Steely Dad

I love golf. Even though I’ve participated in athletics throughout my life (football, baseball, wrestling, swimming) to me, golf is the purest contest in sports. I took up the game a few years before becoming a stay-at-home dad (SAHD). The first time I played, I sucked but I was seduced by the game’s nuances and intricacies. To improve, I played five days a week. I practiced several hours a day and my scores began to reflect my effort. I went from a 20-plus handicap down to a single digit index. For those who don’t play, this is a pretty good achievement. Once kids entered the picture, I turned my attention from golf to changing diapers. It was a natural poopgression.

There are so many appealing aspects to golf, and I could wax poetic about many of them, but the one characteristic I most admire is how golf provides a perfect metaphor for life.

How so, Steely Dad? What the hell have you been smoking and what sort of transcendental bullshit are you feeding us?

On Sunday at the PGA Championship, in what may be perhaps the greatest upset in golf history, Y.E. Yang, the 110th best golfer in the world, beat Tiger Woods, the world’s perennial number one player. How can #110 ever beat #1?

By most (if not all) accounts, Woods should have beat Yang and done so handily. Yang started playing golf at 19 years of age; Woods started at 19 days old. Ever since Tiger displayed his precocious golf swing on the Mike Douglas show, he has been surrounded by the game’s best talent, professionals who’ve provided him with sound advice and counsel. Today, Tiger has the money and influence that affords him access to the best swing coaches, the best mental coaches, the best facilities, the best equipment, the best caddie, the best nutritionist, the best doctors, the best personal trainers, the best of everything. Yang doesn’t and despite these glaring inequities, this David still beat golf’s Goliath.

So really, how can #110 beat #1? It doesn’t seem possible. Surely the PGA must have redistributed some of Tiger’s talent to make it a fair match, right? Perhaps the PGA took some of Tiger’s winnings, put the money in a pool to be redistributed to other players thereby ensuring fair and equitable access to the best resources? Maybe Tiger had to play with inferior equipment, play from different tees or take extra strokes. How else to explain it?

What? You say that didn’t happen? You say Yang beat Tiger with his own ability, without the PGA manufacturing the circumstances or the outcome? You don’t honestly expect me to believe that Yang beat Tiger with sheer determination, gratuitous guts and singular focus, do you?

Plus, don’t you agree that Tiger doesn’t deserve to enjoy being the world’s number one golfer? He doesn’t deserve to win 50 percent of the tournaments he enters. Tiger doesn’t deserve to win 14 out of 14 majors when he has at least a share of the lead after 54 holes. Obviously Tiger couldn’t achieve his number-one status through talent, sacrifice and hard work, right? He’s the best for one reason: he’s lucky. The only difference between #1 and #110 is luck. It’s the only logical answer, right?

Everyday, we hear this type of argument made about the society in which we live; that the wealthy guy enjoys his status, not as a result of sacrifice and hard work but because he was luckier than the poor guy; that it’s impossible for the poor guy to rise above without handouts and entitlements and redistribution of wealth. So let me ask you. Why do we accept these notions as truths in life but not in sport? Why can it be that in golf we enjoy watching two guys with different backgrounds, different levels of talent, different cultures, different financial resources, different languages, compete in a contest in which one guy clearly has an advantage, and completely accept the outcome whatever it may be? How is it that we accept imperfect circumstances in sport but in life many insist that society has an obligation to manufacture fair results? They corrupt the human compass, an internal mechanism whose needle perpetually points “due persistence,” for they fail to recognize that in life, as in golf, it’s possible for a Yang to beat a Tiger. In their Utopian vision of society, no one would watch a single sporting event (OK, fake wrestling aside) because outcomes would be contrived. And just as sports would lose fans under such conditions, so too would society lose great and fertile minds.

