My brand new HDTV finally arrived on Friday night. An Olevia 537h. I spent an hour and a half today at a Time Warner "store" exchanging our old cable box for an HD cable box. I then went out and bought the various cabling I'd need to hook this sucker up. I then tried to hook it up. Got the video going -- looks great. No audio. After futzing around a bit, I called me bro Mike, the only one in the entire family with a techno gene in his body (and as a computer engineer, it appears that he horded a bunch of them), and he gave me some direction. Still no success. I printed out the user's manual. I stared at the pages. I tried this. I tried that. I tried this and that several more times. I tried calling Olevia customer support (not open on weekends!). I downloaded the user's manual. I tried this and that several more times. Thinking the speakers just might be broken, I hooked up the DVD player and turned it on...audio sound came out of the TV! This, I think frustated me even more. The solution, no doubt, is simple and straightforward, and yet it eludes me.
Oh, cruel audio. Why do you taunt me?
If I had my life to do over, I would more carefully plan out my circle of friends so that I surround myself with folks whose talents and expertise fill in the gaps and shortcomings in my life. The top two friends I'd hunt for are 1) an auto mechanic, and 2) a techno geek who can get the effing audio on my TV to work.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
My God I've Fleas
A couple of weeks ago we noticed the dogs were scratching and biting themselves, and closer inspection revealed visible flea dirt on Oscar. I then determined that what I had thought was a mosquito bite or two on me was likely a flea bite or two. Cathleen went to the pet store a day later and bought some anti-flea shampoo, and we followed that up with that toxic anti-flea oil you put on the back of their necks.
And that is when the flea biting of Rick began in earnest. Two or so weeks later and my arms and lower legs are covered with upwards of two dozen flea bites. Last year the dogs had fleas, we bathed them in the shampoo once and that was the end of it. This year, not so lucky. When it became clear that the flea problem persisted, we washed every sheet, blanket and pillow case in our room. We've now done that another three or four times. Two days ago I sprayed the room with some undoubtedly carcinogenic anti-flea chemical, and we've vaccuumed a couple of times. We intend to maintain this vigilance over the course of the next week and hopefully our blood-sucking friends will cease to exist.
In the meantime, I am fairly miserable. I apparently fall into that category of people who are highly allergic to flea bites and have severe reactions. My reaction is following a classically-described pattern: small bites with red halos eventually turn into large welts; the itching at times is intense, and it takes days for a bite to fade away entirely. It is not even amusing to me to be able to look at myself in the mirror and say, "you sad, flea-bitten sack of shit." Well, it's a little amusing. The itching and burning, in and of itself, would be especially annoying, but what is driving me over the edge is that Cathleen has nary a bite on her. "I think I had one," she has mused. We sleep in the same bed with the same dogs, and I am being slowly consumed by a Biblical plague, and she is bite-free. Where's the equity in this partnership?
And that is when the flea biting of Rick began in earnest. Two or so weeks later and my arms and lower legs are covered with upwards of two dozen flea bites. Last year the dogs had fleas, we bathed them in the shampoo once and that was the end of it. This year, not so lucky. When it became clear that the flea problem persisted, we washed every sheet, blanket and pillow case in our room. We've now done that another three or four times. Two days ago I sprayed the room with some undoubtedly carcinogenic anti-flea chemical, and we've vaccuumed a couple of times. We intend to maintain this vigilance over the course of the next week and hopefully our blood-sucking friends will cease to exist.
In the meantime, I am fairly miserable. I apparently fall into that category of people who are highly allergic to flea bites and have severe reactions. My reaction is following a classically-described pattern: small bites with red halos eventually turn into large welts; the itching at times is intense, and it takes days for a bite to fade away entirely. It is not even amusing to me to be able to look at myself in the mirror and say, "you sad, flea-bitten sack of shit." Well, it's a little amusing. The itching and burning, in and of itself, would be especially annoying, but what is driving me over the edge is that Cathleen has nary a bite on her. "I think I had one," she has mused. We sleep in the same bed with the same dogs, and I am being slowly consumed by a Biblical plague, and she is bite-free. Where's the equity in this partnership?
