Bonding & Skydiving

I am starting to get more amazed at the things we would do for our kids.  I get the normal parent stuff.  We work our asses off to provide a better life for them.  We give up of ourselves and our lives in order to take them to various places and functions because it is what they like versus what we would like to do.  We worry and care about them because that is what we do.  I got it. It is in the job description and the contract I signed. 

What I am now starting to become completely perplexed about are the ridiculously stupid things we do to spend time with our kids. Let me give you a for example. A couple of years ago when my daughter turned 18 she had skydiving on her bucket list of things to do. So what do I do, I take her skydiving.  We went and I got to tell you it was freaky at best. Well last week my son turned 18 and guess what sparky wanted to go do.  That’s right, jump out of a damn plane with pops! So I plan for our little “bonding” time together to go skydiving.   Once we get to this out of the way little airport in the middle of Casa Grande, where I am pretty sure that FAA does not know it exists, we proceed to sign 6 pages of waivers. Really? Six pages? How many possible things can I die from? Regardless, I initial all the boxes.   So anyway, as we are sitting there waiting, a lady who was just getting back from a jump runs into the bathroom and proceeds to start barfing like in the movie The Omen. Did we really need that? It was echoing in that little hanger.  Well now both of our stomachs are a little more unstable, but we are still good to go. Next step in the process is to get harnessed and meet our partner for the jump and get our training. They called it a tandem jump here, but I think in other locations it is the “altar boy” technique or a “Sandusky”.   So training begins and ends rather quickly.  I got to tell you, they can do a little more than a 30 second training when you are about to jump out of a plane. “Hold your harness. Arch your back. Spread your arms. Ok, let’s go.” Seriously, that was it.   Well, now this is the part where most people would say “Why are you jumping out of a very good plane?” That statement does not apply to our plane. I was actually happy to be getting out of it. Our pilot had a chute on. Does that instill confidence? This plane was smaller than my car and was a glorified tin can. Alright, so now 5 of us pile into this “plane” and take off. Now I have my new best friend strapped to my back (in some countries we may be engaged) and we are climbing to 10,000 feet and the adrenaline is starting to kick up, but I am ok. This state of “ok” ends the moment that they open the door to the plane that is immediately to my left and the cold air starts whipping through the plane.   Now, the adrenaline really starts pumping. Once we get my very inflexible legs to contort themselves to get out of the plane, this bastard just throws us out. No warning. No ready, set, go. It was just a plummeting to the ground. It was like zooming in on Google Earth. It is amazing how fast one does fall. We free fall for a bit and then again, with no warning, he pulls the chute. Holy raise my voice a few octaves Batman! I should have adjusted those straps around the upper thigh a little better. We floated down nicely. Great landing and watched my son do the same. 

I got a couple of years before my last child turns 18 and I have to go through this process again, but you know what?  I can’t wait to spend some quality time with him too. Hopefully sharing a moment with him that he will remember forever that I am actually a part of.  Maybe they are right. I am a brain donor.

Cooking

Like a typical male, my cooking for the most part has been limited to the grill.  Steaks, chicken and hot dogs were the extent of my cooking prowess.  Recently though, I have found myself in the kitchen a lot more and I have expanded to the list of items that I can call upon to whip up in a moments notice.  A lot of pastas have made it into the repertoire.  Yes, I know.  How hard can boiling water be?  Well, given that assessment of the situation, I started doing a little more and experimenting with recipes I am now saving as I run across them.  (Based on that last statement, I am pretty sure my man card will not be renewed at the end of the year.)  I have actually learned to enjoy the process of cooking, which typically includes an open bottle of wine and the tunes going.  This is of course just to get the creative juices flowing.


Now for those of you who do not know, I come from a Cuban heritage, which has a unique diet.  It is all fried.  Steaks?  Fry them up!  Pork?  In the pan!  Got some bananas over here.  Hell, fry those as well.  Obviously being on the small island and isolated from the rest of the world due to the Castro regime, they must not be aware of the cholesterol problem that is plaguing the rest of the humans on this planet.  That being said, my grandmother just turned a 103 on said diet, but I digress.  My mom is an incredible cook.  These cuban restaurants that you go to in town have nothing on her and what she can make.  Her breaded steaks are legendary, but then again, there really never is a bad meal in her kitchen.  Also, you will never leave hungry.  If there 6 people for dinner, then she makes enough for 25.  Just in case I guess.

