PPR is Ruining America

Baseball season is in full swing and I'm tired of pretending to care.  Living so close to the home of the St. Louis Cardinals means you're either a huge baseball fan or the demon seed of Davy Jones, or worse still---a Cubs fan. 

Baseball is boring.  There, I said it.  It ranks right down at the bottom of the sports list, just above tennis, golf, and soccer.  I don't mind playing any of those sports, but I don't understand how people can watch them on t.v. or even cough up their hard-earned money to purchase a game ticket.

Thankfully, God invented football.

And Sundays.  Also, Mondays.  Oh, and Thursdays too.

And then man invented fantasy football, because he was fat, lazy, and past his prime.  While the rest of St. Louis tries to involve me in conversation about who's pitching tonight's game, why they lost last night's game, and how they'll improve for tomorrow's game (there are too many games in baseball), I'm thinking about mini-camps, draft strategy, and what it'd be like to party with Johnny Manziel.

Don't pretend like you don't want to be there.

I'm also thinking why would anybody want to play in a PPR League.  I've played in one for a couple years now, and I hate it.  It's everything that's wrong with America.  It's anti-capitalism.  It takes from the rich and gives to the poor.  It's like handing out trophies to all the kids.

For those that don't know (Hi Mom!), PPR stands for "Point Per Reception".  It gives a player a point every time he catches the ball.  It doesn't matter how many yards he gets.  All he has to do is catch the stupid pigskin.  Your player caught the ball in the backfield for a loss of two?  No problem, have a point. 

It makes crappy players worth more while devaluing superstars.  It makes the quarterback one of the lower scoring positions.  It boosts the managers confidence in his decision to draft a work-horse tight end or flat-catching running back in the first round.

I don't want to play in a league that considers Darren Sproles a top five running back.  There's no way you should get five points for your quintet of no-yard-gaining check-downs, while Calvin Johnson has to catch a 40-yard pass for the same amount of points.

That's one small step for Darren Sproles, one giant point for the idiot that drafted him.

Meanwhile, 40 yards down field and ten feet in the air, another point is awarded.

I will give PPR props for making the draft more interesting.  Rather than the standard rush on running backs in the first round, managers are all over the place picking up second-rate wide receivers, third-rate running backs and even tight ends (gasp).  But that's the only upside I found for playing PPR.

I actually took the time to researche pros and cons for PPR Leagues.  I'm not a busy guy.  The main reason I found people like to play that format can be reduced to this:  It makes bad players better.

In other words, people that suck at fantasy football, i.e. the other people in my league, got tired of having crap teams every year and decided that if they padded the stats in their players' favor, they might have a fighting chance.

It rewards mediocrity by boosting points---shortening the gap between greatness and not-so-greatness. 

PPR does not reflect reality.  Games are won by yardage, not by desperation plays in the backfield for a loss of yards.  Sorry Darren*.




Mr. Sproles, if you're reading this (I know you are), I want you to know that I kid.  You're an amazing football player.  You're also a prime example of the type of player that PPR benefits.  

Boo at the Zoo

My wife and I try to plan fun things for the kids to do.  We always fail.  No matter how much we think the kids will like this thing or that, it always ends in us being grumpy--either at each other or the kids--for example:  Our zoo trips.

Our zoo is awesome.  If you've never been to the St. Louis Zoo, you're missing out.  First off, it's free.  What other all-day event can you do with your kids that's free?  A picnic at the park?  No thanks, you can keep your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches while I down a 1/2 pound of charbroiled meat next to the Conservation Carousel.

Your kids can ride a cow while you eat one.

Secondly, it's one of the highest-rated zoos in the country.  I don't have time to back that up with any links.  Google it.  I have stuff to type and my kids get off the bus in ten minutes.  With everything the zoo has going for it we have a miserable experience every time we go.

When we finally make it over to the zoo, the first thing we see is not the penguins or the camels or even the turtles.  It's the bland, beige, booger-bespeckled wall of the North Entrance Restroom.  In and out with speed that would make a pit crew chief proud and we're on our way.  Then five minutes later, coming out of the Penguin House, we stop at another bathroom, because our oldest daughter hasn't figured out that you can go poop and pee in the same bathroom trip.

Maybe the fish smell triggers something.

Halfway through our day (and a couple more stops at bathrooms), our son hasn't seen a single animal yet--despite the 45-minute drive to the zoo in which he discussed all the animals he was going to see.   His Aspergian obsession with maps keeps his head down and his nose buried.   While he can tell you exactly where the lions are located at on the map, to this day, I don't think he's actually ever seen one.

