Zzzzzzzzz

Why is it that I feel ashamed when I fall asleep during a movie? I'm 36. I shouldn't care one way or another about it. Valkyrie is a boring movie. Wolverine was a terrible movie. But as soon as my lids start to close and Leni catches me, I start feeling defensive.

"Are you falling asleep?" she asks.

"No, what are you talking about?"

"You're falling asleep..."

"No, I'm not. I saw Tom Cruise talk to that guy about the flying ice cream cones and then go into my high school, only it wasn't my high school it was really a dentist's office so I don't know why you're pressing me on this..."

How To Upset A 10 Year-Old

Step 1: Bake a cake, but bake it late at night, right around the time your child goes to sleep. Tell them they can't stay up, but they can absolutely have some cake tomorrow. In my case, I was referring to Saturday.

Step 2: Hide the cake somewhere they won't find it. Do not pick a cabinet or the refrigerator. These are children looking for cake. They will find it. And I have to stress, the only reason I didn't seal it in a cooler and sink it to the bottom of the pool to mask the delicious smell was because I wanted access to it as well. And so I chose the microwave.
Step 3: Take a few crumbs and scatter them around an empty plate. Then take some icing and smear that around the plate too. It needs to look like you ate it.

Step 4: Find a form to help you create the illusion of a cake. I chose a pot. And don't worry about the shape. We baked a square cake and Max still bought it when it magically "showed up" the next morning round. Trust me, kids aren't thinking about the shape. They are thinking about a fork and how big a slice they are going to have on the plate. They would step over your flaming body before diverting their path to the cake.
Step 5: Mold tin foil across the form, and place that on the plate as well. Also, as a nice little flourish, place the cake covered knife from your slice next to the plate as well.
Step 6: Step Back and Enjoy!

The prestige of this trick came at 7 AM Saturday morning when Max wanted to know why we didn't save her any cake and if we knew she wanted some of it why wouldn't we wait to have some so she could have some as well and didn't I know how unfair that was.

I still can't mention the cake without her hitting me.

The Trouble With City Island

If you have a Yard Sale, traditionally you will never, ever see the stuff you are selling again. They give you two quarters, you watch your old copy of Mad Magazine sail off into the ether of your imagination never to be thought of again.

You don't go to the deli and see the guy holding the unstamped odometer plates to an Indian Motorcycle you sold for a dollar.

You don't go to the liquor store and buy rum from a woman wearing one of your wife's old sweatshirts.

And you don't whore your friend as part of the deal to get rid of an exceptionally huge television by having him go to the guy's house to help him get it up the stairs.

These things just don't happen. Unless you live here.

But maybe I owe my friend a more than just a thank you. Maybe, Tom, in addition to the beer and the delicious dinner, I owe you something a little more special. Something timeless. Something for you to look at on the internet and remind you of the day.
I don't think Tom paid for his shirt. Mine, I got for a nickel.

Dear Family of Five,

I'm not an architect. I went to school for English Literature and then transferred to get a degree in Film Studies. I occasionally, like you, need to purchase things at stores. These are things I am unable to create or build; things I am unable fashion out of coconuts or plumber's strap to save myself some money. One of those groups could be classified as Electronics.

And so every once in a while, I will have to go to Best Buy to purchase said Electronics.

I have had no more involvement in the store nor its design than you have had in manufacturing the printers you were apparently browsing for, or the oversized Enyce sweatshirts you were wearing. And so I hope you understand that I had neither influence over, nor could I control some of the elements, that accompanied my brief visit to the restroom.

I did not choose to arrange the urinals in such a way that should someone swing the door wide open, I would be plainly visible to you and your children. And while your condemnation may have, ordinarily, been appropriate, I must stress that I had no more involvement in what type of clouds had formed in the sky, where Best Buy chose to display their All-in-One printers, nor which direction your attention would be in when the aforementioned portal was opened.

And as my hands, occupied at the time, are now free to other purposes, I have drawn you a diagram in the hopes of soliciting some forgiveness.
If you cannot find it within yourselves to let the anger go, please know that my embarrassment continued until I had left the store. And also know, that as my work days get longer and more frequent, the possibility of us meeting again, and in a similar manner, are quite remote.

