Weep for me. I SAID WEEP.

We parents are a shifty bunch. We make single people feel bad about their freedom, and all the sex they get to have, and we allegedly do not (I'm not implying anything, I'm just saying people I know keep having kids, so SOMETHING'S got to be goin' on, right?), and all the sleeping in they get to do. And even within our own tribe there are hierarchies and prejudices - working moms, non-working moms, fathers who are more and less involved, parents who can't wait to smoke up until their kid is asleep and end up hiding in a closet with their bong made out of a PBR can - cataloging these subgroups is way too much trouble.

But I'm here today to dispel a particularly insidious and effective myth. And that is the MYTH OF THE GUILTY DAYCARE DROPOFF.

The conventional wisdom goes something like this: Mom or Dad drops off Child at daycare or preschool, and Child proceeds to pitch a fantastic fit. Screaming, lunging precariously out of teachers' arms, full-on tantrum on the floor with punching and kicking and snot and tears. Mom or Dad, after bearing this outburst with a saint's patience, kiss their child goodbye and walk out the door, looking to one and all like they've made a tremendous sacrifice -

"Good for you, helping your child learn the value of independence, and time away from his/her parents! It's so tough, but you're a modern parent! You HAVE to work, otherwise you'd totally be with your child 24/7. You must be a VERY strong person. I am in awe, sir/ma'am!"

Balderdash.

That tantrum is a point of pride. Sure, we have to look all distressed and anxious as we walk away - gosh, I hope s/he's ok without me! However will s/he handle the day without his Mumsy-wumsy? But deep down, we're cheering. Because that conniption is Exhibit A of our child's love.

If you're walking out of preschool, and your little Emma Bailey Aiden McFeminism-Smith isn't turning beet red and passing out, you're obviously a crappy parent. Maybe if you were more fun, or had better, non-plastic toys constructed by union workers at carbon-footprint-free factories, and fed your child hormone-free organic fruits and vitamin-infused soymilks and -cheeses, s/he would actually be said to see you go. Instead, they're all excited to go and bite that Asian kid, then hurt animals in a blatantly proto-serial killer sort of way.

Here's a hint if you want that awe-inspiring tantrum when you drop off your kid - tell him you're never coming back, and that his Mommy doesn't love him.

Oh, the tears will flow like rivers! And everyone will know what a great parent you are. Jealous much?

Cookie dough ain't just for dumped, weepy chicks anymore

Ordinarily, the Fancy Pants dining room table is chock full of goodies after Purim. Israeli chocolates, unidentifiable candies, and hamentaschen of all levels of quality.

Most of this is thorough unimpressive to me. I 'm not a big dessert or snack person. What I like, I love, but if it's not in that narrow category, I can do without.

So imagine my shock and glee when I open up one of the bags...and therein lay a small plastic container of chocolate chip cookie dough. Not unnecessarily roasted, not surrounded by superfluous vanilla ice cream, just straight up dough, in a cup. The only improvement would have been if it had come in a cone, like the aforementioned iced cream, or like ground meats should be.

I'll explain: I believe the overheating of food into some sort of crispy or chewy new food is a surrender to convention, and a waste of precious time and fossil fuels. Steak tartare, sushi, dough of any kind - these are my basic food groups. I was raised to chase my roast beef down and pin it to my plate before I was able to eat it, because it was still screaming for help. I was raised to mock those who fretted about uncooked meats and eggs, to wonder what it is an oven was for other than storing dishes.

I spent months eating brownie batter - it's even my favorite ice cream. My favorite dessert? Chocolate pie, which is not cooked at all but refrigerated, raw eggs notwithstanding. Second favorite? Wife's mundels, which aren't double-baked like mundel bread. They're not even fully single-baked. The official term is NFC - Not Fully Cooked. Baked just long enough for the chocolate chips to get all gooey and melty.

If you mention nuts or fruit, you can get up and walk away.

There's a new standard for shalach manos. Take your tiny liquor bottles, your whimsical and poorly-structured Purim poems, your fresh-baked whatsnot. Just give me some flour, some raw eggs, some sugar, some vanilla, and mush it up and shove it under my door.

For those of you who bake your own fortune cookies, or send entire meals (spaghetti, anyone?), you're in a nutty class all by yourselves. But you know what would really put you over the top? Some challah dough in a single-serving tupperware. You'd have my undying gratitude.

What did WE send, you ask? Did we go all out, and craft some clever package neatly wrapped and zanily captioned? No, because the Fancy Pants are fancy, but we are also quite lazy. So no food for anyone. Sorry. Maybe if more of you provided some raw stuff, we'd be more inclined to return the favor.

