Can I Tell You Something?

Weevy says “Can I tell you something?” at least a couple of times every day. And you never know what’s going to come out of her mouth after.  Sometimes, she may actually want to tell us something. Sometimes, it turns out to be a question: “Can I have something to eat?” Often as not, it’s about something she and her friends did in whatever computer game they’re currently obsessed with. It often makes no sense to me, but I nod and act excited and try to understand what the hell she’s talking about.

Once in a while, though, “Can I tell you something?” turns out to be a real gem.

Last week, Weevy and I were looking through old photos on my phone — something she loves to do, because I refuse to put her favorite apps on my phone. The result of that, we both know, would be that any time we’re outside and away from her computer or iPad, she’d steal my phone and I’d be left twiddling my thumbs while she ignores me. This has happened more than once, and it drives me completely fucking bonkers. But looking at old photos together is a fair compromise. Sometimes.

Anyway, a photo popped up from, I believe, the summer of 2014, when Weevy was four. My spouse taken Weevy and her then-besty to Central Park for some something-or-other and both kids had gotten their faces painted. The pic in question shows Mommy holding our painted daughter, wearing a low-cut shirt, and looking… I believe the scientific term is boobalicious. I mean, she’s no Dolly Parton or anything, but this pic showed some pretty excellent cleavage.

In the intervening four years, my wife’s physique has changed quite a bit. She discovered the “joys” of strict dieting and rigorous regular workouts. Half a dozen hard boiled egg whites and two protein bars for breakfast? Nom-nom!  Deadlifts and squats and other odious endeavors three times a week?  Wheeee!  It’s not exactly my bag — she once asked me if I wanted some tips from her dietician, and I blurted out that “the way you eat seems so joyless that I could never do it.” But I have to give her credit, it has not been in vain. In her newly toned and svelte state, clothes she was bulging out of a year ago are swimming on her now. Her new outfits tend toward the tight and form-fitting, and they look — SHE looks — fabulous.

And yeah, her boobs have shrunk.  A lot.

As a red-blooded heterosexual cisgender male, I have no problem with this. Small boobs, big boobs, post-mastectomy boobs, as long as they’re in the right place, I will ogle my wife’s chest area.  But the shrinkage is definitely noticeable. And not just to me.

“Daddy,” can I tell you something?” Weevy asked on a crowded 7 train.  “Sure,” I said. If she was going to ask me for food, she was out of luck. No restaurants on the subway, after all.

“Mommy used to have really big bosoms,” she said, a little too loudly for the setting. Just in case the dozens of people within earshot missed it, she repeated: “Mommy’s bosoms were really big.  I call them bosoms because that’s what they call them in Matilda [the classic book by Roald Dahl she’s presently reading].

“I saw that picture on your phone, where she’s holding me? And her bosoms were really big. What happened to them?”  I kept my eyes on Weevy, for fear of seeing everyone around me cracking up.

“Well, she started working out, and she lost weight everywhere, including her, um, bosoms.”

“Well, they used to be really big.”

And I thought that was the end of the conversation.  I was wrong.

“I don’t have bosoms.”

“No, not yet, but you’ll have them when you’re older.”

“You don’t have bosoms.”

“Thank goodness. I’m not supposed to have bosoms.”

“Grandma has Grandma bosoms.”

Had we not been on a crowded train, I might have said something, like, “You mean old and saggy?” But I tried to maintain decorum and simply said, “Yes she does.”

“Grandpa has bosoms!  He has man bosoms.”

You know, of all the things she could choose to talk about on the 7 train, boobs — sorry, bosoms — would not have been my top choice. Man-boobs would have been even farther down the list. But Weevy clearly had bosoms on the brain, and honestly, I can’t blame her. It’s a fascinating, and, er, titillating subject.










Am I Dying?

A lot has happened since the last time I wrote, but the biggest change is that we’re currently living amongst dozens of boxes in a rental apartment two floors up from where Weevy has lived her entire life. We’re preparing to move, in a weird, piecemeal kinda way — it’s a long, boring story, trust me.