All the best,

Rodney Sterbenz

Would You Rather?

Rodney: Ready? Okay, you have to pick one of these...
Max: Fine.
Rodney: Would you rather...hold a tarantula in your hands for ten minutes, let it crawl around and you can't put it down and can't impede it from where it wants to go no matter where it wants to go...
Max: What's impede?
Rodney: Stop. You can't stop it. If it wants to climb on your head you have to let it.
Max: Oh, alright.
Rodney: Or...stand behind a Great Dane while it's pooping...
Max: No way!
Rodney: ...and catch everything in both of your hands...
Max: That's sooooo gross...
Rodney: ...you have to cup them and catch it all like soft-serve ice cream and hold THAT for 10 minutes.
Max: That's ridiculous.
Rodney: With no baggy. Just your bare hands.
Max: You better not put this on your blog...
Rodney: I can't make any promises.
Max: Don't.
Rodney: So which one would you pick?
Max: I guess the Great Dane, but you better not tell anyone.
Rodney: You're crazy. I'd pick the tarantula easy. Or maybe not.
Max: You'd pick the tarantula?
Rodney: I'd pick both. I'd have the dog poop ON the tarantula immobilizing it.
Max: I don't understand you sometimes.

Gymnastics!

Guess who learned a new trick today while I was at my Uncle Carl's house?


This is only the second time Roxy had ever done this, the first time I had ever seen this, and probably the last time I'll see her do something new until I'm done at Uncle Carl's in April whereas Roxy will welcome me home with her 5th grade report card.

Sigh.

Terror Has A New Name

Hoarders.

Scariest show I have ever, ever seen. I am a clean freak. Not OCD, but I clean in that rigid German uncompromising kind of way. The kind of way where you always catch yourself saying "how f**king hard is it to..." So if you are someone who has ever taken a toothbrush and Fantastic with Bleach to the gook encircling your kitchen sink (like me), this show will turn your hair white.

Seriously. Watch an episode. I dare you.

http://www.aetv.com/hoarders/

Pop Quiz, Hotshot!

No one has emptied the Diaper Genie in a week. You try to shove in more dirty diapers but they keep getting stuck at the top and now you think it’s broken! Roxy just pooped and it’s a nasty one…What do you do?

WHAT DO YOU DO?!!!

Well, Leni and Max, here are some things to think about. The fact that it says “Genie” on the label doesn’t make it magical. There is no Genie who changes the stinky bag of diapers and brings it to the curb for you. The magical properties all concern keeping the smell from filling up the bedroom.

But I can promise you, if the bag is longer than the baby? It’s probably safe to go ahead and empty it.

Just saying.

my trrip to thuh mergincy rooom by roXy sterrbenz

i gott verry sik an had too go too the merrgincy room yessterday

efferyone wa s verrrry sserious an wurried

dad says i haf a feevur of 102 and di-uh-ree-uh

and myy bum hurts

pleese enjoy my skraapbook

Eye veee
Ex-ray! theese are my skeletons!
feelling a lit tle bettter with ymmy juice
ulTraa soundss that dont' makke any soundss
i willl ge t to go hooome!!!

Seriously

Seriously, if I asked you to do "a hundred and five" jumping jacks, how many would you do?

If I asked you to cut a piece of wood "a hundred and five" inches, how long would it be? 105. You'd take your tape measure and pencil and go "one hundred and one, one hundred and two, three, four...annnnnd one hundred and five." And then you would cut.

You would not cut it 100 1/2".

Nor would you do 100 jumping jacks, then jump up, clap, and hold the position. Because not only would that be stupid, you wouldn't be doing all the ones I asked you to do.

I'm just saying.

It's one syllable. Say it out loud. "Point." One hundred POINT five.

This isn't my real post. I'm just ranting.

.

Look at the title? That's a decimal point. I know it looks insignificant but it actually affects things in surprising ways.

For instance, did you know it's the difference between 60 MPH and 85 MPH. No? Well, you ask, how is that possible?

I'll tell you.