And don't come with that "raw vegetable" crap. That would result in obnoxious retribution of a completely immature nature. So save yourself some time and aggravation, and give us a box of cake mix, a couple of eggs, and some oil, and get out of our way.

Oh, in case you were curious, Child was James Bond.

Don't be that guy.

I always learn something new around holiday season. Last year it was "leaving your Hanukkah candles in front of your turbo-jet heater will not only blow them out, it may end up causing your rug to catch on fire."

The year before that, it was "always know your audience before you make a joke about Jesus" (My favorite? Jesus walks into a hotel with 2 planks of wood and some nails. He says to the receptionist, "can you put me up for the night?").

This year it was all about holiday parties. As a Jewish Communal Professional, and the husband of a liberated, working lady, I attended many holiday parties. Some where cheesy, JCC-based affairs where kids drew horribly on their own faces to win oily treats. Others were formal dinners for day schools, who tried valiantly to convince their parents and donors that everything was ok while we ignored the asbestos dropping out of the ceiling and into our salads. I'm totally sending Child there - he needs immunities, and we're supposed to expose him to stuff like chickenpox. Asbestos is the same thing, right? Just like mercury, and lead, and whatnot?

But in other settings, "holiday party" is a euphemism for "Christmas party." Don't patronize me, Christian coworkers. If I'm going to a party with a gigantic pine tree shoved into the corner of a living room, and there are stockings on the mantel, and red and green tissue paper strung up all over the place, and fat bearded guys in Coca-Cola red ho-ho-ho-ing over the Ipod, then even I know it's Christmas time.



Here then, are some lessons I learned while attending Wife's office "holiday that celebrates Christian traditions and Jesus" party:

- if you're going to make jokes about Christmas creep, don't wear a kippah.

- if you're going to wear a kippah, don't go around demanding gifts in Jesus' honor. "What, I'm Jewish, he was Jewish, we're like the same person!" doesn't work. Even if you've grown out a beard, and are wearing a robe and sandals. Even if you made your own crown of thorns. If you turn water into wine, then you should at least get first crack at the Christmas tree cookies.

- Don't refer to the holiday as Xmas. It's weak. And it makes baby Jesus cry.

- Tell funny stories about your spouse to her/his coworkers, but not the one about how she stripped her way through PT school. Because some people will remember that gem through their drunken haze, and will ask her about it at work. Which segues nicely to...

- Don't be the first one at the party to get drunk.

- Don't be the first person to take your pants off.

- Don't be the first person to suggest swirling some Ecstacy into the punch and "letting nature take its sexy, sexy course."

- Always hold on to the car keys. That way, no matter what you do, even if you get locked out of the house, you can sleep in the car.

- Don't compare male PTs to nurses. They don't appreciate that.

- Don't compare male nurses to dainty ladies. They have no problem hurting you in front of your spouse.

- Always thank the host. Especially if she's your spouse's boss. And she was nice enough to help you retrieve your pants from the bushes out front.

- If there is a Yankee swap, hold off on loudly mocking the scarf that looks like it was knitted by a blind arthritic thumbless freak. It was probably made by a coworker.

- If you don't like what your spouse ended up with at the end of Yankee swap, don't challenge the male nurse to a wrestling match for the Barnes & Noble gift card. You will lose.

- If you do take your pants off, remember to wear underwear. Ideally not a leopard print thong.

I found these lessons to be useful. If you feel they will ruin your good time, feel free to ignore them. Just remember: flowers can only make up for so much. Ignore enough of those rules, and you may have to shell out for jewelry. Maybe even real gold.

A quick update on the No Fear Player of 2008 - Old Rambling Man made a good case (albeit not in the Comments) for honoring Congress, but I don't like handing out awards to multiple people - trophies are expensive, and I'm trying to save up for some real jewelry for Wife so I don't have to sleep in the car anymore.

So your No Fear Player of 2008 is... Sarah Palin! I have to say, I'm giving this to her in honor of her becoming a grandma, and also because I appreciate her efforts in setting back the Republican Party a good 12 years. So thanks, Sarah! Good luck with the whole Alaska thing.

Is it...is it over?

24 hours from now I will be drunk. It will either be a wonderful, champagne-bath-style drunkenness, or a miserable "dammit 4 more years of white people" drunkenness. Either way, I love beer.

2 years! We've been reading about these two men for 24 months, 104 weeks. And it's only been a couple of months with Governor Yokel, but it's seemed like decades. I can't even handle Tina Fey's impression of her anymore, I want to smack both of them.

I'm not going to link to any of the recent articles. I'm not going to refer to time spent as a community organizer, or a POW. I'm not going to talk about reverends, or Alaskan secession, or plagiarizing British parliamentarians of the 1980's.

