Last night, Leni wasn't feeling well so as she was putting Roxy to sleep, she was also putting herself to sleep.
We had spent a really nice afternoon with some friends in Brooklyn, except that by the time we got home, Roxy had been sleeping in the car for about an hour and a half (waking up around 6:30 PM). So it came as no surprise that she wasn't ready to go to bed at 8. Or 8:30. Or 9. Or 9:30. Or 10.
As I was downstairs working on my computer, I suddenly realized I hadn't heard Roxy crying for a while. In fact I hadn't heard anything. I climbed the stairs, tip-toed into the bedroom, and found Leni and Roxy snoring away. And while I love the songs chirping out of Roxy's mobile, I headed downstairs for some uninterrupted and long overdue time with my beloved Xbox 360.
Which was about 10 minutes.
I heard screaming coming from upstairs. Only this time it was Max, sounding as if she was in trouble (and slightly muffled), calling my name repeatedly. Like she had fallen and gotten her head stuck in something, like a trashcan or a boot, as kids are apt to do.
I raced up the stairs, quickly checked her room (empty), and then zoomed right up to the bathroom door which was closed.
Me: [whispering through the door] Max, what's wrong? Are you okay?
Max: Yeah, I'm fine. Why?
Me: Why? Because you were screaming, that's why.
Max: Oh. I need toilet paper.
Me: What?
Pause here to imagine me clenching my teeth together.
Me: I don't understand.
Max: I don't have any toilet paper.
Me: That's why you were shouting across the house at 10 o'clock at night?
Max: Can you get me a roll?
Pause again here to imagine me raising my voice enough so she knows how angry I am but hopefully low enough that I don't wake Roxy up. Also imagine me ripping the door off the hinges and throwing a cartoon shark at her.
Me: Let me explain something to you. It's 10:30. We've just spent two hours trying to get your sister to go to sleep, so the fact that you are screaming downstairs for toilet paper is unacceptable. #1. The reason there isn't any toilet paper is the fact that you didn't restock the bathrooms with toilet paper which means you didn't do your chore. #2. Next time do what every other human being does. Shuffle on down the hall to get your own toilet paper, alright?
Max: Fine.
Me: Fine.
Pause one more time to imagine that I didn't really say that last bit. That I quietly went and got Max a roll of toilet paper, silently stewing, intent on yelling at her the moment she got out except that I accidentally slammed my arm into the doorknob, which (you guessed it) woke up the baby.
Now imagine my expression.
Nov 29, 2009
Nov 27, 2009
Give me a C, a bouncy C!
Recently on NPR, I heard an interview where they reviewed a new iPhone app that promised it could translate a baby's crying into words we could understand. The interviewer played audio clips of a baby at different degrees of distress and compared what the program said versus what the mother said.
"Meh-meh-mehhhh-wahhhhhhh!" went the baby.
"What is it, here, that Ryan is trying to tell us?" asked the woman from NPR. "The iPhone is telling us he's tired..."
"No. This is his I-just-woke-up-and-I'm-starving cry."
Is he hungry? No, he's lonely. Does he want to be picked up? No, he has a dirty diaper. Is he gassy? No, he doesn't like it in the basement with the dobermans. Almost every interpretation the program offered was wrong.
Because in reality, you can't replace a parent's intuition. Look at Platinum Blue. They have proprietary software that analyzes all of the chief components of a song: melody, harmony, tempo, how hot the girl is singing it, that sort of thing, and then predict, based on mathematical relationships, whether or not the song will be a hit. And for the most part, 80% of the time, I think, it is correct. Music is based on math. On something tangible. Compositions can be charged with parameters, like Frederick II's challenge to Bach. Music has structure, and as such, can be dissected. And so regardless of the latitudes given the artist, everyone from Kenny Loggins to Philip Glass all have the exact same tools at their disposal, right down to Middle C. What music is not is fickle.
Roxy is a baby. She is capricious and petulant and particular. Her likes and dislikes change constantly, oftentimes contradicting each other. She loves her bouncy chair...until she doesn't. Roxy loves Max laughing until Max is laughing in another room in which case Max laughing terrifies her and so she starts crying. Get my drift?
So when the day comes you design a program to put on my iPhone that I can put next to this highchair...
...and the readout will say: Enough with the f**king Prunes already!, I will prepare myself for the Robot Uprising.
Until then, I'm spending my $9.99 on something else.
"Meh-meh-mehhhh-wahhhhhhh!" went the baby.
"What is it, here, that Ryan is trying to tell us?" asked the woman from NPR. "The iPhone is telling us he's tired..."
"No. This is his I-just-woke-up-and-I'm-starving cry."
Is he hungry? No, he's lonely. Does he want to be picked up? No, he has a dirty diaper. Is he gassy? No, he doesn't like it in the basement with the dobermans. Almost every interpretation the program offered was wrong.
Because in reality, you can't replace a parent's intuition. Look at Platinum Blue. They have proprietary software that analyzes all of the chief components of a song: melody, harmony, tempo, how hot the girl is singing it, that sort of thing, and then predict, based on mathematical relationships, whether or not the song will be a hit. And for the most part, 80% of the time, I think, it is correct. Music is based on math. On something tangible. Compositions can be charged with parameters, like Frederick II's challenge to Bach. Music has structure, and as such, can be dissected. And so regardless of the latitudes given the artist, everyone from Kenny Loggins to Philip Glass all have the exact same tools at their disposal, right down to Middle C. What music is not is fickle.
Roxy is a baby. She is capricious and petulant and particular. Her likes and dislikes change constantly, oftentimes contradicting each other. She loves her bouncy chair...until she doesn't. Roxy loves Max laughing until Max is laughing in another room in which case Max laughing terrifies her and so she starts crying. Get my drift?
So when the day comes you design a program to put on my iPhone that I can put next to this highchair...
...and the readout will say: Enough with the f**king Prunes already!, I will prepare myself for the Robot Uprising.Until then, I'm spending my $9.99 on something else.
