Cafe Leone

I’ve got no words for this picture…but HOLY CRAP!

Baby Goats | 8 Comments »

My Almost 11 year old son just came up to me and said:

Dad, I will throw mithril darts to trap rabbits to increase my summoning level so I can summon Kebbits to be able to draw out Abbyssyel Demons to train my slayer and get 1.2 mill GP Abbyssyel whips.

I then went blink…blink, blink. I had him slow down and help me with the spelling as I typed it into a post.

What do I do with this?

Technorati Tags: english please, baby goats, video games

Baby Goats, funny | 10 Comments »

Luckily, the infestation was just confined to her head!

Baby Goats | 5 Comments »

OK, let’s talk about kids. This has been a topic I have avoided over the years, both on the blog and in real life. Unfortunately, I finally realized that I can no longer hide from the fact that I am a parent. There, I said it.

With that realization came the responsibility. These little apprentice humans are looking to me for guidance on the rocky road of this thing called life.

When I was growing up, I had two very loving parents. Never at any moment in my life did I feel the need to question their love. They provided for me, bandaged my boo-boos and made me feel safe. As I thought about my own children (I have something like 2 or 3 at last count!), I realized something that makes me a VERY different parent than my own parents were.

Whereas my mom and dad loved me, they never were my friends. My dad and I had a distant relationship, not physically, but emotionally. That only meant that he was not my buddy. He was my father; a role I understood to be different than that of a friend. I never craved his friendship nor sought him out for advice in times of need. Again, he had a duty as a father…to father and not be my friend.

This is due partially as a response to the Old World mentality of both of my parents. Parents are not friends. Parents are providers. Parents are role models. Parents are there. But my parents were never chummy. My dad never wrapped his giant arms around my shoulders and called me pal. As far as I knew, my dad was not even human….he was simply a father.

But when I had children (don’t ask me why…I am still trying to figure that one out), I thought that I would change all that. I thought that I could be a friend to my children. I am always showing them that too am a human being. I have faults and things scare me and that I am not perfect. I want to share those especially with my 10 year old as he is going through some awkward stages right now.  I want to relate to him on his level. I want to get down eye to eye and hold him and tell him I understand what he is going through.  I want to tell him that I understand if he doesn’t want to go to school because I sometimes don’t feel like going to work. I want to tell him that I know how it feels when a friend betrays him and that he always has me to turn to.  I want to drop to my knees and build a Lego catapult with him and get excited if we can launch one of Nicole’s dolls across the room into the bathroom sink, even if it means knocking over the toothbrushes. I want to share in the wonder of discovery with him. I want him to see me as a partner who is willing to guide as well as willing to be guided. Sometimes I think he gets it. Sometimes I think he thinks I am a little weird.

Question for BoMR (Both of My Readers): What are you doing differently to raise your children than how your parents raised you? What are you doing similarly?

Baby Goats | 7 Comments »

Nothing more to say….

Baby Goats, funny | 6 Comments »

…or how to tell a joke like a 4 year old.

After telling my daughter her favorite  Knock Knock joke for the billionth time:

Knock knock
Who’s there?
An interrupting cow
An interrupting c…..
MOOOOOOOOO!

…my daughter decided to share some of her own with me. Here is just a representative, and completely true, sample of what she said:

Knock, knock.
Who’s there?
Honey cookie
Honey cookie, who?
HONEY!
(now fall down laughing…she did)

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Eyeball
Eyeball who?
Eyeball will you put yourself in your ear and then eat it after you are done putting it in your ear?
(now fall down laughing…she did)

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
I been.
I been who?
I been working on the railroad all the livelong pizza…
(it was supposed to be Ivan. It was supposed to be “day” and not pizza. Now fall on the floor laughing…she did)

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Puppy
Puppy who?
Puppy, will you be Santa because you are going inside my eye. I been working on the railroad…
(now fall down laughing…she did)

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Skeleton
Skeleton who?
Skeleton, will you pull down your pants please so we can see your butt crack?
(now fall down laughing…she did)

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
OK, knock knock, will you pull down your underwear on your oranges?
(combining different knock knock jokes into one is her specialty..now fall down laughing…she did)

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Pajamas
Pajamas who?
Pajamas, will you pull down your underwear so we can see your butt crack?
(now fall down laughing…she did)

Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Elf
Elf who?
Elf! Will you take off your presents please and pull down your underwear so we can see your freaky underwear?
(now fall down laughing…she did)

This went on with variations on a theme. But essentially, they all included her looking around the kitchen, finding an object, making a knock knock joke about it in her head and then throwing the words butt crack into the punchline. Good times!