All I'm going to say is that you should vote tomorrow. But I'm not going to get all mushy and "hooray for the process!" like the fifteen e-mails I got today from people who are just trying to be up for democracy.

If you're going to vote for John McCain, curl up with your favorite Matlock rerun, and stay the fuck home.

Like I said before, I'm not rehashing the reasons you should vote for Obama. If you don't know them already, then you're either a hermit or opening up the newest KKK chapter in your area (franchising is a wonderful way to support your community, folks!). And if someone asks you who you voted for, it is not in fact private. Shouldn't you be proud of your vote? Shout it from the rooftops! Own it! If you're afraid of change or black people or someone who's smarter and more charismatic than you, just say so. Or if you hate old people and Vietnam veterans and soldiers in general, and think Jeremiah Wright was criticized just because he was speaking truth to power, then you should be proud of that, too.

Either way, vote for Barack Obama. You know you should.

Oh, and the Bears beat the Lions. Shocker. Even without the Neckbeard, and with the Sex Cannon leading the charge, it was still Matt Forte carrying us all home in his warm embrace. What a man.

Programming note: I wanted to liveblog tomorrow night, but it turns out I have friends and am going to watch the returns with them. I'll try to remember each sizzling hilarious detail of the evening, but as mentioned above I shall be trashed, so don't expect Shakespeare. But do expect random appearances by unicorns, Alan Greenspan, and a few former popes. Happy Election Day!

Similac is Hittite for Satan, don't you know

I hope you all enjoyed the video "Gigantic Boobs and Your Baby." My name is Jody Nipple, and I am here on behalf of your areolae. There is nothing better for your boobs than the heavenly process of breastfeeding. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar, and a killer of Christ. I know some of you in this room are thinking about limiting breastfeeding to the first couple of months of your child's life, and then switching to formula. If that's your plan, that's fine, but I can save you some money, and a whole lot of hassle.

There's a Planned Parenthood branch around the corner. Go in, ask for the Similac Special. They'll take care of that pesky fetus right away, and you can go back to running over the elderly in no time.

For the rest of you, I'm here to answer your questions about the glories of breastfeeding. If you're not too weak-willed, you can follow my plan for feeding your child in the only natural god-given manner right up until they have to take their SATs - after all, the AAP doesn't see any sort of dropoff on the benefits of breastfeeding your child over an extended period of time. And since you'll all be staying home with your baby, as I did, you won't have to waste money on those vile pumps, or even clothes for your child. After all, skin to skin is the most effective cure for eczema, colic, diaper rash, and the croup.

Wait, some of you are going back to work? Get the fuck out of here, right now. Does it look like I'm joking? I don't cater to abusive parents, who think that leaving the house is hunky-dory. I didn't leave my apartment from 1984-1996, until I stopped breastfeeding my oldest, and even then they had to pry her from my maternal deathgrip. I'll be showing you how to properly clinch your fingers in the second hour.

Where are you all going? You can't ALL be going back to work. What does "cost of living" mean?

Fine. I suppose I can modify my class to accommodate your dangerous lifestyles. I don't know why I'm bothering, your babies will all be dead in three months, anyway. If you want to pump, make sure your child always gets the Mommy's Milk Breast Replica, a harness for your partner to wear when you're out snorting blow and flashing your business at young men. That way at least one of you will be a mother to your child.

I was a wet nurse, a dry nurse, a delivery room nurse, a doula, a substitute lactater, a nurse practitioner, and head of the nursing glee club at Mass General for 76 years. You think you know more than me, with your books and terrified expressions? You want your kids to leave you? To go away for school and not ever call you? What are "separation issues?"

If you have any questions, just yell them out. Unless they're about formula: those questions will be answered with my trusty "Mother's Helper" kneecapping bat. So, let's begin, shall we?

OJ is a killer - of teeth

This is what I don't understand about healthy food. Evidently, sometimes it's healthy, and sometimes not. Orange juice, for example. Drink it in the morning, noon, afternoon, evening, dusk, tea-time, brunch, morning snack, afternoon snack, pre-nap munchy time - all good. Drink it at night, however... and the evil OJ molecules start wailing away on your tooth enamel like an ex-wife and her new boyfriend. According to "science," vitamin C turns, werewolf style, into an acid-like substance, somehow related to citric acid.

Whatever. No one can take away my orange-y goodness.

Also, here are my top five foods I use to perform mold experiments in my fridge. Kids, take note - each of these products can be used for at least a B on a science fair project.

5) Apples. In a plastic bag they make a nice juicy slurry chock-full of bacteria.