Nov 24, 2009
Yayyyyyyy! It's Your Birthday, Grandpa!
HI GRANDPA!!!!! happy birthday grandpa! hope you enjoy your birthday. me, Roxy, mommy, and daddy are doing great! we found out on Saturday that roxy the rock star has her first tooth! we thought for so long that she was teething, and when mommy was feeding Roxy, she saw her first tooth. Roxy is also discovering new sounds that she can make like screaming and giggling. i wish i could be at your house chewing on a delicious steak and your amazing sauce. and if your aiming to buy me at least one thing for Christmas, i would really like either the entire collection of the Harry Potter books or the entire collection of The Boxcar Children books. I LOVE YOU!! happy b-day!! -Max
[The following was actually typed by Roxy]
cfcfgvggggggc l nkjxgfjf cn gbghchg g cgjvgvgjv gxdfhf
Love,
Roxy
Nov 23, 2009
Nov 22, 2009
Well Now What The Hell Do I Ask For For Christmas?
Excessive drooling? Check.Biting everything? Check.
Sh*t-ass attitude? Check. Check and Check.
Let's hope the next few teeth are a little
less painful.
Oh, and by the way, getting that snapshot
was about as easy as flossing an alligator.
An angry alligator. Who cries a lot...
And throws things.
Nov 19, 2009
Why I Can't Go Jogging Tonight, Leni...
10. I was up at 5 AM for work and I am no longer interested in expending any more energy.
9. That is, on the off chance, of course, that we have sex, in which case I am saving my energy.
8. I lost 10 pounds on my special diet. That gives me an indisputable "buffer," as it were.
7. I just ate scrambled eggs and gluten-free french toast. In a diner, that would be called the Fat-ass Special...or something like The Sleepy Lumberjack.
6. The instant you leave I wan't to play Xbox 360.
5. I am lazy.
4. My finger hurts. [This particular excuse became a running joke during Leni's pregnancy. And since I couldn't possibly match the level of her suffering, I might as well solicit sympathy for something pathetic]
3. I haven't blogged in 2 days.
2. It's raining. Or at least, it was, and the roads are treacherous.
1. G.I. Joe just arrived from Netflix. I'm not going anywhere.
9. That is, on the off chance, of course, that we have sex, in which case I am saving my energy.
8. I lost 10 pounds on my special diet. That gives me an indisputable "buffer," as it were.
7. I just ate scrambled eggs and gluten-free french toast. In a diner, that would be called the Fat-ass Special...or something like The Sleepy Lumberjack.
6. The instant you leave I wan't to play Xbox 360.
5. I am lazy.
4. My finger hurts. [This particular excuse became a running joke during Leni's pregnancy. And since I couldn't possibly match the level of her suffering, I might as well solicit sympathy for something pathetic]
3. I haven't blogged in 2 days.
2. It's raining. Or at least, it was, and the roads are treacherous.
1. G.I. Joe just arrived from Netflix. I'm not going anywhere.
Nov 17, 2009
Whatchoo Talkin' Bout, Willis?
It's really just the first 3 seconds I wanted to show you (I like to just keep rewinding it). Roxy trying her frozen Teething Ring for the first time.
Nov 16, 2009
Roxy's Birth Certificate
When we first got Roxy's Birth Certificate, both Leni and I gave it a cursory look and for the most part assumed it was fine. And then one day we got her Social Security Card in the mail addressed to: Roxy E. Serbenz.
I said, "Serbenz?" Leni asked me what I was talking about and was appropriately horrified. We checked the Birth Certificate, which they referenced for the card. Yup. Roxy E. Serbenz. They spelled it wrong.
And what was so annoying was that the original Birth Certificate had my name at the top. Spelled correctly, no less. So it was obviously a typo. Some low-paid government jackass just didn't check it or didn't care and sent the mistake over to Social Security and here we are now.
But wait, there's more.
We fill out the correction form. What did they ask for? The father's information. So we copy my driver's license and passport (both universally accepted as forms of identification by THE PLANET) and mail everything in.
Denied. Now they need the mother's information as well.
So we copy Leni's driver's license and passport and resend her information along with mine and the copies of the mistaken birth certificate. And wait. And wait. And wait.
Denied. Why? Because the signature on my license (which I signed in 1993) doesn't match my passport (which was issued in 2008).
So Roxy STILL (6 months later) does not have a valid Birth Certificate.
I can apply for a gun, get on an airplane (not in that order, FBI, I'm just listing examples), buy a house, get a loan, seek citizenship in a foreign country, run for City Council as Rodney T. Sterbenz and not have anyone bat an eyelash (although they might because I really don't know anything about the local government). But I can't use universally recognized forms of identification to get my daughter a "T" in her name.
The moral? Name your kids whatever the hell you want. Topiary Winnebago McGee. Gooey Thermos. Jermajesty Jackson. It doesn't matter. They don't care. Because as long as the signatures match, the only obstacles facing you are the ones constricting your imagination.
I said, "Serbenz?" Leni asked me what I was talking about and was appropriately horrified. We checked the Birth Certificate, which they referenced for the card. Yup. Roxy E. Serbenz. They spelled it wrong.
And what was so annoying was that the original Birth Certificate had my name at the top. Spelled correctly, no less. So it was obviously a typo. Some low-paid government jackass just didn't check it or didn't care and sent the mistake over to Social Security and here we are now.
But wait, there's more.
We fill out the correction form. What did they ask for? The father's information. So we copy my driver's license and passport (both universally accepted as forms of identification by THE PLANET) and mail everything in.
Denied. Now they need the mother's information as well.
So we copy Leni's driver's license and passport and resend her information along with mine and the copies of the mistaken birth certificate. And wait. And wait. And wait.
Denied. Why? Because the signature on my license (which I signed in 1993) doesn't match my passport (which was issued in 2008).
So Roxy STILL (6 months later) does not have a valid Birth Certificate.