Weevy’s been through a lot of stuff by age 7 that I never went through. I didn’t lose a relative or my childhood home until I was in my mid 20s. She lost her grandfather (my dad) and her cat last year, and now she’s losing the only home she’s ever known. The plan is to move somewhere bigger and better, of course, but for now she’s sleeping on a mattress on the floor, with most of her toys in storage. It’s a hell of a lot to deal with for a little kid, especially a super-sensitive girl that will, and frequently does, burst into tears at the drop of a hat.

We sold my late father’s apartment a couple of months before preparing to put our place on the market, so I don’t know if her subconscious put two and two together and came up with the notion that moving = death. But once we packed up our home and moved upstairs, she suddenly started missing Oliver, aka BooBoo, our old cat. Oliver was… he was one of a kind. He was never very cuddly. His purr was very soft and quiet, but his meows were of such volume that my cat-sitting neighbor admitted to us that she worried he was being tortured. As he got old and frail, he took to peeing on our pillows. He was a damaged fellow in many ways, but we loved him in spite of everything. That said, the whole family has delicately confessed that we like our current cat, Princess — a joyously happy, active girl who loves nothing more to leap onto my shoulders and be cradled like a baby — just a wee bit more than we liked Oliver.

Which didn’t stop Weevy from crying every night for weeks. “I miss BooBoo!” she would sob.  “Why did he have to die?!” “Well, sweetie,” we’d explain, “He was very old for a cat, and he was very sick.” “But I miss himmmmm!” she’d wail.  It became a fucking bedtime tradition for her to be totally inconsolable about her cat — who’d died more than a year earlier, mind you — for 5-10 minutes every night.

“I miss BooBoo” eventually morphed into “Am I dying?” The cause of her potential demise was usually what she called “an oogly tummy.” It took us a while to determine that it was not, in fact, pain she was feeling, but a combo of that feeling of dread in the pit of your stomach when you’re, say, 7 years old and have to go to school, plus the effects of an absolutely horrific diet for which me and my beautiful spouse are largely responsible. Dinner is, often as not, a couple of bowls of Rice-A-Roni followed by an Eskimo Pie and a rainbow cookie. The lunches we pack for her on school days are almost entirely processed, sugar-laden carbs. It’s a small miracle that she doesn’t have rickets or scurvy or something.

Slowly we realized that at least part of her death fears are probably related to the changes going on in her life.  She still eats like a pig while remaining a veritable stick figure (she’s got her daddy’s metabolism), she’s still pretty cheerful, and after a while, she started asking “Am I dying?” with a knowing grin instead of with real concern. But she was still a little thrilled when she got the flu last week: “Can I die from the flu?” she said with a trace of worry but more excitement in her voice. “No, sweetie, it’s just like a bad cold.” “Are you SURE I can’t die from it?” And so the drama continues — for Weevy, at least.

Chopstick Helpers

The missus and I don’t talk to Weevy too much about her cultural or ethnic identity.  I guess it’s because we’re both a little… vague about it.  My wife was born in Korea and adopted when she was a year old by a nice Irish Catholic family on Long Island.  I’m Jewish by birth, raised by an atheist mother and a father who somehow managed to get me bar mitzvahed despite my doing everything in my power to sabotage it.  (Back in my teens, when he made me go to Passover seders, I’d wear crucifixes made of masking tape on my torso — leading the other guests to wonder what that ripping sound was whenever I slouched or bent over.)  Neither of us gives religion much of a thought, so neither does Weevy.  She knows she’s half Jewish and half Christian, but she doesn’t really know what it means, apart from the fact that she gets to celebrate Christmas AND Hanukkah.  As for ethnicity… well, Weevy has been known to draw self-portraits with blonde hair.  About the closest she gets to thinking about her Asian/Caucasian appearance is when she sees Asian cartoon characters and proudly proclaims, “I like her because she looks like me!”