Monday, November 12, 2007
Poop game, revisited
After I posted about Eliza's "Oscar pooped!" game a couple of weeks ago, she pretty much ceased playing it, a quiet form of resistance to serving as fodder for my blog posts. Tonight, however, she was walking around the apartment after dinner with a piece of toilet paper in her hand, bending over and picking up imaginary objects from the ground, which she would then hold up and pronounce, "I got poop!"
Ha, ha, we chuckled to ourselves...parenting is all about teaching life skills, right?
A few minutes later, however, she actually held out for me a piece of toilet paper with a small piece of dog crap in it.
Ha, ha, we chuckled to ourselves...parenting is all about teaching life skills, right?
A few minutes later, however, she actually held out for me a piece of toilet paper with a small piece of dog crap in it.
Foundations of character
We had a pretty good, if not unexciting, weekend. On Saturday, Max (with Cathleen and Eliza) attended the 4th birthday party of his former classmate, Kika -- a completely mercenary act for Max; he had little interest in engaging with Kika or any of his friends from school last year, and basically put in the appearance in order to a) get cake, and b) get a goody bag (which was, for him, disappointingly short on candy). Cathleen, at least, had an enjoyable time reconnecting with some of the parents of the kids. On Sunday, after a morning excursion to Fairway, Max and I went out for a run in the afternoon while Eliza napped. He goaded me into making it a long-ish run (5.8 miles, as opposed to the standard 4.2), while also insisting that we stop along the way for him to get a bagel. He's one hell of a training coach. On Sunday night, Cathleen and I finished off Season 2 of The Wire....sooooo good.
The highlight of the weekend for me, however, occurred on Saturday evening, as we made our way to a dinner invite at the house of Max's friend, Henry, the only Rivendell classmate whom Max still sees for playdates, mostly because Cathleen and Henry's mom, Annabelle, developed a real friendship over the past year. Our families have gathered together a couple of times before, but I still can't remember their last name. On our way to their home, we stopped to acquire some accoutrements for the meal: Cathleen and Eliza went into Sip to get a bottle of wine, while Max and I went into the high-end bodega on the opposite corner to get some vanilla ice cream to have with the apple crisp we were making. We grabbed the ice cream and got on line at the register behind an older man who was carrying a boom box which was playing Elvis Presley. This struck me as a slightly unusual sight, and my eyes followed the man as he stepped out of line and promptly dropped his boom box on the floor, the CD popping out and the batteries splaying about. The man looked like he was bending over to pick everything up, but then it appeared to me that he was actually hunching over. I touched him and asked, "Papi, are you alright?" He swayed a little big, and staggered a step or two away from me. I could see now that he was drooling profusely, and I grabbed him with both arms to keep him from falling over -- a not easy task, as he was much larger than me. One of the guys working in the store brought over a stool, and I guided the guy onto the stool. Everyone else in the store seemed to be doing nothing, so I turned around towards the counter and said, "perhaps someone should call 911." The guy behind the counter said, "He'll be OK. This happens all the time." And sure enough, within moments the guy was standing back up and refocusing hiimself. I looked down at Max, and he looked pretty scared -- not terrified, but he had a very worried look on his face. Not only had events in the store been inherently scary for him, but I was intimately involved in those events, and not there for him to hold onto. I told him that everything was OK. He asked what had happened to that man, and the guy behind the counter explained that he has seizures all the time. Not a clear answer for Max, so I reduced it to, "the man was not feeling well, and needed help sitting down." I then paid for the ice cream, and we started to leave the store. Max then turned to me and quietly said, "I feel sorry for that man."