I can apply for a gun, get on an airplane (not in that order, FBI, I'm just listing examples), buy a house, get a loan, seek citizenship in a foreign country, run for City Council as Rodney T. Sterbenz and not have anyone bat an eyelash (although they might because I really don't know anything about the local government). But I can't use universally recognized forms of identification to get my daughter a "T" in her name.
The moral? Name your kids whatever the hell you want. Topiary Winnebago McGee. Gooey Thermos. Jermajesty Jackson. It doesn't matter. They don't care. Because as long as the signatures match, the only obstacles facing you are the ones constricting your imagination.
Patients and Virtues
Leni hates wasting time. And there isn't much that rankles her more than being kept waiting in a government office or a doctor's office for an extended period of time for no discernible reason.
This issue becomes more and more aggravated as time goes on because Leni has such an amazing memory. Every minute, each injustice or perceived slight all get recorded in her brain in minute detail, compounding into one big laser-blast of indignation. I'm serious. Ask her about applying for her Theatrical Shotgun Permit and then sit back and watch the fireworks.
As a secretary, you may not understand why the 5'11" tattooed mother of 2 leaned over your desk and tore you a new A. And perhaps you feel a little undeserving of being served such a healthy portion of vitriol so early in the morning. But what you don't realize is that Suzie, the girl who covers your Tuesday shift, not only kept the screaming woman waiting for over an hour, but then couldn't offer a satisfactory explanation as to why she never called Oxford to authorize the test the fiery Phoenix of rage reading the People Magazine in the Waiting Room was actually there for.
Take this conversation, for example. This was Friday. Leni had a noon appointment; we made good time driving into the city, parking the car sometime around 11:51 AM and it was about a 3 block walk to the address.
Leni: [huffing loudly] This is bulls**t.
Me: It's fine. Relax.
Leni: That woman got here after me. They just brought her in.
Me: Maybe she had an earlier appointment.
Leni: I'm not going to f**king wait an hour like I did last time. They kept me waiting. I had Max; I had Roxy. It was f**king ridiculous.
Me: I'm sure it won't be that bad.
Leni: I mean, what time is it? We've been here forever.
Me: [checking watch] 12:03.
The point is: wish us luck. Today we are going to go into the city to try and get Roxy's birth certificate worked out. What's wrong with her birth certificate? Read the next post.
This issue becomes more and more aggravated as time goes on because Leni has such an amazing memory. Every minute, each injustice or perceived slight all get recorded in her brain in minute detail, compounding into one big laser-blast of indignation. I'm serious. Ask her about applying for her Theatrical Shotgun Permit and then sit back and watch the fireworks.
As a secretary, you may not understand why the 5'11" tattooed mother of 2 leaned over your desk and tore you a new A. And perhaps you feel a little undeserving of being served such a healthy portion of vitriol so early in the morning. But what you don't realize is that Suzie, the girl who covers your Tuesday shift, not only kept the screaming woman waiting for over an hour, but then couldn't offer a satisfactory explanation as to why she never called Oxford to authorize the test the fiery Phoenix of rage reading the People Magazine in the Waiting Room was actually there for.
Take this conversation, for example. This was Friday. Leni had a noon appointment; we made good time driving into the city, parking the car sometime around 11:51 AM and it was about a 3 block walk to the address.
Leni: [huffing loudly] This is bulls**t.
Me: It's fine. Relax.
Leni: That woman got here after me. They just brought her in.
Me: Maybe she had an earlier appointment.
Leni: I'm not going to f**king wait an hour like I did last time. They kept me waiting. I had Max; I had Roxy. It was f**king ridiculous.
Me: I'm sure it won't be that bad.
Leni: I mean, what time is it? We've been here forever.
Me: [checking watch] 12:03.
The point is: wish us luck. Today we are going to go into the city to try and get Roxy's birth certificate worked out. What's wrong with her birth certificate? Read the next post.
Nov 14, 2009
Man Vs. Baby: 2-In-1 Precious Planet Projection Mobile
Me: So, we bought this because we were having some difficulties with you at night...Roxy: Difficulties, was it?
Me: Waking up every hour screaming for a bottle.
Roxy: I think you might be embroidering just a bit more into that description.
Me: [checking notes] 11:30, 12:50, 1:42, 2:30, 3:31, giving me an extra minute to sleep thankyouverymuch, 4:15, and then, magically, 4:47 AM when you decided to wake up for the day.
Roxy: I can't sleep 'til 10 like you and mommy.
Me: Uh, just for the record, the last time we actually slept until 10 AM was in 2008, I believe. Probably the day you were conceived.
Roxy: And the last time you had sex. Ohhhh, SNAP!
Me: Moving on. The basic idea was this: If you wake up screaming because you don't know how to soothe yourself back to sleep, we would turn this on to distract you and possibly keep you calm until we return with a bottle.
Roxy: What do you mean calm? I'm calm. When am I not calm and since when is this all about me? I thought we were reviewing a stupid mobile.
Me: We are. Let's show everyone what we're talking about.
Roxy: Exactly, a stupid mobile that doesn't work.Me: Oh, it works, alright. It has a projector that beams pictures of animals on the underside of the umbrella. You seem to like that best.
Roxy: No, actually, what I like best is to wait calmly until you undo both of the tabs of my poopy diaper, and do that alligator/death-roll thing Crocodile Dundee warned us...
Me: [clicks mobile on]
Roxy: ...
Me: ...
Roxy: ...
Me: ...
Roxy: ...zzz...
Me: ...
Roxy: ...grmble...murrblezzz...
Me: Hey, sleepy head...
Roxy: ...nothing to do with a tap dancing pickle...
Me: What?
Roxy: ...What what?
Me: What are you talking about?
Roxy: What do you mean whatareyoutalkingabout? We were talking about the mobile.
Me: No, you were talking about a tap dancing pickle.
Roxy: No, I wasn't.
Me: Yes, you were. You said that bit about Crocodile Dundee, I turned the mobile on, you fell asleep and started talking about a tap dancing pickle.
Roxy: I have no recollection of that whatsoever.
Me: You do know pickles can't tap dance, right?
Roxy: We don't know that.
