My wife, Goggy, called the other evening to tell me she had “the worst headache of her life, times 10” and that her friend, Sue, was going to drive her home.“I thought you were going to yoga class. Did you decide martinis would be more fun?” I asked. She just hung up. I was waiting in the driveway when they pulled up and I could see that she was obviously in pain, clutching her head with both hands. Before I could suggest the emergency room, she said, “I feel like my head is going to explode. I think I need to go to the hospital.” I don’t know if there is a word that means the polar opposite …
Twenty-five years ago, I was sitting in the dugout at Anaheim Stadium with Angel trainer Ned Bergert, talking about baseball’s dirty—make that evil—little secret: smokeless tobacco. Bergert had recently quit the habit he acquired in the minor leagues. “It was always a baseball thing, not a tobacco thing,” he said. He quit one day when he was mowing the lawn and noticed his 3-year-old son was following—literally in his footsteps—with his toy mower. “I turned around and saw him spitting like I was,” he said. “That really started the wheels turning.” I told Ned that Sean Marsee was the reason I …
The Bee-choodle and I were walking the other morning when the sun popped through the marine layer, and a glint in Susan B. Anthony’s eye caught my attention. I’ve found plenty of pennies, numerous nickels, dozens of dimes and even quite a few quarters on our daily sojourns, but this was my first $1 coin. I’m not the super superstitious type—OK, I always wear something purple and something green when boarding any form of aircraft—but it’s got to be good fortune to find a heads-up dollar, right? And, sure enough, almost immediately my luck got even better. We soon happened upon a neighbor out …
AngelFace turned 3 last month, and I asked her what she wanted for her birthday. She said, “I wanna write your column, Baba.” Can’t say no to the kid, so here goes … (besides, I still get the check.) Hi, big people, How’s the weather up there? Hahahaha. (See, I’m already funnier than Baba.) Grandma put on her workin’ outfit this morning, so that means Baba and I will make a big breakfast—lotsa stuff that uses syrup—and then pack a picnic lunch and go to “the beach” … well, the ocean or that lake … I never know ‘til we get there ‘cause Baba calls both “the beach.” (You don’t really wanna be a …
My wife, Goggy, is the high priestess of holiday. (She insists I genuflect whenever she hands me a boarding pass). She has always been an eager and well-informed traveler, but her prowess as a holidaymaker has developed into what some believe to be a divine gift. (I think she’s a bit overrated, but nobody cares what I think. I can scream, “Hey, I’ve been to restaurants in Cape Cod too!” and her worshippers act like I’m not even in the room.) Friends, relatives, friends of relatives, relatives of friends, all seek her guidance in their quest for leisure-time nirvana … which can mean finding …
I wanted to hone my surfing skills a bit—OK, to see if I can remember how to paddle—in preparation for our annual beachside camping trip to Carlsbad, so I called an old friend, a longtime South Orange County surf dude who will remain anonymous … for reasons I neither understand nor can explain. But let me try anyway. I could have just headed down to Old Man’s at San Onofre State Beach, but the waves there are nothing like the beach break at Carlsbad, so I called Surfer Dude to see if he wanted to take me to one of his “secret spots” where I might find a few good waves myself. Surfer Dude is …
Little Buddy’s taking a nap right now, but, hey, the kid’s no slacker. Baba just put the boy through his second two-hour workout of the day—he’s 4 months old already, so it’s always two-a-day season in this camp—and it was an especially grueling one. He’s probably exhausted. Sure, he can’t sit up yet … but neither can I sometimes. And that doesn’t mean he can’t do crunches. We’re working on carving out a six-pack. And that mat that goes on the floor with the toys hanging above it? Why do you think they call it a gym? I’ve got Lil’ Bud doing chin-ups on it … and you can already see his baby …
The Sous Chef’s best friend just had a beautiful baby girl—no surprise here; Mommy and Daddy both look like movie stars—and my wife, Goggy, and I visited them the next day in the hospital. The women were hovering over the poor little infant, who must have been thinking she had been delivered into a world of people with huge heads and silly smiles. I turned to Daddy, a hard-charging entrepreneur with his own tech business. “This is going to change your life in so many ways you can’t imagine … all for the better,” I said. “Unless you like to sleep … otherwise, all for the better.” Well, that’s …
I know a little about passive-aggressive behavior. I’ve got a wife, sister, two daughters and a granddaughter, and I coached girls’ soccer for a decade. Now I’m not saying this is a trait connected to the X chromosome; I’m just saying I’ve seen my share of this comportment … and maybe it’s a coincidence that most of it was exhibited by a female. And maybe not. When I’m angry, I yell, get red in the face—OK, redder in the face—swear, call names, shout stuff I’ll later regret, yell some more and then sort of fizzle out like a cheap firework … maybe a couple of parting sputters of venom before I…
We reached the entrance to Dana Point Harbor to find the road barricaded. How do you explain to a 2-year-old that you can’t take a walk around the harbor because it’s closed due to a “tsunami warning"? She wasn’t happy. Neither was the Bee-choodle. “Go Mommy-Daddy harbor, Baba,” she said, referring to Oceanside Harbor near her home. “Sorry, AngelFace, but I’m sure it’s closed, too,” I said. “Can you say ‘tsunami warning'?” She frowns and gives a favorite reply, refusing to admit defeat: “Not yet, Baba.” I’m not good at—or much experienced in—disappointing her. (That’s her parents’ job.) And …
