Speaking of doctors...
My back is sort of an unknown territory to me, like Newfoundland but without the dogs. I've never really been there, so I don't think about it much. My wife however frets over it and keeps me updated on various happenings. The geology of this region apparently very exciting. Formations change, new features erupt. I listen to her descriptions the way I listen to her updates on office politics - just enough to make polite chit-chat.
Finally, she prevailed on me to go the doctor and have it looked at. When she sends me on errands, knowing that I am absent-minded and writing blog entries in my head, she sends along written instructions. But, since I can't see my back, sterner measures had to be taken.
At the doctor's, as instructed, I de-shirted. I am always embarrassed about this since I have the body of a sourdough roll (lumpy and flour colored) and my doctor is a striking woman. (I didn't pick her because she was cute, I didn't even know she was a woman. I mostly picked her because she has a funny name. I vote that way too.)
The doctor looked at me and asked, "Why are numbers and arrows written in magic marker all over your back?"
"Because the Post-It notes kept falling off."
Then, handing her a stack of note cards, I added "I almost forgot, here's the legend."
Friday, February 09, 2007
Monday, February 05, 2007
Home HMOs
My daughter has been playing doctor lately. She'll look at me and announce, "You sick, I a doctor!" Then she puts her purple socks on her hands. (She is obsessed with a magazine ad for plastic surgery in which the doctors wear purple gloves. This has been a boon for potty training. We sit her down with the magazine and she concentrates.)
"No be nervous." She announces as she comes over with the "Lil Builder" tool chest. Then she gets out the hammer and starts whacking me.
"Doctor, what do I have that you need to hit me with a hammer."
"Be quiet. Take your medicine," she says sternly, "You sick!"
Then she gets out the drill...
When it is all over, she puts her hand out and says, "Copay!" It is usually a cookie, although if she has to give me a medicine (using her plastic watering can) it is two cookies. The care isn't great, but the price is right and I never have to wait for an appointment.
The other day my son got into the game. He said, "Daddy, let's play doctor. But let's pretend that we are bad doctors and when people come in for help, we just wrestle them."
The three of us saw patients all afternoon. Then mommy made us take naps.
"No be nervous." She announces as she comes over with the "Lil Builder" tool chest. Then she gets out the hammer and starts whacking me.
"Doctor, what do I have that you need to hit me with a hammer."
"Be quiet. Take your medicine," she says sternly, "You sick!"
Then she gets out the drill...
When it is all over, she puts her hand out and says, "Copay!" It is usually a cookie, although if she has to give me a medicine (using her plastic watering can) it is two cookies. The care isn't great, but the price is right and I never have to wait for an appointment.
The other day my son got into the game. He said, "Daddy, let's play doctor. But let's pretend that we are bad doctors and when people come in for help, we just wrestle them."
The three of us saw patients all afternoon. Then mommy made us take naps.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Grown Up Dream
The other night I had an elaborate dream. I had driven my car to Baltimore and parked on Charles St. (this is not strange – I am originally from Baltimore.) I walked around town, with Nancy Pelosi (also not that strange, she is originally from Baltimore too.)
When I returned to my car it was gone but there was a street festival. So Nancy Pelosi and I were eating chocolate* at the street festival as I tried to find out what happened to my car. Finally I found out it was towed and was trying to read the ticket (it can be very hard to read in your dreams). Then I woke up to my daughter yelling, “I want milk, Daddy-Mommy, Mommy-Daddy!”
I went downstairs and warmed up my daughter’s milk, which I gave to my wife to give to my daughter. Then I went back to bed. My wife gave me a withering look (she was outnumbered, in addition to wrestling the little girl our son was running around in his underwear singing, “Jailhouse Rock.”)
I murmured, “I need to get my car back.”
While I did want 15 more minutes of sleep, really I needed closure.
* In a weird premonition I later read that Pelosi keeps her energy level up (she puts in 14 hour days of constant motion – while always looking impeccable) by eating lots of high quality chocolate.