Let's say your mother-in-law tells you that your infant daughter has a fever of "a hundred and five"...You might be inclined to drive a much faster speed home than if she actually had a fever of, oh, say "a hundred POINT five," wouldn't you agree?

See the difference? So did the officer.

More on this tomorrow.

Top Secret Project X

Next week I'll begin working on a television show until April. Word has come down that the writers and the producers and everyone at the network are worried about possible leaks on the internet. Leaks pertaining to plot and character arcs, especially.

Things showing up on Twitter or Facebook are particularly troublesome, things like: OMG!!! They're killing ALAN OFF XXX!!! Or...DOUG IS SLEEPING WITH TINA!!! LMAO :-)

And, word also has it, that because I have a blog I'm probably one of the biggest concerns.

So here is my promise...From now on, work will be referred to as pertaining to: My Uncle Carl.

Here are some examples...

I'll have to organize my tools so I can load them onto Uncle Carl's truck.

My Uncle Carl made me empty his garage until 4 in the morning. He's terrible at scheduling.

I can't believe Uncle Carl killed the guy at the Bait Shop and then hid the gun in the fake panel underneath his desk.

Just kidding.

Do Babies Feel Pain?

I don't know if I ever mentioned the whole issue about Roxy being possibly Tongue-Tied. Tongue-Tied is a condition where the ligament beneath a baby's tongue is so tight and constricted that it can affect the way they swallow and speak; it can also adversely affect the formation of their pallet, which affects the way her teeth come in, and so on.

I mention this because over the past 2 weeks, Roxy had begun to gag and vomit continuously, more than she ever had in the past. She would be sitting quietly in her seat or nestled in my arms feeding, and then suddenly start to gag. Her body would convulse, face turning purple, and her mouth would contort into an "O" shape until she either threw up, eventually recovered, or both. If this happened only sporadically, it wouldn't have been an issue. But we actually had Roxy sleeping with us because she would do this 6 or 7 times a night. It's scary enough when it happens once. But to wake up with your infant daughter turning purple and making that gutteral not-quite-a-cough noise in the back of her throat because she can't breathe is terrifying.

So Leni made an appointment to see a well-recommended EN&T doctor to see if Roxy needed to have the ligament snipped. That's right, I said snipped. They lift your tongue up, take a pair of scissors, SHARP SCISSORS, and snip that thing under your tongue to give it more movement. And the face I'm making now describing it is the face I made every time Leni would mention it.

Leni: You're such a baby.
Rodney: It sounds like a horrible, horrible surgery.
Leni: It's not a big deal.
Rodney: It's barbaric.
Leni: Why is it that every time I mention this procedure to someone, especially men, they look at me like I'm out of my mind?
Rodney: I don't know, Len, ask my foreskin.

The appointment was this past Friday, so I took Roxy into the city and met Leni at the doctor's office. I have to say I was impressed with the doctor, she was fantastic. She gave us concrete reasons for why it should be done, illustrated why it affected Roxy and how it manifested the issues we were experiencing. And, in a surprise twist, the fact that Leni had had it done as a child led us to the conclusion that Roxy should have it done as well.

But what about the pain? Would she be in pain? No, apparently. First they said that babies don't feel pain. Then they asked us how old she was...Oh, she's a little old to be having it done. They said that Roxy might experience a little discomfort because she was 3 months old and they normally do it when the baby is 1 month old. And no, they don't give her anything to numb the area.

So what happened?
That's Leni in the big chair. She held Roxy because I was too horrified to hold my screaming, squirming daughter still. The assistant on the left held her head so the doctor on the right could lift her tongue to get the scissors in. And, remarkably, the fact that Roxy was crying actually helped the situation.

The irony was that in the end, Leni couldn't bear to watch, but curiosity brought me over to stand beside the doctor so I could get a better perspective.

I had to hold my hand over my mouth, it was so disturbing to watch.

Leni: [shielding her eyes] What is she doing?
Rodney: I'm not going to describe it!
Leni: Why not?
Rodney: You did the same thing to me during Eastern Promises with the fight scene in the shower. You want to watch, watch. But I'm not going to give you a play by play.