Baby Goats, funny | 7 Comments »

I am not proud. My behavior the other night was not one which I would want my kids to emulate. I should be disqualified from the whole parenting game full stop. My license to parent should be revoked (I say with a glimmer of hope in my eyes).

Let me preface this story by telling you that we live in a shoe box. We are on top of each other when we sleep; literally due to the fact that we are ALL IN THE SAME EFFING BED! OK, maybe it is not that bad. But it is bad. Another important point to remember is that I am not a drunk! I enjoy a drink here and there but nights out are far and few between.

So, when I got home last night around midnight after a dinner party with some coworkers at a local sushi restaurant, I needed to tip-toe. My Baby Goats will manage to wake up at a blink so it is important to be quiet. I was also just a little bit inebriated, and I definitely did wantwant them to see me stumbling in. The Goats are still young enough to believe that I am a hero. They will learn soon enough that I am merely a mortal who fails more often than I suceed at this parenting thing.

I showered the night’s events off my body and sat at the laptop to type some wonderful Japanese sake-induced account of my evening to share with Both of My Readers (BoMR).

But before my fingers hit the keyboard, my head hit the pillow.

Imagine the dreams I had. Imagine the wasabi-based dreams that floated prettily in an out of my head. Now imagine the sound of Winnie the Pooh emanating from the Goats’ toybox at 2AM. As parents, we are way too familiar with toys that talk only in the middle of the night. We all know that the only people that would ever buy a toy without an OFF button are our single, childless friends.

Now imagine, my sashimi-induced rage as I launched myself from the couch and proceeded to disassemble the toy box all the while Winnie laughing maniacally; taunting me with his honey pot sweetness.

I finally found the sucker and removed him from the box, leaving the remaining toys on the floor. The Baby Goats hardly stirred. It was a Winnie the Pooh key chain that somehow managed to escape my cleaning rampage when we no longer had 6 month olds in the house. I flipped this Winnie key chain around in my hand trying to find an OFF/ON switch. Nothing. I then looked for the battery and proceeded to stick a steak knife into the miniature screw that so securely holds the 400 AAA batteries. The knife tip broke. Meanwhile, Winnie seemed to be getting louder and my eardrums felt like they were going to bleed.

I pride myself on having good judgment and remaining calm. Apparently, Calm Dan went out the window, which is where Winnie should have gone and left for the raccoons to tear into him. Instead I decided… on second thought, it actually wasn’t all that logical, it was more like I “reacted”, by filling the bucket in the sink with water and throwing Pooh into it. I told you I wasn’t being rational! At 2AM, this made a whole lot of sense to me! I thought the best thing to do to stop the blaring was to drown Pooh!

I almost felt sorry for this bear as the gurgling sounds diminished. Except for the fact that the gurgling sounds never ended! Pooh was caught in a loop of final agonal breaths and all I could do was my best to ignore it. This was my digitized version of the Tell Tale Heart, written by Edgar Allen Pooh!

Ignore it, I did; until my 6 year old woke up at 5:00 and heard the sound coming from the bucket. He looked inside and you can imagine what went through this kid’s brain. He began wailing. I woke up and I tried to comfort him as he held the waterlogged key chain in his hands. I told him that this was an infant’s toy and we had no infants in the house. He said this was his “FAVORITE” infant’s toy. I then told him it was an accident, despite the CSI-inspired crime scene sans the blood and yellow tape. He keeps looking at me like I am the very definition of evil..perhaps I am.

Clearly, the rule of thumb here, is stay away from Sushi Night Out with coworkers!

Baby Goats, funny, parenting | 13 Comments »

I was sitting here with my 10 year old son as he worked on his homework. Don’t let me fool you, what this usually means is that I hover over him and tell him when to blink, because it seems this kid is sometimes incapable of accomplishing two consecutive steps without being cattle prodded.

It usually goes something like this:

• Dad: “Will you stop picking your nose and just write your name on the effing piece of paper?!”
• Michael: “YOU HATE ME!”

He storms out in tears. Welcome to my every day.