That was an incredibly powerful moment for me. Not the collapsing man -- I think I inherited this sort of "crisis cool" from my father (an EMT for many years), but dealing with that guy didn't phase me at all. What was powerful was hearing my little boy, overwhelmed by a scary and dramatic sequence of events, and in the immediate aftermath while he was sorting it out in his head, his honest and most pronounced reaction was one of compassion. It spoke volumes to me about his developing character, and I was proud beyond words.
The highlight of the weekend for me, however, occurred on Saturday evening, as we made our way to a dinner invite at the house of Max's friend, Henry, the only Rivendell classmate whom Max still sees for playdates, mostly because Cathleen and Henry's mom, Annabelle, developed a real friendship over the past year. Our families have gathered together a couple of times before, but I still can't remember their last name. On our way to their home, we stopped to acquire some accoutrements for the meal: Cathleen and Eliza went into Sip to get a bottle of wine, while Max and I went into the high-end bodega on the opposite corner to get some vanilla ice cream to have with the apple crisp we were making. We grabbed the ice cream and got on line at the register behind an older man who was carrying a boom box which was playing Elvis Presley. This struck me as a slightly unusual sight, and my eyes followed the man as he stepped out of line and promptly dropped his boom box on the floor, the CD popping out and the batteries splaying about. The man looked like he was bending over to pick everything up, but then it appeared to me that he was actually hunching over. I touched him and asked, "Papi, are you alright?" He swayed a little big, and staggered a step or two away from me. I could see now that he was drooling profusely, and I grabbed him with both arms to keep him from falling over -- a not easy task, as he was much larger than me. One of the guys working in the store brought over a stool, and I guided the guy onto the stool. Everyone else in the store seemed to be doing nothing, so I turned around towards the counter and said, "perhaps someone should call 911." The guy behind the counter said, "He'll be OK. This happens all the time." And sure enough, within moments the guy was standing back up and refocusing hiimself. I looked down at Max, and he looked pretty scared -- not terrified, but he had a very worried look on his face. Not only had events in the store been inherently scary for him, but I was intimately involved in those events, and not there for him to hold onto. I told him that everything was OK. He asked what had happened to that man, and the guy behind the counter explained that he has seizures all the time. Not a clear answer for Max, so I reduced it to, "the man was not feeling well, and needed help sitting down." I then paid for the ice cream, and we started to leave the store. Max then turned to me and quietly said, "I feel sorry for that man."
That was an incredibly powerful moment for me. Not the collapsing man -- I think I inherited this sort of "crisis cool" from my father (an EMT for many years), but dealing with that guy didn't phase me at all. What was powerful was hearing my little boy, overwhelmed by a scary and dramatic sequence of events, and in the immediate aftermath while he was sorting it out in his head, his honest and most pronounced reaction was one of compassion. It spoke volumes to me about his developing character, and I was proud beyond words.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Where the lights are shinin' on me
It occurred to me this evening, as I was singing Rhinestone Cowboy while doing the dishes, that it is probably the song that I've liked for the longest amount of time. My musical tastes, of course, have changed over time (oooh, did I actually once know the lyrics to not one but two REO Speedwagon songs?), and Glen Campbell would certainly not make it onto my list of "the five CDs I'd want with me were I stranded on a remote island," or even "the 62 CDs I'd want with me were I stranded on a remote island," but I really liked that song as a young kid, and I still like it.
And I'm not the least bit ashamed to say so.
Funny thing is, I barely know any of the lyrics, except the chorus. I should learn them.
If I ever make a feature-length film, the odds of which happening seem fairly remote, you can bet your money that "Rhinestone Cowboy" somehow makes it into the soundtrack.
And I'm not the least bit ashamed to say so.
Funny thing is, I barely know any of the lyrics, except the chorus. I should learn them.
If I ever make a feature-length film, the odds of which happening seem fairly remote, you can bet your money that "Rhinestone Cowboy" somehow makes it into the soundtrack.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Watching Athletes X 2
Sunday was Marathon Day in New York. I, of course, ran it last year (for the second time) and the fact that at this time last year I was in substantially better physical condition than I am now has not eluded me lately. When I've huffed and puffed through four mile runs in the past month, I've gently reminded myself that on the weekend before the marathon last year I *coasted* through a ten-mile "easy" run. Sigh.