So, given that I am a novice in the kitchen and having someone with such great talent at my disposal, you would think that I could get some help in making some meals that were not as simplistic.  I emailed my mother the other day to get recipes for her black beans and tres leches dessert so I can make it for dinner the other day and I got to tell you it is like prying information out of a CIA agent.  She literally sends me back a list of ingredients.  No measurements.  I got the same kind of instructions as I get from my kids when I play XBox with them.  Most of the information, but something is always held back.

So I call her up to get a little clarity and I get the old "just add a splash" of this and "throw a dash" of that.  Seriously??  What the hell does that mean?  She goes on to explain that she doesn't measure anything and that she just cooks by sight.  Well, unless she is planning on sending me her eyes, I got a whole lot of nothing going on.  Part of the instructions were to beat some egg whites to create the frosting for the dessert.  Well, maybe it was in the spanish to english translation, but I was beating my ass off for 15 minutes (you have dirty minds) until I called her and she asks why I am not using a blender?  HMMM, let's see?  Maybe it is because you didn't tell me to!  Outside of the faulty pressure cooker that resulted in black beans exploding in my kitchen (sorry about your pants Kate), the meal seemed to be a relative success.  My son gave it an 8 out 10.  I asked about the rational for the scoring and he said he had to take a full point off for the exploding beans.  OK, that one is pretty valid.  The other deduction though was more to the stand point that it is just not abuela's (for you gringos out there, abuela is spanish for grandmother).  You know what?  Not only was it hard to argue that point, but I had to agree with him.  There is something about the way your mother does things that becomes the standard for you for the rest of your life.  It's not that the food I grew up with is better because my mother is a better cook than your mother (even though she is), but because it is your mother's cooking.  It can never be duplicated, even if you had a decent freaking recipe to follow.

Baseball Games & T-Shirt Canons

Shea Stadium - 1969

For those who do not know, I have loved baseball since I was a young boy.  My dad taught me to play from the moment I was old enough to be able to hold a bat and throw a ball.  He lied to the little league in New York so I could play.  He told them I was 8 years old when I was only 5.  He had to, let's just say, explain to me that if anyone asked hold old I was that I had to say that I was 8, but he failed to mention was what grade I was supposed to be in.  So  when I was asked my age, I quickly said 8, but the problem was that my coach was a NYC policeman.  His next question was what grade are you in?  I of course responded with "kindergarten".  The coach laughed because he figured I was either only 5 or dumber than a rock, but kept me on the team because I was a young boy who loved the game.

I grew up a Mets fan, which really has tested and continues to tests the passion and love I have for the game. I remember going with my parents to Shea Stadium in New York to watch the Mets play.  The old saying in New York used to be, "We know Shea Stadium is a dump, but it is our dump."  The picture to the right is of my dad and me at a game in 1969, the year of the Miracle Mets.  I remember when Bud Harrelson and Pete Rose got in a fight in the playoffs (yes mom, I still remember).  I remember Hank Aaron breaking Babe Ruth's record.  I remember my uncle taking me to Yankee Stadium when I was 8 to watch the Chicago White Sox back when the players were wearing shorts.  Reggie Jackson flipped me and a thousand of my fellow New Yorkers off.  It was awesome!   I have been to a gazillion games since that day and I am starting to see less and less baseball and more and more marketing.  I went to a Diamondbacks game a week or so ago and had a hard time enjoying the game itself.  There was a hot dog race, people dancing on the dugouts, some people with gynormous heads running around the field and this does not even mention the t-shirts being shot out of a hand held canon.  I can catch a ball with my bare hands, but those t-shirts coming at Mach 3 is a different topic.    Do these teams not feel that we can sit for 2 minutes in between innings without feeling like we have to be entertained?  I thought that was what the players were for?  I remember going to games and watching how the infielders threw the ball around.  How the pitcher warmed up and trying to figure out what pitch they were throwing.  Most of all I remember becoming a fan of the game.  Are these teams creating the next generation of fans?

