Would you like some E. coli with your swim?

I took The Boy swimming this evening, because I love subjecting the world to my soft, pasty-white midsection and because I made a promise. And I'd just as soon break my arm than to break a promise I made to my son. So swimming we went, pasty-white midsection or not.

Daaaa-DUM!

We went to an indoor pool, because it was cold outside. (WHAT? It's chilly in late May in Minnesota? NO WAY!) We got to the locker room and changed into swim trunks. But that was as far as we got.

Daaa-DUM!

That's because the moment we got to the pool, we were greeted by a guy with an Abraham Lincoln beard who informed us that the pool would be closed for 15 to 20 minutes.

Daaa-DUM!

The lifeguards were all crowded around the shallow end where the infants and toddlers swim. One of them was sweeping the pool with a net and a long stick, then dumping it into a red trash can labeled "hazardous."

Daaa-dum dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum, daaa-dum dum-dum-dum-dum-dum-dum

NO THEY DIDN'T!

Da-da-DAAAAAA!

(Get it? That's the theme song to Jaws, as played in Caddyshack.)

And, indeed, the moment I saw this, I asked, "Is it what I think it is?"

"Yes. Defecation."

"Are you sure it wasn't a Baby Ruth?" I asked.

"We asked the same thing."

Dangit. Can't even be the first guy to bring up Caddyshack. Alas, so we sat there, in a chair, watching them rid the pool of E. coli. The Boy occupied himself by crawling on my chair behind me and trying to escape when I leaned back and trapped him. I occupied myself by making up a song about the situation to the tune of Eric Clapton's 70s diddy, Cocaine:

When you want to swim laps
But the pool's too crowded
Fe-ceeees

(As a side note, Clapton's Cocaine is the single most spoofable song ever written. To wit: If you wanna cook out, put away that charcoal, propaaaane. Feel free to make up your own. And if you don't know this song, then you're probably not really reading this blog.)

Anyway, the whole point in telling you the story is this: Most people, when presented with a situation like this, would and instantly scream, either loudly or to themselves, something along the lines of "HOLY CRAP SOMEBODY JUST TOOK A BIG DUMP IN THE POOL!!!"

Not me. I'm a parent. My first thought was this: Thank God it wasn't MY kid who did that.

My second thought: Thank God I wasn't in the pool when that happened. Yuck.

Truth is, I'm a little surprised that I actually went in the pool, though I avoided that area the entire time. And I kept checking The Boy's swim trunks.

Bacon-aided parenting

I, like many parents, struggled to get my eldest child to do certain things, like wake up on a school day without the use of an engine hoist and a giant spatula. And then, in an act of pure desperation akin to the addition of a short, cute blond kid to a tired sitcom in the 70s or 80s, I turned to bacon.

It was then that I discovered the true power of bacon. Not only is it a delicious strip of gloriously fried pig, but it is the most powerful tool in a parent's toolkit.

(Unless that parent happens to be Muslim or a vegetarian or an orthodox Jew. Or Catholic during Lent. Or somebody who happens to think pigs are disgusting. Or somebody who likes the idea of clear arteries.)

A couple of weeks ago we went to Costco and, among other things, came away with a giant box of bacon, because we obviously needed that much bacon. (In fact, get me a four-pound box of bacon, a 20-pound bag of pinto beans and a huge tub of mayonnaise and I'm set for about a week. Now you know EXACTLY why I have a membership at Costco.)

Seriously, I don't actually eat that much bacon. But I couldn't help myself. That box was huge and I was going to make it mine. Plus, I had The Boy. He has no such qualms about consuming heaping portions of fried, fat-filled pork strips soaked in salt.

And since then he's been all too glad to justify our bacon purchase.

I must say that my child is a human string bean. On most days, getting him to eat anything that isn't coated in cheese is a lesson in futility. We have no such problem with bacon.

On more than one morning, he would wake up, quietly stumble his way into the kitchen, take a seat at the table and mumble one word: "Bacon."

One day I dubbed him "Bacon Boy," which led to this retort:

"OK, Cheerios Boy."