A couple of weeks ago, Weevy and I were having lunch at her favorite Chinese restaurant.  She’s been pretty adept with chopsticks since she was three or four, but she needs a chopstick helper to use them — it’s a piece of plastic into which you insert the chopsticks, making it easier to pinch them together.

“I’m never going to learn how to use chopsticks the way you do,” she lamented.

“Well, I didn’t learn how to use chopsticks until I was in college.  And Mommy didn’t learn how to use them until even later.  And she’s Asian!”

“I’m not Asian… am I?”

Well now, I thought.  This should be interesting.  I can tell her a little bit about her background, get her asking questions… it’ll be a beautiful father/daughter bonding moment.

“Well, you’re half Asian.”

I’m giddy with excitement, like a batter waiting to knock the next ball into the seats.

“Oh.  So I guess I’ll learn to use chopsticks in… 10th grade?”

“Or even sooner!”


And the conversation immediately goes back to whatever she was talking about before.  I don’t remember what, but I know it had not a damn thing to do with her racial or cultural heritage.

In one way, this is a good thing, right?  Ask Weevy what she is, she’ll tell you she’s… Weevy.  No race or ethnicity or religion to pin her down.  When a girl from China started in Weevy’s class mid-year, Weevy just thought, wow, she’s from China!  She didn’t think, ooh, fellow Asian!  If we’re drowning in a sea of identity politics, Weevy is still on the shore, blissfully unaware of all that stuff.

But then again, where you’re at should also include knowing how you got there.  And yeah, Weevy is only six, so I can’t imagine learning about her roots is going to be as fascinating as, say, Pokemon Go.  But maybe a smidge of curiosity wouldn’t hurt.

In the meantime, my mother-in-law is busting our chops to teach her about religion.  “She’s gotta have something, I don’t care what it is.”  Personally, I don’t understand WHY she has to have religion, but the moment of reckoning will soon be nigh.  And maybe we’ll toss in the whole grab-bag of This Is Who You Are when we get there.  But not yet, for fuck’s sake.  Not yet.


The proudest moment of my career as a proud papa occurred a couple of years ago, when Weevy was about to complete pre-K.  We were walking home from school and the subject of songs about New York came up.  I started singing Leonard Bernstein’s “New York, New York” (from On The Town — “the Bronx is up and the Battery’s down, and the people ride in a hole in the ground”).  After listening patiently to my warbling for a minute or so, she said, “Do you know this one?” And proceeded to croon, at age not-quite-five, a letter-perfect version of Sinatra‘s “New York, New York.”

A little background: I am, to put it mildly, obsessed with Frank Sinatra.  My wife likes to say to her friends that I’m “one of the three foremost Sinatra collectors in the world.” It’s not true, but I can’t deny that I’ve invested far too much time, energy, money and apartment space amassing a pretty nice collection of Ol’Blue Eyes ephemera.  I haven’t, however, tried to convert Weevy to Frankie fandom, or to any other music I love, for that matter.  I remember my own father playing his beloved classical music, both on record and on his violin.  And as we all know, at a certain point, anything your parents love becomes hopelessly square. So maybe as a result, I gravitated to rock, pop, jazz… pretty much anything but classical.

I wanted to let Weevy find her own music to love, without Daddy shoving it down her throat.  I hoped she’d develop a passion for music to match my own, but I never forced her to listen to anything.  And in fact I deliberately avoided playing her any Sinatra in particular.  Which is what made her “New York, New York” even more jaw-droppingly awesome.  It’s probably the closest I’ve ever come to crying tears of joy in her presence. Turns out she’d learned it for her school play, which involved a whole lot of sea creatures singing it as the big finale.  (I’d wondered why she sang “I want to wake up in a sea that doesn’t sleep.”)  But she genuinely likes it, and I’m damn proud.  Even if I try not to tell her so.