“Oh, but man is inherently evil and the strong will take advantage of the meek,” some make us fear. Well, not in a civil society. Think of the PGA as the government (the USGA is the actual governing body but please afford me some artistic license). It has a set of rules and each player (think of them as members of society) has a right and incentive to do his best. Who enforces the rules? Did you know that in golf each player is expected to penalize himself? In other words, players are largely self-governed. However, should a player neglect to call a penalty on himself, he would be an anathema, shamed and pilloried. He would lose all credibility for he dishonored the game, its values and traditions. Is this expectation of self-governance too much to demand of a great society? If golfers can do it, why can’t the rest of us? Are we not capable of answering to a higher moral standard?

When circumstances are manipulated to achieve a desired result, it crushes the spirit of every Yang out there who dreams of beating a Tiger. If before the final round of the PGA Championship, the commissioner said to Yang, “Dude, there’s no chance you’re going to win this thing. Tiger has all these advantages that, quite frankly, aren’t fair to the other players. The ONLY way you can win is by accepting our help.” Do you know what would happen? It would destroy Yang’s competitive spirit, it would shred his belief in himself and it would enslave Yang’s mind that he cannot now, or ever, do it on his own. Yang would feel as though he is entitled to the victory, that he doesn’t have to earn it, that the world of golf somehow owes him special consideration. If the PGA began to manipulate variables in order to manufacture results, #110 would never have to work as hard as #1, the quality of the competition would dissolve and no one would watch or care because the outcome has been established. We would never be able to dream, “what if,” because the “if” would have already been answered.

If you watched Yang’s victory like I did, you probably said, “Right on!” But if you discovered that Yang was given special accommodation to improve his odds of winning, I bet you’d feel cheated of that beautiful moment when you were able to believe that anything is truly possible.

Anyone who knows me knows that I LOVE food. I mean I REALLY love food. All types of food, I love. When I’m eating lunch, I’m already planning my dinner. When it comes to food, I’m like a grandmaster chess player, figuring out three, four meals ahead. I could go on and on about how much I love food but hopefully by now you know just how much I really, really love food.

Since getting married and becoming a stay-at-home dad (SAHD), I’ve also grown an appreciation for gourmet cooking. I enjoy coming up with a new edible idea and executing it to my own exacting standards. Recently I developed a sandwich I affectionately named the M.I. Sandwich. Can you guess what the M.I. stands for? Read how I make it, have a look at the photo and then take a guess. The first person who guesses correctly will win some sort of dishonorable mention on my blog.

So here’s how to make the Steely Dad M.I. Sandwich:

1. Toast a bagel to your liking (I like it lightly toasted so it’s not too hard)
2. Fry an egg over sleazy
3. Cook at least 3 pieces of bacon. Now this is the critical part. IT MUST BE Kirkland (Costco) Premium Center Cut Maple Bacon. This is the bacon that G-d himself prepares when he has a hankering for some swine. Don’t try to substitute on this ingredient. Trust me!
4. Once the bagel is done and is still hot, add a light coating of butter to both sides of bagel so that it gets into all the nooks and crannies. Let cool a bit then add an unhealthy (heaping) portion of WHIPPED cream cheese to both sides of the bagel as well. Add the egg, add the bacon and top off with other side of bagel.
5. Voilá! Your M.I. Sandwich is now ready to be devoured.

IMPORTANT STEPS BEFORE TAKING YOUR FIRST BITE:

1. Please sign and date the attached Liability Waiver, which was prepared by Steely Dad’s Legal Counsel.
2. Ensure you have a working defibrillator on hand.
3. Mainline some Red Yeast Rice Extract or statin medication.
4. Make an appointment to see your cardiologist.

Here’s what it should look like: Steely Dad M.I. Sandwich

Any feedback would be greatly appreciated. I’m sure you could add your own little twists to this culinary masterpiece so feel free to share. Good luck!

A couple of weekends ago, I went on vacation. (In addition to some of my other fringe benefits, my boss gives me a few days a year for vacation.)

But Steely Dad, how does a stay-at-home dad (SAHD) go on vacation? Isn’t your entire life a vacation?