Here is a close up of Roxy's eyes:
Those aren't "happy" eyes. She's being traumatized. And I was being traumatized. But here's the thing: Even without a local anesthetic, she was fine. I held her afterwards and she was smiling and cooing and giggling. I mean, she looked like a weirdo trying to figure out exactly what her tongue was now that she could actually move it. Like some cartoon pelican with a fish trying to get out of its mouth.

In hindsight, it really wasn't a big deal. It bothered me much more than it bothered Roxy if it even bothered her at all. And it seemed Roxy was more distressed about being constrained than reacting to the scissors.

But what the hell do I know? My eyes were closed half the time anyways.

Closing Time at the Double Deuce

Patrick Swayze 1952 - 2009

I'd Like to Solve the Puzzle

Losing the babysitter you had arranged for Mondays and Tuesdays on Sunday afternoon is a hassle. And by Sunday afternoon, I mean yesterday. And by hassle, I mean f**king disaster. But this is something we would normally be able to overcome considering how resourceful Leni is.

Unless she spikes a fever of 102 and the chest cold she has turns out to be Pneumonia.

So today I stayed home from work to watch my two girls and figure out what the hell we are going to do.

Happy Monday, everyone. Things could be worse.

Time Out

Grumble, grumble grumble grumble.

Taking the weekend off.

Grrrr. Monday.

Intermission

Today is my first day back at work. Right now Roxy is at home with my mother-in-law, and I'm here at the soundstage looking at pictures of her, listening to stories from other parents about how quickly time goes by and how fast she's going to grow up.

This job goes until April.

It's September 9th.

Yikes.

Bang Bang

Where's the best place to get Italian food? This place:
This notice was on the lamp post near the Meat Market we go to in the Bronx. And while I'd go as far as to say it is definitely worth it to check out the salami on Arthur Avenue, skip the bullets. And you might as well pass on the whole hanging around out the street at 3 in the morning too.

I Don't See The Resemblance

It's usually a compliment. Someone looks at your child and makes a temporary determination who the kid looks more like. "She looks like you," they'll say. Or "Oh my god, she looks so much like Leni." But in general, you don't give this kind of offering any more credence than you would if someone told you it was around 2 in the afternoon.

Because, for the most part, it's meaningless. I had a conversation on a photo shoot once with a Stylist and a Make-up Artist. They were trying to see who Max resembled more: Me or Leni. Now, Max may resemble me more than Bill Cosby does, but the debate made me laugh all the same. "Hey, Max, these two are trying to figure out who you look more like. Me or your Mom." Max smiled and kept quiet until they eventually agreed the answer: Me.

But those were strangers. Your friends are supposed to know you better. They've spent time, sometimes years, getting to know your quirks and expressions, and should be able to pick which parent the likeness of a child more closely resembles with a certain level of authority. And I say should.

We spent 3 days in Cape Cod with Brett, someone I've known since I was about 2 years old. At 60 minutes an hour, 24 hours a day, times 3 days: that's 4320 minutes we were together over the weekend.

So why did Brett pick this particular moment to say: Oh, yeah, she looks exactly like Rodney!

Was it the pose? The oiled-down skin? The nudity/look of consternation on her face? What exactly about this triggered a memory for you, Brett, because I'd really like to know. Especially if I'm going to need counseling afterwards.

Cape Cod Adventure

I never liked Shannon Doherty. I never disliked Shannon Doherty, but in terms of her ranking in my Pop Culture database, she's a few ticks less exciting than freeze-dried Astronaut Ice Cream. So why am I talking about Shannon Doherty?

Yesterday we drove up to Cape Cod to visit my friend Brett. Along the way, Roxy got particularly cranky at one point and we pulled over so Leni could breastfeed her. The spot we chose happened to be a dirt road 100 feet off of some random exit on 195. And by the time we settled in on a nice shady spot, we were located a short distance across from a farm.

We were also located an even shorter distance to the most engorged horse I've ever seen. So much so that this came next:

"Is that horse giving birth?" Max asked.

"Uh, no, sweetheart..." Leni replied.

