This Is Not News

Spent five hours yesterday smoking beef brisket, my first really elaborate outdoor cooking of the year. There’s something aggravating yet satisfying about feeding another three or four briquettes into the grill every half hour or so to keep the temperature in low 200s. Of course, in the process, I wind up smelling thoroughly like smoked brisket, which means I get really hungry every time I scratch my nose.

I’ve been using Alton Brown’s 8/3/1+1 formula for a barbecue rub for the last few years, although I don’t often use it on ribs as he originally intended. The idea is that whatever unit of measure you choose to use, you combine 8 units of brown sugar, 3 of kosher salt, and 1 of chili powder. Then you add one more unit of anything you like to get the particular flavor you want. I use tablespoons as my unit, and then break up that last tablespoon into six half-teaspoon units to get a mix of flavors. My most recent version combined celery salt, garlic powder, onion powder, mustard, coriander seed, and paprika. I think it worked out pretty well, and the rub does a nice job on pork chops too.

Along with some nifty cards and a DVD, Pattie and Alex got me a T-shirt that reads “I Fought the Lawn and the Lawn Won.” I have been happily wearing this shirt all day and occasionally breaking into song with the shirt’s refrain. On one such occasion, Pattie said, “I should make a note, what you really want are puns.”

I said, “I can’t believe it’s taken you ten years to figure that out.”

Ah well, the grass is starting to grow, I’ve had chopped pork from my favorite area BBQ restaurant, and life is good.

Even though we nearly lost another balloon in the ceiling fan.

Happy Father’s Day, everyone.

A mental challenge requiring intense focus and concentration? Check.
A physical challenge requiring muscle strength, coordination, and conditioning? Check.
An emotional challenge requiring compassion, understanding and intuition? Check.

Fur wristlets? Sequined headband? Pink lip gloss? Curling Iron? Check, check, check.

Welcome one and all to the recap of my baptism by fire into the stress-filled world of dance recitals. It’s me, my five-year-old daughter Alex, 160 other mother-daughter teams, and one heck of learning curve.

Day One – The Saturday 7:30 PM Show

Right off the bat, it’s important to know that recitals for this particular dance school are not a one-shot event. There are three performances spread over two days. I’m not sure how common this is but most of the newer dance moms (myself included) were a little taken aback by this format. Thankfully, we were informed several months ago giving us plenty of time to adjust to the fact that we would get nothing else in our lives done on recital weekend.

Having attended my niece’s dance recital a year earlier I had a vague idea of what was required in the backstage area and packed accordingly: costumes, two, carefully wrapped in plastic, accessories for each number (the aforementioned wristlets and headbands), clean tap and jazz shoes, laces, hairbrush, hairspray, extra makeup, snacks and beverages, small coloring book, crayons. And last but not least, the child, dressed in an outfit that does not have to go over her head to be removed lest we disturb the makeup and sponge curlers that were so carefully applied some time earlier (by my sister).

I guide my little dancer into the massive dressing room and instantly realize something. Despite my planning and vague notions of preparedness gleaned from my sister, I am an amateur. The pros are already here. The mothers with multiple daughters or with daughters who have been dancing in recitals for five or even ten years have commandeered the space along one entire wall. They do not just have small lunch bags with snacks to keep five-year old tummies at bay. They have rolling coolers, fruit baskets, trays of cheese and crackers, cold cut platters, dips, spreads…Is that brie?

The veterans also have portable sewing machines, state-of-the-art curling irons, and nerves of steel. They talk amongst themselves and rarely wander over to the newbies. They’re not aloof, just focused. In the zone. Their zone. Not ours. They pull beverages out of their coolers and toss them to each other with practiced ease while pinning feather headpieces atop heads of perfectly shaped curls. Their daughters have brought flip-flops and full-length robes to wear between performances. If I had ever wondered what tailgating at a Broadway show would look like, now I know.