I went a couple of years ago to Fenway Park to watch the Red Sox play and it was like going back in time.   I actually watched a baseball game.  First of all, it was Fenway Park with all the history that a 100 year old stadium brings, but the fans (inside and outside the stadium) were passionate about their team.  There were no bazookas shooting out stuff.  There was no clam chowder race.  There was no big bobble headed dudes that look like they are straight out of a Stephen King book running around.  There was no playground to take the kids and not watch the game.  There was a ball game and that was it.  They sang Sweet Caroline and Take Me Out To The Ballgame.  It could not be any better.

I hope that these teams realize that they are not creating real baseball fans.  They are not creating the fan that lives and dies with every pitch and has a hard time relaxing until that last out has been made and forgets about their child waiting outside of a Brooklyn elementary school after guitar lesson (yes mom, I remember).  Most of all, they are not creating the fan that will buy the tickets to go to the games even though their team sucks and have no chance at making the playoffs.  I sure hope that when my kids think back at the times I took them to the games, that they remember our time together versus whether ketchup, mustard or relish won the race.

Blogging Rivalry

For those of you who have been with me through my blogging career (all two of them), you will know that I was encouraged or coerced (fine line between the two) into writing blogs.  They both write their own blogs and both have been doing so longer than I have.  We started a friendly sibling rivalry to see who could get the most followers of their blog (if you have not noticed, there is a link you can click to the right to follow my blog). 

Well the first thing that happens when you start doing these blogs is that you are constantly trying to think of topics that others might want to read.  Well I am at a slight disadvantage here as my older sister is currently doing a huge kitchen remodel and there is a lot material that comes from that by itself, but throw in two workers getting in a fight last week with one wielding a sledge hammer and the other swinging an ax like he is Paul Bunyan and you have blogging gold.  My younger sister has twin 3-year-old boys and they are in a state of constant movement, adventure, learning (good and bad) and thus she has endless material to choose from and gets the “cute” factor of kid stories. 

As has been established in my first blog, I have no life.  I have heard that admitting it is the first step on the road to recovery, but this road does not seem to show up in my navigation system.   Regardless, I took the challenge of trying to garner followers (that’s for you Ray), which you can conveniently follow me by clicking just up and to the right.  I just assumed though that there was some blog law or blogging integrity that would preclude folks from shamelessly asking folks to follow them to drive up the traffic, but low and behold both of my sisters have done this.  Yes, I was shocked as well.

My older sister not only asked her husband to post her blogging site on his Facebook page for folks to click on, which by the way you can just put your email above to get notified on mine, but she also admitted to saying the first eleven followers where herself.  Seriously??  How do you get away with that?  This is not some government social program where you can just claim individuals for your own selfish gains.  My younger sister was less covert on her actions.  She just emailed folks asking them to follow her.  I would never have the audacity to email individuals to ask them to follow me by clicking on the link above.  I will win this friendly contest fair and square and not rely and those types of tactics. 

Dieting & Excercising

There is an the old saying that "your body is like a temple".  Well, for the longest time I treated mine just like one.  The problem was that it was a Buddhist temple and I was the logo.  I played sports all through college and so I was always in pretty good shape.  I really never gave it a second thought to what I ate because of all the exercise I did.  Something happened as soon as I got out of college and got a job though.  I stopped working out regularly and happy hour was 2 for 1 with half priced appetizers.  Soon, I had a family and I worked out even less and I was finishing everyones Happy Meals because God forbid you throw out 3 nuggets and a handful of fries. Next thing I know, I was 35 pounds heavier than when I got out of college.  WTF!!

Well obviously this is an unacceptable situation.  So I tried to hit the gym a little more and realized there were a lot of so called "muscles" that hurt a lot more than I remember.  I tried to cut out fast food joints, so I started going to Chipotle because it is grilled chicken.  OK, I guess in hind sight eating a burrito the size of my head really did not help much.  I tried to eat less than I was eating, but that I guess was a relative term.  I had people tell me when on a diet that I was not eating enough and had to eat more in order to lose weight.  OK, this is where I call BS!!  Eating is how I got to be a fat ass in the first place. DUHHHH!