Touche.

(Yes, I eat Cheerios, and not bacon, every morning; there's a funny line here somewhere, I know it.)

Still, I had no clue as to bacon's potential usefulness as a parenting tool. Mostly I kept hoping some would be left by the time I work up the guts to make bacon-wrapped, deep-fried mac and cheese.

(I keep threatening, by the way, to have a party in which I serve the deep-fried mac and cheese as well as bacon cookies and green beans cooked in bacon grease.)

This morning, The Wife had to "go to work early," leaving me the sole parent in charge of child day preparation. With my arms full of a drooling, spit-up-filled 4-month-old I was in no mood to break out the crowbar and the WD40 to get my firstborn out of bed. So I announced that he would not get any bacon unless he extracted himself from his bedroom quickly.

He was in the kitchen in 30 seconds.

I shall not abuse my new-found parenting power. The Bacon Defense is best used only in the most dire of parenting circumstances. But I automatically feel better knowing that it's there, kind of like the comfort I feel knowing that my country is still armed to the teeth with large amounts of nuclear weapons. (Um ... on second thought ...)

All of which leads me to this thought: The idiom "carrot and a stick" is used to describe an incentive of some sort, and is rooted in the old tale of a boy who would use a carrot tied to a stick to get a donkey to pull a cart. (Woohoo! I can use The Internet!)

I don't know about you, but I would do few things for a carrot, especially if it involved breaking my back to pull somebody else's worthless junk for several miles. I say that bacon is a far more powerful incentive that deserves the idiom. Just think of The Boy.

Avoiding the dreaded IT guy

I've spent the past couple of days wrestling with my laptop, a ritual I apparently must go through every few weeks, lest my life get entirely too comfortable and stress-free.

I hate computer problems, for the same reason everybody else hates computer problems, because they increase the likelihood that I will have to deal with tech support or IT guys, and I hate dealing with tech support and IT guys.

See, my general computer repair strategy is to reboot the computer. If that doesn't work, I'm totally at a loss of what to do. Apparently, there are all sorts of other things that can be done to a computer, but I have no idea what any of them are.

Theoretically, tech support is supposed to guide you through this. But the problem is never as simple as you -- or they -- hope. On top of that, I speak English. Tech support guys don't.

Here, for instance, is a typical conversation:

ME: Um, yeah, my Internet connection isn't working.

TECH SUPPORT GUY: Have you tried reconfiguring your IP address through the port terminal?

ME: Uuuuuhh ... I, uh ... think so.

TECH SUPPORT GUY: Hmmmm ... then have you tried rebooting your NAT through the command module?

ME:

TECH SUPPORT GUY: You may also consider manipulating the tachyon emissions by typing TAC on the command prompt.

ME: Are we talking computers or Star Trek?

The entire time, IT guys will act as all of this is as plainly obvious as operating the remote control and they seem amazed that they must respond to such trite questions. In that sense, they're like car fanatics, who look down on anybody who brings a car to a mechanic for anything less than a complete engine overhaul. And yet I usually have no idea what they're talking about.

Ultimately, I just give up and go get myself into a fetal position in the corner.

At least I don't have to deal with the IT guys every day. But I used to. At a previous job I had the unfortunate seating placement right in front of the office IT guy. Our IT guy was nice enough, but he was loud and spoke a mile a minute and knew everything.

During my tenure there the company decided to overhaul our computer system, making the IT guy the most powerful human in the building. In his wisdom, he chose a few smart people to help lead their peers through the change. After everybody turned it down, the IT guy asked me to help. So when people in the office had a question about their system, they bypassed the feared IT guy and asked me to help.

This was fine, except that whenever I started to answer said question our IT guy would burst from his office, insisting that everything I was saying was totally wrong and that he would ultimately reveal the secret to a well-run computer. Invariably, after speaking technological mumbo-jumbo for several minutes, he'd say the same thing I had just said. Ultimately, I just quit answering those questions.