In the spirit of pre-race carbo-loading, we went out for bagels early in the morning and by the time we returned home, Fourth Avenue was closed off. Just walking across the wide open boulevard of Fourth Avenue shot me right back to last year. I was immediately jealous of all 39,000 runners who were, at that time, still huddling in Fort Wadsworth in Staten Island.
Cathleen and Max took a bunch of baked goods over to a bake sale to raise funds for our Community Garden, and Eliza and I made it back out to the street by a little after 9:30, just in time to see the wheeled athletes coming by (the marathon runs right by the end of our block, just short of the eight-mile marker). If you can watch these folks in various forms of wheelchairs working it and not be incredibly moved, you just do not understand the human condition.
By a little after 10 we joined up with Sophie, Miriam and Rachel to wait for the elite runners. First came the elite women (Paula Radcliffe, 8 months post-partum!), and a half hour later a pack of elite male runners. If you watched the TV broadcast and froze the still frame of the elite men as they passed our block, and if you knew what clothing we were wearing and roughly how our bodies were positioned, you could see blurry little images of people that were definitely us. We were on TV! Gradually, pockets of fast runners gave way to thicker pockets of fast, but not as fast, runners, which gave way to hordes of average joes taking on a big challenge.
At eight miles, the runners are feeling really good. They've only been encountering a long stretch of thick, supportive and loud crowds for about a mile or two and so there is a newness and an excitement for them, and their bodies aren't even close to experiencing the pain that will be leveled upon them by the time they hit Mile 20. I tried to cheer for as many people individually as I could, based on names or other information written on their shirts. Each "Go Rick" cheer that I received when I ran the race lifted me greatly, and so I knew the mitzvah I doing. I did not anticipate the visceral reaction I would have watching the race -- I was completely in touch with the exhiliration that I had felt running it, and was almost completely overcome at moments. When it was time for Max and me to leave, I didn't want to go. But we had Jets tickets, ya know?
A coworker offered me the tickets for free late in the day on Thursday, and after confirming the weather forecast (sunny, high 50s), I jumped at the opportunity to go to a game with Max. He does not bother himself with the nuanced differences between football and baseball, but he has said to me for some time that he'd like to go to a Jets game with me. So we grabbed a few layers of clothing and headed for the subway to Port Authority. There, we boarded a bus for the Meadowlands. Max was very, very excited to be riding on a big bus. He had never done so before (beyond an MTA bus), and th experience was, apparently, significant. When we emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel, he asked if we were on a highway. When I confirmed that we were, he spurted, "I can't wait to tell Mommy that I rode a bus on the highway." I have got to get my kid out more.
Our seats were in the fifteenth row of the upper deck, right behind one of the endzones. We reached our seats just as Leon Washington was running the opening kickoff back for a TD. Sweet! The sun was shining, the view was great, the Jets were winning. Hell, even the Bud I was drinking seemed flavorful (that didn't last much beyond about five sips). Like baseball games, Max was not at all interested in what was going on in the game, but he really seems to like the stadium experience, particularly the consumptive part of it. Hot dog, hot chocolate, Cracker Jacks, soft pretzel, chocolate chip cookes. I spared no expense or trick in keeping him there for three straight hours. When the Jets sent the game into overtime with an end of regulation field goal, Max informed me, for not the first time, that he wanted to go home. Good parenting won out over devoted sports fan, and we left. This enabled me to a) keep him happy, b) beat out the crowds leaving the game, and c) miss the inevitable Jets loss.
