Mr. Mom: Day One and One-Half
Four naps, two bedtimes, six meals, one bedtime sippy cup full of formula, three long strolls, two loads of dishes, one bath, and I don’t know how many diaper changes later, and the clock’s winding down for this strange rearrangement of our well-established domestic order. Baby Dog’s in bed and Mama Dog’s plane should arrive in SFO in a couple of hours. All that’s left for me is to blog, watch Lost on tape, and await the homecoming.
Charles is off, his whirlwind stay concluded. We moseyed up to the corner of Telegraph and Haste, the nexus of media consumption in the East Bay. At Cody’s I got Ian McEwan’s latest and impulse bought something else the title of which I’ve already forgotten. At Amoeba I set out to buy a CD by a band I’d first heard of on that compilation of Johnny Cash covers, and realised to my great chagrin that I couldn’t remember their name. I thought it was Silver-something, but couldn’t remember what. Silverback? Silverfish? Silverchair? No, definitely not them. I was pissed at myself because my main reason for heading up Telegraph in the first place was to get this album. I almost gave up, but then decided to just scan the Esses on the theory that once I saw the name I’d recognise it. Against all likelihood, that worked. Sparklehorse. I’ll never forget that now. Unless I do. The cashier looked at it as he rung it up, gave a little grudging nod, and mumbled (without apparent sarcasm), “Good album.” Nice to know that, out of touch as I am, I can still occasionally stumble into a little cred.
After I bought the album, I was sort of stuck following exit traffic, but had lost track of Charles. I stopped by the bag check-in and scanned the store for him. As I did that, the bag bouncer, a yellow-toothed, tattoo-armed punky kid, leaned over his counter, looked down at Baby Dog snoozing in the stroller, and asked, “How old is that there?” “That’s nine and a half months,” I told him. He grinned. I’m no-one to talk, but his teeth were truly horrible. The grin was nonetheless disarmingly unaffected. “I have one coming,” he said, almost shyly. “Oh yeah?” I asked. “Due date’s June 23,” he said. I pointed at Baby Dog. “She was born June 25. So this is what you’re looking at in exactly one year.” He gazed dreamily at her. “Any advice for the new parent?” he asked. “Yeah,” I said. “Go out as much as you can while you still can. Drink heavily. Go to lots of movies. See lots of shows.” He seemed to like that advice. “I’m in a band,” he said, “so I figure this is going to be a big sacrifice.” “It’s worth it,” I assured him, and he nodded. “Yeah, I think so,” he said.
Funny thing. I had spotted this guy on the way in the store. Last thing in the world I’d have imagined then is that I’d be daddy-bonding with him on the way out.
PS – For those who’ve been asking – and those who haven’t but were silently curious - Mama Dog got invited on to that TV show through a strange and circuitous set of circumstances involving a media brouhaha over an article written by a Bay Area writer. The episode involves issues relating to marriage and motherhood. It taped today and will air sometime in the next two weeks, but we don’t yet know the exact date. I spoke to Mama Dog this afternoon. She signed a tight-ass nondisclosure contract that prohibits her from writing anything about her experiences on the show. I signed no such damn thing, though, so I can tell you that they prepped her and settled on questions she would be asked and things she would say, and then at the last minute they totally changed the format of the episode and all of that went out the window. We’re both very curious what the end result will be, and if anything of what she said will make the winnowing process to the final product.
Charles is off, his whirlwind stay concluded. We moseyed up to the corner of Telegraph and Haste, the nexus of media consumption in the East Bay. At Cody’s I got Ian McEwan’s latest and impulse bought something else the title of which I’ve already forgotten. At Amoeba I set out to buy a CD by a band I’d first heard of on that compilation of Johnny Cash covers, and realised to my great chagrin that I couldn’t remember their name. I thought it was Silver-something, but couldn’t remember what. Silverback? Silverfish? Silverchair? No, definitely not them. I was pissed at myself because my main reason for heading up Telegraph in the first place was to get this album. I almost gave up, but then decided to just scan the Esses on the theory that once I saw the name I’d recognise it. Against all likelihood, that worked. Sparklehorse. I’ll never forget that now. Unless I do. The cashier looked at it as he rung it up, gave a little grudging nod, and mumbled (without apparent sarcasm), “Good album.” Nice to know that, out of touch as I am, I can still occasionally stumble into a little cred.
After I bought the album, I was sort of stuck following exit traffic, but had lost track of Charles. I stopped by the bag check-in and scanned the store for him. As I did that, the bag bouncer, a yellow-toothed, tattoo-armed punky kid, leaned over his counter, looked down at Baby Dog snoozing in the stroller, and asked, “How old is that there?” “That’s nine and a half months,” I told him. He grinned. I’m no-one to talk, but his teeth were truly horrible. The grin was nonetheless disarmingly unaffected. “I have one coming,” he said, almost shyly. “Oh yeah?” I asked. “Due date’s June 23,” he said. I pointed at Baby Dog. “She was born June 25. So this is what you’re looking at in exactly one year.” He gazed dreamily at her. “Any advice for the new parent?” he asked. “Yeah,” I said. “Go out as much as you can while you still can. Drink heavily. Go to lots of movies. See lots of shows.” He seemed to like that advice. “I’m in a band,” he said, “so I figure this is going to be a big sacrifice.” “It’s worth it,” I assured him, and he nodded. “Yeah, I think so,” he said.
Funny thing. I had spotted this guy on the way in the store. Last thing in the world I’d have imagined then is that I’d be daddy-bonding with him on the way out.
PS – For those who’ve been asking – and those who haven’t but were silently curious - Mama Dog got invited on to that TV show through a strange and circuitous set of circumstances involving a media brouhaha over an article written by a Bay Area writer. The episode involves issues relating to marriage and motherhood. It taped today and will air sometime in the next two weeks, but we don’t yet know the exact date. I spoke to Mama Dog this afternoon. She signed a tight-ass nondisclosure contract that prohibits her from writing anything about her experiences on the show. I signed no such damn thing, though, so I can tell you that they prepped her and settled on questions she would be asked and things she would say, and then at the last minute they totally changed the format of the episode and all of that went out the window. We’re both very curious what the end result will be, and if anything of what she said will make the winnowing process to the final product.
posted by PapaDogDuvalier | 8:56 PM
2 Comments:
Well done, Papa Dog! I'm glad that you've finally had the experience of taking Baby Dog out without me; see what I mean about random people smiling at you and striking up conversations? Babies are the universal social lubricant; they're even better than alcohol!
xo
Mama Dog (aka Twizzle)
Well, except babies make you tired. Alcohol makes you forget.
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