On this day, I fortunately fixed my computer problem without having to resort to asking anybody outside of my house a question. Which is good. Because if that didn't work I was going to turn my laptop into a Frisbee.

How I became Verizon's cat toy

I am not what one would call a "tough negotiator," because it's difficult to haggle over a price when you're too busy desperately resisting the urge to dive under the nearest desk. Here, for instance, is a typical me-buying-a-used-car scenario:

ME: "How much for that beat-up Ford Taurus with only three tires that doesn't start?

USED CAR GUY: "$5,000."

ME: "Um, OK. Will you take anything less than that?"

USED CAR GUY: "No."

ME: "OK. I'll take it."

Or consider the following situation in which I've just been hired for a new job.

NEW BOSS: "We'd love to offer you this position!"

ME: "GREAT! "What's the pay?"

NEW BOSS: "Well, we don't actually pay you. But you will be allowed to take home some office supplies and we don't keep the chains on tight."

ME:

NEW BOSS: "There's free popcorn on Fridays."

ME: "OK, I'll take it."

And so we bring us to the game of chicken I played this week with Verizon, my wireless carrier. OK, I call it "chicken," but in reality Verizon toyed with me like I was a toy mouse and it was a big-ass cat.

I've come to the end of my cell phone contract and a few weeks ago I eagerly anticipated my upcoming cell phone free agency. I began plotting my strategy. I researched cell phone plans and realized that they all look remarkably similar. Then I looked at the phones on Amazon.com and discovered that if I were to jump to another service provider I could get a far more awesome phone than the one I could get with Verizon -- not only would it be able to make phone calls, it could access the Internet, take professional-level photos, shoot movies, give me directions to the grocery store and taze people who talk loudly in movie theaters. And I would get it for free.

So I called Verizon. "I want a phone that plays music, takes great pictures, gives me directions, tells me when I'm late for meetings, helps me communicate with my younger nieces and nephews, chooses my outfits in the morning, feeds my fish and waxes my car. I don't want to pay for it. And I don't want to give you guys any more money for the next two years to pay for what you call 'data.' I don't think I'm being very demanding."

The Verizon lady was nice, probably because she was laughing me off. But even when I told her that I could get a much nicer phone for free as a new customer to another service, she simply reached into her bowl of treats for whining customers and tossed me a bone -- a modest discount on a phone. She then gave me a verbal pat on the head and sent me on my way.

It wasn't what I wanted. So I waited a day. And I decided to call Verizon again, this time vowing to insist I was leaving if I didn't get a better deal. This time, dangit, I'm gonna get what I want.

But when the time came for the actual phone call I didn't insist on anything and got nowhere. Like usual I turned into a total bowl of Jell-O once the "negotiations" started.

This would have been a good time to switch services and show Verizon that the customer is boss. But then apathy set in, after The Wife reminded me of two things:

1. We don't actually do anything on our cell phones but talk.
2. We don't really want to switch services because Verizon is tolerable. We don't know if the other guys are tolerable or not, and we'd rather go with the mediocre service we know, rather than gamble and get service that completely sucks. (Nothing like low expectations ...)

So I got my discounted cell phone -- and, I'll admit, a pretty nice one -- committed myself to two more years of tolerable service and proved once again that my negotiation skills are total crap.

Maybe I'll run for Congress.

Dorky Dad: The Invisible Man

Early in my blogging life, I wrote a series of posts questioning the wisdom of certain super powers while contradictorily wondering why I didn't have any myself.

Since then, however, I've learned that I actually do have a super power:

Invisibility!

The good thing is that I didn't have to go through some hellishly painful scientific experiment-gone-wrong or get blasted by an unexpected dose of super radiation to get it. The bad thing is that getting the super power has cost me much of my income, my free time and my sanity.

I had to become a dad.

The invisibility took hold the moment The Wife became Obviously Pregnant -- the point at which it was clear that she was with child, a point that is usually different depending on the gender of the observer. Women know much sooner than men, most of whom -- like me -- won't say a word to a pregnant woman until the baby is actually there.