"What is he doing?" she inquired.

What he was doing was whacking it up and down against his belly. SLAP! SLAP! SLAP! And the only reference I had, in my brain, to explain what he was doing was a story Shannon Doherty told on the Graham Norton Show about having a similar experience. So now, I guess, when I see an erect Horse penis, I think of Shannon Doherty flailing with her arms, miming the same movements of the Horse pleasuring itself.

But this isn't what I told Max.

"He's pooping."

"Ewwwwwwwwwwww."

Man Vs. Baby: G-Force Review

Me: ...
Roxy: Anything?
Me: ...
Roxy: Well, I was going to ask you about your favorite part. Or parts. But, maybe we should just start with something simple.
Me: Simple?
Roxy: Yeah. Like, is there anything in particular you would like to say to Jerry Bruckheimer? He was the producer.
Me: Sure. Hey, Jerry, thanks for the lobotomy. Here I was, all these years, going through the trouble of huffing nitrous-oxide through a whipped-cream dispenser when I could have just sat down to watch a bunch of CGI guinea pigs in kevlar vests wield invisible scalpels on my prefrontal cortex.
Roxy: I think you're embellishing just a bit...
Me: G-Force is the digital incarnation of the Ark of the Covenant. You popped the lid at the opening credits and literally sucked the lifeforce from my skull.
Roxy: Give me a break. It's a Walt Disney film.
Me: Oh, in that case, Sweetheart, as long as you don't grow up to be a Communist agitator, you should be alright.
Roxy: You know, Disney can't really defend himself, can he?
Me: Not unless you want freezer burn, no. But Jerry Bruckheimer sure has some f**king explaining to do.
Roxy: Is there anything else?
Me: G-Force is the digital incarnation of a cream that you rub all over Zach Galifianakis and Will Arnett at the same time but not in the homoerotic way that actually sounds except the cream makes them un-funny. It's like a Humor Inhibitor. Like Dane Cook.
Roxy: I thought it was a blast.
Me: Like a more hirsute Dane Cook in miniature. Or a Xerox copy of Dane Cook. Like if Dane Cook pressed his face against a copy machine and made a face he thought was really funny, and then you made me sit and look at it for an hour and thirty minutes.
Roxy: I'm sensing some animosity towards Dane Cook.
Me: Some.
Roxy: Well, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to disagree with you. I thought it was exciting.
Me: Of course you did. There were furry animals with grappling hooks. Thank god you're not older or we would have had to stop at Toys 'R Us for the f**king action figures.
Roxy: THEY HAVE ACTION FIGURES?!!!
Me: No.
Roxy: Oh. Eh, I couldn't have played with them anyway.
Me: Choking hazard?
Roxy: That, and baby hands.
Me: Well, you tell me. Maybe I'm being unfair here. Let's switch gears.
Roxy: Favorite parts.
Me: You start...
Roxy: I liked the chase scene where the FBI are chasing the tri-hamster-ball-super-scooter-thing down the highway. And the parachutes. And the hamster, he was funny. And the mice. Oh, and that one guinea pig who kept farting all the time. He was funny too. And the fly with the little cameras on him. He was funny. And the mole...
Me: Was the mole funny?
Roxy: Yeah.
Me: Yeah...
Roxy: ...
Me: You done?
Roxy: Uh-huh.
Me: Me? I liked the diverse voice-acting. Tracy Morgan. Penelope Cruz. Sam Rockwell. All that was missing were the handful of Korean Grocers out of work since The Phantom Menace.
Roxy: Um...
Me: And I liked the unbridled pilfering of catch-phrases and dialogue from other more respected films, squeezed through the Playdoh Fun Factory of S**t Scriptwriting that served as the foundation for this toilet brush of a movie as if that would somehow siphon some of what we liked about that film into this piece of garbage.
Roxy: Such as?
Me: "Yippee-ki-yay, Coffee Maker." I'm sure I'll remember more when I get my memory back.
Roxy: Yeah, that was pretty bad.
Me: Not as bad as the preview for the Alvin & The Chipmunks "Squeak-uel" that had the tagline: Munk Yourself.
Roxy: Munk Yourself?
Me: Munk Yourself.
Roxy: Munk Yourself.
Me: Munk Yourself.
Roxy: Um, I don't know. That's sort of the conversational equivalent of a cinder-block. Where do you go from "Munk Yourself?"
Me: If I had my say? I'd have someone go Munk Jerry Bruckheimer right in his face.
Roxy: ...
Me: This is a Walt Disney Picture. Walt Disney! They just bought Marvel Entertainment for $4 billion dollars so you KNOW they have the money to pass on this kind of bulls**t and go make something of value...What they should do? And I'm being totally serious, here. What they should do is go down to Pixar, write them a blank check, and say "I don't know what happened. Roy's nephew came down and had this idea about guinea pigs with machine guns and, well, I don't want to get bogged down in the details. None of that is important right now. Whatever you have to do to erase G-Force from the collective conscience of the planet, we support. You guys obviously know what you are doing...Just give us a call when we have to start designing the ride."
Roxy: So...you...didn't like it?
Me: ...
Roxy: ...
Me: ...
Roxy: Okay. Well, if you are a baby and like furry animals, this movie is two A-pluses up.
Me: Or if you're like me and would rather do recreational drugs to erase short spurts of time (I don't, but it would be the preferred method to watching G-Force again), then I'd say go outside and hit yourself in the face with a weed-whacker. Your time would have been better served.
Roxy: ...
Me: ...
Roxy: ...go see it...
Me: ...don't you dare...
Roxy: ...
Me: ...
Roxy: ...seriously...
Me: Okay, it's bed time.