Drawn from his memory.

And then there's the zoo train--an awesome idea in theory, but a horrible idea when you have a double stroller, a diaper bag, a snack bag, a 6-foot 4-inch body-frame and three kids that have almost every Thomas the Train video that's ever been peddled.  I swear that some times we don't go to the zoo for the animals. We go for the train ride.

And then, at some point in the trip, the baby (yes, I know she's 3 now) breaks down.  Our first two kids never had public meltdowns or temper-tantrums.  Libby is making up for it.  We try to lay her down in the stroller, give her a sippy, and let her nap.  It doesn't work.  EVER.  The one kid in the group that actually looks at the animals, points at animals, and makes animal noises, is done for the day.  Clock her out, she's going home.  And so are we. 

How We Roll

The wife and I have a few things in common:  we both like The Walking Dead,  we're both Caucasian, and we both think I'm a great kisser.  Beyond that, we're totally different.  It's like she's from Venus and I'm from Mars.  I think somebody wrote a book about this topic.  No, wait, it was a movie--Total Recall.

 

Not only are we different, but we do things differently.  For example, I like to leave my wife loving and encouraging messages on our bathroom mirror:  "Whaddup SEXY!  Yeah, you.  I'm talking to you.  Looking good."

She likes to leave me messages too, although they are less loving, less punctuated, and less encouraging:  "scoop litterbox"

To be fair, she is encouraging me to scoop the litterbox.

Our parenting styles differ quite a bit as well.  A while back, I made a short video showcasing just a few of these differences:




The truth is we complement each other nicely.  I just tend to compliment her more.

Naked at the Doctor's Office

I felt so naked at the Doctor's office today and it's not just because my pants were around my ankles while the doctor asked me personal questions.  It's because for the first time in 8 years, I was childless in the waiting room.

No diaper bag.
No second bag full of toys.
No list of all the weird things that my child's body is doing.
No yelling at my son to stop pacing.
No yelling at the girl to stop crawling around the disgusting floor and making cat noises.
No yelling at the baby to stop ripping those lobby magazines.
(I yell a lot)

Just me, a good book, and my thoughts.  "Please doctor, take your time.  I'll just be sitting here peacefully in the waiting room reading.  Yep, I got here 15 minutes early to enjoy a little down time. And now, let's start reading."

"Louis."

"Wait.  Did the nurse just call my name?  No way.  My appointment isn't for another 10 minutes."

"Louis."

"There it is again.  Let's look around the room.  There are a bunch of old people here.  Maybe one of them is named Louis."

"Louis."

"Well crap."

And on this day, a new record was set.  A 5 minute wait time before being called back.  When all was said and done and my pants in their original upright position, I was rewarded with an appointment for an X-ray and a colonoscopy.  A small price to pay for 5 minutes of peace.

Seriously?  None of you people are named Louis?

What Mama Said

One of dem days. 

Are You Balanced?

I swore I would get back into writing once the kids were back in school.  But, then the football season started.

School Feels

Everybody is posting their 1st Day of School photos, so I thought I'd post one too:

1st Day of School

Let me sum up the entire contents of your Facebook newsfeed for the next week:

You're welcome, now go do something productive.

Sleep Wars

Bedtime is a battle with our son--every night.  If we're not arguing with him over the time at which he needs to sleep, we're fighting about the place.  You'd think the location would be an easy choice.

Son, you have a bedroom.  It's a room with a bed (for sleeping) in it, hence the name--bedroom.  Call me crazy, but I feel that having spent a good chunk of money on a brand-new, pillow-top twin mattress, he should sleep on it.  He sees it differently.

For some reason, the couch in our living room appeals to him more.  I understand it.  There have been many nights when I've been kicked out of the bedroom--thanks to my love of Taco Bell and Fire Sauce--and had to sleep on the couch.  We've had it almost five-years and like a good baseball glove, it gets better with age.

Having said that, it still doesn't compare to any bed I've ever slept on--and I've spent 3 nights at a Days Inn.  Nevertheless, he refuses (it's cute, he thinks he has a say) to sleep in his bed.  Looks comfy right?

Why I Can't Have A Drink.

It would be nice to enjoy an ice-cold glass (or in this case, a BPA-free cup) of tap water.  However, we keep the pepper grinder on the table where Libby can reach it.  At least the peppercorn masks the flouride flavor.

Here are some more reasons we can't have nice things.

Idisockracy

More Parenting Terms Defined in Dad's Dictionary.