It is almost embarrassing to me what pure joy I derive from attending sports events with my children. It is not just a simple matter of "I enjoy spending time with my kids." Duh, of course I do. But there is something else about being at the game with my boy, just looking over at him sitting next to me as I am shouting at the players or the refs, he enraptured at the raw density of his hot chocolate...I just cannot get enough of those moments. On the way home he told me the game was boring ("there's nothing there to do") and he ranked his favorite moments of the day as follows: "I liked the bus ride the best, then the marathon and Jets game."
In the spirit of pre-race carbo-loading, we went out for bagels early in the morning and by the time we returned home, Fourth Avenue was closed off. Just walking across the wide open boulevard of Fourth Avenue shot me right back to last year. I was immediately jealous of all 39,000 runners who were, at that time, still huddling in Fort Wadsworth in Staten Island.
Cathleen and Max took a bunch of baked goods over to a bake sale to raise funds for our Community Garden, and Eliza and I made it back out to the street by a little after 9:30, just in time to see the wheeled athletes coming by (the marathon runs right by the end of our block, just short of the eight-mile marker). If you can watch these folks in various forms of wheelchairs working it and not be incredibly moved, you just do not understand the human condition.
By a little after 10 we joined up with Sophie, Miriam and Rachel to wait for the elite runners. First came the elite women (Paula Radcliffe, 8 months post-partum!), and a half hour later a pack of elite male runners. If you watched the TV broadcast and froze the still frame of the elite men as they passed our block, and if you knew what clothing we were wearing and roughly how our bodies were positioned, you could see blurry little images of people that were definitely us. We were on TV! Gradually, pockets of fast runners gave way to thicker pockets of fast, but not as fast, runners, which gave way to hordes of average joes taking on a big challenge.
At eight miles, the runners are feeling really good. They've only been encountering a long stretch of thick, supportive and loud crowds for about a mile or two and so there is a newness and an excitement for them, and their bodies aren't even close to experiencing the pain that will be leveled upon them by the time they hit Mile 20. I tried to cheer for as many people individually as I could, based on names or other information written on their shirts. Each "Go Rick" cheer that I received when I ran the race lifted me greatly, and so I knew the mitzvah I doing. I did not anticipate the visceral reaction I would have watching the race -- I was completely in touch with the exhiliration that I had felt running it, and was almost completely overcome at moments. When it was time for Max and me to leave, I didn't want to go. But we had Jets tickets, ya know?
A coworker offered me the tickets for free late in the day on Thursday, and after confirming the weather forecast (sunny, high 50s), I jumped at the opportunity to go to a game with Max. He does not bother himself with the nuanced differences between football and baseball, but he has said to me for some time that he'd like to go to a Jets game with me. So we grabbed a few layers of clothing and headed for the subway to Port Authority. There, we boarded a bus for the Meadowlands. Max was very, very excited to be riding on a big bus. He had never done so before (beyond an MTA bus), and th experience was, apparently, significant. When we emerged from the Lincoln Tunnel, he asked if we were on a highway. When I confirmed that we were, he spurted, "I can't wait to tell Mommy that I rode a bus on the highway." I have got to get my kid out more.
Our seats were in the fifteenth row of the upper deck, right behind one of the endzones. We reached our seats just as Leon Washington was running the opening kickoff back for a TD. Sweet! The sun was shining, the view was great, the Jets were winning. Hell, even the Bud I was drinking seemed flavorful (that didn't last much beyond about five sips). Like baseball games, Max was not at all interested in what was going on in the game, but he really seems to like the stadium experience, particularly the consumptive part of it. Hot dog, hot chocolate, Cracker Jacks, soft pretzel, chocolate chip cookes. I spared no expense or trick in keeping him there for three straight hours. When the Jets sent the game into overtime with an end of regulation field goal, Max informed me, for not the first time, that he wanted to go home. Good parenting won out over devoted sports fan, and we left. This enabled me to a) keep him happy, b) beat out the crowds leaving the game, and c) miss the inevitable Jets loss.