This homework is actually make-up homework from the night before. He had a list of words related to early explorers. Each word was on a separate sheet of paper with the following questions to fill out:

• Word:
• Definition:
• Where did you learn this definition:
• Synonym:
• Antonym:

Because the pages were sort of generic, we didn’t worry when it asked for antonyms for some of the words. “Just tell the teacher that there isn’t one.” I told Michael.

It turned out that he was marked incorrect by his teacher and he needs to complete it tonight. I just threw my hands in the air and said something like: “How am I ever going to do your homework for you, when the teacher (all of 21 years old) is asking you for the impossible.” Now my son hates me because his VERY short-lived dream that his father is a genius is shattered in a second and none of the pleading I do is changing his opinion…actually making it worse as I tell him “I am not an idiot son. There really is no way to do this homework. Trust me!”

“Sure Dad, whatever you say.” As he hangs his head in shame.

So, with my tail between my legs, I turn to you, BoMR, to guide me. You have helped me get through some pretty tough times and turn to you once again.

Question for BoMR (Both of My Readers):

Can you tell me a synonym and antonym for these words?

Compass

Age of Exploration

Explorer

Astrolabe

Here is what I have come up with:

Compass:

• synonym = That directional device that really doesn’t do anything especially when they put one in your car (”Everyone in the car, we are driving NNE today!).
• antonym = The biological gene that allows me to get lost…and NOT ask for directions (Yes, I went there, ladies and gentlemen. I am edgy like that! Pushing-the-envelope Leone, at your service. Stay tuned for my White Guys Can’t Dance routine!)

Age of Exploration:

• synonym = Age of Self-Stimulation
• antonym = Age of Having Your Mother Walk In While Self-Stimulating And The Subsequent Years Of Therapy

Explorer:

• synonym = “2nd Base” when the world is your oyster
• antonym = Marriage when you can’t even get up to bat

Astrolabe:

• synonym = Whattheeffisanastrolabe
• antonym = shoelace

I am turning to both of you now. You are my only hope.

Baby Goats, funny, parenting | 14 Comments »

First order of business, do not under any circumstance assume that the 5 of us were sitting at the dining room table chit-chatting about the day and wiping our faces with linen napkins and saying such nonsense as “could you please pass me more green beans daddy. I can’t get enough of them!” and “May I be excused? I have homework to complete.”

Nope. But let me paint the background here for you:

Marc and Nicole are at the kitchen table while Michael is eating pasta with butter at the computer in his room…with his fingers.

Marc and Nicole, realizing that Restaurant Leone is open for business, has the adults running around fetching food. One wants water in a glass cup (”a big boy glass”) while the other wants milk in a sippy cup….”NO, not that sippy cup! The other one!” One wants quesadillas while the other is speaking in tongues and we haven’t deciphered which item off the extensive Restaurant Leone menu she really wants:

Restaurant Leone Menu

Appetizers

Halloween Candy

Breakfast

Cinnamon bread with butter but NOT toasted

Raisin Bran

Halloween Candy

Hot oatmeal with cinnamon or honey “BUT NOT BOTH DADDY!”

Lunch

Peanut Butter and Jelly

Nothing

Halloween Candy

Dinner

Quesadillas

“Ants on a log”

Halloween Candy

Plain spaghetti

Plain macaroni

Plain egg noodles

3 minute mac and cheese

A single green bean “in between bites”

Desert

You guessed it, Halloween Candy

But I am pretty sure that is not why I started this post. It was because I heard this conversation today between my 6 year old and 4 year old ( understand that my 4 year old daughter is just now beginning to understand the power of words ):

Nicole: Daddy, I HATE Mexico.

Daddy (taking head out of fridge): What did you say CoCo?[ it was more like: Crap, can you just stop saying my name for 10 seconds?!]

Nicole: I HATE Mexico. It is stupid.

Daddy: Why would say that love muffin? [it was more like: Holy shit, you better not say that out in public or I will tell everyone that you were raised by wolves!]

Nicole: I HATE Mexico. Because they have that stupid dance with the hats. That’s stupid. That’s doodie. That’s stinky. That’s poopie. That’s yucky. That’s just stupid.

Daddy: Well, Sweet Pea, I think Mexico is a beautiful place. Maybe one day, we can go there for a family vacation. [it was more like: Get away from the table, Devil Child. Were you raised in a trough?! It is because of you kids that we will never be able to go on vacation ever again!]