My other big shining moment as a proud music-obsessed papa happened a few weeks ago.  Ever since we found out we were going to have a girl early in my wife’s pregnancy, I’ve made no bones about looking forward to her inevitable love affair with tweener pop music.  I’m a fan of a lot of it, from the Jackson 5 to New Kids on the Block to the Spice Girs and Backstreet Boys.  I’d lost touch with the teen scene in recent years, so I was counting on the still-unborn Weevy to get me caught up in a decade’s time.

Weevy does love a lot of Top 40.  And while I’m not too crazy about Katy Perry, who she loves, she digs some Carly Rae Jepsen, who my inner ten-year-old can definitely get behind, and she loves “What Makes You Beautiful” by One Direction, which I, like millions of squealing girls, think is a first-rate pop song.

Anyway, back to the story.  Weevy’s not shy about telling me which songs she likes and commanding, “Put it on my mix.”  I’m like, fuck yeah, you want it, you got it.  I do get tired of the incessant demands for toys, but I’ll never say no to a request to plunk down $1.29 for a new tune, even if it’s a cheesy ballad from a My Little Pony soundtrack.  So this time, her request went like this:

“There’s this song they play in my movement class.  I don’t know what it’s called, but they say ‘Mmmbop’ a lot.”

Now I am not the world’s biggest Hanson fan by any stretch.  But I do love that song.  And my wife knows I love that song.  And she knows that Weevy liking this song is, like, one of the crowning achievements of my life thus far.  And she looked at me and I looked at her and we both bellowed this triumphant “OOOOOOHHHHHH!!!!!” so loudly and enthusiastically that we scared the shit out of poor Weevy, who started crying.  Once we calmed her down, however, I put on “Mmmbop,” cranked it up, and we had ourselves a party.  And then I told her about the marvelous evening I spent backstage with singer Taylor Hanson one night about five years ago, drinking and chatting about music, family, and God knows what else.  Weevy didn’t really care.  And I doubt anyone else would care, either. I just wanted to let it be known, on the record, that Taylor Hanson is one fucking nice guy.

Next up for Weevy: the Spice Girls.  She’s already announced she wants to be Posh Spice. Of course.



Mojo Jojo Threw Me In Jail

Weevy has always been, in her own strange way, into acting.  She’s loved improvising role-playing games pretty much since she’s been able to talk.  I remember when she was about three, she fell in love with the original Powerpuff Girls animated show.  It’s a weird, dark show (in its original incarnation, at least — now it’s back on the air in severely defanged form), but Daddy Censor found the goofier, less freaky episodes for her.  At Gymboree, her favorite game to play for a while was “Bubbles [the cute blonde Powerpuff Girl] Gets Thrown In Jail By Mojo Jojo [the evil, Chinese-accented monkey who plots world domination].”  The script went something like this:  Weevy would be behind bars, because they had something at Gymboree that could function as a jail cell.  I played Bubbles’ Powerpuff cohort, Blossom.

Me:  Bubbles, what happened?  Why are you in jail?

Weevy: [in a sad, quiet voice] Mojo Jojo put me in jail.

Me:  Oh no, what are we going to do?… WAIT A MINUTE, there’s a hole in the wall!  I think it’s big enough for you to escape!

Weevy would snake through the hole, there would be much rejoicing, and then we’d pretend to beat up Mojo Jojo.  Repeat as many times as it could be repeated in a 45 minute free play session at Gymboree. 

But one day, she seemed to say the lines with a little more feeling each time, her practiced frown a little more pronounced.  The second or third time around, I got to my line, “Bubbles, what happened?  Why are you in jail?”  She gave me the most heartbreaking look I’ve ever seen, and then burst into uncontrollable sobs.  I guess the plot was too tragic for her to handle, despite the happy ending.