The newbie moms like myself look at them in awe. We are not worthy. In truth, even among the newbies, they are varying levels of preparedness. Most of us have packed snacks and activities for their children for the downtime in between their two numbers. We have scissors, needles and thread for emergency costume repairs, cameras for the all-important cute backstage photos, and lots of tissues and washcloths in case of accidents. The truly frazzled have not thought about food and are at the mercy of the vending machines. Some have also left some important items in the car and now have to dash back to fetch them, with fussy five-year olds in tap shoes perched on their hips. The good thing about being a newbie, though, is the camaraderie. We are all scared out of our wits and anxious to help each other out. Left Kylie’s fringe skirt in the car? Don’t worry; I’ll watch her while you get it. Brooke’s bangs falling? Do you need to borrow some hairspray? Yes, of course, Brittany can share Madison’s crayons.

The show itself is a hurry-up-and-wait frenzy of dressing the children, waiting for their number, dashing them to the stage director, racing to the ‘mom’ area in the auditorium to watch the performance, running back down the hall to catch and hug the children as they exit the stage and run back to the dressing room to dress for the next routine. We don’t watch the clock. We watch the closed circuit TV feed of the stage to mark time. What’s on? Number 24? Is that enough time to take Emma to the potty before their next number? The mothers stand and pace. The girls sprawl out on the floor in their sequined dresses and color and draw to pass the time. Some snack on dry things like crackers and baby carrots. They drink water. Nothing runny and nothing that stains. Lip gloss will need to be reapplied, though. Legs ache from pacing. Arms ache from holding fidgeting children. Voices are hoarse from cheering from the mom section at the end of each number.

The finale ends and we change our weary dancers back into their street clothes and pack up, hoping that tomorrow with be easier. At home, Dave offers to spell me backstage the next day so I can sit in the audience and see the entire show. I remind him of the large sign on the dressing room door that states “No Men Allowed.� The drama of the backstage, complete with females with names like Alexis, big hair, and high tension, is a soap opera that only moms and daughters are permitted to see.

Day Two – The Sunday 1:30 PM Show

This show is affectionately known as the In-Law Show. It seems that most of the newbie moms invited their parents to the Saturday show and their spouses’ parents to the Sunday afternoon show. As a result, most of us are on edge because our mothers-in-law have threatened to come backstage to the dressing room and “help.� Perhaps with that in mind, we’ve packed and planned down to the last detail, emulating the veteran moms whenever possible. Snack bags are larger and more plentiful. We have blankets, more coloring books and the occasional plush toy to calm cranky kids. We agree that there’s no point in dressing the girls too soon just to have them wait around in piles of sequins and tulle. No, we’ll dress them when we’re three numbers away from their call and not a minute sooner but after a potty break. One little girl got a fever yesterday and had to go home, missing her last number and the rest of the weekend. Not taking any chances, a couple of moms packed cold compresses.

By this time, all the newbie kids are comfortable with all the newbie moms and one mom can stand in for another. Kids beg the closest mom for a book or a new crayon. Moms take whole groups of kids on potty breaks for maximum efficiency. Snacks are now communal.

We’re hitting our stride. As we strip the tulle dresses off of our girls and replace them with sequined fringe, we trade ideas over the best course of actions for the break between the afternoon and evening shows. Should we try to get the girls to nap? Eat? Will their curls hold up? A few newbie moms have been talking to the girls in the fifteen- to-eighteen-year-old dance groups about the variety of hairpiece options available at beauty supply stores. Ponytails of ringlets that stay put, blend well, and bounce naturally for less than $25? Many are already sold on the idea for next year. I’m skeptical. Alex’s hair is short, curls rather easily and hello? She’ll be all of six at the next show. Let’s not rush things. I’ve only just gotten used to the idea of putting makeup on her.

Two hours later, though, I’m re-setting her now-flattened curls in sponge rollers and wondering if I’ll ever be good at it.