When I returned to my car it was gone but there was a street festival. So Nancy Pelosi and I were eating chocolate* at the street festival as I tried to find out what happened to my car. Finally I found out it was towed and was trying to read the ticket (it can be very hard to read in your dreams). Then I woke up to my daughter yelling, “I want milk, Daddy-Mommy, Mommy-Daddy!”
I went downstairs and warmed up my daughter’s milk, which I gave to my wife to give to my daughter. Then I went back to bed. My wife gave me a withering look (she was outnumbered, in addition to wrestling the little girl our son was running around in his underwear singing, “Jailhouse Rock.”)
I murmured, “I need to get my car back.”
While I did want 15 more minutes of sleep, really I needed closure.
* In a weird premonition I later read that Pelosi keeps her energy level up (she puts in 14 hour days of constant motion – while always looking impeccable) by eating lots of high quality chocolate.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Father Goof's Favorite TV Shows
Since the passing the patriarchal heyday of "Leave it to Beaver," TV dads have pretty much been portrayed as dopes. This casual dismissal of the parenting capabilities of fathers has reached such a point in popular culture that a friend of mine worships a "Swiffer" commercial because it portrays a positive, father figure. Ask him about it, he will discourse on it for a period that exceeds the actual length of the commercial by a factor of twenty (the man needs cable.)
Dads could rail against this, claim discrimination, start pressure groups, and develop complex conspiracy theories about the liberal (Communist) media elites and their secret plot to emasculate the American dad and thereby destroy what makes our society great.
Or... we could use this in our favor. My favorite shows, by far, are "Everybody Loves Raymond" and "Supernanny." Why? Because no matter what I do, I am a way better dad than Ray Barone or the Dads in the dysfunctional families requiring the help of Supernanny (it is always a long-suffering, disorganized mom who isn't getting the help she needs from her self-centered husband - always.)
Often I feel a little guilty for not playing with the kids or being a little short with them (or lying to them that their favorite - read: noisiest - toys are lost, when in fact I buried them in the backyard so I would no longer have to hear the endless warblings from a Wiggles guitar with a key jammed down on "Big Red Car"*). But the feeling passes as I watch Ray Barone lie to his wife so he doesn't have to take his kids to the park or the dad on Supernanny who thought spending time with his daughters was having them watch him ride an ATV around the backyard.
Better, I watch them with my wife. Good to remind her how good she has it.
* Here is a question. The batteries in the children's toys can generate loud noices continuously for weeks on end. I put the same battery into my PDA and it immediately loses power and eats all my contact info. Why do electrons hate me so? Are they sub-atomic children, constantly trying to run away from the nucleus to make trouble while the weary protons and nuetrons are busy trying to generate a weak atomic force to keep atom intact?
Dads could rail against this, claim discrimination, start pressure groups, and develop complex conspiracy theories about the liberal (Communist) media elites and their secret plot to emasculate the American dad and thereby destroy what makes our society great.
Or... we could use this in our favor. My favorite shows, by far, are "Everybody Loves Raymond" and "Supernanny." Why? Because no matter what I do, I am a way better dad than Ray Barone or the Dads in the dysfunctional families requiring the help of Supernanny (it is always a long-suffering, disorganized mom who isn't getting the help she needs from her self-centered husband - always.)
Often I feel a little guilty for not playing with the kids or being a little short with them (or lying to them that their favorite - read: noisiest - toys are lost, when in fact I buried them in the backyard so I would no longer have to hear the endless warblings from a Wiggles guitar with a key jammed down on "Big Red Car"*). But the feeling passes as I watch Ray Barone lie to his wife so he doesn't have to take his kids to the park or the dad on Supernanny who thought spending time with his daughters was having them watch him ride an ATV around the backyard.
Better, I watch them with my wife. Good to remind her how good she has it.