To that I answer, “Well, yes it is,” but that’s not the point. The point is, like anyone else, I too require some time away. How does that happen with kids? Steely Wife simply takes over. Thanks hun!

So on this vacation, we went to stay with my best bud at his lake house in Elkhart Lake, WI. In a word, it was AWESOME!

I went wake boarding for the first time. It took me a few times to get the hang of it (don’t laugh; remember it was my first time) but here’s some video: Steely Dad Wakeboarding

My buddy also has a bunch of dirt bikes and quads so we went out to his track and tore it up. I’ve ridden dirt bikes a few times before (I am, after all, from El Cajon, CA, home of many a Supercross hero) but I wouldn’t call myself an expert. Here’s some footage: Steely Dad Riding Dirt Bikes

And just to round off the weekend, we also did some skeet shooting. Again, I’m no expert like my mother-in-law (who is an accomplished competitive trap and skeet shooter) but I do OK: Steely Dad Skeet Shooting

It was just an amazing time and one I hope to relive again soon. You might be thinking with all the dangerous sports in which I partook that injury would be inevitable. Well, funny thing about that. I did actully hurt my knee but it was an injury unrelated to the aforementioned activities and didn’t occur until the following weekend. Want to know how I hurt it? Of course you do. I wish I had some gripping story, like I was wrestling alligators or something, but alas it would not be an honest tale (like the ones above). I hurt my knee jumping up in the air. Yea, just jumping up in the air. Mind you, when I jump I achieve Jordaneque-type air, but nonetheless I was just jumping. My wife and I went to a Yelp party and there was this cool camera, provided by Actionbooth, that takes photos of people jumping, dancing or just plane acting crazy. The dude from Actionbooth and I decided to do a chest bump.

Here’s the photo: Steely Dad’s Mad Hops.

(Note my three-foot tall Guinness hat.)

As you can see, I got up there pretty good but when I landed, I felt a “pop” in my right knee.  I’m sure mere mortals would’ve called it a night. What does Steely Dad do? I fought through the pain, with the assistance of several malt beverages, and kept the party going. That was Friday night. Saturday morning, when I attempted to get out of bed, my knee let me know under no uncertain terms that I’m a complete dumb shit. I couldn’t walk (in fact I still can’t put all my weight on it) so Steely Wife and Steely Kids had to escort me to the ER. Nothing is more demeaning than having to explain to your kids why Daddy has to visit the doctor, why Daddy smells like a distillery and why Daddy woke up wearing only a three-foot tall Guinness hat. Here’s how the conversation with my son went down:

Hungover Steely Dad: Ohhhhhhhh, my knee!

Steely Son: What happened, Daddy?

Hungover Steely Dad: Daddy hurt his knee.

Steely Son: How?

Hungover Steely Dad: By jumping up in the air.

Steely Son: Why’d you do that?

Hungover Steely Dad: Because Daddy isn’t so smart.

Steely Son: I’m smart.

Hungover Steely Dad: Yes you are, buddy. You’re much smarter than Daddy.

Steely Son: Daddy?

Hungover Steely Dad: Yes son?

Steely Son: Why do you smell like that stinky guy we always see in front of the grocery store?

Hungover Steely Dad: Uh, is that your mother calling you?

Steely Son: I don’t hear Mommy.

Hungover Steely Dad: Yea, I hear Mommy calling you. (Me does his best ventriloquist impression.)

Steely Son: No she isn’t, Daddy. Are you goofin’ me?

Hungover Steely Dad: Here’s $20.

Steely Son: Daddy, this is $5.

Hungover Steely Dad: Consider it a down payment.

Steely Son: OK. Hey Daddy, why are you wearing that hat?

Hungover Steely Dad: It’s a magic hat. Watch, when you put it on you become invisible.

Steely Son: Daddy?

Hungover Steely Dad: Where are you?

Steely Son: Daddy, I’m right here!