Me: No, we know that.
Roxy: No, we don't. Not for certain.
Me: Nooooo, I'm going to go out on a limb here and say, with about 100% certainty, pickles are not able to tap dance. You can trust me on this one.
Roxy: What about Hot Dogs?
Me: Nope.
Roxy: Not Hot Dogs?
Me: Not even Hot Dogs.
Roxy: This is a sad day. A sad, sad day for mankind.
Me: Well, maybe this will cheer you up. [clicks on mobile]
Roxy: Wait, don........zzzzz.....
Me: Well, folks, overall it was a success. It doesn't keep her from crying all the time, but it makes enough of a difference to keep her calm and quiet...get rid of some of that panicky-anxiety we have when we wake up and she's screaming. A few times, she's even fallen back asleep without me having to feed her.
Roxy: ...zzz...
Me: Let's wake her up again. Hey, [gently shakes Roxy], let's wrap this up.
Roxy: ...urm the magical lingonberries! Wait, what's going on?
Me: What are "magical lingonberries?"
Roxy: How am I supposed t...did you turn that stupid thing on?
Me: No.
Roxy: That's not right.
Me: All in all, the mobile is working exactly how I would have hoped it would be. It was definitely worth the small pouch of, ahem, magical lingonberries I paid for it.
Roxy: I don't know how, I don't know when, but you and I have a score t...
Me: [click]
Roxy: ...zzz...
Nov 12, 2009
V is for Vandalism
The other night, when we were shooting in Queens, this was across the street in front of a Jewish Center. Now, I don't know what "XLRATED" Bar Mitzvahs are. And I don't know if they just ran out of E's.But what I do know is had there not been 7 cars lined up in front of it waiting to pick up their kids, those kids would have had much more interesting themes available to them than that stupid Miami Vice one Adam Goldberg had.
Nov 11, 2009
Run, Frodo!
This little piggy went to market, then wandered over to Soho, probably catching the Yankee parade and a late lunch before crossing my path Friday night on Spring Street.So where to begin? How about this: What. The Hell. Are Those? Did Boromir chase you out of the subway? It was 40 degrees out that night, and not much warmer during the day. So I could obviously attack her choice in footwear as being not very practical streetwear for a cold afternoon. But the issues being presented here so far surpass fashion sense and sensibility.
Why do these exist? And who thought we needed these on the planet? Stem-cell research, sure, I can see the benefit of that. But this? Were there fleet-footed travellers, like this woman, who liked the amenities afforded them by sneakers but refused to compromise their god given right and ability to climb trees and shuck corn with their feet? Was there something in the New York transit system that required someone to have the full dexterity of their feet uninhibited? A spate of people intimidated by calculators? An Anti-trust movement pushing to break free of the oppressive monopoly of these:
Normal socks?Are you some sort of Harp Prodigy? Or just an idiot? Because if it's the latter, you came to the right blog.
Nov 10, 2009
You Have 10 Seconds To Comply!
I haven't mentioned it yet because I've had such a considerable amount to say about Halloween, and by considerable I mean way too much. So let's move on to today's subject: my diet.
Last Sunday, I went on an Elimination Diet to figure out what it is exactly that irritates my stomach. And because "irritates" is such a broad term, let me map out what lay in the outer extremities bookending that term.
All the way to the left, on the lower side of the spectrum, you have the mild symptoms: gas, bloating, stomach ache. These are the things you don't really have to worry about. And Roxy is great for that, because even at 3 weeks she was farting louder than I was (click here for reference), so I just look at her if I need someone close by to blame.
Yet on the other side of the spectrum, all the way over to the right, is the Dead Zone. And curse-ed be those who wander into the Dead Zone needlessly, for the transgression will be corrected most severely. Guinness, fish tacos, Captain Crunch; whatever it was, it doesn't matter, because you won't know you have offended the Gods until you are northbound on the 4 train, or walking up 6th Avenue, or sitting in traffic on Queens Blvd.
Because that's when your stomach (in this case, MY stomach), starts the stopwatch, counting down. And the situation is kind of like a game, or the show 24, where I'm Keifer Sutherland and instead of a nuclear bomb, I have to find a toilet. In 10 seconds. Which, getting totally sidetracked here, would make an outstanding television show: giving different people diarrhea and then 10 seconds to find a bathroom.
Regardless, for the last 7 days I've had no dairy, no sugar, no bread or grains, no sugar, no gluten, no sugar, no pasta or sugar, no processed foods or anything that tastes good, no caffeine, alcohol, happiness, smiling, joy or a reason to live.
But I lost 6 pounds. So I've got that going for me.
Last Sunday, I went on an Elimination Diet to figure out what it is exactly that irritates my stomach. And because "irritates" is such a broad term, let me map out what lay in the outer extremities bookending that term.
All the way to the left, on the lower side of the spectrum, you have the mild symptoms: gas, bloating, stomach ache. These are the things you don't really have to worry about. And Roxy is great for that, because even at 3 weeks she was farting louder than I was (click here for reference), so I just look at her if I need someone close by to blame.
Yet on the other side of the spectrum, all the way over to the right, is the Dead Zone. And curse-ed be those who wander into the Dead Zone needlessly, for the transgression will be corrected most severely. Guinness, fish tacos, Captain Crunch; whatever it was, it doesn't matter, because you won't know you have offended the Gods until you are northbound on the 4 train, or walking up 6th Avenue, or sitting in traffic on Queens Blvd.
Because that's when your stomach (in this case, MY stomach), starts the stopwatch, counting down. And the situation is kind of like a game, or the show 24, where I'm Keifer Sutherland and instead of a nuclear bomb, I have to find a toilet. In 10 seconds. Which, getting totally sidetracked here, would make an outstanding television show: giving different people diarrhea and then 10 seconds to find a bathroom.
Regardless, for the last 7 days I've had no dairy, no sugar, no bread or grains, no sugar, no gluten, no sugar, no pasta or sugar, no processed foods or anything that tastes good, no caffeine, alcohol, happiness, smiling, joy or a reason to live.