It is almost embarrassing to me what pure joy I derive from attending sports events with my children. It is not just a simple matter of "I enjoy spending time with my kids." Duh, of course I do. But there is something else about being at the game with my boy, just looking over at him sitting next to me as I am shouting at the players or the refs, he enraptured at the raw density of his hot chocolate...I just cannot get enough of those moments. On the way home he told me the game was boring ("there's nothing there to do") and he ranked his favorite moments of the day as follows: "I liked the bus ride the best, then the marathon and Jets game."
Friday, November 2, 2007
Spectral Sugar High
It was Halloween a couple of nights ago, but I haven't had the chance to post anything about it. Until now. Boo.
Two years ago, when Max was two and a half years old (was he really that young so recently?), he was in the waning days of his ceiling fan obsession -- he'd recall the exact number of ceiling fans in homes he had visited once the prior year, and we'd have to stop in the fan section of Lowes on every trip there; the obsession died down when we moved to Brooklyn, into an apartment with four ceiling fans -- and so Cathleen figured she'd create a fan costume for him for Halloween. But when Max learned that his cousin Miriam was going as Batman, he wanted to go as Batman also. He had no idea what Batman was, but that didn't matter much to him. Cathleen wasn't ready to part with her ceiling fan vision, and so she created a brilliant Batfan costume for him. I can't describe it, but you've got to trust me that it was brilliant, and he loved it. Last year, Max was in direct touch with his obsession, and said he wanted to go as a TV. Cathleen made him a clever TV costume, and he was psyched.
This past year has all been about pirates for him (ask him to sing "The Pirate King" from Gilbert & Sullivan's "The Pirates of Penzance" for you), and so we naturally assumed he'd want to go as a pirate. Nope, wasn't the least bit interested. He wanted to dress up as...a whole musical band, and Eliza could be the singer. Cool idea, we thought; we could deck him out in several instruments, he'd have fun creating a ruckus, Eliza's inevitably derivative costume wouldn't be too demeaning for her. A week later he decided he wanted to be a fire-breathing dragon. Oy. That would require an effort, but we could have Eliza go as the marshmallow that he was toasting (not sure if that was his idea or Cathleen's). Mercifully, he moved on from that idea after a week, and finally settled on wanting to dress up as a ghost. My boy and his classic sensibilities. Cathleen. who normally reserves her well of creativity for her writing, started describing a semi-elaborate costume plan that involved flowing strips of white cloth and clear plastic and the like. I turned to Max and asked him what a ghost costume looked like. "You stick a towel over your head and cut out holes for eyes," he explained. Bingo. The kid had completely internalized "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown." We decided that Eliza, too, would be a ghost, but given her legendary resistance to any form of restraint or cover, she'd be a ghost that resembled more of a cute little girl with a flowing white cape.
When it was time to don the costumes for trick-or-treating, Cathleen could not find the ghost cape she had sewn for Eliza, and so she quickly put together a new ghost costume for her, which basically left Eliza looking like she was dressed in a white potato sack toga. I left work early that day and met up with Cathleen and the kids on our block, where they had just begun there trick-or-treating. Max was in full costume for those five minutes, and then he decided that he was having too much trouble seeing out of his eye-holes; his costume morphed into the cute little boy ghost with a flowing white cape.
Sophie and Joseph, decked out in almost luminescent wigs, with Miriam (Supergirl!) and Rachel (Screw your costume fascism!) joined us for the long haul. Max began a little meltdown tantrum action, and I was naive enough to try to reason with him about what was irking him in life. Just when all looked lost, Cathleen dipped into his plastic trick-or-treat pumpkin bag and produced a lollipop for his consumption. Let the sugar begin!
Trick-or-treating in Brooklyn is a vastly different experience than doing so in Yorktown. Growing up in a 60-lot housing subdivision, we would go to every single house, ring the doorbell or knock on the door and acquire a haul of candy. Well, you didn't knock on the Gans' door because their son allegedly had committed suicide, and it was risky to go to the Kronen's house because Mrs. Kronen actually might have been a witch, but definitely go to the Fatigates because they have money and no doubt will give big candy. In Brooklyn, you only go to the houses where people are sitting outside on their stoop with a bowl of candy. No knocking on doors or ringing doorbells; it's simply approaching people who are already out there, hoping to be approached. It simplifies the transaction and reduces everyone's anxiety, and allows you to measure a block's worth by the number of stoop-sitting candy providers (our block, for those keeping score at home, sucks).