* Here is a question. The batteries in the children's toys can generate loud noices continuously for weeks on end. I put the same battery into my PDA and it immediately loses power and eats all my contact info. Why do electrons hate me so? Are they sub-atomic children, constantly trying to run away from the nucleus to make trouble while the weary protons and nuetrons are busy trying to generate a weak atomic force to keep atom intact?
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Married Man Makes his Move
“Hey honey, Saturday Night Live doesn’t look any good this week.”
Actually the guest host is Jake Gyllenhaal, and Father Goof can’t hope to compete with that.
Actually the guest host is Jake Gyllenhaal, and Father Goof can’t hope to compete with that.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Economics of Babysitting
Let's get right to the point: there is no reason to feel guilty about low-balling when negotiating payment with the babysitter.
When I was a teenager I had no life, and was desperate for cash. I babysat (even though I didn't really like kids) and all my friends babysat. This was twenty years ago and I was paid one-fifty an hour. As soon as I was old enough I got a job at a pizza place (and free pizza when I misread orders and made it wrong) for the lordly sum of $3.35 an hour.
Now, baby-sitters in my neck of the woods charge $8 an hour (I was in my twenties before I made that kind of money - although I am employment-challenged.) I don't know why the price of a teenager's time has gone up so much - they seem about as useless as I was at that age. It probably has something to do with MySpace.
Do the math, a nice dinner for two ($40 and 90 minutes) and a movie ($20 including snacks and two and a half hours), add in transit time and you owe the baby-sitter $40. A modest night out suddenly costs a c-note.
And $8 an hour is not the high end. When we took the kids to an out of town wedding the baby-sitter was $12 an hour.
You have one advantage here, teenagers aren't much for market research. The kids already in the business know the prevailing rates. But the ones who haven't babysat before do not. You need to find fresh meat (bar mitzvahs have been particularly rich veins to mine - although not the kid being honored, he is rolling in gifts that day.)
This is a good start, but it could be counter-productive. If every parent is seeking new blood, soon the kids will get wise. Bidding wars, and possibly fistfights, could ensue. We need to form a cartel, before they start one (possibly through networks of friends on MySpace). As a cartel we can set prices and, if necessary, lobby congress to set a maximum wage for babysitters.
Also, if they are going to charge these prices we should make them take credit cards.
One important note - however desperate you are for a night out, do not compromise on your child's security. One kid told us how smart our son was, explaining, "He even beat me at Connect Four." He won't be back.
When I was a teenager I had no life, and was desperate for cash. I babysat (even though I didn't really like kids) and all my friends babysat. This was twenty years ago and I was paid one-fifty an hour. As soon as I was old enough I got a job at a pizza place (and free pizza when I misread orders and made it wrong) for the lordly sum of $3.35 an hour.
Now, baby-sitters in my neck of the woods charge $8 an hour (I was in my twenties before I made that kind of money - although I am employment-challenged.) I don't know why the price of a teenager's time has gone up so much - they seem about as useless as I was at that age. It probably has something to do with MySpace.
Do the math, a nice dinner for two ($40 and 90 minutes) and a movie ($20 including snacks and two and a half hours), add in transit time and you owe the baby-sitter $40. A modest night out suddenly costs a c-note.
And $8 an hour is not the high end. When we took the kids to an out of town wedding the baby-sitter was $12 an hour.
You have one advantage here, teenagers aren't much for market research. The kids already in the business know the prevailing rates. But the ones who haven't babysat before do not. You need to find fresh meat (bar mitzvahs have been particularly rich veins to mine - although not the kid being honored, he is rolling in gifts that day.)
This is a good start, but it could be counter-productive. If every parent is seeking new blood, soon the kids will get wise. Bidding wars, and possibly fistfights, could ensue. We need to form a cartel, before they start one (possibly through networks of friends on MySpace). As a cartel we can set prices and, if necessary, lobby congress to set a maximum wage for babysitters.
Also, if they are going to charge these prices we should make them take credit cards.
One important note - however desperate you are for a night out, do not compromise on your child's security. One kid told us how smart our son was, explaining, "He even beat me at Connect Four." He won't be back.
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