But I lost 6 pounds. So I've got that going for me.
Nov 8, 2009
The I Am An Idiot Store Has Opened!
Well, we've officially opened! Rather than constrain my efforts to managing only a blog, I Am An Idiot will now be selling authorized merchandise. As Roxy's overnight feedings have now increased in frequency to hourly (11:30, 12:30, 1:30, 2:30, and 3:30), I've had to work overtime to be ready for the launching.
Call it serendipity, I'm also the first customer.
Call now for our licensed product and get an extra 20% off! And make sure you read the product description!
Call it serendipity, I'm also the first customer.
Call now for our licensed product and get an extra 20% off! And make sure you read the product description!
Nov 7, 2009
Halloween Part 4: I See Dead People...um, Part 3
Wow, this has really become the Lord of the Rings of Halloween Posts. I just figured no one would read my ghost story if I made it one long post. In fact, I probably wouldn't have either. I would have skipped proofreading it all together.
The problem with ghost stories are unless an actual ghost shows up on your video camera, you think: Ahhh, come on. That's lame.
And it's true. No one got attacked or possessed. But the really creepy part came when we were discussing it on Sunday, and Max told us the dream she had.
She said it seemed like she was awake but knew she was really asleep. In the dream, Max said she got out of her loft bed to go on her computer (which is on a desk directly below the bed). She heard someone making noise on the mattress, but when she climbed the ladder to check it out, she found it empty. So as she sat back down at her desk, a piece of paper floats down next to her. Written on the single leaf of paper was a word: Hi.
She checked again to make sure there wasn't anyone in her bed, but then wrote "Hello" on the page and left it on the mattress.
Back down on her computer, she noticed the page floating down again. This time, written on the page was: I've been watching you. You are a very pretty little girl.
So Max wrote "Thank you" on the paper, but then thought about adding something. At the bottom, she wrote: Are you a ghost?
The reply? Y-E-S.
So back and forth it went, Max writing on the paper, leaving it in her empty bed. Then, as she climbed back down the ladder, the page would soon follow with an answer.
Max: Is that why I can't see you?
Ghost: Yes.
Max: Are you invisible?
Ghost: Yes.
Max: My name is Max. What's yours?
Ghost: Jimmy.
Max: Are you a little boy?
Ghost: I am.
And there was nothing fantastical about the dream (excluding the invisible boy, yes, I understand). But it was as if it were really happening. Max talked about it, talked about hearing noises in the house, and as matter-of-fact as she's ever been, talked about it not frightening her.
So all in all it was a pretty spooky Halloween. And because Max and I are such avid fans of Ghosthunters, we've decided to do a little research pertaining to the history of the house and its previous owners.
I'll keep you posted. Oh my god, I didn't really just end that with an excruciating but unintended pun, did I?
Nevermind. I'll keep you in the loop.
The problem with ghost stories are unless an actual ghost shows up on your video camera, you think: Ahhh, come on. That's lame.
And it's true. No one got attacked or possessed. But the really creepy part came when we were discussing it on Sunday, and Max told us the dream she had.
She said it seemed like she was awake but knew she was really asleep. In the dream, Max said she got out of her loft bed to go on her computer (which is on a desk directly below the bed). She heard someone making noise on the mattress, but when she climbed the ladder to check it out, she found it empty. So as she sat back down at her desk, a piece of paper floats down next to her. Written on the single leaf of paper was a word: Hi.
She checked again to make sure there wasn't anyone in her bed, but then wrote "Hello" on the page and left it on the mattress.
Back down on her computer, she noticed the page floating down again. This time, written on the page was: I've been watching you. You are a very pretty little girl.
So Max wrote "Thank you" on the paper, but then thought about adding something. At the bottom, she wrote: Are you a ghost?
The reply? Y-E-S.
So back and forth it went, Max writing on the paper, leaving it in her empty bed. Then, as she climbed back down the ladder, the page would soon follow with an answer.
Max: Is that why I can't see you?
Ghost: Yes.
Max: Are you invisible?
Ghost: Yes.
Max: My name is Max. What's yours?
Ghost: Jimmy.
Max: Are you a little boy?
Ghost: I am.
And there was nothing fantastical about the dream (excluding the invisible boy, yes, I understand). But it was as if it were really happening. Max talked about it, talked about hearing noises in the house, and as matter-of-fact as she's ever been, talked about it not frightening her.
So all in all it was a pretty spooky Halloween. And because Max and I are such avid fans of Ghosthunters, we've decided to do a little research pertaining to the history of the house and its previous owners.
I'll keep you posted. Oh my god, I didn't really just end that with an excruciating but unintended pun, did I?
Nevermind. I'll keep you in the loop.
Nov 6, 2009
Halloween Part 4: I See Dead People...um, Part 2
"Max, go downstairs now," I said.
"Why, what made that noise?" she asked.
"Now!"
I ran downstairs, grabbed a cleaver from the kitchen (although a fire poker would have been a better bet, but I guess if someone chose a cleaver to attack you, you can pretty much assume they mean business). "Leni, come upstairs with me..." I said. "Why do I have to come upstairs with you?"
"Because I'm not going up there alone and Roxy's reach isn't long enough."
So upstairs we went, Leni and I, with me holding her directly in front of me lest we were attacked. And it should be said that there was nowhere for the person to go. It was too high to climb out of Max or Ali's windows; the bathroom window is inset with a glass shelf in front of it, so that didn't help them either. Which left our bedroom, except we would hear them leave the bathroom, and eventually see them land on our back porch when they jumped off the balcony.
At the top of the landing, I issued a warning: Whoever is in the house, I have a cleaver. If you come out, things will go much better for you. If you don't, I'm going to f**k you up, bad.
I checked Max's room. Someone had thrown toys everywhere, stuffed animals, craft supplies. Clearly, she hadn't cleaned it in a while. And honestly, if there was an intruder in there, he would have left a long and easily identifiable trail of glitter for me to follow. So I moved on.