Day Two – The Sunday 7:30 PM Show

Our kids want their trophies. They’ve been promised these trophies since the start of the dance year and they know that they’ll get them tonight. But just in case that isn’t true, one of them asks about it every 45 seconds, just to be sure. This is enough to make the waiting for their turn seem twice as long. Thankfully, I have learned from the last two days and brought a giant storybook along for this show. I sit Alex and her best dance friend down on a blanket, let each pick a story and begin reading aloud. Five minutes later, I am surrounded by little girls on my blanket, even some older ones, who are eager to show off their reading skills. The time flies and soon it’s time for their performance.

The girls love the stage by now and at least two break protocol to wave at family members when they are supposed to be tapping. They look like frosted cupcakes in their tulle dresses so it doesn’t matter. They’re cute. Afterward, the moms race back to meet them as they exit the stage and catch something even cuter. As the line of three- to-five-year-old tappers leaving the stage passes the line of seven- to nine-year-old tappers entering the stage, they all high-five one another, murmuring ‘good job, good job’ as if they were ball players on opposing teams. It’s completely spontaneous, impossibly adorable, and no one catches it on camera. Bummer.

I watch from the back of the auditorium as Dave basically performs Alex’s second number with her from his seat and then screams himself hoarse as she finally gets her gold-toned trophy. We surprise her with three star-shaped balloons as we leave the theater and there’s no happier kid in the world. It’s 10:30 PM and she’s not even tired. We snap some pictures of her in her costume with her trophy until I take it off of her and pack it away in plastic. She dances around the living room with her balloons reminding me of why I suggested dance lessons in the first place. I ask if she had fun and if she wants to do dance classes in the fall. She nods rapidly and answers yes to both questions and keeps dancing.

For a moment she’s happy and so am I, albeit a little tired. And I enjoy this blissful moment of parenthood.

Three minutes later she gets her balloons wrapped around the dining room ceiling fan.

Moment’s over.

Last year I completely gave up caffeinated beverages for three months. I stopped when I hit dissertation crunch time and couldn’t afford to be drifting to sleep early in the evening. But going cold turkey wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be – I just started buying Sprite instead of Coke and walked right past the Snapple displays.

Now instead of going cold turkey I’m trying to limit my intake of certain things, and it almost seems harder. I have several cases of Snapple that I bought on sale, but I’m trying to hold myself to one a day. (This would be easier if I could keep up with my new lemonade habit. But of course citrus prices are through the roof, and it’ll cost me six bucks or more to get enough lemons for one pitcher. Which I can go through in about a day and a half. It’s good lemonade.) But when there are several bottles on hand, the temptation is much stronger.

I’ve also taken to eating meat at only one meal per day, partially for health reasons, partially to stretch the food budget, and partially to reduce the environmental impact of my diet. I go through a lot of protein, whether that’s in tuna, cheese, or livestock, but I’m increasingly coming to the conclusion that it’s unreasonable for me to pig out two or three times a day on a food product that’s expensive and resource-intensive. I’m reading stories about public officials trying to live on food stamps for a week, surviving on pasta and peanut butter, and I have no idea how they do it.

The major problem for me here is that this puts a crimp in my leftovers usage. If I have leftover meat from tonight’s dinner, I can’t just polish that off for tomorrow’s lunch. But for now I’m still generating that level of leftovers based on the way food is packaged and/or sold. So I’m still working this one out. But it’s been an interesting experiment so far.

OK, time to play Crabby Old Guy. I’ve been watching those sneakers-with-wheels get more popular, judging by the number of rolling kids I have to dodge when I’m out at malls or stores. And I know it’s a matter of time before klutzy me can not get the heck out of the way. I assume I will be carrying eggs at the time.

Anyway, here’s an AP article via the Philadelphia Inquirer about a study that suggests that thee shoes are definitely causing an increase in wrist and hand injuries to kids when they lose their balance. According to the article “The American Academy of Orthopaedic Surgeons, based in Rosemont, Ill., this week is issuing new safety advice that recommends helmets, wrist protectors and knee and elbow pads for kids who wear wheeled shoes.”

I barely see kids on bikes wearing all that gear – who thinks they’re gonna be part of the everyday hanging out wardrobe?