Since then, the role-playing games have continued, although that particular one was soon abandoned.  Most of these sketches involve me playing multiple roles — three or four is the norm, though I’ve done eight on occasion — while she plays one character, who is often as not asleep, unconscious or mute.  Fortunately, I’m gifted with a wide array of voices at my disposal.  I’m also a pretty good mimic, which allows me to impersonate with some accuracy many of the characters in her favorite TV shows and movies.  The fact that our playlets are often plot-free and deathly boring makes the opportunity to do lots of voices their saving grace.

But as of last week, I’ve been unilaterally forced to act only in my natural voice.  I’m a wiseass by nature, so I’ll always introduce myself by saying, “It’s me, [name of female character].  I know I sound like a grown man, but it’s really me.”  The other day I finally asked her why she doesn’t want me to do voices anymore.  She said, “I know you’re really good at them.  But when you’re doing your voices I feel like I’m really in the movie and I get shy.  So just talk like yourself.”

It’s hard to argue with a compliment like that.

When she does give herself a speaking role, I’ll usually start her off with a softball of a line, to establish the plot or generally get the ball rolling.  “Hey, Rarity, are you excited about our tea party?”  Or, “Elsa, you look beautiful!  Is that your coronation dress?” But no matter how meticulously we’ve worked out the plot, she will almost inevitably collapse in tears:  “Daddy, I don’t know what to SAAAAYYYYYYY!” 

“Weevy,” I usually reply, “you can say anything.  I’ll just roll with it.  There’s no wrong thing to say.  You want to say ‘Derek Jeter,’ I’ll say, ‘Wow, Derek Jeter’s in Ponyville!  How exciting!  Let’s invite him to our tea party!’  You get what I’m saying?”

And the usual response: “I want to play with my iPad.”

I tell ya, it’s a good thing Meryl Streep didn’t have an iPad growing up.

My Little Pony Whisky Party

Weevy is six years old now, and her conversation gets more interesting even if the subject matter — toys, fairies, ponies, more toys — stays largely the same.  When the long-awaited Shopkins Season 6 toys (“Season 6” would seem to connote it’s a TV show, but I’ve never seen anything apart from fairly lame animated shorts on YouTube) were released, Weevy talked a blue streak about how excited she was the entire way home, pausing only to say something that sounded uncannily like my mother: “I’m sorry to be such a chatterbox, but I’m just so excited!” 

Awesome attempt at small talk, while on FaceTime with Mommy, who was out of town for work:  “So, Mommy… what have you been up to these days?”

But that’s not what I wanted to write about.  This is what I wanted to write about.

A tradition in our house is, when we get home from our traditional after-school trip to Sugar & Plumm for macarons and mac and cheese, we get the mail.  And almost every day there’s at least one package for Daddy — usually a bottle of some kind of booze.  Lately, Weevy has been getting more interested in what’s inside the packages.  Not that she wants to drink any of it, but when, say, a whisky bottle comes with an LCD screen in the box that shows an artsy video about the whisky (this really happened last week — thanks, Chivas Regal!), it’s pretty cool even if you’re six years old and you recoil at the smell of Daddy’s breath after he’s done a tasting.

Yesterday, I — she? we? — hit the jackpot.  One package contained small sample bottles of Diageo’s Special Reserves, an annual release of rare single malts, handsomely packaged in a box with a fancy hardcover book describing the whiskies.  “Ooh, fancy!” Weevy said.  “Are they rare?”  “They sure are,” I said excitedly.  The next package was even better, at least for Weevy, though I liked it just fine myself: a carousel tray which holds six rocks glasses (included) and a bottle of Basil Hayden’s bourbon (also included).  Well, that clinched it.  It was now playtime.  “OK, Daddy?  We’re going to have a My Little Pony whisky party.  I’ll be Rarity (her favorite pony) and you’ll be Twilight Sparkle.  Which one should I pour first?  Oooh, this one is 83.  That’s expensive, right?”

“It’s actually 38.  You’re reading it upside down.  And that’s the age of the whisky, not the price.  But yeah, that’s a really expensive one.” 

“Oooh, what about this one?  It’s 73!” 