I tried to do P90-X with my son and literally thought I was going to die.  I would like to see Tony Horton's sorry ass if he had to sit behind a desk all day, take kids to soccer or volleyball practice and eat dinner in the car on the way home.  It would be called P90-XXXL.  

I finally got to a point where I was ready to lose the weight.  Back in January, I started the MediFast diet as I had a friend of mine who did it and lost over 100 pounds.  The diet was structured as 5 of their meals and one of your own from the "approved" list of foods.  No wine allowed.  This could be a violation of the Geneva convention, but I could not find the exact language on it.  First of all, they use the term "meal" very loosely.  Their definition of a "meal" is a little bar, powdered soup or a tiny bag of pretzels.  This you do 5 times so you can get to your free meal, which is a small piece of chicken or beef and a few veggies.  I learned to eat every 3 hours in order to get to my free "meal". I learned to save one of the five meals as my last "meal" of the day.  It is scary how I looked forward to it.  A small microwavable brownie.  I could not wait for that evening brownie to hold me over until breakfast.  I would scrape the hell out of that microwaveable cardboard thimble my brownie was cooked in to get every last morsel.  I have to tell you, I think Gandhi ate more on his hunger strike than I did.

After 3 months, I had lost 40 pounds.  It was amazing.  I went from fat ass down to just chubby.  I am down to my weight that I was in high school, working out everyday and feeling great.   The problem is, now I freak out when I eat out or don't get an opportunity to get to the gym.  The key I guess is portion control (leave the damn nuggets alone) and try and get some exercise as often as possible.  Of course, I say this as I am popping the cork on a nice red cab.  It's all for medicinal purposes as I read somewhere that it is good for your heart.  Like I said, you need to take care of your body.

Evolution of a Dad

I have recently had a lot of time to think and contemplate on life and not sure I am a fan of it.  Being the father of 3 children (19/17/15), I have noticed a very obvious trend of myself as a father.  My popularity trend line just seems to be heading straight south.  Please reference the graph below to find what I feel is the graphical depiction of the Evolution of a Dad.

As a dad, I recall when my kids were born being very excited and feeling pretty special.  When they were young, I remember being the coolest, funniest, smartest, strongest and most fun guy in the world to my kids.  It was great!  You come home from work and their faces light up.  They want to play with you. They ask you all kinds of questions because you were a smart dude.  They would say "my dad can beat up your dad".  I still think I can take some of these old bastards, but that is a different story.  The bottom line is that they were proud to have you as a father.

Time goes by and you start seeing the cool factor go down.  You are not that fun anymore.  You are definitely not funny and by the time your kids are smack in the teenage years, you are the biggest dumb-ass on the face of the planet and it is absolutely shocking that you have survived as long as you have being the only living brain donor on the planet.  Essentially, the only thing that I am good for at this time is to be a human ATM. 

I can not speak for mothers out there as I am not one, though I seem to be called one often enough, but for a dad, this is a long fall from grace.  How does a dad, who was essentially a hero in their kids eyes for such a long period of time cope with this?  It is hard.  The only saving grace from this cycle is that eventually as they graduate from college (hopefully), get into the real world with jobs and families of their own, they will start  to realize that I am not as dumb as I look.  The only reason I know this is the sad realization that I did the same thing to my father.  I start looking back and put more of an understanding of the long hours he worked so our family could have a nice place to live.  Have enough food, at least for the kids, to eat.  Come to every baseball game that I played and realize that he was proud to be my dad.   This is not that I don't recognize all the things my mom did, because God knows there is a ton, but I am just reflecting on my perspective as a father.  

I have 3 great kids.  They are better people than I was when growing up.  I love them dearly and would do anything for them.  I just hope that someday, I can start working my way up the curve in their eyes.  Until then, I will accept my role as the human ATM.  At least that way, they still need me for something.