4) Potatoes. They shrink, grow new potatoes, and somehow transmogrify into yams. Magic!

3) Salad. Whether it's the mix of vegetables, dressing and croutons, or maybe the fact that it tends to get lost in the back behind the english muffins and the glorious, glorious orange juice.

2) Bread. You'd think, with its protective shell of yeast organisms and whatnot, that it would survive the frozen tundra of my GE. But then it's forgotten, and the greenies get it, some white spots, and then the apple-y slush.

1) Milk. This is a no-brainer. It has almost no shelf life, and it's white, which is somehow more fragile. Also, it's got all that goddamn lactose, which makes holy hell in my large intestine, so it becomes some sort of divine retribution of epic proportions. Also, it gets chunky.

Not two entries?!? Are you worthy? Eh, maybe

I try not to do multiple posts in a single day. Partially because I don’t want to exhaust the last three or four ideas I have before the end of September, but also because I’m fantastically lazy. But once in a while something comes along that demands immediate attention.

Right now is one of those times.

Ballooned Brother-in-law reminded me of this over the neverending New Year festivations, and it is incumbent upon me to share it with you.

As you may know, I read excessively. Really, it’s obnoxious, and it throws off the national average. I’m trying to cut down, but then, well, then this sort of thing happens.

I refer to Ant Farm, by smart guy Simon Rich. His dad’s Frank Rich, and he got a two book deal before he graduated from Haaaaaaa-vaaahhd (sorry, Boston U insecurity requires me to refer to it that way any time it comes up).

2 excerpts have already been published in the New Yorker ("The Wisdom of Children" and "Hey, Look"), so you know it’s hyper-literate, and pretentious and quite possibly paddlin’-worthy. But it also happens to be hilarious. The kind of funny that makes you want to walk directly to your car and slam your head repeatedly in the driver’s-side door, if only so you might lose, via concussion, the knowledge that you’ll never write something so good. It makes me want to hunt this Simon guy down and punch him in the nads, then apologize profusely and buy him round after round of drinks.

Like Demetri Martin, he is a comedy wolf in indie-geek sheep’s skinny jeans.

So kudos, Simon. And damn you straight to hell. But mostly kudos.

A Solemn Message from Rollo Horschmeier

Men, women, mothers, fathers, little boys and girls with your slingshots and ponytails, today we commemorate a dark day in this nation's history. Our way of life, our very essence, was threatened by pure evil, embodied in 19 men. Symbols of this great land were rent asunder, monuments to achievements that will never be forgotten.

But we have bounced back. No damn dirty terrorist will get us down, not in THIS country! After terror walked up to us as we daydreamed in the park and spit in our eye, we said "Thank you, no! I shall not be laid low by scoundrels and ragamuffins!" We maintained our commitment to those principles that birthed this glorious country, and from where I sit, high above Manhattan in a gleaming tower of steel and glass built with the callused hands of immigrants, legal and "miscellaneous," I say to you that we must stand together. We must remain united in our goals and in our morals! One nation under Jesus H, Christ!

This morning, as little blind Evgeni shined my shoes with the tattered remains of his good Sunday shirt, he asked me "Mr. Horschmeier, maybe today a tip?" After he repeated the question three or four times I noticed he was talking to me, and before I could reach my mahogany cane to rap him about the face and ribs, I paused, and looked deep into his empty eye sockets. And what I said to him I repeat to you, so you shall know best how to commemorate this dark day, this 9/11:

Son(s and daughters), this is my tip for you: serve your country. For some, the best way to do so is in the military, fighting bearded swarthy terror overseas. But if you've gone to college, or haven't yet been to prison, then you have other options. And the most effective of those is simply this: consume. Terrorism thrives on attention and fear - how can you be focusing on Ahmed Al-Jazeera if you're trying to pick out a new blouse? Here at Uniflexicom, Inc., we have thousands of products for the American household, from What-ectomy? surgery kits for your precocious toddler to Zapp!-Mark 3 semi-automatic rifles with night-vision scope and silencer, the perfect Father's Day gift. We've got all the right gifts for your and your family, so you can continue ignoring the so-called "fiasco" overseas. It's far away, and complicated. You know what's simple? Matching a home stereo to your new flat-screen TV! Awesome! So enjoy our 9/11 sale, our biggest until Memorial Day comes around. Because you know what Osama Bin Laden truly despises? A good deal.

Don't Miss Me

I'll only be gone a week. There's hot dogs in the freezer, and please don't forget to feed Mr. Slippy. He gets anxious if he doesn't get his Rocky Mountain Oysters every morning.

If you must rent porn, keep the volume down. The neighbors don't like to be overshadowed in their "bellows of lust."