When The Wife was pregnant, both times, complete strangers would routinely walk up to The Wife, asking questions as if they'd known her for decades, barely even looking in my direction. I didn't really think much of it and, to be perfectly honest, on most days I'm too grumpy to talk to other people, anyway.

The invisibility was fleeting, because some people saw me and asked me questions or made general comments about what fatherhood would be like. I didn't completely disappear until the child arrived.

My first experience came at a Red Lobster, where we go to get cheesy biscuits and whatever else it is they serve there (uh, I think seafood, but we only go for those awesome biscuits). The Boy was but a tiny, rail-thin infant. He kept quiet in his carrier while we downed biscuits by the dozen. About a half a dozen times during our meal, some strange middle-aged woman in caked-on makeup and heavy perfume passed by and cooed at our baby, tickling him, talking baby talk, informing him of his cuteness, etc.

She said not a word to either of us. She didn't even look at us. It was like we weren't even there.

This has happened several times with Child No. 2. I was at church. I placed The Sequel in his carrier on the floor while I helped The Boy write his name on a tag, when some dude -- yes, a dude -- walked by, bent over, and started talking with The Sequel as if he were public property. Again, like his heavily-scented predecessor, the dude didn't even glance in my direction, not even as I stood over him, giving him that what-the-heck-are-you-doing-with-my-son look.

And then it happened in line at a grocery store, by some creepy bearded fellow. And again, this weekend, in a Red Lobster -- by, of all people, a waitress. (Not our waitress, thankfully, though she did pay an inordinate amount of attention to him, probably in an effort to get a bigger tip. Totally worked. She walked away with more than 20 percent.)

The Sequel as an infant offsets The Boy, who as a preschooler makes me anything but invisible (though, in some situations, I desperately wish to become invisible). I only have my invisibility power when I'm alone with the baby -- and, of course, he's quiet and happy. If he gets fussy then everybody sees me. Especially on a plane. I'm also sure I'd be plainly obvious in a movie theater, and probably for good reason.

Nevertheless, The Sequel's remarkable ability to render me undetectable has its advantages that I should probably take advantage of before he gets old and I become obvious, like I am with The Boy. I could resort to a life of crime, I suppose. I could rob a museum and the only thing that the security cameras would catch would be a mysterious, floating baby.

I could become a spy, which would be so totally cool that I'm drooling over the very thought right now (slurp). I could simply place The Sequel in the hallway. He'd distract the security guards and I'd walk into the office of some high-level Chinese official, totally unseen, where I'd steal the plans to render Americans as mindless zombies through an increased dose of MSG in Chinese food restaurants.

Or I could simply go into places without getting a ticket, like a baseball game, because nobody would actually see me walk in.

Or maybe I'll enjoy this time, before The Sequel reaches the age in which all these people who once cooed at him start curing him, and me, behind my back.

I can't remember the headline to this post

I was not born with a fabulous capacity to remember whole heck of a lot. I can't remember faces. And I'm not any better with names. If I look back on my high-school yearbook (if I could remember where I put the dang thing), I'd spend most of the time thinking, "Who the heck was THAT guy?"

(Given my decidedly unimpressive high-school career, it's safe to say that many of those people would probably look at my picture and say pretty much the same thing.)

I have no idea why my memory sucks. Perhaps I'm feeling the lingering effects of that day in the 10th grade when me and my friend, uh ... Mark, yeah, that's it ... decided to see what it would be like to snort artificial sweetener. (Conclusion: It made me laugh long and loud and for a while I thought it did something until I realized that the reason I was laughing so much was because I just sniffed artificial sweetener. And I really do wish I just made up this story.)

Whatever the reason, friends routinely quote something I said in the mid-1990s, for which I have absolutely no recollection. Dude, I can barely remember what I did this morning, let alone a conversation I had 12 years ago. Indeed, I'm now trying to remember my original purpose of this blog post.