My Bad

There are really only 3 reasons I wouldn't post a blog entry (like yesterday).

Drunkenness
I'm fighting with my wife
The Devil Baby

Well, I didn't drink yesterday...

But that's okay, because later on you will be rewarded for your patience. What is the reward? I hate to be coy and say it's a surprise...You can follow this link:

https://www.fandango.com/purchase/movietickets/process03/ticketboxoffice.aspx?tid=AANLC&mid=111189&row_count=1038820423

Or you can know that it rhymes with Can Smersus Maby: G-Force Review

You can pick.

There is No Reward for Pouting

It's not that Max isn't careful with Roxy. And while she certainly wouldn't hold my baby the same way I would, no one on this planet would. Unless you cloned me, let me spend a few weeks shadowing myself, and then, maybe, I'd let myself have a few supervised visits.

The problem is Roxy is like a shiny new toy. Max is excited about her, wants to play with her and change her, and more importantly, wants to hold her 95% of the time we are in public. That remaining 5% is when Roxy is crying, or Max's arms are tired.

The other problem is Max is used to getting her way. Maybe it's just my attitude, the fact that I grew up sharing everything with my 2 sisters (and taking what was theirs...Easter candy, for example, but, if you don't eat it within the first 2 months then, in my estimation, it's anyone's candy. And by anyone I mean whose ever mouth it's in), the fact that I came into this family on more of an equal level with Max as opposed to a peer...I don't know. It could just be that I'm bratty sometimes and want to hold my own effing baby. Who knows?

So we go to Arthur Avenue to get some meat for the barbecue tonight, some pignoli cookies, olive bread...A bunch of Italian stuff. And when we arrive, because it was late and Roxy hadn't napped at all and maybe all those reasons in the paragraph up there, I told Max I would take Roxy. I popped her out of the car seat, nestled her in the crook of my arm, and off we went.

Only now, Max decided to pout the whole way. Sad Face into the meat store. Pouty Face into the butcher. Someone-Pooped-In-My-Cereal Face into the baker. I say: Are you still mad at me or are you still going to ignore me? In hindsight, those are pretty much the same question but let's not get off track.

"Yeah I'm still upset. I'm not ignoring you but I'm still really mad at you."

But, quite frankly, I wasn't in the mood. "Oh well."

"I won't be as mad at you if you buy me some of those cookies," she jokes, pointing to these powdered raspberry ovals.

"No, you don't get rewarded for pouting," I reply.

And in my ear, my darling wife whispers, "You do."