Marc (the diplomat): Nicole, Nicole, don’t worry about it. Mexico is in Africa and we will NEVER go to Africa!

What the hell just happened?

***WIFE DEMANDED A DISCLAIMER*** Our Baby Goats are not nationalistic racists. Nicole was commenting on a segment on Barney which has started hating about Mexico. Marc’s comment about Africa was a comment that we never take a vacation. The goats are in fact creative, wonderful, respectful and loving children. Furthermore, we love our children…despite the crap that Dan says about them.

Baby Goats, funny | 8 Comments »

The books all smelled the same, but I knew they each had something different to offer. The main branch of the public library was a half mile from my house. When I was young, this half-mile was considered the farthest I could travel on my own, without a car, without my parents. This freedom, typical for a child in the 1970’s, was a ticket for me; a ticket to anywhere and everywhere outside of this half-mile radius.

I will never know what drew me to this particular musty corner of the third floor of the library. Math was not my forte in school and I was struggling to manage algebra. This row of shelves was tucked between the sheet music section with its giant books filled with music notations and the social science section with its books about aborigines and anthropology. But I do know that I was DRAWN to this section. I was too young to understand most of what I looked at, but I knew that I was in a world entirely different than anything I had ever experienced.

I pulled a random calculus book off the shelf; one that clearly hadn’t been opened in years or ever. I did not even know what calculus was at the time. The jacketless cover cracked as I opened it. Inside was the magic world of numbers and symbols that instantly swept me away from my world of comfort and familiarity into a universe of possibilities. Inside these pages, I was swimming within a pool of reason and logic. I saw illustrations that showed ladders resting against walls and water flowing out of a basin. I saw graphs of beautiful symmetry that extended forever but finitely.

I read, without understanding, concepts such as limits and rates of change. I devoured words such as integration and derivatives and chewed on on summations.

I became lost in a world of Greek letters and squiggles. These symbols were more beautiful to me than the world’s greatest art. Though this sentence is not necessarily true, I saw art as something that showed us the world and these symbols were art that explained the world.

I felt alive in this corner of the library. I returned often and immersed myself in the ancient texts like some archaeologist staring at hieroglyphics; knowing that he is looking at something important even if not entirely understanding it.

At this point, I dreamed of being a mathematician, even though I struggled with trigonometry. But as is often the case with education, that dream was squelched by rote memorizations and struggling for grades. It was not about nurturing a passion but about passing a class and moving on, robotically to the next.

I have since lost that battle, now 43 and not a mathematician. I have lost many of those battles in my life. Mathematics was replaced by biology which was replaced by physics and cosmology. At each turn, I was faced with self-doubt fostered by continuous force-feeding of facts without contexts and judgment without consideration.

I have always been interested in these fields; my bookshelf filled with more Aczel and Hawking than Grisham and Patterson. Just last week, I uncovered an old calculus book in the attic. I remember throwing this book out of the window at the library into the bushes three stories below. I NEVER actually borrowed any books. I stole them until I was done with them. But I had this one in the attic. I brought it down to show my 10 year old. He is a little younger than I was when I first came across it, but I took a chance. I opened it and just showed him the myriad graphs and symbols. I spoke romantically and with melancholy. He did his due diligence and listened. After about 15 minutes of talking about numbers as if they were made of gold, he looked me in the eyes and asked, “Are you done Dad?”

No, son, I am not.

Baby Goats, parenting, writing | 6 Comments »

I am sitting here, with laptop literally on my lap trying to get through today’s NY Times crossword puzzle. My 6 year old comes up to me, eyes barely open and asks: “Daddy, is there such a thing as a three cent coin?” I said no. He processes this for a minute and says “How about a twenty-two cent coin?” No Marc, there is no such thing as a 22 cent coin. He considers this response, clearly concerned and then asks, “How about a fifty-five cent coin?”

When is he going to stop? We can do this all day!

So, being the Father of the Year, I decided to turn this into an opportunity for learning, so I pull out some coins in order to discuss it. I tell him that in America, we really only use about 4 coins and that there are a couple of others that we rarely see. We then discuss the stupid system we use here with pennies, nickles, dimes and quarters.

He looks at me in the eyes and asks “Daddy, is there a seventy-two cent coin?”

IT IS 6 IN THE MORNING! I quit.

Baby Goats, funny, parenting | 3 Comments »