed."

The vastness of the challenge should not be underestimated.  Walking into Home Depot I feel like a Cold War refugee who's just defected.  The embarrassment of riches on every aisle is invigorating, but she sheer magnitude is terrifying.  The visceral thrill of owning and wielding a chainsaw or cordless drill is more than offset by the drudgery of selecting window shades or debating screw sizes. 

It's not always easy to find the humor in this.  The way Ikea designs hanging lights, for example, is definitely not funny.  But if I step back and imagine myself changing a shower head, soaking wet and low on plumbers tape, I have to chuckle. I'm sure I look like what I feel like--an idiot.

I'm learning.  Some old tricks are coming back.  I know to turn off the electricity before changing a plug.  Our water now approaches a temperature slightly above liquid nitrogen.  And I know where the spatulas are now. 

But I tend to fall back on the advice a friend gave me not long ago.  "When it comes to having a house there's only three words you need to know."

"Call the guy."

The guy should be about done cutting our shrubs by now.  Thanks for the advice, Murph.

* Kelsey, I loved you on Cheers, and Frasier was great until every episode became "a very special episode."  But dude, when your new show is pre-empted by "It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown" it might be time to give Cliff and Norm a call and find out when the reunion special is.

It's Cure JM Day...what are YOU gonna do about it?

My boy, Kevin of Always Home and Uncool, has asked me to post this as part of his effort to raise awareness in the blogosphere of juvenile myositis, a rare autoimmune disease his daughter was diagnosed with on this day seven years ago. The day also happens to be his wife's birthday.  These are his thoughts, and I encourage you to offer your support to combat this disease.

 

Our pediatrician admitted it early on.

 

The rash on our 2-year-old daughter's cheeks, joints and legs was something he'd never seen before.

 

The next doctor wouldn't admit to not knowing.

 

He rattled off the names of several skins conditions -- none of them seemingly worth his time or bedside manner -- then quickly prescribed antibiotics and showed us the door.

 

The third doctor admitted she didn't know much.

 

The biopsy of the chunk of skin she had removed from our daughter's knee showed signs of an "allergic reaction" even though we had ruled out every allergy source -- obvious and otherwise -- that we could.

 

The fourth doctor had barely closed the door behind her when, looking at the limp blonde cherub in my lap, she admitted she had seen this before. At least one too many times before.

 

She brought in a gaggle of med students. She pointed out each of the physical symptoms in our daughter:

 

The rash across her face and temples resembling the silhouette of a butterfly.

 

The purple-brown spots and smears, called heliotrope, on her eyelids.

 

The reddish alligator-like skin, known as Gottron papules, covering the knuckles of her hands.

 

The onset of crippling muscle weakness in her legs and upper body.

 

She then had an assistant bring in a handful of pages photocopied from an old medical textbook. She handed them to my wife, whose birthday it happened to be that day.

 

This was her gift -- a diagnosis for her little girl.

 

That was seven years ago -- Oct. 2, 2002 -- the day our daughter was found to have juvenile dermatomyositis, one of a family of rare autoimmune diseases that can have debilitating and even fatal consequences when not treated quickly and effectively.

 

Our daughter's first year with the disease consisted of surgical procedures, intravenous infusions, staph infections, pulmonary treatments and worry. Her muscles were too weak for her to walk or swallow solid food for several months. When not in the hospital, she sat on our living room couch, propped up by pillows so she wouldn't tip over, as medicine or nourishment dripped from a bag into her body.

 

Our daughter, Thing 1, Megan, now age 9, remembers little of that today when she dances or sings or plays soccer. All that remain with her are scars, six to be exact, and the array of pills she takes twice a day to help keep the disease at bay.

 

What would have happened if it took us more than two months and four doctors before we lucked into someone who could piece all the symptoms together? I don't know.

 

I do know that the fourth doctor, the one who brought in others to see our daughter's condition so they could easily recognize it if they ever had the misfortune to be presented with it again, was a step toward making sure other parents also never have to find out.

 

That, too, is my purpose today.

 

It is also my birthday gift to my wife, My Love, Rhonda, for all you have done these past seven years to make others aware of juvenile myositis diseases and help find a cure for them once and for all.

 

To read more about children and families affected by juvenile myositis diseases, visit Cure JM Foundation at www.curejm.org.

 

To make a tax-deductible donation toward JM research, go to www.firstgiving.com/rhondaandkevinmckeever or www.curejm.com/team/donations.htm.

Stuffed!

Holy crap, do we have a lot of stuff.

I kept thinking this as the second day of our pack 'n' move dawned last week.  The first day was an amazing feat of disassembly.  Before I'd finished shaking hands with the movers our walls were stripped bare, and I had to keep moving around the apartment to keep from getting stuffed in a wardrobe box myself.  At the end of the day I figured we were almost done and I could spend the afternoon laying under the trees at Shake Shack.