Summer Vacation - Unplugged

Our recent summer vacation was a huge success.  It's nice to get unplugged from all the technology that surrounds us.  Our kids have spent most of their summer days at home fighting over the tiny 13-inch computer monitor where they stream Netflix all day long.

It was really nice to get away from it all and let them fight over the much larger, 42-inch screen in the hotel room.

Sad, Butt True

It doesn't take much to get me excited anymore. Sad, but true.  While I occasionally like to live life on the wild side, the bar for things that excite me is set pretty low.  Like, six feet deep.  But today, I felt my heart pounding and a rush of adrenaline coursing through my veins.  It was like Christmas in July and I owe it all to poop.  Thanks Mr. Hankey.

We've been potty training Libby for the past two weeks.  (I say "we", but I mean "I".)  Anyway, "we" have not been having a ton of success.   She has been just as happy to go in her underwear as she has been to sit on the pot.  We didn't expect much in such a short time of such a half-assed job as we've been doing.  Libby has been using her whole ass which sort of makes up for our lack of commitment.

Today,  we had a breakthrough that had me excited enough to use the potty myself.   SPOILER ALERT:  I used it.

She's been wearing underwear all morning and has not had any accidents.  But here's the cherry on top:  She was downstairs, engrossed in SpongeBob Squarepants, while I was upstairs hard at work on the computer (trolling my friends on facebook).

She left SpongeBob of her own volition (a feat in itself), came upstairs, pulled down her pants, and went right in the pot.  My mouth dropped.  It was amazing.  Yes, it was the highlight of my day and possibly my week.  I don't care how exciting fireworks are on the 4th, this trumps everything.

We had such a hard time training the boy.  As young, inexperienced parents, we did everything by the book.  All the experts said to train your child at two years of age.  The hardcore ones said to start at 18 months.  I wish we'd never read any of those articles.

Kids don't care what the experts say. 

Caleb wasn't prepared when we started toilet training him and we had nothing but problems.  We were totally relaxed with Leah--to the point where she basically trained herself.

We've taken the same laissez-faire attitude with Libby and today was a major victory.  Now, if I could just teach her how to sit on the pot instead of in the pot.

Note To Self #5

Aluminum foil balloons make your daughter happy.

Habanero BBQ Almonds make your mouth happy.

An Habanero BBQ Almond thrown at an aluminum foil balloon will put a small hole in the balloon.

This will make your daughter cry.

Duct tape makes a nice patch.

Not nice enough to keep your daughter from crying.

Buy more Habanero BBQ Almonds.

Poems For Dad

I hate getting cards.  Birthday, Christmas, Father's Day, I don't care what the occasion is, don't send me one.  First of all, they're too expensive.  If you really want to spend five bucks on me, bring me a Chalupa Value Meal from Taco Bell.  Your card will be opened and checked for cash,  the text skimmed, and then the whole thing is going in the trash.  At least the Baja Chalupa and Fire Sauce will stay with me for a couple days.

And don't you dare send me a card with glitter on it.  If I wanted glitter all over me I'd hang out at my local "gentleman's" club.  (Not that I know where it is honey.) Finally, please, please do not send me some mushy card that's all touchy feely.  I'm a dude, I don't do feelings well and I definitely don't do poems.

 Music that nobody wants to hear.

If you do feel compelled to send a poem, be aware that poems for dad should either be in limerick form or standard meter.  I don't want any of that Shakespearean meter that no one can read or any of that Haiku crap.  The Japanese gave us Sudoku and Soy Sauce, they can keep their syllabiphillic poetry.  So before you send your dad a card with a nice poem, why not consider just giving him a phone call and saving your money. It's probably money he loaned you anyway.  Get a job.

2014-6-12

Caleb:  You taught Leah that the "High-Yah" sound is the most important tool of Kah-Rah-Tay.  You explained to her the difference between a Black Belt (Level I) and a Blacker Belt (Level II).  You ended by telling her to "Let your heart be your guide". 

Maybe it's time to scale back on Spongebob.

Leah:  You listened to Caleb---seriously, for like twenty minutes.  And, you asked questions.  If you ever want to extend the same courtesy to me it would be appreciated.

Elizabeth:  Tricycle playgroup at the park today.  You can finally pedal your trike by yourself.  Now, if you could only listen to me when I tell you to stop climbing up the slides.

If these were installed on slides, it could eliminate the problem altogether.

Early Bloomer

I love digging through the boy's backpack when he gets home from school.  I never know what I'm going to find.  Sometimes it's good grades and others it's artwork that only a mother could love.  Once in a while, it's a lunch box full of soggy sandwich bread and chocolate milk.  And then, on rare occasions, I get a note from a teacher that makes me laugh and makes me love the boy even more.