I can’t wait until I have to tell my daughter she’s not getting these shoes. Yikes.

OK, now you kids, get off my lawn.

Pattie and I had hoped to keep our air conditioner off during the month of May. Despite temperatures hitting the 90s this week, so far we’ve hung in there. But I would not be surprised if things change at 12:01.

Truth be told, I’ve just been thankful that my desk is in the basement. It’s far cooler here than in the rest of the house. Now if you’ll excuse me, my brain cells have to get back to melting.

I decided to take a crack at making homemade chocolate syrup last night, and printed out Alton Brown’s Cocoa Syrup recipe from the Food Network site. I really should have gone to the Alton Brown fan page to check out the episode transcript just to see what details I missed, because when the printed recipe says to only reduce the syrup “until slightly thickened,” they sure as heck mean the slightly. I underestimated exactly how much the sauce would thicken as it cooled, and wound up with something almost like chocolate tar. I reheated the syrup and mixed in some more water, and the end result is still awfully tasty stuff, but I have a hunch the second go-round will be even better. Still, I guess screwing up the recipe the first time is half the fun of cooking. OK, maybe a quarter of the fun. Do I hear an eighth?

After years of discussing it, today I filled in two areas in front the house with small white stones – snowchips, as the rock store called them. Rather than make roughly three hundred extra trips to Lowe’s, we ordered the rocks from a wholesaler. Thus it came to be that at around 3 in the afternoon, I heard a truck pulling into the driveway. By the time I got outside, the truck was spilling a ton of small rocks onto the pavement – a ton apparently being the smallest unit that this wholesaler sells. I suppose fractional tons would require it being called a halfsaler. But I digress. I then spent the next few hours shoveling these rocks into their designated positions so that the driveway would be usable again.

Don’t get me wrong, I like my rocks. But this is one of those things you have to remember when someone gives you the “buy-a-home-don’t-waste-your-money-renting” spiel. Were I renting a place, I doubt I would have said to myself, “There’s a hundred bucks burning a hole in my pocket. Let me purchase many, many small rocks so that I can spend hours shoveling them around.” So I think that should be in the spiel.

Pattie’s recent mention of the latest marketing tendril (tentacle?) to snake outward from Disney’s “Princesses” franchise struck a nerve with me. You see, I’m going to become a dad myself this fall, and even though I’m going to be spending the next few years learning baby talk and then trying to transition that into what I hope will become a solid and fluent grasp of English for my child, I’ve already been mentally filing away “lesson plans,” for lack of a better way to put it, for later, once we’ve (hopefully) established the roots of a command of English. One of the topics burning a hole in the back of my brain is trying to create some sense of awareness of marketing, and a sense of discipline and skepticism about it.

I doubt I’ll have much luck anytime before age 10 or so, of course. I remember what I was like as a kid (and what I’m like now, too, being essentially a big kid, depending on who you ask). I was four when I saw Star Wars for the first time, and five when the figures hit the stores. Oh yeah, baby. I was all over that. My young life (and, therefore, my parents’ budget) hinged on the availability of plastic wookiees and droids. (If I’m to be quite honest, my plastic-wookiee-and-droid lust didn’t abate until after I’d gotten a couple of handfuls of Episode III figures.) I have no doubt my kid’s going to be the same.

But something to keep in mind about my formative years is that the Star Wars marketing story was a bolt-from-the-blue success that nobody expected; certainly not 20th Century Fox, which allowed Lucas to hang on to the merchandising rights for himself, as they figured there was no value in it for them. These days, stuff isn’t just marketed heavily toward children – it’s marketed downright insidiously. While shopping for baby bedding a few weeks back, I snuck a glance at toys aimed more at toddlers – well over a year before I’m even going to need to be thinking about such things – and I was stunned. There have been toy cash registers since I was a wee tot myself, but not with slots to swipe a big plastic credit card. And not just any big plastic credit card, but a plastic credit card with the official Visa logo on it.