But on Day Two I went downstairs to our storage room where the unwanted detritus of years of cohabitation had been stacked and shoved.  The piles had been swollen with furniture and appliances we'd move to stage the apartment, and underneath lay the barrow of old tax returns, useless electronics and miscellaneous curiosities we'd ignored for what seemed like centuries.  I'd dreaded this moment, hoping that the task of organizing this would fall to some amateur archaeologist or distant unborn heir.

Nope. That's our shit. And it's coming with us.

This scares the living hell out of me.  We've spent the last two weeks arguing about what color to paint our bedroom (Benjamin Moore is naming a paint color after Oodgie as thanks for her patronage) and the prospect of unpacking all this unsorted debris in our sparkly new home together has about as much appeal as being a Kentucky census worker.  Oodgie is much better than me at giving things up than I, but this task may be beyond even her considerable skills. 

And just because we suddenly have more space doesn't mean we suddenly want to fill it.  Despite what our recent credit card statements might say.

But here we are.  We're committed.  On Friday an 18-wheeler will fight its way through ACL traffic to park in front of our new house, bearing our dead plants and enough cardboard to construct a scale replica of downtown Denver.  I can hear the conversation now:

"Armoires upstairs, couches downstairs, under-promoted business inventory in the attic.  If it sparkles or has frilly things on it it goes in the room that looks like this. Trust me...you can't miss it."

"And the comic books?  Oh, let me take those from you before Oodgie sees them..."  Whew.

Fat, Drunk, and Stupid is No Way to Go Through Life, Son

I'm frightened.  Very, very frightened.

I think there's some genetic engineering going on around here.  People aren't supposed to look like this.

Texas was supposed to be a thicker place.  I was supposed to arrive as a svelte, attractive New Yorker, there to draw envy at my boyish good lucks and sophisticated manner, at least in relation to the Buddy Garritys that I presumed were my competition.

But when I suit up, step outside and head to the local trails for a "run" I'm surrounded by physical freaks of nature, horrific mutations of humanity.  They charge past me, fueled by organic foodstuffs and the intense drive to make people like me look like panty-wastes. 

There must be a lab, perhaps in some abandoned underground nuclear facility, where average humans like myself are injected with serum distilled from the waters of Lake Travis and Lance Armstrong's urine and turning them into walking billboards for Triathlete Magazine.  

(It's worth noting, however, that some of these experiments are clearly working for the benefit of humanity.  I've discovered, however, that this subspecies is put off by the heavy panting and wheezing that interrupts my speech during these encounters)

I don't understand!  I'm eating the same massive quantities of barbecue, tex-mex, and Shiner Bock that everyone else seems to be consuming.  Twice as much, even!  And as I stumble and heave around Town Lake I try to tell myself, "You're an animal!  You're an animal!"  Perhaps I've picked the wrong role model.

Anyway I'm just warning you all (not y'all...not yet) that there's a race of super-humans in your midst, and should they migrate north and turn upon you you won't be able to outrun them. 

Or maybe that's just me.

Live Blogging the 2009 Blogpound Fantasy Football Draft

Every year a sorry list of bloggers get together to experience the crushing pain of losing to me in fantasy football, and this year is no exception.  As a tradition I've aspired to live blog these drafts to expose the ignorance of the other participants and so amateurs can behold my own genius at work.  So for the next few hours I'll try to capture the meandering madness of our draft, at least until the beer really starts to kick in around the 11th round.  Enjoy!

7:51 - The crew is assembling.  Resident Republican BIYF is trying to get all his provocative comments in before Queen of Spain joins.  We'll be without last years champion, Metrodad, who has asked me to draft for him.  I'm targeting Maurice Clarett in the first round for him.

7:56 - Our newest member, Technosailor, has joined.  Fresh meat.

8:02 - And we're already running late because Queen of Spain is too busy scratching fleas.  Sarah claims she's pooping quails.

8:08 - Maurice Jones-Drew and Adrian Peterson go 1-2.  Then it gets weird.  Eric forgets it's a PPR league and drafts Tom Brady.  Queen of Spain takes Kurt Warner two picks later, mystifying and delighting everyone.  I pick DeAngelo Williams, because I'm in the South now and I'm required to do so.

8:10 - Whit, with the 12th & 13th pick, gets Andre Johnson and Larry Fitzgerald.  We all collectively shudder.

8:13 - Technosailor drafts Terrell Owens with his second pick.  Going for the all 2004 team.

8:19 - Picks going by too fast to track...