I've always thought of my son as a late bloomer.  He reached many developmental milestones later than normal and he still loves to watch cartoons.  I don't mean the awesome, ultra-violent super-hero cartoons either.  But, there is one area in which he has no problem--inviting girls over.  The only problem is that these girls aren't his age...they're his teachers.

 Four different teachers in as many years and he's invited them all over to the house.  At least he's being social.

F is for Family

The dining room is one of the most important rooms in the house.  Sharing a meal around the table allows you to connect with your family.  Wall art lets you speak your mind without using curse words:

2014-5-16

Caleb:  I am excited about how much you love playing Assassin's Creed Black Flag.  Even better, you haven't actually assassinated anybody yet.  Sure, you've blown up hundreds of ships that were probably carrying just as many passengers, but it's a detached form of assassination and I'm cool with that.

Leah:  What can I say.  Your love of Batman is exceeded only by your love for dressing up like a Princess.  I'm not sure what's going on with the biker jacket.













Elizabeth:  Somehow, I let your Mom talk me in to potty-training you--a chore that is made less painful every time your rise from your Elmo Potty saying "Empty."  On a side note:  What kind of creepy monster snorkels in the toilet tank?

A Book In The Works

My editor recently suggested that I start working on a book.  For the past few days, I've been brainstorming--trying to come up with a few good ideas.  Here's what I have so far:

Option 1:  What the Faulkner?

A story written in stream-of-consciousness format.  The story will be science-fiction and at the end you realize that all the characters were actually possessed by the same evil spirit.  So, while you thought you were reading each person's thoughts, it was really the demon all along.  James Franco will get the movie rights.

Option 2:  M. To The Night

A suspense/thriller novel written as an ode to M. Night Shyamalan.  Misdirection and mystery will keep you wondering who is really alive, what's living in the water, and who is safe from plants.  The twist-ending is that there is no twist-ending and what you thought was happening from the beginning was, in fact, what was happening.  M. Night Shyamalan will not get the movie rights.

Option 3:  The China Palindrome

The book will be one giant palindrome that can be read backwards as well as forwards.  The "front cover" will be on the back.  It's the story of a dying Kung-Fu Master told through the eyes of his last surviving student.  So far, all I have is:  "Egad!  Lo, old age!"

Option 4:  The Parenting Dad Presents:  Reasons To Have Children

I had to scratch this project, there just wasn't enough material.  It makes for a nice pamphlet though that could be handed out in airports or left in bathrooms near the condom machine.

Option 5:  Dad and Bloated

An alternate-history story on what would have happened had the Stone Temple Pilots not achieved the level of success they did.  After playing a show in a local bar to less than ten people, struggling singer Scott Weiland bumps into the barkeep (I like the word barkeep) drenching them both with alcohol and cigarette ash.  Long story short, they fall in love and he becomes a Dad to two beautiful children.  He still does a lot of heroin though.

Recitals (aka-Another Reason To Not Have Kids)

If the last three hours of my life have taught me anything, it's this:  When a word begins with "RE", that's your sign that nothing good is about to happen--repossession, revenge, rectal exams--see.   Recitals are no different.

Recitals, as well as rectal exams, have their strong points.  At a recital, you finally get to see the fruit of your child's labor.  All those hours spent practicing and studying come to fruition, in musical format, so that you can see, hear, and determine for yourself----Am I getting my money's worth?

  If these seats are any indication, the answer is, No, I am not.

 If I could just sit and watch my daughter do her thing, recitals would be amazing.  However, that is not the case.  Last year, we learned the hard way, that you have to sit through all three hours of the recital just to watch your kid's 5-minute routine.  As one who likes to learn from his mistakes, we enrolled her in an extra class this year.  One extra class gets her into three more routines.  That's simple math and a great deal.  Sure, we pay a little more for the second class, but can you put a price on your child's happiness?

 Yes. Yes you can. The price is $52/month.

So this year, twenty minutes of those three hours are spent watching our little princess pirouette, tumble, and cart-wheel to her heart's content.  The problem lies in the other 2 hours and 40 minutes.  You have to watch other people's kids.  And their kids suck.

It's like this:  when you watch your child on stage, whether it's playing the piano, singing, or dancing, it's amazing.  It doesn't matter how bad your kid actually is.  Parents are blinded.  It's called the American Idol effect and it makes for a great first few episodes of reality television--the exception being Sanjaya.