Which was, um ... passwords. My lack of brain capacity makes passwords a challenge. These days, everything comes with a password. I have a password for my computer, and then things I access with my computer. My Facebook has a password, my blog has a password. My photo account has a password. Web site registrations require I have a password. If I Tweeted, I'd have a password for that. My Yahoo account has a password. All 8 billion of my e-mail accounts have passwords. And all this goes double for work, where I have passwords for my computer, and to access my e-mail over the Web -- which is different, of course. Plus I have a password for my voice mail, my 401(k) account information and my health insurance plan.

I have so many passwords I sometimes don't even remember that I'm supposed to have a password for something. Today, for example, I decided to call my cell phone company because apparently I'm known to my mom's caller ID as "Brent." I don't remember changing my name, unless I've been huffing sweetener again, so I wanted to know what was up. But before I could get tech support, I had to give my password. To which I thought, "I have a PASSWORD?" (Suffice it to say, I couldn't remember the password, and none of "the usuals" worked, so I'm still Brent.)

Indeed, my general password strategy is to have the same password for everything and then a backup password when the original one isn't allowed. Problem is that I often can't remember which ones have the backup password.

Apparently, we're supposed to routinely change our password, too, a problem that not long ago got me into a bit of trouble when some fine, upstanding young fellow with poor grammar decided to use my e-mail address to sell electronics. Now most of my friends think I'm a Spammer. (By the way, anybody want to buy some electronics? I know a great Web site ...)

I could write the passwords down on a piece of paper so I could remember, but for some reason my brain insists that this would be a bad idea, because somebody might break into my house, see that paper, then shout "BONANZA! Let's snoop on this guy's Facebook account!"

The best passwords have lots of letters and numbers that make absolutely no sense so they're nearly impossible to remember.

Not that I can remember the easy ones, either. I once found myself unable to pay the attendant at a downtown parking garage on a Sunday afternoon because I had no cash and could not, for the life of me, remember the four stupid numbers that made up my ATM PIN. So I did what any other reasonable person would have done in that situation, I tried bribing the attendant with a Target gift card. Didn't work. (Not to self: Next time, try Best Buy.)

Preschooler lady troubles

I lived in Fort Wayne, Indiana for a year and a half. The best thing we could say about Fort Wayne is that it was a couple of hours away from several more interesting cities, plus Toledo. But at least it (Fort Wayne, not Toledo) had a nice zoo.

And so on those weekends when we could not escape, we spent time at the zoo. There, we enjoyed the peacocks, who were allowed to roam around the zoo grounds. Mostly, they hung out near the peahens, trying desperately to get their attention.

The peacocks would strut their stuff, spectacularly showing off their plumage in an effort to convince the lady to copulate.

The lady, of course, was having none of it, no matter how much the peacock fluttered his feathers. Clearly, she just wanted him to go away.

This, as most people reading this can attest, is pretty much about what happens in every bar in America, or the world for that matter. The only difference is that we human males don't have feathers and thus must resort to various forms of ridiculousness all in the form of getting the attention of the ladies -- for instance, the creation of our entire amateur and professional sports culture.

I knew this. I knew the moment that the lady reading the ultrasound pointed out the "boy parts" on my baby that I'd one day be asked how to get the attention of a female, to which I'd say, "How the heck would I know? I still don't know how I managed to attract your mom."

What I did not know is that this starts rather early.

This afternoon, in the car, The Wife and I started talking about a friend of ours, who apparently had a similar name to one of The Boy's female Sunday School classmates -- we will simply call her "Anna," which is not her name, because I'm feeling mysterious.

Apparently, The Boy's been thinking about "Anna" quite a bit lately. "She won't talk to me," he said.

"Other girls talk to me," he went on, "but she won't."

And what do you do to get her attention?

"I do somersaults. I jump up and down. I laugh. I dance. I spell words." He then went on to recite a long list of words he would spell in an attempt to impress "Anna," who apparently does not consider spelling accuracy to be a requirement in a man. None of it apparently works.

Get used to it, boy.

I probably should be happy that his attention getting efforts don't include "climb up the walls" or eating paste or glue-dipped pigtails. In the meantime, I'll let him learn some pickup lines on his own.