Ali's room? Nothing. Although obviously the mess was viral and extremely contagious. I made a mental note to have the conversation later.
I put my hand quietly on the bathroom doorknob, gripped the cleaver, and swung the door open. The shower curtain and rod lay half on the tub, half on the floor. This was what had made the noise. But the room was empty, so who had yanked it down?
I checked the bedroom. The balcony doors were still locked, so no one left through there. Under the bed and the closets were clear. Everything was how we had left it. Except the bathroom.
I called Ali. She'd turned the lights off, and was pretty sure the other doors had been left open when she left.
So how does a ridiculously tight curtain rod in the shower fall down? Gravity, yes. But that means when Ali showered, she opened the shower curtain with such force, she disrupted the way the rod was seated, weakening it so over the next 4 hours it would slowly slide off of its mounting block until we arrived home to hear it, coincidentally, fall. Plausible, sure. Realistic? Not as much.
But the light? Who knows? Let's say Ali was forgetful. That doesn't explain what happened later. Leni and I dropped Max at her party around 7 PM. We came home, put the baby to sleep, had dinner, and sat down to watch an episode of House.
And from upstairs, every couple of minutes, we would hear another bang. A door thumping. Something dropping on the floor. A muffled crash.
We don't have shutters that bang in the wind. No cross currents of air whistling through the hallways and bedrooms. The heat doesn't make weird noises and as far as I can tell, neither do the pipes.
Bang!
"Did you just hear that?" I asked Leni.
"I've been hearing it all night," she replied.
"Why, what made that noise?" she asked.
"Now!"
I ran downstairs, grabbed a cleaver from the kitchen (although a fire poker would have been a better bet, but I guess if someone chose a cleaver to attack you, you can pretty much assume they mean business). "Leni, come upstairs with me..." I said. "Why do I have to come upstairs with you?"
"Because I'm not going up there alone and Roxy's reach isn't long enough."
So upstairs we went, Leni and I, with me holding her directly in front of me lest we were attacked. And it should be said that there was nowhere for the person to go. It was too high to climb out of Max or Ali's windows; the bathroom window is inset with a glass shelf in front of it, so that didn't help them either. Which left our bedroom, except we would hear them leave the bathroom, and eventually see them land on our back porch when they jumped off the balcony.
At the top of the landing, I issued a warning: Whoever is in the house, I have a cleaver. If you come out, things will go much better for you. If you don't, I'm going to f**k you up, bad.
I checked Max's room. Someone had thrown toys everywhere, stuffed animals, craft supplies. Clearly, she hadn't cleaned it in a while. And honestly, if there was an intruder in there, he would have left a long and easily identifiable trail of glitter for me to follow. So I moved on.
Ali's room? Nothing. Although obviously the mess was viral and extremely contagious. I made a mental note to have the conversation later.
I put my hand quietly on the bathroom doorknob, gripped the cleaver, and swung the door open. The shower curtain and rod lay half on the tub, half on the floor. This was what had made the noise. But the room was empty, so who had yanked it down?
I checked the bedroom. The balcony doors were still locked, so no one left through there. Under the bed and the closets were clear. Everything was how we had left it. Except the bathroom.
I called Ali. She'd turned the lights off, and was pretty sure the other doors had been left open when she left.
So how does a ridiculously tight curtain rod in the shower fall down? Gravity, yes. But that means when Ali showered, she opened the shower curtain with such force, she disrupted the way the rod was seated, weakening it so over the next 4 hours it would slowly slide off of its mounting block until we arrived home to hear it, coincidentally, fall. Plausible, sure. Realistic? Not as much.
But the light? Who knows? Let's say Ali was forgetful. That doesn't explain what happened later. Leni and I dropped Max at her party around 7 PM. We came home, put the baby to sleep, had dinner, and sat down to watch an episode of House.
And from upstairs, every couple of minutes, we would hear another bang. A door thumping. Something dropping on the floor. A muffled crash.
We don't have shutters that bang in the wind. No cross currents of air whistling through the hallways and bedrooms. The heat doesn't make weird noises and as far as I can tell, neither do the pipes.
Bang!
"Did you just hear that?" I asked Leni.
"I've been hearing it all night," she replied.
Nov 5, 2009
Halloween Part 4: I See Dead People...um, Part 1
One thing I didn't want to forget about before all of the Halloween decorations went back into the shed underneath a tarp was that we believe, and by we I mean Leni and I, but we believe we have a ghost in our house.
Now, if you don't believe in ghosts, head over here instead: http://www.party-tencho.com/koi2/. I'd rather have you skip today's post than hear about things you believe are all in my imagination, like unicorns, when we all know that when a unicorn cries he makes a rainbow and don't even think about trying to tell me that rainbows don't exist. Anyway, it's a weird Japanese game where you try to poke this woman in the head. And make sure the sound is on. And no, this isn't a setup. And no, I don't know why that would be fun. And, finally, no, I don't know where I find these things. I just do. Can we move on?
On Halloween day, we left our house around 2 PM to Trick or Treat. Ali, our nanny, showered, got into costume, and left around 3:30. After the parade in town, we made our way home. And we decided to sneak into the back door so that no kids would see us arrive and think they could get candy because at that point, we'd pretty much had it with the whole give me some f**king candy business.
As we settled into the living room with our coats and stroller and everything, we hear a loud crash from upstairs. With Ali gone and everyone else in the living room, it was a little disconcerting. Max and I climbed to the top of the stairs, and I was instantly uncomfortable. Every door on the second floor was closed (4 in total). The one directly at the end of the hall, the bathroom, was also closed, except this was the only room with a light on.
We don't close our doors when we go out. Ali closes her door, but that's because her room is a mess. But we certainly don't close the others. Nor are we in the habit of leaving lights on.
Which left only one option in my mind: Someone was in the house.