Hungover Steely Dad: Oh, darn, I guess you left.

Moral of the story? If you drink, don’t jump and if you jump, don’t drink. Make sure you assign a designated jumper when you drink. And please jump responsibly.

That is the question.

Perhaps someone else has written about this topic but I wouldn’t know; I don’t read much. I realize this might be a bit high-brow for many a Steely Dad reader but it’s important to expand one’s mind and horizons. After all, Steely Dad is nothing if not a place of culture and refinement.

Case in point.

This evening after consuming two massive triangles of a mushroom/black olive/spinach stuffed pizza that I personally garnished with sautéed pancetta and several whole cloves of RAW garlic, the following thoughts suddenly occurred to me when my digestive tract started to sound like an overactive aquarium: With whom is it appropriate to expel flatus? How long before you do so, say, in front of your significant other? Is it ever OK to blow butt breath in front of your kids and, if so, what words do you use to describe the expulsion of gas? Most of all, is it appropriate to laugh when someone rips a stinky poop cloud in your general direction?

These are all very important and legitimate ponderings and I would like to get to the bottom of one of life’s great mysteries: To fart or not to fart?

Passing gas has been a part of our common human heritage since the dawn of man and it’s been a source of comic “relief” ever since a caveman farted on his buddy and thought the entire episode worthy of a cave painting. In fact, Aristotle and Plato were known to have engaged in rather noisy debate about this very topic.

But what is the proper protocol for farting in various situations?

I’d like to do my part and conduct a poll of the Steely Dad Nation. It is highly scientific, of course. Please be sure to leave your answers in the comment section. Your participation is much appreciated and will help to construct a veritable guide on the etiquette of the fart.

Before we begin, I have a hypothesis about farting in front of others that I’d like to share with you. Through your responses, I will be able to prove or disprove my theory.

I believe there is a direct and irrefutable correlation between the appropriateness of farting in front of a certain person and the time either knowing and/or spending with that person. For example, you presumably spend a significant amount of time with your SO. Therefore, it is appropriate to fart in front of him or her. You probably don’t spend a large portion of your time with, say, your insurance agent therefore it is NOT appropriate to fart in front of him or her.

Let us proceed, shall we?

1. Do you fart in front of your significant other? (If your answer is “YES” please proceed to question #2. If your answer is “NO” please kindly go fuck yourself because we all know you’re, quite literally, full of shit!)

2. If so, how long before you actually expelled ass gas in front of your significant other (SO)?

3. Who was the first one to break the smell barrier: you or your SO?

4. Do you and your SO fart in front of your kids?

5. Even if you do fart in front of your kids, do you think it is appropriate to do so?

6. If so, what word or phrase do you use to describe the act of expelling flatus (i.e. fart, gas, cutting the cheese, etc.)?

7. Who has the more noxious/pungent farts: men or women?

8. Is it acceptable to laugh if a member of the family rips a really good one?

9. Do you and your family members participate in farting contests that test such things as the smell, duration and frequency of the farting episode? If so, who holds the record?

10. When girls get together, do they fart out loud and do they laugh about it? Guys never do this that’s why we’re so curious.

11. Has anyone in your family successfully attempted the “Blue Flame”? If so, who?

12. I’m a stay-at-home dad (SAHD) which provides me a lot of time with my kids. As such, I have developed an odd Darwinian olfactory adaptation that enables me to distinguish the farts of my daughter from those of my son by nothing more than their distinctive aromas. Does the parent who spends a majority of the time with your kids possess this same ability?

13. Are there specific situations in which it is permissible to fart in public? If your answer is “NO” would you reconsider your position if there was no way the fart could be linked to you? I’ve heard of a specialized technique called “dusting the crops.” It’s employed by people in certain industries, such as flight attendants, who sometimes have no choice but to expel their ass pollution on a crowded plane (another reason I hate to fly). It works by walking briskly down the aisle while simultaneously letting the noisome air escape. When done successfully, it is virtually impossible to identify the offender leaving everyone on the plane to speculate and guess. You will notice that many times people will pull their shirt up over their mouth and nose as a signal that they were not the offending party that floated the air biscuit. It’s diabolical if you think about it.