“No, that’s 34.  But it’s even more rare than the 38.  It goes for $4,000 a bottle.”

“FOUR THOUSAND DOLLARS?!  OK, let’s try it!”  She pretended (thankfully) to pour me a glass of 34 year old Port Ellen, which, if you know your single malts, is a big fucking deal.  “Here you go, Twilight.  How is it?”

“Mmmm, delicious!”  As I’m sure it will be when I try it for real.  Sadly, Weevy soon lost interest, and we wound up playing Winx Club fairies going to the moon.  Which was also pretty fun, actually.  But I won’t soon forget our whisky party, which is more than I can say for most of the real whisky parties I’ve attended.

You Look Good

Last night I said goodbye to Weevy for a few days; I’m headed to Mexico on a press trip.  She wanted to talk about jewelry given to her by her great aunt Betty who died before she was born (Betty actually bequeathed the jewelry to my wife, but Betty’s fingers were so slender that some of her rings actually fit Weevy).  For school, she had to bring in a photo of an artifact in her home, so we took a picture of one of Betty’s rings.

As Weevy got into bed and we said our goodnights, she asked me about Betty.

“When was her birthday?”

“September 10th.  You would have liked her.”


“She was a very nice and kind person.”


“I like you.”

“I like you too, Weevy.”


“You look good.”

“Oh, thank you!  And you look very beautiful.”

“I have a very handsome daddy, and a very pretty mommy.”

“Why thank you, that’s very sweet of you to say.”


“I want to go to sleep now.”

“OK, sweetie, goodnight.”

Just one of those random moments that make life worth living in a week when Donald Trump was elected president, and that right now make me miss her even more than I would have.

“I’m Too Young To Be Called Grandpa!”

Weevy’s grandfather — my dad — died a couple of weeks ago.  He’d been sick for a couple of years, so I’m not sure how much Weevy remembers of him when he was healthy.  But he used to hang out with us all the time before she started going to school.  Not that I particularly WANTED him to as much as he did, but he loved coming over.  Not so much to see Weevy, I don’t think, because he never seemed to know what to do with her when she was a toddler.  But he enjoyed sitting in her room and reading my copy of the Times and eating lunch that I’d order for the three of us and occasionally dozing off while Weevy and I played.  Family togetherness.

When Weevy was born, the missus and I asked him what he wanted to be called.  “Shel,” he said.  “I’m too young to be called Grandpa!”  Mind you, he was 80 at the time.  But he really believed it.  His body may have been 80, but I think until the day he died he thought of himself as a hearty middle-aged guy.  So Shel it was.  Which confused Weevy — who calls her other grandfather Grandpa — quite a bit when she was a tot.  If we bumped into people we knew while walking with him, she’d introduce him as “our friend Shel.”  One time I asked her:  “Do you think of Shel as our weird old friend or your grandfather?”  “Weird old friend,” she replied, without missing a beat.

Shel never quite knew how to talk to Weevy — his favorite thing to say to her was “Where’s your nose?” which never failed to amuse her.  He started saying it before she really knew where it was — she’d point to the right place sometimes, but more often her cheek or her eye — and continued right up until the end.  Sometimes he’d ask her when they were on the phone, and then say, “I can’t see where you’re pointing.”  So I’d tell him she was pointing at the right spot.

Shel was hard of hearing but was too stubborn to get a hearing aid.  He honestly thought the entire world had started mumbling except for me, because I spoke extra loud and clearly to compensate for his hearing loss.  Weevy, however, was a bit shy around him and tended to mumble, especially on the phone.  He usually couldn’t get much more than a “Hi, Shel” out of her, no matter how hard we both tried to get her to have a conversation.  One of the few times it got further than that, the following ensued:

SHEL:  Hey Weevy, how’s school?

WEEVY: [mumbling] Good.

SHEL:  What’s that?

WEEVY: [a little louder] GOOD.

SHEL:  Bad?!  Why is it bad?  You don’t like school?

ME:  Dad, she said “good.”