We trick-or-treated down Dean Street in Boerum Hill (including along the block featured in Jonathan Lethem's "The Fortress of Solitude"), down to Hoyt Street. I was carrying Eliza pretty much the entire way, as she got her money's worth out of a sticky pink lollipop, and as we walked down Hoyt we fell behind the rest of our crew who had crossed the middle of the street to gain access to the only candy available on the block. By the time we caught up, I found the kids receiving candy from Hope Davis. Hope Davis! I've always loved her in all of those movies that I can't remember that she was in, though I do remember seeing her act live in a production of Tennessee Williams' "Camino Real" at the Williamstown Theater Festival almost a decade ago. And here she was, having beckoned us to come across the street to her home, chatting up Sophie and Joseph to the point that I quietly asked myself, "Sophie and Joseph know Hope Davis?" She was crazy friendly, and as pretty as you'd expect. Brooklyn, folks, Brooklyn. Take that, Hollywood.
We completed our candy gathering tour up Wyckoff to St. Marks. Eliza wanted to walk a lot of the way home, she being so jacked up on tootsie rolls and lollipops that she was running and levitating at times. We returned to our stoop, met up with Claudia, brought out our building's five jack-o-lanterns and began distributing candy to costumed passersby. Max, at first, balked at the notion that we would actually give away candy, but then he got into the routine, alternating ingestion with dissemination. Miriam was really into giving out the candy, and ultimately who held the candy bowl became a power struggle. By 7:30 we decided that we had set back our children's nutritional development sufficiently, and we took them inside to get ready for bed. Crash! That was the sound of Max's blood sugar, followed by his inability to cope with the world (after his stories were over, he cried that he hadn't seen me tuck him in, and twice cried that he hadn't seen me turn out the lights).
After dining on some Cathleen-made pumpkin soup, we watched some TV and called it a night.
Two years ago, when Max was two and a half years old (was he really that young so recently?), he was in the waning days of his ceiling fan obsession -- he'd recall the exact number of ceiling fans in homes he had visited once the prior year, and we'd have to stop in the fan section of Lowes on every trip there; the obsession died down when we moved to Brooklyn, into an apartment with four ceiling fans -- and so Cathleen figured she'd create a fan costume for him for Halloween. But when Max learned that his cousin Miriam was going as Batman, he wanted to go as Batman also. He had no idea what Batman was, but that didn't matter much to him. Cathleen wasn't ready to part with her ceiling fan vision, and so she created a brilliant Batfan costume for him. I can't describe it, but you've got to trust me that it was brilliant, and he loved it. Last year, Max was in direct touch with his obsession, and said he wanted to go as a TV. Cathleen made him a clever TV costume, and he was psyched.
This past year has all been about pirates for him (ask him to sing "The Pirate King" from Gilbert & Sullivan's "The Pirates of Penzance" for you), and so we naturally assumed he'd want to go as a pirate. Nope, wasn't the least bit interested. He wanted to dress up as...a whole musical band, and Eliza could be the singer. Cool idea, we thought; we could deck him out in several instruments, he'd have fun creating a ruckus, Eliza's inevitably derivative costume wouldn't be too demeaning for her. A week later he decided he wanted to be a fire-breathing dragon. Oy. That would require an effort, but we could have Eliza go as the marshmallow that he was toasting (not sure if that was his idea or Cathleen's). Mercifully, he moved on from that idea after a week, and finally settled on wanting to dress up as a ghost. My boy and his classic sensibilities. Cathleen. who normally reserves her well of creativity for her writing, started describing a semi-elaborate costume plan that involved flowing strips of white cloth and clear plastic and the like. I turned to Max and asked him what a ghost costume looked like. "You stick a towel over your head and cut out holes for eyes," he explained. Bingo. The kid had completely internalized "It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown." We decided that Eliza, too, would be a ghost, but given her legendary resistance to any form of restraint or cover, she'd be a ghost that resembled more of a cute little girl with a flowing white cape.