Now, if you don't believe in ghosts, head over here instead: http://www.party-tencho.com/koi2/. I'd rather have you skip today's post than hear about things you believe are all in my imagination, like unicorns, when we all know that when a unicorn cries he makes a rainbow and don't even think about trying to tell me that rainbows don't exist. Anyway, it's a weird Japanese game where you try to poke this woman in the head. And make sure the sound is on. And no, this isn't a setup. And no, I don't know why that would be fun. And, finally, no, I don't know where I find these things. I just do. Can we move on?
On Halloween day, we left our house around 2 PM to Trick or Treat. Ali, our nanny, showered, got into costume, and left around 3:30. After the parade in town, we made our way home. And we decided to sneak into the back door so that no kids would see us arrive and think they could get candy because at that point, we'd pretty much had it with the whole give me some f**king candy business.
As we settled into the living room with our coats and stroller and everything, we hear a loud crash from upstairs. With Ali gone and everyone else in the living room, it was a little disconcerting. Max and I climbed to the top of the stairs, and I was instantly uncomfortable. Every door on the second floor was closed (4 in total). The one directly at the end of the hall, the bathroom, was also closed, except this was the only room with a light on.
We don't close our doors when we go out. Ali closes her door, but that's because her room is a mess. But we certainly don't close the others. Nor are we in the habit of leaving lights on.
Which left only one option in my mind: Someone was in the house.
Nov 4, 2009
Shameless Plug
I know. I brag. I can't help it. She's adorable. If she had made one of those funny faces like she does when she poops and I was able to get a picture of it, you'd be enjoying that right now with your morning coffee. Instead, you get to see how cute my daughter is and hear me go on and on and on and on about it.So there.
Nov 3, 2009
Halloween Part 3: The Sterbenz Family
Here are a couple photos of us from Saturday.
That's Max as an Ice Queen. Or a Ghost Queen. Or an Ice Ghost Queen Princess type whatchamacallit depending on who she was talking to. Leni is in the middle dressed as a Tired Mom. And Roxy, on the right, as Evil Incarnate. Or a Skeleton. It depended on who was asking.
My costume was actually pretty ingenious. I took all of the best parts of Exhaustion and Being Lame, and then sucked all the fun out of my Saturday. I went as a 36 year old Set Dresser. You can see I have my Sex and the City: The Movie jacket on (just like a real on-set dresser would wear).
This is a toilet (from Max's friend's house) that is dressed as another toilet, only one that is horribly ashamed and humiliated. Like Julia Roberts when she tried to buy an outfit for the opera in Pretty Woman only those salesladies were really, really nasty to her because she was dressed like a whore.
Let me tell you something, Julia: I don't care if you have a heart of gold. Walk into my dress shop looking like a hooker, you will get treated like a hooker. Or a toilet.
I think I kind of lost my way, there, on that metaphor. And I guess it should be said that, without question, I don't own a dress shop. Or fraternize with hookers. And I certainly don't dress up my toilet. Seriously. Would you look at that thing?
Who does that?
That's Max as an Ice Queen. Or a Ghost Queen. Or an Ice Ghost Queen Princess type whatchamacallit depending on who she was talking to. Leni is in the middle dressed as a Tired Mom. And Roxy, on the right, as Evil Incarnate. Or a Skeleton. It depended on who was asking.
My costume was actually pretty ingenious. I took all of the best parts of Exhaustion and Being Lame, and then sucked all the fun out of my Saturday. I went as a 36 year old Set Dresser. You can see I have my Sex and the City: The Movie jacket on (just like a real on-set dresser would wear).
This is a toilet (from Max's friend's house) that is dressed as another toilet, only one that is horribly ashamed and humiliated. Like Julia Roberts when she tried to buy an outfit for the opera in Pretty Woman only those salesladies were really, really nasty to her because she was dressed like a whore.Let me tell you something, Julia: I don't care if you have a heart of gold. Walk into my dress shop looking like a hooker, you will get treated like a hooker. Or a toilet.
I think I kind of lost my way, there, on that metaphor. And I guess it should be said that, without question, I don't own a dress shop. Or fraternize with hookers. And I certainly don't dress up my toilet. Seriously. Would you look at that thing?
Who does that?
Nov 2, 2009
Halloween Part 2: City Island
I was wrong. Well, not about all of it, but a good chunk of it. And if you came to City Island over the summer and had to dodge the army of glistening SUV's speeding down the avenue or had to wade through the 50 some odd people spilling out of the Crab Shanty, you'd think it was a s**t town too.
But all of that changed on Saturday. This may actually be one of the best places on the planet, especially on Halloween (excluding those, of course, who partake of animal sacrifice and bloodletting...sorry, Roxy).
When I was growing up, one thing was certain: If you were holding a can of shaving cream, you better be a fast runner because those Suffolk County cops will chase you. But not here. On City Island, gangs of kids, running around in broad daylight, cover each other, anything, and anyone unfortunate enough to wander into the blast zone without prejudice. And with some quick thinking, Leni and I were able to avoid being attacked when I threw Roxy into a bus stop, distracting them. And they totally fell for it!
But this isn't to say the children are malicious. They were hysterical. They are all friends, laughing, spraying each other, stopping to talk to parents or neighbors.
Yet the tipping point came around 5:30 PM when we returned to the main street for the parade. "Who walks in the parade?" I asked one woman, dressed as a Rastafarian. "We do. We all do." We all who?
And at first I thought: Why the hell would I want to watch a parade you're walking in? And much like Dr. Benjamin Stone learns to love Grady, South Carolina in the Michael J. Fox movie Doc Hollywood, we quickly learned that it is exactly this type of thing that would be included in the montage of how we fell in love with the Bronx.
The entire population just spills out onto the streets, in costume, and forges a path to the cemetery. En route, we walked past this wacky house overflowing with illuminated decorations. Take a look:
And everyone gets involved, gets dressed, hands out candy.
This guy was my favorite for best costume. He was about 6'7 with 5 o'clock shadow. That is, if by 5 o'clock there was a full moon and you were a werewolf. Who shaved his legs. I don't know. Put your own f**king joke, here, I'm out of material.
City Island, I love ya!