SHEL:  Oh!  OK then, let’s try it again.  Hey Weevy, how’s school?

WEEVY:  [at moderate volume] GOOD.

SHEL: She said “bad” again!

Weevy didn’t see much of Shel the last year or so, because of his dialysis schedule and because he was too sick to get to the West Side.  His apartment was a couple degrees shy of being declared a federal disaster area, so I never brought her by to see him.  The wife and I brought her to see him in hospice the day before he died.  He looked horrible; he’d fallen and really done a number on himself a week or two before, so his head was a mass of bruises and swelling.  He was lying on his side, not able to do much more than open his eyes and communicate in the occasional monosyllable.  I wasn’t sure how Weevy would react, because I didn’t have a close relative of mine die until I was in my mid 20s.  But Weevy wasn’t afraid, thanks in large part to her mother, who’d prepared her for what she was going to see.  She said a chipper “Hi, Shel!” and we told him a little about what she’d been up to with school, swimming, cello lessons, etc.  He couldn’t talk but I know he understood.  She even talked extra loud and clear so he would understand.  I was so proud of her.

The next day, he died when I was in a cab going to see him.  He never liked to wait for anyone and he was always early for every appointment, so I suppose his final departure was in character.  Weevy and the wife came by about 20 minutes after I got there.  Again, I didn’t know how she’d react to seeing a dead body.  But she was, to my surprise, fine.  She looked at him for a minute, said “Goodbye, Shel,” and then sat down and played her iPad while we waited for the funeral home to come take him away.  After a couple of hours, we all left, and out of habit, I guess, I said, “Bye, Dad.”  “Why did you say goodbye to him?” Weevy asked.  “He’s dead!”  She did have a point.  She was great at the funeral, too, which to be fair is a lot like a party, only with a very… reserved guest of honor, who ends the proceedings in a box in the ground.

I’m not sure whether she fully understands that Shel is gone and not coming back.  A few days after the funeral, the phone rang at about 7:30 in the morning — the time he’d usually call.  “Is that Shel?” she asked, with a little sly smile.  Hey, I keep thinking I’m going to hear from him any minute, so she’s not alone.

Shel was crazy about Weevy, whether or not they had anything to say to each other.  And for a long time she was crazy about him, too.  My wife was always fascinated that he adored her so much, because he didn’t seem to have much use for females in general, unless he was dating them.  And he often told me how he’d always wanted a son.  “Well, what if I was a girl?” I’d sometimes ask him. “Well, I’m just glad I had a son.” I sort of get it, having desired a daughter from the get-go.  But he adored her from the moment she was born — even before, actually.  While cleaning out his apartment last weekend, I found an unsent letter he wrote when the missus was pregnant.  It said, in part: “Christine is pregnant and they already know it’s going to be a GIRL.  I’m telling everyone I’m gonna be a grandmother!”


Let Your Freak Flag Fly

So there’s this thing Weevy does.  After dinner, when her mother and I inevitably let her have too many sweets, she inevitably gets a raging sugar high and commences to babbling, laughing hysterically at nothing much at all, staggering around and falling down… basically, she’s a dead ringer for a sheltered freshman at her first frat party.  It’s equal parts cute, annoying, and — because I can imagine her doing this sort of thing when she’s 18 and on a college campus somewhere, terrifying.  At the same time, I have to remember she’s five years old, and it’s totally normal for a five year old who’s hopped up on macarons and milk chocolate to act like a goddamned idiot.  So as long as I can drag her home from her favorite restaurant without her injuring herself or others, I generally try to stay cool with it.

The other day — and this is related to the story above, it just takes a little while to get to the point — I looked at Weevy and, as is the wont of sappy daddies, was overcome by how beautiful she is.  She caught me staring at her and said, “What are you looking at?”

“You know, you’re really pretty.”

“Even when I’m naked?”