Oh, I don’t. Even. Think so.

I had already been looking at the world in a new light, having just recently found out that we’re expecting a boy, and I was already re-examining things like cartoons and children’s programming (and their various and sundry tie-ins) with a new, more skeptical eye. I’ve seen my niece’s collection of Disney princess-related gear grow steadily too, and I’m becoming aware that I’m going to be fighting the opposite number of that trend – one fueled more by testosterone than frills and fantasy. I don’t want to raise my child to be naive, but I don’t want him to be a bully either. There’s got to be a balance. But let me stray a little bit closer to the original point.

It seems that the folks marketing toward kids are sometimes ignoring the ramifications of their message in favor of getting their “brand” out there. When that brand-awareness-from-birth practice grows to include credit cards, I lose track of how many mental alarm bells go off. If you were standing next to me right now, you could catch a glint of red emergency “bubble lights” shining through my ears. Don’t get me wrong, credit cards are tools like any other, capable of helping one in a tight spot, and just as capable of being misused. But the idea that the major credit card vendors are stamping their official logos on toys, and sponsoring educational initiatives on money, aimed at the grade school crowd, the phrase “fox guarding the henhouse” springs instantly to mind, even with all of the acclaim that these efforts have won. It strikes me as being almost as laughable as the Philip Morris company’s bluster about sponsoring anti-smoking education – because all you have to do is watch an hour or so of television to see that Visa and others of their ilk are flying in the face of their own “lessons,” with one recent TV ad campaign – set to the tune of Petula Clark’s “Downtown” – all but coming right out and saying that if you’re feeling just a little blue, get out there and run up that credit card balance. Buy stuff. Feel better.

At least the tobacco companies are barred from getting their counter-education onto the public airwaves.

Even though I know I’m probably a good three years early on this, I guess my question is, to any other parents out there, how do you fight this? Everyone from major credit card vendors to fast food restaurants have already figured out how to get their names and their logos and their products under kids’ noses at school, when we can’t be there to point out the alternatives or the downsides. College age kids are having credit cards pushed to them as soon as they’re on campus, if not before.

I realize that schools seem to be under-funded just about everywhere, making these sponsorships a necessary evil to some districts. And I’m not asking public schools to shoulder the entire burden of teaching fiscal responsibility (here’s an article that makes several good cases against that, in the context of the modern American public school classroom). The American way of life shouldn’t be mom, baseball, apple pie, and consumer debt in one big package – and we shouldn’t be relying on the schools to get that message across when they’ve fallen into the same trap of debt that the rest of us have at one time or another.

Sure, we can ask for policy reforms on this issue, but it doesn’t absolve us of the need to start doing the work at home. This is a case where it looks like we’ll have to reform ourselves to set a better example for our own children.

So we went out to dinner tonight because I had a hankering for tacos, and in the restaurant there was a guy making balloon animals for tips. You can guess what the chances of us leaving the restaurant without a balloon for Alex was. So the guy comes over, sees my Fordham cap, and asks me where Fordham is and what I studied. When I mentioned philosophy, he said that he was studying philosophy out in Pittsburgh, and when I said I had a grad degree, he said he was interested in that as well – and then he asked me if I had published anything. I haven’t, in part because I’ve focused on the education/teaching stuff and in part because there’s a voice in the back of my head saying that my philosophical writing voice just isn’t quite right. My papers never really bowled anyone over during my grad work, and I just couldn’t seem to make it click.

When I got home and checked my e-mail, there was a message from a political science professor whose seminar I took last spring. He was sending me a Word file with comments on my term paper, and as I went through there were a number of little style goofs or bad antecedents or what have you. But at the end there was a comment that the paper was unusually well-written or words to that effect. And this was not the first time a poli sci professor had praised my writing.

All of this has me wondering if I didn’t pick the wrong discipline – that my brain somehow works more smoothly in a political theory direction than a straight-theoretical line. Or it could just be down to individual professors’ preferences. Something to think about as I move forward, anyway.