When it was time to don the costumes for trick-or-treating, Cathleen could not find the ghost cape she had sewn for Eliza, and so she quickly put together a new ghost costume for her, which basically left Eliza looking like she was dressed in a white potato sack toga. I left work early that day and met up with Cathleen and the kids on our block, where they had just begun there trick-or-treating. Max was in full costume for those five minutes, and then he decided that he was having too much trouble seeing out of his eye-holes; his costume morphed into the cute little boy ghost with a flowing white cape.
Sophie and Joseph, decked out in almost luminescent wigs, with Miriam (Supergirl!) and Rachel (Screw your costume fascism!) joined us for the long haul. Max began a little meltdown tantrum action, and I was naive enough to try to reason with him about what was irking him in life. Just when all looked lost, Cathleen dipped into his plastic trick-or-treat pumpkin bag and produced a lollipop for his consumption. Let the sugar begin!
Trick-or-treating in Brooklyn is a vastly different experience than doing so in Yorktown. Growing up in a 60-lot housing subdivision, we would go to every single house, ring the doorbell or knock on the door and acquire a haul of candy. Well, you didn't knock on the Gans' door because their son allegedly had committed suicide, and it was risky to go to the Kronen's house because Mrs. Kronen actually might have been a witch, but definitely go to the Fatigates because they have money and no doubt will give big candy. In Brooklyn, you only go to the houses where people are sitting outside on their stoop with a bowl of candy. No knocking on doors or ringing doorbells; it's simply approaching people who are already out there, hoping to be approached. It simplifies the transaction and reduces everyone's anxiety, and allows you to measure a block's worth by the number of stoop-sitting candy providers (our block, for those keeping score at home, sucks).
We trick-or-treated down Dean Street in Boerum Hill (including along the block featured in Jonathan Lethem's "The Fortress of Solitude"), down to Hoyt Street. I was carrying Eliza pretty much the entire way, as she got her money's worth out of a sticky pink lollipop, and as we walked down Hoyt we fell behind the rest of our crew who had crossed the middle of the street to gain access to the only candy available on the block. By the time we caught up, I found the kids receiving candy from Hope Davis. Hope Davis! I've always loved her in all of those movies that I can't remember that she was in, though I do remember seeing her act live in a production of Tennessee Williams' "Camino Real" at the Williamstown Theater Festival almost a decade ago. And here she was, having beckoned us to come across the street to her home, chatting up Sophie and Joseph to the point that I quietly asked myself, "Sophie and Joseph know Hope Davis?" She was crazy friendly, and as pretty as you'd expect. Brooklyn, folks, Brooklyn. Take that, Hollywood.
We completed our candy gathering tour up Wyckoff to St. Marks. Eliza wanted to walk a lot of the way home, she being so jacked up on tootsie rolls and lollipops that she was running and levitating at times. We returned to our stoop, met up with Claudia, brought out our building's five jack-o-lanterns and began distributing candy to costumed passersby. Max, at first, balked at the notion that we would actually give away candy, but then he got into the routine, alternating ingestion with dissemination. Miriam was really into giving out the candy, and ultimately who held the candy bowl became a power struggle. By 7:30 we decided that we had set back our children's nutritional development sufficiently, and we took them inside to get ready for bed. Crash! That was the sound of Max's blood sugar, followed by his inability to cope with the world (after his stories were over, he cried that he hadn't seen me tuck him in, and twice cried that he hadn't seen me turn out the lights).
After dining on some Cathleen-made pumpkin soup, we watched some TV and called it a night.
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