8:23 - A run on WR as the PPR math catches up with everyone and we all collectively realize that the remaining RBs all suck equally. 

8:29 - Hit a dry patch.  Lots of waiting.  Hoping there's a run on kickers in the fourth round.  I need a beer.

8:30 - For the record I may live in Texas now, but I cannot bring myself to root for--or draft--a Cowboy.

8:34 - Fourth round and I've only taken 1 RB so far.  Usually I go RB-RB-RB/WR, but this year I'm breaking with tradition.  After picking up Randy Moss in the 2nd and Roddy White in the 3rd, I close my eyes and pick Ochocinco.

8:37 - Dammit.  Just had to draft for Metrodad and picked Aaron Rodgers.  I wanted him.  And apparently so did Child's Play.  Tough shit, dude.

8:45 - Oodgie is sitting on the couch ignoring me.  She's watching Man vs. Food which, conveniently, is about Austin tonight.  After watching the host chow on barbecue for five minutes she declares she's going vegetarian.

8:52 - Technosailor claims Buffalo is the "dark horse of the AFC east."  He may be right...I predict they'll come in fourth.

8:54 - Jamal Lewis?  Does he still play?

9:00 - I need a QB stat.  But there's some talent at RB on the board.  What to do...what to do...

9:02 - Kellen Winslow goes.  The only Buc worth taking.  Sarah's world falls apart.

9:10 - We begin reminiscing about Tom Brady's season last year.  2 points total.  It's probably wrong, but deep down I'm smiling at the thought of a repeat.

9:14 - I just got Jonathon Stewart to handcuff DeAngelo.  That NEVER works out for me.

9:18 - Whit takes Brett Favre.  The hazing begins.  Still on the board: David Garrard, Carson Palmer, 50 better choices.  He starts blaming his draft board.  Then the chair.

9:26 - Jesus, we still have five rounds to go.

9:32 - Queen of Spain takes Sebastian Janikowski in the 12th round.  He's my #32 ranked kicker.  I LOVE HER!

9:41 - Kyle Orton will be All-World this year.  You just wait...

9:47 - People are starting to drop off.  Pussies.  Don't you care about your kicker?  Ryan Succop is still on the board!

9:57 - Michael Vick!  PETA starts throwing Molotov cocktails at Technosailors front door.

10:00 - Holy crap...16 rounds in two hours!  That's got to be a record.  I even managed to squeeze a Ahmad Bradshaw onto Metrodads roster so he wouldn't whine about not having any Giants.

And that's a wrap!  Not as funny as in previous years, but blessedly swift.  By my calculations I have by far the best team in the league, which is cold comfort considering that's what I thought last year when I came in 8th.  

Only three more drafts to go!  Looking forward to sleeping on the couch until mid-September...

Reunited and It Feels So Good

My life of leisure came to a dramatic halt Thursday night. 

Oodgie and Cheeky, who had been putting off their arrival after reading too many Austin weather reports, finally arrived.  Fresh from a summer at the pool in NoFo, Oodgie looked like she could pose for Ebony magazine, and was visibly relieved that the wait was over.  Cheeky, blissfully ignorant of the significance of the move, was her normal perky, talkative self, more interested in trying to break the world record for continuous repetition of the "No you listen to ME!" (as if we had a choice). 

Watching her run and jump into my arms at the airport will be one of my favorite memories for years to come.

Trailing behind them were a pair of heartbroken grandparents gamely putting on a brave face while the worst scenes from The Road and Where the Red Fern Grows played out in their heads. They had come to help smooth the transition to the Lone Star state for the ladies and to confirm that we weren't secretly joining a hippie commune or a rodeo tour. 

It was also a certain someone's birthday and Cheeky's first day of preschool...

...and likely to be one of the most emotionally exhausting weekends of our collective lives. 

For three days, we had a crash course on Austin culture.  We swam at Barton Springs, had barbecue at Lambert's, shopped at Whole Foods and watched the bats.  We determined that just because something was "walking distance" by our New York standards didn't mean that hoofing it on an August afternoon was a good idea.  We got caught in returning student traffic on Guadalupe and drank a lot of Shinerbock.  

The apartment went instantly from a relatively tidy bachelor pad to what looked like a garage sale after a bear attack.  Cheeky immediately chose the bedroom closet as her designated sleeping area, and Oodgie spent a little too much timing checking out the hot bodies in the pool downstairs (which is unnecessary when you consider the look I've been going for). 

The chaos and angst about the future was a heavy counter-balance to our happiness at being together again.  We found ourselves snapping at each other at times, knowing full well this was a cause for joy but being too spent and anxious to behave any other way.  Cheeky, thankfully, didn't give a crap about any of that, and would conveniently insist on playing hide and seek or drawing pictures whenever it looked like the some grapefruit-sized boil of frustration was about to burst out of someones temple. 