Weird question, but I decided to roll with it and try to teach her a lesson.  “Of course, sweetie.  Clothes don’t make you pretty.  You could wear pretty clothes, or ugly clothes, or nothing at all, and you’d still be just as pretty.”  Not bad, right?

“Am I pretty even when I’m walking around sticking my butt out?” Cue hysterical laughter.

What the hell?  Did my wise, damn near poetic words have no effect?  “Yes, even when you’re sticking your butt out.  Although I hope you don’t do that in public.”

Cut to a few days later.  The missus and I have a couple of dear friends over for dinner, with whom Weevy is well acquainted.  At home, Weevy will generally have three categories of outfit: a costume, her mermaid swimsuit with monofin (mermaids have at least temporarily replaced princesses at the top of her “what I’d like to be when I grow up” list), or undies.  When she’s in the last guise she’s known as Underwear Girl.

Well, this evening, Weevy was in Underwear Girl mode, hosting our guests and drinking Shirley Temples wearing Disney princess undies, socks and high heels.  The things you can get away with when you’re five, right?

I made the mistake of telling our friends the story about my telling Weevy she’s pretty while she was in earshot.  Once I got to the part about sticking her butt out… well, I shouldn’t have been surprised.  Down came the undies and out came her shaking booty, accompanied by gales of laughter from Weevy and averted eyes and muffled giggles from the rest of us.

I’ve got 13 years before she heads off to college.  Hopefully I can straighten her out before she becomes known as her sorority’s exhibitionist.








Talking About Vodka

I’m writing this from a hotel room in San Diego, where Weevy has discovered, among other things, the joys of a hotel minibar.  I don’t think she ever knew they existed until I showed this one to her the other day.  Chips Ahoy!  Pringles!  Coke!  Gatorade!  And we can just take this stuff?  And then they’ll put MORE in there the next day?  It’s like magic or something!  I did try to explain to her that her loving mom and pop not only had to pay for that stuff, but pay highway robbery-type prices for it, just because it was in a fucking minibar.  But she wasn’t really dissuaded.

Anyway, this afternoon, while she was perusing the minibar for about the 80th time this weekend, she pulled out a little airline-sized bottle of Grey Goose, and said with a smirk, “And if you’re a grownup and you need a drink, here’s some whiskey.”

“Actually, that’s vodka.”

She studied the bottle carefully.  “You know, Daddy, this vodka kind of looks like water!”

“That’s the idea.  Vodka’s not supposed to have any color, smell or taste.”

She looked intrigued.  “Does this vodka… taste like… water?”

I quickly nipped in the bud any notion she had of taking a swig.  “No, it tastes like alcohol.  You definitely wouldn’t like it.  And besides,” I said, in a somewhat secretive tone, “that is my least favorite vodka in the world.”

“Really?  Why?”

“I just think it tastes disgusting.  When someone offers it to me, I say No thank you!  But you know,” I said, adopting that sly, just-between-us voice again, “I’m going to an event of theirs in a couple of days.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Well, it’s a tennis lesson with a really famous tennis player.  And he’s going to give ME a lesson!”  It’s true.  Former US Open champion Andy Roddick will be giving me and a handful of other writers a semi-private lesson.  How much Grey Goose paid him is beside the point.  Tennis!  With Andy Roddick!  Well, and Grey Goose, unfortunately.

“So I’ll probably have to drink some Grey Goose after the lesson.”

“But Daddy, can’t you just tell them you don’t like it?”

“Well, if they’re giving me a tennis lesson with a really famous player, I figure the least I can do is drink their vodka after.”

“Are you going to tell them you don’t like it when you drink it?”

“I don’t think so.  It’s best to be polite in that kind of situation, I think.”

And there you go.  Hypocrisy 101, courtesy of her own damned father.  But at least I’ve got it drummed into her head that Grey Goose is a lousy vodka.  Mission accomplished in that department.

Later on, when I told Weevy’s mother about our little chat, she said, “You have far more interesting conversations with her than I do.  With me, she’s just like, ‘I like flowers.'”