When Leah is on stage, I'm in the zone, focused, concentrating on every move she makes.  There are no other kids up there.  It's just her.  It's awesome, she's awesome, everything is awesome.  Then, she exits stage right and I'm left having to watch your kids stink up the place.

With nobody to hold my undivided attention, my eyes scan the entire stage watching a dozen students twirl around and flail limbs to their own beat.  Good Lord, what's wrong with these kids?  I've seen Kung-Fu movies that were less out-of-sync.

The one exception is the 3-4-year old group.  Those kids are money.  One kid just sat down on stage all night, while another one faced the wrong direction.  Best.  Performance. Of the night.

Watching the little kids is fun whether they are your children or not.  Watching the older kids is sorta creepy.  The creepiness level is largely dependent upon the song chosen.  I don't want to watch a bunch of prepubescent girls shake their stuff to lyrics like, "Where you thinking of me when you made love to him."

I don't know what the song was, but it provides a strong case for encouraging your children to listen to heavy metal.  And, if this rant has done anything, I hope it encourages you to avoid having children.  Or, to at least avoid enrolling them in extracurricular activities that result in recitals.  If you find yourself in a situation where you have already procreated, don't worry.  There are a couple good things about kids.  Like this.

The Big 0-5

It's the girl's birthday today.  I figured I'd let her create her own lunch menu.

mEmoRies...

Because the best childhood memories come with medical bills.

Note To Self #4

The Girl:  What you doing Daddy?

Me:  The dishes.

The Girl:  You need help?

Me: I'd love some help if you want to.

The Girl:  I not want to.  Bye-bye.

Note to Self:  Never give the kids options.  It leaves an easy out.

 To be fair, she had a makeover she needed to attend.

Safety First

A parent can never be too careful when it comes to baby-proofing the house.  There are dangerous obstacles everywhere you turn.  That coffee table with your hipster photography book on it sitting over there?  A new baby learning how to walk is the perfect height for catastrophe.  One failed footstep and your baby is blind.

For the rest of her life!

  She's upset just thinking about it.

Do you want that to happen?  I didn't think so.  Those electrical outlets?  Better plug 'em up quick, 'cause that three-pronged outlet is a one-way ticket to toddlercution.  And just because those throw pillows look soft and harmless doesn't mean they're not waiting to kill your child.  Once your child figures out how to unzip the cover, it's only a matter of time before she pulls out the stuffing and chokes on it or puts the case over her head.

You can never be too safe.

That's why we take precaution when Libby watches Netflix:

Talking Turkey and the Ham Harangue

I just came home from a trip to the grocery store--the necessity of which is a topic of much debate in this household.  My father-in-law is visiting tonight and we need something for dinner.  "I could make an appetizer (it's a kick-ass Charleston Cheese Dip) and we could have sandwiches", I told my wife.  "Do we have good lunch meat?", she asked.

This question drives me crazy.

What does 'good' mean?  Who's definition of good?

I went grocery shopping yesterday, but apparently, the lunch meat in our fridge is not good enough for the family to dine on.  Our son can brown bag it five days a week, but when the father-in-law, who visits once a month, stops by I'm supposed to roll out the red carpet of cold cuts?  Don't get me wrong, I get along with my father-in-law, I just don't see the need to buy "good" lunch meat when we have lunch meat that's "good enough for our son to eat every day at  school" already in our fridge.

I tell her the lunch meat is fine and then she looks at me like I'm evil.

"What about bread?", she asks?  "Yes, we have bread".  "No, I mean like kaiser rolls or hoagies."

It's at this point that I feel my wife forgets the state I was in when she first met me.  I was a young bachelor (sexy, I might add) living with his best friend...and his friend's girlfriend...and another friend on occasion...and sometimes whoever might pass out on our couch--all this in a one bedroom apartment.

We didn't have money for "good" lunch meat.   Most of our paychecks went to beer.  I'm not talking about the "good" imported beer either.  I'm talking about 7-dollars for a thirty pack kind of beer.  That left us enough money to buy a couple packages of Budding lunch meat and the occasional treat--a QuickTrip sandwich.

  Because nothing helps that 23-cent can of beer go down like a 59-cent package of turkey.

Background really puts things into perspective.  I feel like I'm throwing money away buying Hillshire Farm's or Sara Lee's meat at 6-dollars a pound.  Now she wants me to go to Schnuck's and pay 10-dollars a pound for some "good" lunch meat.  It's all the same to me, but I'll do it for her.  Besides, I can pick up a six-pack of the "good" beer while I'm there.