But all of that changed on Saturday. This may actually be one of the best places on the planet, especially on Halloween (excluding those, of course, who partake of animal sacrifice and bloodletting...sorry, Roxy).
When I was growing up, one thing was certain: If you were holding a can of shaving cream, you better be a fast runner because those Suffolk County cops will chase you. But not here. On City Island, gangs of kids, running around in broad daylight, cover each other, anything, and anyone unfortunate enough to wander into the blast zone without prejudice. And with some quick thinking, Leni and I were able to avoid being attacked when I threw Roxy into a bus stop, distracting them. And they totally fell for it!
But this isn't to say the children are malicious. They were hysterical. They are all friends, laughing, spraying each other, stopping to talk to parents or neighbors.Yet the tipping point came around 5:30 PM when we returned to the main street for the parade. "Who walks in the parade?" I asked one woman, dressed as a Rastafarian. "We do. We all do." We all who?
And at first I thought: Why the hell would I want to watch a parade you're walking in? And much like Dr. Benjamin Stone learns to love Grady, South Carolina in the Michael J. Fox movie Doc Hollywood, we quickly learned that it is exactly this type of thing that would be included in the montage of how we fell in love with the Bronx.
The entire population just spills out onto the streets, in costume, and forges a path to the cemetery. En route, we walked past this wacky house overflowing with illuminated decorations. Take a look:
And everyone gets involved, gets dressed, hands out candy.
This guy was my favorite for best costume. He was about 6'7 with 5 o'clock shadow. That is, if by 5 o'clock there was a full moon and you were a werewolf. Who shaved his legs. I don't know. Put your own f**king joke, here, I'm out of material.
City Island, I love ya!
Nov 1, 2009
Halloween Part 1 or How To Upset 15 Ten Year Olds
Working the kind of hours I do, I find I have to compress the remainder of my life into a single remaining hour (or the soft illusion I call sleep will diminish to about 3 hours). And so the brunt of Max's Halloween party fell entirely on Leni's shoulders this Friday, who did everything else I couldn't during the week.
So if you take out Pumpkin Carving, Halloween Bingo (the game I designed), and decorating, the remainder of alllll the efforts went to my incredible wife. Food, Games, Supervising, Planning, Errands, Roxy. All of it.
After school, 15 very rowdy, sugar-boosted, poorly disciplined kids ran around our house for 4 hours, completing the games we had outlined for them at breakneck speed. In only the first hour, they had played 5 of the games that were supposed to last them twice that amount of time (even playing one twice). This is Max getting turned into a mummy:
And while I would rightly pass all of the accolades to Leni, my Mother-In-Law Darlene, our Nanny Ali, and Vanessa, the one single idea I would like to retain responsibility for and ownership of is what follows.
Here is the set-up: Leni brought home a body-bag from Uncle Carl's, which we then put it in the basement with a bunch of other creepy things, including a scarecrow. Then, during the party, in the dark, the kids would have a seance and try to raise the dead. Simple enough.
Here's how it looked:
We had my Mother-In-Law dress up like a witch (so convincingly that when asked who the old woman was, Max replied "Oh, that's just some Fortune Teller my parents hired.") Then, all of the kids had to watch, by candlelight, the scarecrow being placed into the body-bag.
"Bones, bones..." my Mother-In-Law whispered. "Go find my bones..." Then, while all of the kids were on the first floor trying to find the bones (in a scavenger hunt), Leni got INTO the body-bag, waiting motionless for the kids to return.
Finally, the kids returned, bones in hand. Darlene cackled that the bones had to be placed in her cauldron before the dead would rise. She said cauldron because it's just not scary if someone says "Bones! Place my bones in the Lobster Pot."
The video is a dark, and I decided not to subject you to the full five minutes. It's about a minute. But basically, it's 15 kids, all sitting in the dark, watching an old witch stir bones in a pot by candlelight, unaware that at some point Leni is going to jump out.
And whether or not you can see it that well, that noise is still making me laugh two days later. Turn the volume up for the first 40 seconds, then down because the scare comes at about the 43 second mark.
So if you take out Pumpkin Carving, Halloween Bingo (the game I designed), and decorating, the remainder of alllll the efforts went to my incredible wife. Food, Games, Supervising, Planning, Errands, Roxy. All of it.
After school, 15 very rowdy, sugar-boosted, poorly disciplined kids ran around our house for 4 hours, completing the games we had outlined for them at breakneck speed. In only the first hour, they had played 5 of the games that were supposed to last them twice that amount of time (even playing one twice). This is Max getting turned into a mummy:
And while I would rightly pass all of the accolades to Leni, my Mother-In-Law Darlene, our Nanny Ali, and Vanessa, the one single idea I would like to retain responsibility for and ownership of is what follows.Here is the set-up: Leni brought home a body-bag from Uncle Carl's, which we then put it in the basement with a bunch of other creepy things, including a scarecrow. Then, during the party, in the dark, the kids would have a seance and try to raise the dead. Simple enough.
Here's how it looked:
We had my Mother-In-Law dress up like a witch (so convincingly that when asked who the old woman was, Max replied "Oh, that's just some Fortune Teller my parents hired.") Then, all of the kids had to watch, by candlelight, the scarecrow being placed into the body-bag."Bones, bones..." my Mother-In-Law whispered. "Go find my bones..." Then, while all of the kids were on the first floor trying to find the bones (in a scavenger hunt), Leni got INTO the body-bag, waiting motionless for the kids to return.
Finally, the kids returned, bones in hand. Darlene cackled that the bones had to be placed in her cauldron before the dead would rise. She said cauldron because it's just not scary if someone says "Bones! Place my bones in the Lobster Pot."
The video is a dark, and I decided not to subject you to the full five minutes. It's about a minute. But basically, it's 15 kids, all sitting in the dark, watching an old witch stir bones in a pot by candlelight, unaware that at some point Leni is going to jump out.
And whether or not you can see it that well, that noise is still making me laugh two days later. Turn the volume up for the first 40 seconds, then down because the scare comes at about the 43 second mark.
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