So this morning, when we dropped Cheeky off at her new school for the first time, it was a moment of catharsis.  Our four-year old walked casually into the room, found her cubby, and promptly found the dress up section of the playroom.  She gave us all hugs and told us she'd see us later, leaving the the adults to lose control of all voluntary motor functions once the door closed behind us. 

The door of opportunity lay wide open before her and she casually walked through it.  As usual she was braver than all of us.  

So now we're officially on our own in Austin.  The ECG's are on their way back to NYC, and tomorrow officially marks the first day of the rest of our lives.  The hard part is over, and we can focus on building something freakin' awesome here in Mexico Austin.

Here's hoping we've got enough liquor in the cabinet to get through it.

Let the Assimilation Commence

Yee haw, partners!  Y'all better watch yourselves...I got a hankerin' to redefine your definition of cute down there....

Thriving in Chaos

Howdy, y'all!

CroutonBoy here, reporting from lovely downtown Austin, TX, where the temperature is a cool, brisk 105 degrees, and the sun sparkles off the faux glasses of hipsters and the crack pipes of the homeless. 

It's been a whirlwind few weeks for the Crouton clan.  Our family has been rent asunder for a time, as I commence my Giant, Super-Important Job here in the fine state of Texas while Oodgie bides her time poolside in the North Fork.  It's beer-thirty, and I'm hiding out in my temporary apartment overlooking Town Lake until I can go outside without my pale skin smoking and popping in the late day sun.  It seemed like a good opportunity to break radio silence and give y'all a quick update.

THE JOB

...is very good.  I'm only a couple weeks in, I know, but to my delight it's been better than I'd hoped.  For starters it appears that they base hiring decisions primarily on sarcasm, which makes integration pretty seamless for me.  I'm sharing an office with another New York transplant who is maniacally focused on bitching about the Yankess and psychologically destroying anyone who doesn't exhibit a modicum of intellect.  I'm busy doing stuff I'm very good at (if I do say so myself) and already feel like I'm making a difference.  And also, free bagels on Thursdays, so there's that, too.*

THE HOUSE

In case you didn't catch it over on DadCentric, we bought a house.  It took three days of looking, five days of ruminating, and what felt like 15 minutes of negotiations, but we are now the proud owners of two mortgages!  In the meantime, our beloved pad in Brooklyn hits the market this weekend, when a bunch of strangers will spend two hours poking through our closets and ridiculing our choice of furnishings.  I really haven't had much of a chance to step back and take it all in.  Part of me feels like I should be crying myself to sleep at night on my huge pillow, but most of me is thinking about how I can fit a pool table into the spare guest room.  Get your SXSW reservations in early, kids, otherwise you're staying in tents out back...

THE CARS

We bought two of them.  Holy crap.  No one walks here, but that's what happens when you live inside a microwave.

THE CITY

So far, so good.  Only once have I ever felt like I was in stereotypical Texas, and that was when I drove to a baseball stadium in Round Rock to see Clap If You're Very White Tour.  That was like a tour of Willie Nelson's colon.  But otherwise I feel like I'm in a very hot version of Portland or Minneapolis, which ain't a bad thing.  Granted, I've spent most of my time either at the office or buying all the stuff I used to take for granted, like dishwashing soap and salt, but I can find my way around without any unexpected surprises.

THE SEPARATION

When we first talked about me going down to Austin ahead of the family, I was a little psyched.  Me, staying in an apartment downtown, by myself, walking distance to all the fun and frolic Austin has to offer and equipped with an Xbox and the complete series' of Firefly and Freaks & Geeks for when I feel like staying in.  I figured I'd reclaim my mantle of man of leisure for a few months before settling back into family life.  That may be the case, but I miss Oodgie and Cheeky.  A lot.  On the day I left Cheeky looked up at me and asked, "Daddy, are you going to be home in time to tuck me in tonight?" and I nearly lost it.  We have the standard phone conversations you have with any four year-old, in which long pauses are interrupted by out of context stories about princess dresses and breakfast, and I get pictures/letters in the mail, but it's no substitute.  Unlimited freedom has its limitations; I wish they were here.

BUT that doesn't mean I'm not gonna have fun in the mean time.  My best friend from high school is in Killeen for a few weeks, and we'll spend the weekend running from shady bar to shady bar.  Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves is playing at Alamo Drafthouse.  Hell, Ghostface Killah, Method Man, and Redman are playing tonight somewhere in town.  So if you're anywhere around Central Texas, y'all are invited to the CroutonPad. It may be temporary, it may be hot, but it won't be boring.

* And yes, I know they aren't the same as New York bagels. Whatever. They're free.