The results will be carefully tallied and reported in a future posting.

More drama on the blogging front.

I made the egregious mistake of upgrading my blogging software to the most recent incarnation of Wordpress, the seemingly innocuous vintage 2.8. I, however, have found a more fitting title: Satan’s Software. I’ve been up all hours of the night for the past few days trying to exterminate the bugs that infest this piece of work. In any case, this is the main, but not singular, reason to explain my hiatus. I even had this cool Father’s Day story about my father-in-law but who the hell wants to read that AFTER the big day? Exactly.

In the immortal words of Bob Marley, when one HTML code closes another opens and in my case this is no exception. Today marks a major milestone in my heretofore modest blogging career. This post is my first submission as an OFFICIAL columnist for the social network juggernaut Dad Blogs.  Why they picked me to write for them can only mean one thing: everyone else they asked declined. Anyhow, I’m happy to oblige and I hope you’ll check out this awesome site as there are some seriously fantastic bloggers who call Dad Blogs home.

As anyone who’s been following Steely Dad since its inception way back in January of this year, you know that I often share some rather intimate details of my life. I feel an obligation to be open and honest with the Steely Dad Nation and I’m not going to change that approach just because I’m some dude with a by-line. But I’ve got to tell you, this story is so bloody embarrassing that I’m not even sure I can share it with you. It’s way worse than even Telemarketing Phone Sex. Should I compromise my integrity, my reputation, my character and in the process cause irreparable harm to my children’s self-esteem? Sure, why the hell not? I’ve got nothing better to do.

So Steely Wife took Steely Kids out to the park last week. I thought they’d be gone for at least an hour which meant I could get some Steely Dad time all to myself. What do guys do when their wife and kids aren’t around? What do you think we do? Well, I should say that 99 percent of us do and the other 1 percent won’t admit it. Come on guys, you all know what I’m talking about. Uh-huh, that’s right. I’m not afraid to admit that as a SAHD I so deeply cherish these moments for they have become as rare as an red diamond and just as valuable.  But guys, don’t be fooled. Mine is a cautionary tale, the message of which you should heed.

Feeling kinda frisky, I went to what I thought was a private area of the house. I proceeded to prepare myself for fun and frivolity and in the midst of my solo dalliance, just as things were getting interesting, I hear a key slide into a lock, the pins moving as they’re engaged and then I see the knob turn as if in slow motion. Intruders! My initial reaction was to flee but I had no where to run. I was cornered and it was far too late to get myself back to normal. I was caught, shall we say, red-handed?

Of course  Steely Wife, at least after shielding the childrens’ eyes, seized the opportunity to capture this rather delicate situation for digital prosperity. She is nothing if not skilled in the art of extortion. Below is the visual product of her extraordinary effort. Now be forewarned, Steely Dad Fan, the photo is exceptionally graphic. Not only should minors never, ever, under any circumstances be subjected to such a disgraceful display, no adult should either for that matter. I’m warning you now before you click on the link. Trust me when I say you’ll never be able to return to that safe and happy sanctuary after viewing this photo. Still want to look? OK but it’s your nightmare.

Daddy’s Little Secret

So sue me, OK? Yea, I like to wear princess stuff and rock some brews and smoke cigars with my Dale Jr. teddy bear. Is that so wrong?

How did I respond, you might ask? As if spontaneously filled with the Holy Spirit of Nacho Libre, I raised my head, mustered what little pride remained and said, “Honey, when you are a man sometimes you wear princess stuff, in your room. It’s for fun.”

The lesson here? Guys, it’s OK to wear your princess gear; just don’t get caught wearing your princess gear and for Pete’s sake never get caught wearing your princess gear by your wife and kids.